That was when she came. Prior was largely finished, but his members retained tumescence, and he held them in place while she rocked herself into ecstasy. Both holes clamped about the two short members, milking them of the last boiling drops, savoring the hard-won serum.
As she subsided, he mashed her clitoris again, working it savagely between his thumbs.
"No!" she cried around his mouth-organ. But he would not relent. He kept his waning members jammed in place and continued exercising her button, wrestling with it and pulling it and twisting it.
She groaned, she cried—and she climaxed again. But still he did not stop.
Her third consecutive orgasm began to turn the tide on his own cycle. Slowly his members regained strength, wedged inside her heaving body.
"That's enough!" she screamed as the fifth climax hit her. "No more, no more!" But he was working up his own second heat now, restimulated by the violence of her involuntary motions. He was making her respond; he had a feeling of power, and this turned him on as much as her body and reactions.
She began to fight him, kicking out her legs and falling flat on the bed, but he clung like a leech, outside and in. "Bastard!" she gasped as the seventh climax tore through. "Sadist!" with the eighth. "Eeg demon!" with the ninth.
But it was not until the eleventh that he came again, and it was slow and painful and immensely satisfying though only two of his organs remained lodged.
Only then did he let her drop, his two penises sucking out limply. The long one was still stiff, since it was naturally rigid, but it was buried beneath one of her breasts and he was sure the small ejaculation had not reached its terminus.
He was exhausted. He felt like a spent balloon. But he had put this filly through her paces. A dozen jumps!
"You pass," she whispered as his dilute sperm drooled across the crevice of her rear. "You just graduated. With fucking honors."
Prior knew that already.
Chapter Nineteen
He was whole again, in a manner of speaking, and in a major respect better than ever. His 3.97 had been replaced by a galaxy of serviceable instruments that could plumb the depths of any woman. Never again would anyone look disparagingly at his ready member and inquire politely when he was planning to have his erection. If it was sheer size they wanted, he had it; if special effects, he had them. All ready the moment he plugged in his choice.
Yet he was unsatisfied. He kept thinking of his original miniature. It had never been much, but at least it had been him. He had had it all his life; he had screwed his small share of women and his larger share of token-slots, and he had beaten it when both distaff and tokens were in short supply. Maybe the little fellow didn't have an impressive track record—but such experience as he had had, it had brought him. He had grown accustomed to it.
And it had protected him from venereal disease. What more loyal service could he ask than that?
The new array was impressive; he couldn't fault it on any reasonable grounds. Size, shape, sensation—Oubliette had more than done her job. But dammit, a fuck wasn't real unless the penis was real—and all of these were artificial. So he was unreasonably dissatisfied.
He still wanted his own flesh back, cheese and all.
"Have a good time," Oubliette told him, kissing him chastely. "I've done all I can for you." And she had, both as surgeon and as woman. He felt like a heel for not properly appreciating it, and he couldn't tell her why. It was time for him to go, and he knew he should do so with appropriate grace.
"Yeah," he mumbled.
"You seem pensive," she remarked.
"Merely the thought of leaving you," he said with fake and ineffective gallantry. But that was at least half-truth; he did like her in or out of bed, and was certain he would miss her.
"If there is any problem of adjustment," she murmured discreetly, "and often there is, emotionally—we call it the postoperative let-down—remember that a cunette is defined as a trench within a trench, for drainage. There are other things in life."
"A cunette?" he asked, perplexed. "Sounds like a small—" Then he visualized a trench within a larger trench, or two sets of labia, and smiled. "Sure there's more," he agreed. "But it's not the drainage trench I'm concerned about, it's the drainage pipe."
"Sometimes a walk down the Eeg-trail helps," she said. She gestured toward the back of the grounds. "The statues are knowledgeable about both trenches and pipes, and provide excellent advice."
"Uh, sure, thanks," he said, not seeing much point in traipsing by the erotic stone figures again. Maybe she found solace in such contemplations (on her way to fuck with the Eggers: ah, jealousy!), but this could hardly bring back his natural penis. Only her sister Tantamount could do that—and she would never give up her handy-dandy little anti-VD smegma producer.
"They do have their price, though," Oubliette said as she left him. She had, of course, other appointments demanding her attention.
Prior went to his car and drove, knowing that he could not escape the problem by traveling. He brooded. So he could go back to his regular job with the parking department, if he hadn't been fired in the interim, and market the tamponer on the sly. And exercise a different penis every night. Great life!
Finally, ridiculously, he turned the car about and drove back. He parked behind Oubliette's residence and took a walk down the path, as she had recommended.
The beautiful stone nude was still there, though her cold arms now stretched out as if to embrace a man, and her carven lips were puckered as for a kiss, and her pelvis pressed forward. If ever a statue were ready for sexual love, this was the one.
"What the hell," he muttered. "You're worse off than I am; might as well give you something to think about." He opened his fly and took the six-incher from its box and attached it. He contemplated the statue's perfect form and imagined it as a living woman until his member came erect. Then he stepped into the female embrace.
The stone was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and anyway he was clothed except for particular areas. He bent his knees and got his member wedged against the rigid cleft, nudging the deep vagina. He could not force an entry, of course, for the slit was inflexible and this penis was too large, but he could touch. He put his arms about her body and pressed his front against those statuesque breasts. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
The stone became warm. He felt it on his mouth and then in his hands and finally against his pressing penis. The hard lips seemed to become soft, as though responding to his kiss. He did not question this; indeed it was not wholly unexpected, considering the peculiarities of these statues. They had to be alive, in some obscure manner.
He parted his lips on hers and poked his tongue between. It met her tongue—warm, moist, animate. As he did this, her torso seemed to flex under his hands and her vulva softened similarly. His member nudged into her warming cleft, melting the inner stone as it progressed.
Prior kissed her again, deeply—and the way opened and the rest of his organ slid into her snug vagina. He thrust, withdrew, thrust, holding the kiss, clasping the bended torso, leaning against that bosom—and suddenly fired a liquid salvo into her chamber.
As he disengaged from her, feeling the hardness of the stone already returning, her lips formed something like the configuration of a spoken word. Her magnificent breasts heaved gently. "Go," she said succinctly.
That was all.
Prior unplugged his member and knocked the dottle out and zipped up his fly. "Thank you," he said to the statue. "You are an excellent lay, even if vertical. I go."