Penthouse Uncensored VI

by Penthouse International

  While Pam wrote a personal check, I struggled with the most intimidating order form a man can be asked to fill out.

  Measurements. “Be as precise as possible,” the instructions read, “in submitting the erect penis measurements. The sleeve fit is important.” A diagram on the order blank showed how to measure for topside length and circumference near base.

  It was my moment of truth. I got out my tape measure and the latest copy of Penthouse. With a little finagling I could just manage six inches. On the circumference I was a trifle under five, which translated into a diameter of about an inch and a half. “Not too impressive,” I mumbled to my wife, imagining some well-hung hulk in the mail room opening my order form and reading it to the gang for laughs.

  But I remembered that the standard Accu-Jac dildo was the same size. Men, I told myself, worry too much about too little.

  Out of curiosity I called Funways, the California company that makes and distributes Accu-Jac, to see how precise my measurements had to be.

  “A lot of men overestimate slightly,” said spokesman Charles Boynton. “I always laugh, because they’ll have to give us the correct measurements eventually, even if they don’t the first time.”

  All penis sleeves must be custom-made, since only a snug fit ensures a proper air seal. I asked Boynton for the smallest penis measurement on record. He recalled a fitting for less than an inch in diameter and about three inches long. The largest is a matter of debate. Funways once made a sleeve to accommodate a cock seven inches long and four inches in diameter. The customer who requested it must have mounted fire-plugs before Accu-Jac came along. Another order specified a sleeve eleven inches long—obviously for a man who had never worn swimming trunks.

  The standard Accu-Jac unit, consisting of console, two dildos and two penis sleeves, had a base price of $695. I decided to order all eight sleeve models, plus extra tubing for four people and a few spare sleeves in various sizes. I would take my change in lubricant. Boynton recommended Astroglide.

  Two weeks later the UPS man was stacking up boxes outside our door as if it were Christmas. That night, after the children went to bed, we returned to our bedroom and began ripping open the cardboard cartons. The console was about the size of a four-loaf breadbox and weighed in at just over forty pounds.

  “Will it be hard to set up?” Pam asked, pulling off the plastic wrapping. “It’s not going to be like the high chairs and the bicycle, is it?” Over the years we have bought various easy-to-assemble kits that still sit in our basement, missing step, screw or widget.

  “No,” I assured her. “The man told me it came ready to use. Just plug it right in.”

  “It or us?”

  “Both,” I replied, unwinding the cord and finding a socket nearby.

  Pam suddenly burst into laughter and waved a brick-red dildo at me. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Aztec dick.”

  “Or sunburned lifeguard,” I said, taking it from her. Flexible but firm, it looked like a cock with a round rubber plug, about two inches thick, at its base. Pam grabbed it back and slapped it in her palm like a black-jack. “Assault with a lively weapon,” she teased, feinting at me with it.

  I soon located the piston cylinder for the dildo. The instruction booklet stated that the apparatus, operating on air pressure and suction, was easy to set up. It was. Within moments we had the eight-foot-long plastic tube connected to the console and the plug end of the dildo lubricated.

  The “gold-anodized” control panel was a marvel of simplicity. Dead center were a large on/off toggle switch and a dial for setting the speed. On either side of the speed dial were metal tips marked “external” and “internal” respectively.

  We switched the dildo tube to “internal” and put another tube—my tube—on “external.” Above the tube connection on my side of the machine were two knobs marked “suction” and “stroke length.” Pam’s side had only one knob—”stroke length.” The manual stated that stroke length varied from half an inch to three inches and that the speed could be moderated independently. Stroke combinations included long/fast, short/fast, long/slow, short/slow or anything in between.

  “Shall we get started?” I asked, waving my plastic sleeve. It looked like a soft, oversized test tube with a nub at one end.

  “Not yet,” Pam replied, unwrapping the bellows dildo and plunking it down on the water bed. Obviously heavy, it bobbed gently and settled in. A block of rubber with concave sides for the thighs, it was powered by a round, accordion-fold plastic tube.

  Reading from the booklet, I informed Pam that the bellows model was designed exclusively for vaginal sex. The piston-driven dildo, whose speed and direction could be more precisely controlled, could be used anally as well. The dildo came with a belt-and-ring harness to hold it in place.

  I hadn’t been this excited since I got my first Lionel train.

  By now we were at Step 8 in the manual, which suggested a “dry run” for beginners. “Okay, let’s get going,” I urged. “Hold the dildo-driver.”

  “The what?” Pam asked, looking around frantically. “You said this would be easy.”

  I pointed to the piston dildo. “That,” I explained, “is what the book calls a dildo-driver, and you are supposed to keep it in with one hand while I turn it on.”

  Grimacing, she inserted it while I set speed and stroke length to “minimum.” The directions said the dildo would “pulse gently.” I flicked the toggle switch.

  The machine started wheezing like a dirty old man. My wife began to giggle.

  “It sounds like a horny respirator,” she quipped as the dildo began to move in and out in slow motion.

  “This is great!” I exclaimed. “There’s a pump somewhere in that machine, and it sounds like a heartbeat.”

  I slowly increased the stroke length and turned up the speed. The rubber cock began to slide in and out with a solid, rapid stroke that brought a smile to my wife’s face.

  “It’s powerful,” Pam murmured, curling her hands around the dildo, letting it slither back and forth through her fingers. She was still smiling.

  I swallowed. “Maybe we should, oh, take our clothes off.” She set the dildo-driver on the bed, where it tried to copulate with our comforter. We undressed about as quickly as we had on our honeymoon night.

  I shut the machine off long enough to slap some more lubricant on Mr. Aztec Dick. (The instructions suggested fitting it with a condom to ensure both sanitary and anti-irritant protection.)

  “Could you start slow at first?” Pam asked, reminding me again of our honeymoon.

  I lowered the settings and she reinserted the disembodied cock. Enraptured, I watched it gliding back and forth. It was almost, but not quite, the fulfillment of a lifelong fantasy—seeing her making love with another man. But when I saw the glow of pleasure on her face, I felt a curious, surprising twinge of jealousy.

  I had assumed Accu-Jac would be a good, nonthreatening way of indulging my fantasies. Instead I found myself thinking: Who is this intruder in my bed? What is it doing with my wife?

  “How is it?” I managed to ask, keeping my voice neutral.

  “Ummmmmm,” she murmured. “Turn it up.”

  “The length or the speed?” I asked briskly.

  “Both,” she sighed.

  “Right.” I complied with her request.

  “Honey,” she moaned. “Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

  I did know, and scrambled up beside her on the bed. Moments later she was sucking my cock. Pam’s favorite fantasy had always been to get fucked and give head at the same time. Mmmmmm. Big Chief bring peace.

  The sensation at first was like getting head in a moving car—both of us were too distracted to enjoy it. But Pam soon began to respond to the steady thrust of the piston-cock, opening her legs and arching her back while undulating her pelvis in a sensuous dance that made me tremble with excitement.

  Suddenly Pam abandoned her usual “dainty” style of giving head—a combination of gentle lic
king and tentative nibbles that rarely brought me to climax. Now she was sucking my cock as though she were famished. Writhing and squirming with each thrust of the Accu-Jac, she pressed her mouth deeper and deeper around my penis.

  When I came, she hungrily swallowed every drop, something she had never done before. A moment later she began to moan, pounding her head back into the pillow in the throes of an orgasm that seemed to go on and on. Finally she relaxed and gestured feebly toward the machine. I shut the Accu-Jac off.

  After getting our breath back, we discussed the experience like two rational adults.

  “Was it okay?” I asked, (Translation: You liked it better than me, didn’t you?)

  “Oh, it was pretty good.” (Especially the part where my eyes rolled back in my head.)

  “Did it feel . . . authentic?” (Does this mean you don’t need me anymore?)

  “It had the heft and feel of a real cock. But I’d rather have the real thing. After all, it was just a cock. You haven’t tried your side yet.” (Don’t be too eager getting around to it, either.)

  I set the controls to slow speed and heavy suction, lubricated my limp cock and stuffed it into the opening of the sheath. Fwoop! went the machine. Three seconds later I had the fastest and perhaps biggest erection of my life.

  (In my conversation with Accu-Jac spokesman Charles Boynton, he said Accu-Jac would probably produce an optimum erection. He added that some customers reordered sleeves in a larger size, or even two or three sizes larger over a few years.)

  “That was quick,” Pam exclaimed, turning up the stroke length and speed. After experimenting, I found that I could make the tube barely clear the end of my cock and then grab back on for the downstroke. The sensation was a lot like getting head. The tube was even making loud sucking sounds. As I got closer to orgasm, I lowered the air supply to allow the sheath to approximate “deep throat” sucking.

  Then, just as I began to come, I drew the tube back, increasing the speed to get a series of “grab-on” sucks, one right after the other, until I climaxed.

  During the next few days, we put Accu-Jac through all of its paces. I found that the tighter sleeves simulated intercourse, and that the ribbed and expanded-end sleeves felt like a hand or a thumb and forefinger stroking me. Some of the sleeves reminded me of past girlfriends, because of either their fit or the slick, soft or rhythmic sensations they produced. I named a few of them, though I never said to my wife: “No, not Vivian. Give me Gina and, uh, Patty-Anne.”

  Pam was turned on not only by what Accu-Jac did for her, but by the sexual rejuvenation it was causing in me. Overnight I had once again become the horny, hop-in-the-sack-anytime male she had married a long time ago.

  She was especially intrigued by how quickly my cock got hard—and how big. Within a few days it seemed to grow noticeably. I liked being able to get good sex with little effort whenever I wanted it. Since I could depend on the sleeve to always give me an erection, I found myself wanting sex about five times a day.

  Within a week Pam was too sore to sit down and the end of my cock looked like it had terminal sunburn. Skin was beginning to peel. Just like old times, I reflected, as I gently applied the Vaseline. The only cure was to leave the machine alone for a week. We sent away for more Astroglide, which is expensive ($9.95 per bottle) but worth it. The lubricant was easy to clean off the equipment and ourselves, and was not only flavorless but harmless if ingested.

  Over the next few months we tried all of the variations. Pam preferred the bellows dildo for a slow, comfortable screw. As it was held between the thighs, any movement caused the dildo to slip out.

  The piston-powered dildo was usable either with or without its harness. Occasionally I made love to Pam by holding the plastic cylinder between my legs and letting her control the speed and depth. At other times Pam and I made love and then she continued with the machine after I came. Occasionally she started with the machine, came to orgasm and then invited me in for “seconds.” On some nights she switched back and forth from me to Accu-Jac. She also never had “enough” anymore.

  I used all the sheaths: ribbed, tapered-in, tapered-out, bent, tight fit, vibrating, coke bottle and standard, which was supposed to simulate actual intercourse. I gave them names of my own: handjob, oddjob, blowjob, humjob, loose shoes and, of course, tight pussy.

  I also fantasized about women I knew. The nineteen-year-old college girl across the street worked her way from the ribbed (handjob) sleeve to the loose (mild blowjob) model to humjob (vibrating sleeve). Eventually I used tight pussy (a tapered sleeve) to relieve sexy little Janice of her virginity.

  I also discovered a pleasant way to get off while holding up the latest Pet of the Month centerfold with both hands.

  Other advantages of the machine were that it never got tired or complained of sore wrist or aching jaw. Afterward I never had to whisper, “Was it good for you?” or “Did you come?” It could give an unrivaled thirty-minute handjob that kept me exactly a degree below my boiling point for as long as I could stand it. Its steady, unvarying rhythm was perfectly tuned to Pam’s inner harmonies for hours at a time.

  “It’s not as good as a cock,” Pam said, when I asked her what she really thought about Accu-Jac. “But it sure is better than a vibrator. I prefer a man, but the machine does give me a sense of absolute pleasure. No matter what happens—if the phone rings or there’s a knock on the door—this cock isn’t going to go down. And it isn’t going to come before you do or tell you that your orgasm is taking too long and making it tired.

  “The dildo moves with so much of the rhythm of real intercourse that it is just the most incredibly luxurious masturbation you could imagine. Plus you’re completely in control of your own fantasies. You control angle and depth of penetration, intensity and perfect placement, without asking your partner to be a contortionist.”

  One time I came home early from a business meeting to find my wife in her underwear. “Hi,” she said nervously, trying to hide something behind her on the bathroom sink. I peeked. Oh, looky! It’s Mr. Dildo. And Mr. Cylinder! “I was just . . . washing a few things out,” she added, shrugging. “You never said we had to use it together.”

  It was a damned funny feeling; but why shouldn’t she use the Accu-Jac alone? It was the perfect harmless affair. What was I going to do? Shoot the machine?

  “Can I have seconds?” I asked.

  She dropped Aztec Dick into the sink and winked. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  A few nights later I asked her if she wanted to try anal sex with the Accu-Jac. In the past we had never had much success with this form of lovemaking.

  “You know what would really put me at ease?” she said. “For you to do it first.”

  I consider myself fairly liberal sexually, but never would I let any man stick his cock up my ass. I can’t even look my proctologist in the eye afterward. So again I passed. This was one barrier Accu-Jac did not help us get over.

  Eventually we mentioned our acquisition to our closest friends. Some jokingly asked whether we would rent it out or bring it to the next company picnic. When we told a gay woman friend about Accu-Jac, she said it was a shame it did not have an attachment for female oral sex. “Never mind,” she said. “You let me at that machine. I can get all the female oral sex I want. But a stiff dick—without the actual hassle of dealing with a man—is something else again. I like what men can do. I’m just not crazy about what they put you through before and after.” When we went on vacation later, we loaned the machine to her.

  I wondered if we would miss Accu-Jac, since it had become a regular—though by no means constant—part of our sex lives. I got my answer the third night in our lakefront cabin. I had a sex dream. About the machine.

  FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

  My first date with Linda had gone surprisingly well—much better than a Horny Guy could expect after six weeks of bad luck. Not only did I wangle a nightcap at her place, but I soon found myself wrapped around her naked body on the brink of some s
erious lovemaking. Considering the circumstances, I paid little attention when Linda excused herself and slipped into the bathroom. For all I knew she was rearranging her mascara or flossing her teeth.

  The mood quickly returned as soon as Linda bounced back onto our four-poster playground. As the foreplay shifted into high gear, my old skills resurfaced with amazing swiftness. I slid down Linda’s smooth body, caressed her stomach, ran my tongue tantalizingly around her light brown pubic hair, and then buried my nose in her crotch as forcefully as possible without deviating a septum.

  Surfacing for air, I noticed a slight medicinal odor between her legs. But Linda was wriggling, cooing and moaning so contentedly that my normal street-smart instincts had gone on hold. I began to snake my tongue into her vagina again. In the heat of passion, I was unaware of the mouthwash tingle numbing my tongue and neutralizing my taste buds. Like the average dumb Horny Guy, I probably would have ignored herpes to make the Big Score.

  I put the pieces together afterward. Linda’s little trip to the bathroom was not to freshen up. She had inserted a plastic syringe into her vagina and fired a round of contraceptive foam onto her vaginal walls. Dwelling on that image, I wondered what the foam could do to a man who slurps down a mouthful like whipped cream and comes back for seconds. If the contraceptive is potent enough to wipe out a few million sperm on contact, how does it affect a fellow’s taste buds or digestive tract?

  I was mad. Linda should have warned me about the spermicide. If the foam was safe to swallow, why did she turn her head when I kissed her goodbye? I called her the next day.

  “How would I know it tastes terrible?” she replied indignantly. I protested that she should have read the label for warnings and informed her partner. We were having our first fight. She dropped the phone and got the package.