It's Getting Harder All The Time

by Troy Conway

Her soft, almond-shaped eyes did a quick tour of my body. “I—I—”she began. Then she let the sentence trail off.

  I quickly filled the conversation gap. “May I suggest that you participate personally in the next exercise? After all, Hikatsu-sho says that all parties in the sex act must experience orgasm simultaneously, and the only way you have of knowing that the girls did experience it is to take their word for it. If you want to be sure that I’m a sex expert, the best way to find out is to try me yourself.”

  She hesitated for a moment. Then her expression of aweslowly gave way to a stern, businesslike look.” That won’t be necessary, Doctor, “she said. “I’ve seen all I have to see.”

  “But you can’t really be sure that I’m an expert,” I argued. “You’ll never really know unless you try me yourself.” I wasn’t being magnamimous, and I wasn’t being sarcastic. There was something about the cool, unruffled demeanor of my super-aloof captor that turned me on. As a matter of fact, I wanted to make love to her even more than I wanted to do an encore with the two cuties on the bed.

  But Lin Saong wasn’t buying. “Sex, Doctor,” she said dryly, “is a bourgeois capitalist pursuit, an activity which drains the energies of those who participate in it and which serves no end other than that of base, sensory gratification. My assistants have no choice but to lend themselves to this degrading experience because our mission demands it. But I, more highly placed in our organization than they, need not suffer the same degradation.” She gestured with herpistol. “You may put on your clothes now.”

  “But,” I protested, “I’ve only demonstrated one of the positions from Hikatsu-sho. You said you wanted me to demonstrate three.”

  She smiled sardonically. “I realize that it would gratify your debauched capitalistic nature to degrade these poor girls even further, but having seen your demonstration, I’m now fully convinced that you’re the sex expert you claim to be. No one but a libertine of the lowest order could lend himself so unabashedly to a contemptuous exercise of the sort which I’ve just observed.” She gestured again with the pistol. “The test is over, Doctor, and you’ve passed it with—in the American idiom—flying colors. Now get dressed.”

  “But,” I argued lamely, “I might be part of an anti-Chinese plot. I might be someone the United States sent here to further complicate your attempts to foil the plans of your enemies. Surely you ought to test me further.”

  Her smile broadened into a full-blown grin. “You’re legitimate, Damon,” she said softly. “Your eagerness to continue these horrible activities testifies to your legitimacy even more than your expertise does.” She barked something in Chinese to the two girls, then turned back to me. “Now get dressed. We’ve got some business to attend to.”

  I could see that there was no point in trying to force the issue. Disappointed at having expertised myself out of two issue. Disappointed at having expertised myself out of two more groovy sexcapades, and even more disappointed at having failed to lure Lin Saong into participating in one or both of them, I slowly began dressing. My twin playmates did likewise.

  Lin Saong polished off the remains of her cup of tea and smiled at me benignly. “And now, Doctor,” she said, “we’re ready to begin our collaborative effort against our countries mutual enemy. Tomorrow morning I shall telephone my contact at the Belgravian harem. I shall instruct her to pave the way for your arrival. Once she has laid the necessary groundwork, you’ll be welcomed at the harem and you’ll be given the opportunity to demonstrate what a sex expert you really are. The fate of both our countries—indeed the fate of the entire world—rests on the success of your demonstration.”

  I was listening with only one ear. The peptalk Lin Saong was giving me wasn’t much different from the one I’d received before leaving the States. So, pulling on my T-shirt, I let her prattle on, while the greater part of my attention focused on the twin cuties who a few minutes earlier had been my sexmates.

  They were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, their small, pert breasts jutting up provocatively from beneath the fine fabric of their gauze-thin tunics, their smooth and slender legs stretched enticingly before them. I imagined myself parting those slender legs and launching another exercise of the sort which poetic Chinese writers of ages past might describe as an invasion of the Hidden Gully by Great General Lotus Stalk.

  “No doubt,” Lin Saong went on, “your superiors in America have briefed you on the dangers which lurk ahead, dangers to you personally as well as to my contact in the Belgravian harem. It is imperative, therefore, that you conduct yourself with absolute discretion. Should our mutual enemy acquire even the slightest suspicion that you’re aware of his murderous plan, your life won’t be worth—in the American idiom—a plugged nickel. And of course, if you fail to obtain the information we require, the results will be disastrous for all concerned.”

  My focus shifted from the bodies of the twin cuties to the body of Lin Saong. As she spoke, she leaned forward in her chair. Her bountiful, uncorseted breasts—unusually large for an Oriental girl—jiggled invitingly against the contours of her loose-fitting hopsack blouse like a pair of grapefruits in a burlap sack. My well-trained eyes made out the outlines of her firm, upthrust nipples, then traversed the marvelous expanse of her sensuous, slacks-encased thighs.

  “Tomorrow evening,” she continued, “you’ll be invited to the Belgravian harem, thanks to my contact there, and you’ll be introduced to all the people whose help you’ll need to accomplish the mission. If you employ your talents wisely, you should be able to learn from these people the exact location of the bomb which our enemy is now developing. Once you find out where the bomb is, you’re to relay the information to me via radio. I’ll supply you with a miniature transmitter and everything else you’ll need. you’ll get these things before you leave.”

  She shifted in her seat, and her long legs swung to one side. My eyes zeroed in on the succulent curves of her hips, which strained maddeningly against the tightness of her slacks.

  “Once I’ve been informed of the location of the bomb,” she went on, “I’ll relay the message to headquarters of PUF, the Belgravian Peoples’ United Front, which opposes the regime whose development of the bomb has proved to be a threat to both your government and mine. Aided by technicians whom we have supplied, and, of course, using weapons which we have provided, PUF with attack the outpost where the bomb is stored and will dismantle it, or failing that, destroy it.”

  I bolted upright in my seat. Suddenly had lost all interest in the sexual endowments of both Lin Saong and her two cuddlesome subordinates.

  “I was told back in the United States,” I said, fumbling with my socks, “that you’d relay the information to the United Nations, which would send a peace mission to demand that Belgravia Voluntarily surrender the bomb.”

  She smiled. “That was the original plan. Unfortunately my superiors have since decided that an alternate plan must be put into effect. We will now follow the alternate plan.”

  “But,” I protested, “if PUF fails to dismantle the bomb-if, as you put it, the bomb is destroyed,” hundreds of thousands of people, even millions of people, might be killed. My country never agreed to an arrangment like that!”

  “Your country,” she said softly, “agreed that Dr.Rod Damon would undertake this mission as a subordinate to my country’s charge d’afffaires—namely, me, I’m telling you, Damon, that we’re going to follow the alternate plan. Your job is not to wonder why; your job is to do or die.”

  I gulped. Actually the change of plan didn’t take me completely by surprise. Before leaving the states, I’d known that CHILLER might try something funny. And steps had been taken to insure that my team would stay one up on their team. Accompanying me to Belgravia was a United States radio expert whose only job would be to intercept the messages I radioed to Lin Saong and to relay them back to the States.

  But how could I tip off my contact to the change in plans without arousing Lin Saong’s suspicions? And even if I could
tip him off, would the United States be able to take action to prevent CHILLER from carrying out its alternate plan?

  “One thing more, Damon,” said Lin Saong. “My superiors have concluded that the Belgravian bomb should be completely developed within two weeks. It is your job to pinpoint its location before the two weeks are up. If you fail, there will be no choice for my country but to support PUF in a full-scale assault on Belgravia. We will supply PUF with airplanes, bombs, artillery pieces and all other necessary weapons. Naturally the assault will explode the bomb, killing everyone in Belgravia—including yourself.”

  I gulped again. With each sentence she uttered, the stakes of the game were getting higher. I finished buttoning my shirt, then stepped into my trousers. As I did, I heard a small voice inside me ask, “Damon, you idiot, how could you ever let yourself get into a mess like this?”

  “Ah yes, Damon,” Lin Saong added, “still one more thing. When you arrived in Belgravia today, you were accompanied by another American. Our organization has identified him as a United States agent, a radio specialist, whose Job presumably is to intercept your massages to me and to relay them back to the United States. Since it was my country’s agreement with your country that you would be working with us alone and unaided, we have taken the liberty of rendering him useless to you. In other words, he’s been killed.” She took a leather case from the night table drawer and tossed it on to the bed. “This wallet contains his identification papers. If you come out of this mission alive, I’d suggest you return them to his next of kin back in America.”

  I did a triple gulp. When I came to Belgravia, I was counting on the radio specialist as my only link with the home team. Now my link was gone. I tugged my trousers over my hips.

  “Finish dressing,” said Lin Saong, “and I“ll have you taken back to your own room. The car which will bring you. to the harem will be ready at seven in the morning That’s only six hours away. Meanwhile I’d advise that you get all the sleep you can. you’ll need it.”

  I zipped up my pants.

  She wasn’t kidding when she said I’d need some sleep judging from what I’d been told to expect at the harem, I’d have to be as well-rested as rested could be.

  But sleep wasn’t all I needed.

  What I needed even more was an out.

  And I’d be damned if I could think of one.

  The small voice inside me boomed out loud and clear, “Damon, Damon, Damon, how the hell did you ever get into a mess-like this?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  How did I get into a mess like this?

  It all started, believe it or not, with a classified ad in The New York Times: “HELP WANTED, virile male to assist in sexual experiments, Belgravia, Africa. Salary: $1,000 per week. All relocation expenses paid. Apply in person, Madame Champville, Belgravian Embassy, Washington, D.C.”

  I didn’t answer the ad. In fact, I didn’t even see it. I was playing spy-versus-spy in Rome when it appeared, and frankly I wouldn’t have answered it even if I had seen it.

  True, I’m a virile male—in fact, an insatiably virile male. I’m afflicted (or blessed, if you prefer) with a condition called “priapism.” In every case other than mine known to medical science, priapists experience perpetual penile erection but are unable to achieve orgasm. Thanks to an unexplainable biological quirk, I enjoy the best of both worlds; I’m not only always ready to go, but I invariably have one hell of a good time when I get there.

  Also true, a grand a week isn’t exactly chicken feed. It’s five times as much money as I ordinarily make, and in Belgravia, Africa, most of it would be tax free.

  But Belgravia, Africa, was the last place in the world I’d choose to demonstrate my insatiable virility—even if the grand a week was tax free and even if all relocation expenses were paid. Call it patriotism if you like, or call it a homing instinct, but the fact is that I liked staying in the good old U.S.A.

  Unfortunately a certain guy who’s in the employ of the U.S. government—a guy with a shaggy, walrus-like mous tache and a nasty sense of humor, a guy who likes sending me off on spy hunts to all four corners of the globe—did see the ad. And, in a manner of speaking, he answered it for me. The result was that I now found myself facing death on one side, treason on another, and a jail sentence on the third.

  If you find this confusing, don’t feel bad. I find it even more confusing than you do, but as my pal with the walrus moustache likes to say, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Or in another of his devastatingly witty phrases, if you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen. And since I was already in the kitchen, there was no choice but to stand the heat.

  Maybe I’d better spell things out a bit more explicitly.

  My name, as you no doubt have gathered, is Damon. Rod Damon. More precisely, Dr. Rod Damon.

  I hold a legitimate Ph.D. in sociology, and I’m an associate professor at a major university in the northeastern United States. Also I’m founder, director and chief beneficiary of the League for Sexual Dynamics.

  The “League” is more of a pleasure than a business, although for me it accomplishes both purposes at the same time. It’s something I cooked up in my pre-doctoral days, when I was a sex-happy young student trying to figure out a way to both have my sociological cake and eat it too. I applied for grants from knowledge-hungry research foundations and used the money to study the sexual mores of various segments of contemporary society. My findings are published in all the major journals, earning me a reputation as one of the country’s most distinguished behavioral scientists, and my field studies led to my bedding down with some of the grooviest chicks ever hatched.

  My first project was a study of the sexual behavior of American coeds. My next was a study of parallels between the sexual behavior of American coeds and contemporary non-college females. Subsequently I studied the sexual behavior of female graduate students, of female Ph.D.’s, of female college dropouts, of female college kick-outs, of suburban housewives, of urban housewives, of rural housewives, of New York career girls, of Los Angeles career girls, of Washington (D.C) career girls, of London career girls, of Paris career girls and of Rome career girls

  Somewhere along the line, my studies came to the attention of the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation, an ostensibly right wing front-group but a cover for the United States’ most secretive espionage agency. And one night while I was playing research games with one of my students, I was interrupted by two hoods from this agency, who promptly brought me to their boss, the aforementioned guy with the walrus moustache.

  Walrus-moustache had learned of a plot by a group of Neo-Nazis, based in Hamburg, Germany, to lure the United States, Russia and China into World War III. He also had learned of a certain very-mature-looking sixteen-year-old who had participated in one of my research projects. Since carnal knowledge of a person younger than eighteen is, in my state, statutory rape, punishable by twenty years imprisonment, I had two choices: (1) go to jail, or (2) become a Coxeman and spy on the Neo-Nazis. I chose to become a Coxeman and we stopped the war before ever got started.

  A short while later, when I was researching the sex behavior of America’s hippies, Walrus-moustache uncovered a bizarre plot to take over the United States by polluting the Potomac River with L.S.D. and staging a military coup while Washington, D.C., was freaked-out on the trip to end all trips. I was tapped to foil that plot also and again saved America from a fate nothing short of disastrous.

  By this time, I was sure, I had dispatched Uncle Sam’s enemies once and for all. But I’d been wrong. In short order, Walrus-moustache also called an me to foil the plot by two mad Italian scientists to breed a computer-sired race of antisocial superpeople and then the plot of another group of whackpots to take over the world by scientifically lowering temperatures far below the livable level all over the globe.

  Then, back on campus a few months later—and totally engrossed in my latest sexual research project—I was visited by Walrus-moustache again He dragged me out of a warm bed and a
n even warmer girl’s arms to tell me that the Free World faced a greater menace than ever before.

  “we’re really in trouble this time, Damon,” he said, his voice quavering dramatically. “We stand poised on the brink of all-out, multi-nation nuclear war. Unless we act fast, and efficiently, the whole globe may go up in a mushroom cloud.”

  I replied with my typical enthusiasm. “Can’t it wait until next week? I just met this groovy blonde, and I’d really like some time to get to know her better.”

  He played the same trump card he had played to lure me into all my other capers as a Coxemau—the threat of a jail sentence.

  “Remember,” he reminded me, “statutory rape isn’t the only crime we can prove that you’ve committed. There’s that possession-of-narcotics charge you were booked on in New York while you were working on a case. There’s a matter of unlawful entry into the United States—in case you hadn’t noticed, your passport expired while you were in Rome handling a case. There’s also an unnatural-crimes-against-nature rap we can pin on you. And there are all of a dozen other charges we could come up with if we really put our minds to it.”

  I muttered a word the letters of which consisted of the initials in the phrase which described the first crime on the list –For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. Then I told him what he wanted to hear. “Okay, deal me in. Now what’s this new caper all about?”

  He smiled, obviously satisfied with the speed with which I had capitulated. Then his smile vanished, and a worried look furrowed his how. “Damon,” he said solemnly, “a bomb is now being built which makes the atom bomb and the hydrogen bomb look in comparison like a couple of Fourth of July firecrackers-a bomb which, in one fell swoop, can wipe out the entire Northern Hemisphere. According to our calculations, it’ll take no more than two or three months for the bomb to be completed. When that happens, we’ll be at the mercy of the country that’s perfected it. And judging from what we’ve seen so far, the country is absolutely merciless.”