It's Getting Harder All The Time

by Troy Conway

  Our car rounded a turn and headed up a slight incline. In the distance I could see the spires of the mansion which represented the terminal point of our second turn around the grounds. Su Wing’s briefing was over, but there still was me unfinished business at hand, namely the business of love-making. While she had been briefing me, both of us had continued sexing. Now the hot sparks of passion were beginning once again to glow inside me, and I had only a few minutes to fan them into flame.

  Clutching her luxuriously soft thighs, I began to thrust more vigorously. She promptly matched my strokes, and passion’s sparks began to glow more brightly. The mansion drew nearer, and I thrust harder. Then, a few hundred yards from the port cochere, I felt the familiar warm sensation that told me orgasm was fast approaching. I picked up the pace of my movements until my groin was athrob with electric tongues of sensation. Then, in a mad burst of speed, I raced across the finish line.

  Su Wing realized what was happing. “Damon!” she gasped. “Wait for me!”

  But she was too late. The words were barely out of her mouth when the car rounded the gravel drive in front of the mansion.

  “Damn!” she said disgustedly.

  “Better luck next time,” I grinned, helping her off her passionately quivering perch. She was pouting.

  She tugged her kimono back down over her legs just as the car came to a halt. I zipped my fly. My work on this harem affair was about to begin in earnest.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Welcome, Dr. Damon, to Belgravia, and may your stay be a long and pleasant one. Every effort will be made while you are here to insure your comfort. All that I ask in return is that you satisfy the female guests of my household. Presently I shall introduce you to these guests and give you the opportunity to demonstrate your sexual prowess. Meanwhile, permit me to inquire as to how you happen to come among us.”

  The speaker was Dr. Albert Douzi, President of Belgravia.

  The place of our meeting was his study, a massive and ornately decorated room on the fourth floor of the palace. Before being introduced to him I hadn’t formed an impression of what he might be like physically. But I had assumed that he’d be more or less normal.

  I’d been wrong. Douzi was a pygmy. He stood no taller than four feet and couldn’t have weighed more than eighty-five or ninety pounds. Sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, decked out in a braided white uniform resplendent with medals and military decorations, he looked less like a head of state than like a child dressed up in an expensive soldier-suit. Even his face was childlike—smooth, round and cherubic. Only his long, straight, steel gray hair and his deep bass voice testified to the fact that he was an adult.

  After I overcame the initial shock of his appearance, my interview with him went precisely as Su Wing had led me to believe it would.

  I gave him the cover story about my defecting to Red China because the United States wouldn’t allow me the freedom I wanted to conduct my sexual experiments. He accepted it without question.

  I told him that my contacts in China had sent me to Belgravia because Su Wing had told them that his harem of female physicists would be an ideal place for me to conduct further sexual investigations. He accepted this without question also.

  I filled him in on my work with the League for Sexual Dynamics, and I spelled out the details of some of my earlier studies. He listened intently, and he questioned me at length about the reactions of my female subjects to my love-making. But he never said anything that indicated he was suspicious of me.

  Finally the interview was over. Smiling hospitably, Douzi led the way down a flight of stairs. We passed through a white marble corridor into an opulently appointed three-room apartment.

  Again a feeling of deja vu overcame me, just as it had when I first looked down the hill at the royal palace and its grounds. But this time I didn’t have to think twice about where I’d seen what I was seeing. The apartment was an exact replica of Hunkar Hamami, the sultan’s bath in the sixteenth century palace of Muhammed II.

  The first room was a large foyer with white marble walls, the linear purity of which was broken only by an octet of tall, narrow columns topped with ornate capitals. Between the columns were low sofas, upholstered in elegant gold and silver embroidered patterns and laden with soft, goose-feather cushions. Heavy persian rugs covered the floors. In the Hunkar Hamami of Muhammed II, this room served as a dressing room and its walls were festooned with gold tapestries encrusted with strings of white pearls. Douzi evidently had been unable to procure copies of the tapestries; but he had duplicated Muhammad’s foyer in every other detail, including a jewel-studded narglieh, or Turkish water pipe, and a coffee set which stood on a clean-lined low ebony table near the door opposite the entrance.

  Form the foyer, my pint-sized host led me to a second room, the tepidarium, or warm water bath. Here again the walls were of white marble, and the doorway was flanked with slender white columns. The wall on the left supported an ornate marble fountain, the gold faucets of which were lions’ heads spitting water into a twelve-foot-square marble tub in the center of the floor. The wall on the right was given over to a Byzantine mosaic depicting an enormous black man being teased sexually by a trio of pink-skinned girls. The first girl was rubbing her breasts against the side of his face, while the second was licking his belly and the third was licking his thighs. His upthrust penis testified to the efficacy of the girls’ techniques.

  The third and final room was the calidarium, or hot water bath. It was twice as large as the first two rooms combined, and its decor was easily three times as opulent. On the wall opposite the door was a huge fountain with five gold lions’ heads which spit boiling hot water into a marble tub that measured all of twenty feet square. The tub was raised on a marble step. At each and was a high-backed marble bench with a single armrest. In each corner of the room was a small wall fountain decorated with gold, and surrounding each fountain was a cluster of marble stools. From the stools a person could watch the proceedings in the tub or could look out a window at the neatly manicured shrubbery of the garden below.

  My appreciative eyes took in the details of the room. Then I turned to Douzi and smiled. “My compliments,” I said. “Muhammad II would feel quite at home here.”

  His tiny, childlike face took on an expression of amazement. “You recognize the source of my inspiration?” he beamed. “Then you really are a sex expert. I’d venture to say there aren’t two dozen men alive who would realize so quickly that my palace is a replica of Topkapi Sarayi.” He led the way to one of the marble benches alongside the tub and gestured for me to sit beside him. “Ever since I saw the palace at Constantinople,” he went on, “I’ve dreamed of recreating it. It took me nearly six years, but false modesty aside, I’ll venture to say that I’ve done a very good job.”

  “Very good indeed,” I agreed. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve done in some of the other rooms.”

  “You shall, Dr. Damon, and in very short order,” He smiled proudly. “Half the joy of accomplishment is in sharing one’s works with persons who appreciate them. Though you and I have known each other only a few minutes, I can say confidently that I have found in you a truly kindred spirit,” He reached for a pull-cord alongside the bench and gave it a sharp tug. A bell rang in a nearby room. “And now I have a real treat in store for you. As Su Wing undoubtedly mentioned, I’ve arranged a welcome celebration. Right now, in this very bath, I shall stage for your pleasure one of the most exciting sexual rituals ever known to man, a ritual known as the ‘fountain of youth.’ Have you ever heard ot it?”

  I nodded. “It was one of Muhammed II’s favorites—or so we’re led to believe by students of the Ottoman empire. Actually there’s no concrete evidence that the rite was performed in the sixteenth century. But it was introduced in Paris brothels during the nineteenth century by girls who had been bought from the harem of Abd ul-Hamid II, the last of the Ottoman emperors, and it resembles very closely a number of other rites which were unquestionabl
y the invention of Muhammed II himself.”

  Douzi’s little-boy’s face glowed with a mixture of astonishment and camaraderie.

  “Damon,” he said, “I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to meet a fellow connoisseur. So many men today claim to be devotees of libertinage, but so few have any real knowledge of the sexual arts. I hope for the sake of my female house guests that your performance is on par with your academic background.”

  “It is,” I assured him. “That’s my stock in trade.” Then, seizing the opportunity to get him talking about the female physicists, I added, “Tell me something about these house guests. Who are they? And why do you want me to entertain them sexually?”

  His smile was cordial, but it didn’t mask the fact that I’d ventured into an area he really didn’t care to talk about.

  “The girls,” he said after a moment, “are just friends of mine. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they are friends of my nation and that it is my responsibility to keep them happy while they are here. In any case, you need not trouble yourself about their identity or their reasons for being here. I will be quite content if you concentrate on satisfying them physically.”

  “But,” I pressed, not willing to let him off the hook so easily, “physical satisfaction is inextricably intertwined with emotional and intellectual compatibility. Unless I known something about them, I won’t be able do my best.”

  His expression hardened. “For the time being, Damon, I can tell you nothing more. Establish whatever emotional and intellectual rapport with the girls that you can, but don’t inquire too closely into their personal histories. The less you known about their background, the better off you’ll be.”

  I would’ve probed further. But just then a pair of Buddha-fat Nubian giants wearing floor-length white silk robes waddled into the room and knelt at Douzi’s feet. “My eunuch,” he explained, placing a hand gently on each one’s head. “They’ve come to undress us for the afternoon’s ritual.”

  Resolving to pursue the matter of the female physicists later, I surrendered my attentions completely to the matter at hand.

  No sooner had the enormous eunuchs knelt at their diminutive master’s feet than a pair of tiny black men entered the room. Neither was taller than four feet, and both were decked out in flaming red silk pantaloons and bright orange turbans. At first glance they appeared to be children, but a closer look revealed age-lines around their eyes and mouths. They were, like Douzi, pygmies. Each carried a jewel-studded nargileh.

  The two men were followed immediately by a pygmy girl. She also wore flaming red silk pantaloons, but nothing else. Her long black hair toppled provocatively over her shoulders and around the gently curved slopes of her full, exquisitely formed breasts. Her nipples were jet black and stood erect. She carried a miniature sitar, or Turkish guitar.

  Douzi clapped his hands twice and the girl sat cross-legged at the edge of the tub. Cradling the sitar in her lap, she gently stroked its strings. Then, contrapuntally to the instrument’s fast-moving melody line, she began humming an eerie chant.

  As if on cue, the two pygmy men materialized alongside Douzi and me. Douzi was given the stem of one pipe and I was given the stem of the other. The pipes were lit, and the sweet, pungent aroma of hashish filled the room.

  Douzi puffed energetically, sucking the smoke deeply into his lungs, then holding it inside him for all of thirty seconds before letting go. I followed his lead. Almost immediately an airy light-headedness took hold of me. My muscles relaxed and I found myself staring at the breasts of the pygmy girl with intense admiration. Never, it seemed, had I seen such beautiful breasts, such well-sculptured breasts, such delectable breasts. I didn’t especially want to touch them; I was content merely to look at them and bask in their beauty.

  My host and I smoked for perhaps five minutes. With each minute I grew more relaxed and more appreciative of my surroundings, I remembered experiencing a feeling something like this back when I smoked marijuana as part of my work on The Big Freak-Out, but the feeling wasn’t one one-hundredth as intense as it was now. No doubt about it, I told myself, Douzi uses high-quality hash. The thought wasn’t especially funny, but I found myself laughing uproariously at it. Douzi, though he couldn’t possibly know what I was laughing at, amiably laughed along with me.

  Finally the pint-sized President handed the stem of his pipe to the pygmy who stood at his side. I likewise surrendered my stem, and the two pygmies retreated to a corner of the room. Douzi then clapped his hands twice more, and the two eunuchs, who had knelt motionless at his feet during the entire smoking session, slowly stood up.

  I watched with interest as the obese giants peeled off their white silk robes. Each man stood over six feet and each weighed all of three hundred pounds. Their bellies hung over their white loincloths, and great blobs of loose flesh dangled where their arm and leg muscles ordinarily would be. Folding the robes and placing them carefully on a stool, the immense creatures bowed toward Douzi. Then, like a well-choreographed dance team, they stood erect and reached for the knots which fastened their loincloths. Douzi nudged me with his elbow. “This,” he smiled, “has always been one of my favorite parts of the ritual.”

  I wondered idly why a man who presumably was heterosexual would get a kick out of watching a pair of eunuchs drop their drawers. But I didn’t dwell on the matter. I was so wrapped up in my hashish high that my predominant feeling was one of sympathetic pleasure. It made me happy that the drawer-dropping routine would make Douzi happy.

  Also, I was kind of curious as to what I’d see when the loincloths finally came down. In the course of my sexual studies, I had learned that there were three varieties of eunuchs. The first type, called thlibias or semivirs in the classic Sanskirt, had had their testicles amputated, bruised, crushed or otherwise permanently damaged. Thus they were rendered sterile, but they still were able to achieve penile erection and to copulate. The second group, called spadones, retained their testicles but had lost their penises. Thus, while technically fertile, they lacked the ability to achieve normal sexual pleasure, although some learned to satisfy themselves homosexual as the recipient partner in oral or anal sex acts. The third group, called sandali, were in worse shape yet. The term, sandali, translates as “clean-shaven,” and that’s exactly what these unfortunate creatures were. After one’s penis and testicles had been sliced off with a razor, a tube was placed in his urethra and the wound was cauterized with boiling oil; in some cases, flesh would then grow around the protruding tip of the tube, and the eunuch’s groin would very much resemble the female genitalia. Like spadones, the sandali had no way to achieve normal sexual pleasure, although some learned to satisfy themselves via oral or anal homosexual acts. I wondered which type of eunuch Douzi’s two giants would be.

  They were, I soon found out, sandali. As their loincloths dropped away from their hips, I could see that their pubic hair gave way to a pair of tender-looking fleshy growths very similar to a female’s labia majora. Both eunuchs seemed to shudder as these growths were exposed to our eyes, and Douzi giggled gleefully at their reaction.

  “They’ve been eunuchs for years now,” he chortled, nudging me in the ribs, “but they’re still embarrassed to expose themselves. Isn’t that hilarious?”

  I laughed, but this time it was strictly an act. The hashish high notwithstanding, my sympathies lay with the eunuchs rather than with their sadistic mini-master.

  Now completely naked, the black giants knelt again. One began untying my shoelaces, while the other went to work on the buckles of Douzi’s knee-high black leather boots. Cackling evilly, Douzi kept pulling the boot away from the profusely sweating eunuch’s fumbling fingers. Finally the black giant lost his balance and stumbled forward on all fours, whereupon Douzi’s tiny leg stiffened and his boot cracked jarringly into his hapless victim’s jaw.

  The eunuch bolted upright. His hands shot up to his face, and a soft whimper escaped from his throat. Douzi, cackling louder than ever, barked something i
n a Belgravian tribal language. The giant, tears rolling down his cheeks. bent once again to his task.

  “Don’t be afraid to treat the devils roughly,” Douzi told me. “They respond best to harshness.”

  But I was too repelled by the cruelty to continue playing the role of the amiable guest. “Muhammed II abhored harshness,” I said, not concealing my disgust. “He believed that eunuchs and women should be treated with the utmost gentleness.”

  Douzi’s jaw muscles tightened, “You’re not in Muhammad’s palace, Damon. you’re in mine.” His eyes were looking daggers at me.

  “I’ll take my pleasures my own way,” I said evenly. “If you don’t like it, you can always send me back to China.”

  His eyes narrowed. Evidently he hadn’t anticipated that I’d be anything but totally acquiescent. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then, slowly, his small mouth spread in a tight, tense smile. “Very well,” he said softly, “do things your way. But remember, you’re not an ordinary guest here. In the future I may decide to make certain demands of you, demands that won’t necessarily be to your liking. you’ll have no choice but to carry out my orders. I trust you’re prepared to do so.”

  I let a moment pass. Then I said, “We’ll talk about that when the time comes.”

  He hesitated, as if wondering whether to make a further attempt to assert his superiority. Then he evidently decided not to. Turing to his eunuch he mumbled something in Belgravian. The eunuch quickly slipped off both boots, and the undressing ritual continued.

  After my shoes were off, my eunuch went to work on my trousers. As he slid them over my hips, he brought his face to my groin and pressed hard. The feel of his flabby flesh against my manhood was anything but pleasant. But I was interested in getting the ritual over as quickly as possible, so I said nothing. The eunuch, keeping his face buried between my thighs, promptly removed socks, then slid off my shorts.