by Troy Conway
My sex now exposed, the black giant straddled my legs with his thighs and began removing my jacket. As he did, he rubbed against me with the fleshy folds that were where his amputated genitalia once had been. My repulsion intensified, but I still made no attempt to stop him. Instead, I quickly slipped my arms out of the jacket sleeves and began unbuttoning my shirt while the eunuch undid my tie.
After what seemed like an eternity, my shirt was off and so was my T-shirt. The eunuch then crouched in front of me and wetly kissed my belly and thighs while his fingers stroked my buttocks. By this time I was so sick of the whole business that I wanted to vomit. But I forced myself to keep my emotions in check. I wasn’t sure just how resistant I could be without getting Douzi mad enough to send me on my way—and a one-way ticket to China was the last thing I wanted.
The eunuch continued to kiss and fondle me. Not knowing about the biological quirk as a result of which I was perpetually erect, he evidently had assumed that my stiffness was the result of his ministrations. Grunting happily, he began making warm, wet circles on my flesh with his tongue. I shuddered, and to take my mind off what he was doing, I turned my attentions to the pygmy girl with the full, round breasts.
She was still sitting cross-legged at the edge of the tub, her sitar cradled in her lap, her nasal chant moving in weird counterpoint to the instrument’s exotic melody. My eyes zeroed in on her breasts, which rose and fell rhythmically as she sang. I imagined myself in bed with her, my mouth closed over one of the breasts, my hand stroking the other. Even without the hashish, the thought would have been a groovy one. With the hashish, it was dynamite.
I let my imagination run a little farther. As the scene played itself out, my fingers deftly unfastened the cord which held her pantaloons around her waist. Then I quickly slipped the garment over her hips and down her thighs, exposing a glistening expanse of exciting black skin. My lips worked their way over her trim, flat belly, while my palm stroked her bare thighs. Then I positioned her beneath me and launched my invasion.
The feeling was great. Too great. And I suddenly realized why. It wasn’t entirely imaginary. The eunuch, keeping pace with my reverie, had begun to gratify me orally.
Wincing with disgust, I turned to Douzi. He was leaning back on the bench, his tiny legs spread wide, his childlike face a portrait of ecstasy as his eunuch performed on him the same exercise which my eunuch was performing on me. “Isn’t it marvelous, Damon?” he grinned when he noticed that I was looking at him. “Doesn’t it really excite you?”
I swallowed hard. “Frankly, it leaves me cold.”
His expression testified to his disappointment. “Damon, I’m afraid I overestimated you. I thought you were a genuine libertine, but now I find that you’re—what’s the American expression?—a square.”
“All things have their season,” I quipped. “And this is my season for girls.”
He shrugged, like a host who has just served filet mignon a la béarnaise only to find that his guest prefers hamburgers with ketchup.
“Ah, Damon,” he said, “you have no taste whatsoever.” Then, forcing a smile, he added, “But this is your welcoming party, so we’ll do things your way.” He clapped his hands. “On with the girls.”
The two eunuchs vanished through the door leading to the tepidarium, and the two pygmy men with the pipes promptly returned to the bench where Douzi and I were sitting. I was still feeling the effects of the last round of hash, so I made it a point to draw very lightly on my pipe and to exhale the smoke as soon as I had inhaled it. But Douzi apparently was determined to smoke himself right up into the stratosphere. He puffed even more enthusiastically than before, and when he exhaled only the faintest traces of smoke seeped out of his nostrils.
A minute passed, then another. Finally Douzi looked up from his pipe and gestured toward the door. “The girls, Damon,” he beamed proudly. “What do you think of them?”
I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t—because I was dumbstruck.
Back in the States, when Walrus-moustache told me that I’d be playing stud to a stable of female physicists, I had assumed that the dolls would be at least bearable and at worst uglier than sin. To my utter amazement all nine were far better than bearable and two or three were raving beauties.
The first girl to enter the room was a tall, statuesque brunette with warm brown eyes and breasts that were too perfect to be anything but really real. She wore a multicolored silk kimono that was held in place only by a thin black cincture knotted loosely around her waist. Through the kimono’s open front I got a glimpse of the inner slopes of her bountiful breasts. The massive mammaries were enough to warm the heart of even a jaded old Coxeman like me.
Her escort was a slender black-skinned eunuch who wore loose-fitting pink silk pantaloons and a matching turban. He led her on his arm around the marble tub to one of the stools at a corner wall fountain. She eyed me interestedly as she passed my bench, then lowered herself gingerly into her seat and stretched her sexy legs in front of her. The eunuch dutifully sat on the floor next to her and began gently kissing her thighs.
Next came a medium-sized cutie in a hopsack mini-robe that hung just an inch or two below the underslope of her buttocks. Her raven black hair was short and fell around her ears in a coiffure reminiscent of Prince Valiant. Her eyes were a sexy ice blue, her lips were moist and hot pink, and her bare legs were exciting enough to take my mind off her other endowments—at least for a while.
She was escorted by a eunuch who was even bigger than the hefty duo who had undressed Douzi and me. Like the first girl’s eunuch, he wore pink silk pantaloons and a matching turban. He led his pretty mate along the path the first couple had followed, then sat on the floor alongside her and reached under her robe to stroke her buttocks with one hand while he cradled her legs across his lap with the other.
The third girl was an Oriental who wore a gauze-thin, floor-length nightgown. Beneath the sheer fabric I could see the enticing form of her pert, tiny breasts and smooth, generously curved hips. Her movements were a symphony of sensuality.
She accompanied her pink-pantalooned eunuch around the tub to the cluster of stools where the other girls were sitting, then tucked her legs underneath her fanny and smiled at me provocatively. My eyes fixed appreciatively to the soft features of her pretty face—the gentle, almond-shaped eyes, the tiny button-nose, the tender, little-girl’s mouth with its two rows of perfectly even pearl-white teeth. The eunuch draped an arm around her sexy hips and pressed his face lovingly against her belly.
Next came another Caucasian girl, a tall blonde in a mini-nightie that revealed far more than it concealed. She was followed by a sloe-eyed brunette in a knee-length kimono; her body was the stuff that turned dreams wet. Then came another Oriental cutie, a petite charmer whose delicate features begged for gentle and loving caresses. Then a third Oriental girl, small-boned but amply fleshed, with full round breasts and a set of hips that just wouldn’t quit. Next another Caucasian—medium tall, with long brown hair and as sexy a pair of legs as ever walked. She was flat-chested, but still very sexy. Last came another tall blonde, more beautiful than any of her predecessors, and almost if not quite as sensational in the body department.
I waited until all nine of the lovelies were seated with their pink-pantalooned eunuchs. Then I turned to Douzi. “Well,” I said dryly, “no doubt about it, these chicks are real knockouts. But where are the nine I’m supposed to entertain?”
The joke went over his head. “Where are they?” he echoed incredulously. “Why, they’re here. These are they.”
“You’re kidding,” I kidded. “Why, these dolls are—” I stopped short. I had almost said that these dolls were twenty-four-karat sexbombs, and whoever heard of a female physicist being sexy? But I remembered just in time that Douzi wasn’t supposed to know that I knew the chicks were physicists. Promising myself to be a lot more careful about slips of the tongue from now on, I hastily amended, “These dolls don’t need a stud service. They
could get any man they wanted on their own.”
Douzi smiled beningly. “Let me decide what they need, Damon. Your job is to entertain them, and if you find them attractive, so much the better, because it’ll make your work easier.”
“I expect,” I admitted, “that it’ll be the easiest job in my career.” To myself, I added, “At least until I start asking where the bombs are stored.”
Douzi’s right arm made a sweeping gesture that took in all nine girls. “you’ll notice,” he commented, “that each of them has her own eunuch. These eunuchs function as their servants. They make the girls’ beds, clean their rooms, run errands for them, and in general cater to their whims and act as protectors.”
My eyes fixed on the eunuch with the raven-haired doll in the hopsack minirobe. He sat cross-legged between her knees, his fingers gingerly massaging her bare buttocks while his tongue probed hungrily between her thighs. “Including sexual whims?” I asked, nodding toward the couple.
Douzi’s eyes followed my gaze. He chuckled softly. “Insofar sofar as is possible. Naturally there are limits to what a eunuch can do—especially since all these eunuchs are, like the two who undressed us, cleanly amputated. Also, for reasons of my own, I do not permit these eunuchs to kiss the girls on the mouth or elsewhere above the neck. However, apart from this limitation and those imposed by the eunuchs’ characteristic deformity, the relationship is one of anything goes—provided, of course, that the girl wants it.”
“And my job is to take up where the eunuchs leave off?”
“Precisely. I can see that you’re admirably suited to the task.” He nodded toward my ever-erect manhood. “Also, you like the girls. So there should be no problems.”
“What about Superman?”
His eyebrows arched quizzically. “You know about him?”
I gulped, realizing that I’d just made another slip. “Su Wing mentioned earlier that he was here,” I ad-libbed. “She said he was having trouble keeping all the girls happy.”
“Well, let’s just say that two heads are better than one. That’s why I welcomed you here. I expect that yon and Superman together will keep the girls a lot happier than either of yon would single-handedly. And I can’t make the point too strongly, Damon: the girls must be kept happy.”
“Why?” I prodded, hoping to get him talking along lines that would be interesting to The Coxe Foundation back in the states.
He grinned, as if to say that he realized I was baiting him and that he wouldn’t fall for it “Because I say so,” he said after a moment. “Isn’t that reason enough?”
“It’s reason enough,” I mumbled. But inwardly I was seething. I’ve always been the type of guy who likes to know the “why” of everything. I even wanted to know the “why” back when I was in the Army where they’re not obliged to tell you Now, in less than forty-eight hours, I’d turned myself over to a pair of commanders—Douzi and Lin Saong—who not only refused to tell the “why” but often were mysterious about even the “who,” “what,” “when,” “where” and “how.” It was enough to make an old-line Indian like me sincerely wish he could be a chief for once.
But I didn’t dwell on the matter too long. And for a very good reason. The reason was Su Wing.
No sooner had Douzi and I finished our little exchange than she came tripping into the room on the arm of her eunuch. She wore a tentlike black leather shift, the hem of which barely covered her Golden Treasure. With each step of her small, shapely legs the hem flopped upward, and more than once I was sure I had glimpsed the lovely down which feathered her nest.
Douzi stood as she approached the bench, and I followed suit. She bowed politely to me, then snuggled up against Douzi’s side. Earlier, during my tour with her around the palace grounds, I’d been impressed by her smallness. Now, standing next to the diminutive Douzi, she looked like an amazon.
My eyes darted over the smooth expanse of her bare legs, the legs which a couple hours earlier had been wrapped hungrily around mine. I was really anxious to have another go-round with her.
But, with the situation being what it was, thoughts like that could only get me into trouble. I forced myself to look away from her and to concentrate on what was happening with the nine physicists and their eunuchs.
A lot was happening. The buxom brunette with the bountiful breasts had shucked her kimono and was having both her nippled treasures worked over at the same time; the eunuch who had escorted her into the room was licking away at one, while the eunuch of the Oriental next to her was lapping the other.
The Oriental herself had taken up with one of the two eunuchs who had undressed Douzi and me. The black giant was sitting on her stool with her on his lap and facing away from him; each of his hands was frantically gyrating one of her breasts while his enormous mouth nibbled lustfully at her neck. Meanwhile, the doll in the hopsack mini-robe had carried her little brand of self-amusement to its logical conclusion; her legs were wrapped around her eunuch’s neck while his face was buried deeply in her crotch; the ecstatic expression on her face suggested that if she wasn’t experiencing orgasm she was damned close to it.
“In a few minutes,” Douzi said, interrupting my concentration on the spectacle, “Superman will be here and the show will begin. Su Wing will sit with me during the performance, and, of course, we’ll make love. If you’d like a girl to sit with you, you may take your pick from among the nine—and you may have her eunuch with her, if you choose.”
I wasn’t too turned on about the eunuch angle. But the idea of having one of the nine girls was right up my alley. Less than four hours had passed since my double-header in the car with Su Wing. But the sight of the nine lovelies—so primed up for sex that they were now going at it hot and heavy with their eunuchs—really set my motor running.
I wondered which one to pick.
The brunette interested me. I’ve always been something of a breast-man, and her set was as exciting as any I’d ever come across.
The cutie in the hopsack mini-robe did great things for me also. If she could manage to get all worked up over a little tonguing by a eunuch, I could imagine how wild she’d be while being pleasured by The Real Thing.
Then there was the small-boned Oriental girl with the hips that wouldn’t quit. Since coming to Belgravia I’d been on a strictly Far East diet, and the cuisine was very much to my liking.
And there was the tall blonde who entered the room last. If she was as good in a clinch as she was in the looks department, she’d be woman enough to satisfy any man.
But I had other things to think of besides my own preferences. I realized that the success of my mission depended on how quickly I could get one of the nine dolls to open up about the location of the bombs. That meant that my best move would be to pick the one chick who’d be most likely to need my loving—the oldest and ugliest in the lot.
Actually none of the chicks was really ugly, and the oldest couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but as I surveyed the nine of them, I got the impression that one, the medium-tall Caucasian with the long brown hair and the super-sexy legs, was a little less happy with the whole situation than were her eight colleagues. While all the others were frolicking eagerly with their eunuchs, she was sitting very sedately on her stool, her eyes staring off into the distance, her expression one of total boredom.
I tried to imagine how she would fit into my scheme of things if I had come to the harem as Superman had—not seeking information, but just looking to earn my salary of a thousand dollars a week. Probably, I told myself, I’d give all the broads a quick shot, starting with the brunette with the big jugs and continuing down the line until I’d finally hit all nine. Then I’d pick the three or four chicks who pleased me most, and I’d make them my favorites, servicing all the others only often enough to keep boss-man Douzi from getting on my back about being negligent.
Yep, that was the way I’d do it, and unless I missed my guess, that was the way Superman had done it. Which meant that five or six of the dolls
were now as frustrated as all get-out. And from what I could see, the babe with the long brown hair and the super-sexy legs was the most frustrated of the batch.
“I’ll take that one,” I told Douzi, pointing at her.
He looked up from Su Wing’s leather shift, the bodice of which he had been gnawing on hungrily. “She’s yours,” he said quickly. Then, barking something in Belgravian at a nearby eunuch, he resumed gnawing on the dress. I wondered idly if there was any sexual quirk which my half-pint host didn’t subscribe to. It’s not very often that you come across a guy who grooves on eunuchs’ deformities, who digs homosexual fellatio and who’s a leather fetishist to boot—even if sex is your business.
The eunuch scurried across the room, said something to the chick I had picked, then brought her and her eunuch to me. She seemed surprised that I wanted her, probably self-conscious of her small-bosom, but she didn’t seem at all unhappy about it. I gave her a warm, welcoming hug. “Hi,” I said. “My name’s Damon, what’s yours?”
She blushed, and the corners of her pretty mouth turned upward in a small smile. But she said nothing.
“Don’t be shy,” I coaxed. “I’m not going to hurt you President Douzi brought me here to entertain you. So, like they say on Broadway, “Let Me Entertain You, Let Me Make You Smile …”
No dice. She blushed again, and her smile broadened. But she still wouldn’t say a word.
I wondered idly if it was my charm that was wearing out or just my twenty-four-hour deodorant. “Don’t you like me?” I asked. “If you don’t, I won’t bother you. …”
Her eunuch muttered something in Belgravian to my eunuch, and my eunuch conveyed the message to Douzi. “Her name,” said he, “is Olga. And she doesn’t speak a word of English.”
