It's Getting Harder All The Time

by Troy Conway

  I sighed. Ninety per cent of the scientific community the world over speaks English, and I had to pick a chick from the ten per cent that doesn’t. Fat chance of getting her to tell me where the bombs were hidden!

  But I’d made my selection and it was too late now to change my mind, especially if I didn’t want to arouse Douzi’s suspicions. “Oh, well,” I told him, “the language of love is universal. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Then, taking her by the hand, I retreated to the bench at the opposite side of the tub.

  Once we were seated it didn’t take her long to warn up to me. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled cuddlesomely against my chest. I kissed her lightly on the cheek and she obligingly offered me her mouth. I thrust my tongue inside, and she began sucking on it hungrily. Then I brought my hand to her thighs, and they parted eagerly.

  “Olga,” I said softly, “you’re beautiful.” Remembering the language barrier, I tried translating the thought into French. Then into German. Then into Spanish. Then into Italian.

  No luck. The bewildered expression on her face told me that, while she might be a real hotshot at nuclear physics, she was strictly nowhere when it came to European languages.

  Some years before, when I was killing a quiet summer on campus at my university, I’d become interested in a chick who was enrolled in a Russian class. To get to meet her, I’d enrolled in the class. After four sessions, I’d got where I wanted to get with her and I’d dropped the course. Now, wracking my brain to remember a few of the words I’d learned before dropping out, I said in Russian what I hoped she’d understand as “What languages do you speak?”

  She replied in a torrent of words which mystified me completely. My linguistic shot-in-the-dark might’ve been right on target, but even if I had hit the bull’s-eye, I had no way of knowing it.

  Dipping back into my memories of that Russian class, I came up with some words I hoped she’d understand as, “Forget it.” Then, abandoning all attempts at verbal communication, I settled back to enjoy what we had going for us on a physical plane.

  It was a lot. Her long, shapely legs were twin pillars of pulchritude that sent my desire skyrocketing into the stratosphere. 1 gently stroked her thighs, then inched my hand upward until it had come to rest against the throbbing wet well of her womanhood. Her hips slid forward on the bench, and the hot juices of her passion inundated me. I parted the lips of her nether-mouth, and my finger found its way inside.

  She began squirming delightedly. Her hand closed around my ever-ready saber, and her wrist/took up a brisk traversing motion. At the same time her mouth found mine, and her tongue flickered frantically across my teeth.

  No doubt about it, we were really communicating physically. Now if I could just figure out a way to break the verbal language barrier.

  But how?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I was still wondering when a ripple of excitement surged through the room and I looked up to be greeted by the spectacle that was Superman’s grand entrance.

  Grand?

  That’s an understatement.

  Emperor Constantine returning to Rome in A.D. 33 after sacking Byzantium couldn’t have done things up more ceremoniously.

  The first member of the conquering super-stud’s retinue to enter the room was a bare-breasted pygmy girl swinging a golden censer. She paused before Douzi’s bench and bowed, then positioned herself at one end of the marble tub and ritualistically shot a waft of sweet-smelling smoke toward each of the nine physicists and her eunuch-companion.

  Next came two male pygmy censer-bearers. They stationed themselves at right angles to the girl, and the three of them began swinging their censers vigorously toward the center of the tub. In seconds the room was thick with smoke, and the overpowering aroma of incense pervaded the air completely.

  Following the two male pygmies was a giant eunuch decked out in green silk. He carried a gold tray, on which was a purple velvet pillow, and on which was a clear plastic dome. I couldn’t see what was under the dome, but having become familiar with the “fountain of youth” via my sexual studies, I had a pretty good idea of what it Was—a fly, a common, ordinary housefly the wings of which had been amputated.

  The eunuch was followed by two more male pygmies, who carried small basins filled with a colorless liquid. Then came two female pygmies, carrying wooden salad bowls laden with exotic-looking herbs. The quartet positioned themselves between the three censer-bearers, and on a signal from the eunuch, dropped to their knees.

  A few seconds passed, then a few more. Then, after Douzi sharply clapped his hands, the star of the show made his appearance.

  I looked.

  And I looked again.

  Then I looked a third time.

  I recalled Walrus-moustache’s appraisal of my competitor’s phallic endowments: “He’s hung, buddy. Really hung.”

  Then I recalled a line from the Satyricon of Petronius: “Tis uncertain whether the organ’s an appendage of the man, or the man of the organ.”

  Looking at Superman I had no doubts as to what was appended to whom. But I sure as hell wondered how he managed to walk upright with an extra foot—at least!

  And he wasn’t the least bit reticent about displaying his charms. He wore only a white, floor-length cape fastened around his shoulders by a thin silver chain and open at the front in such a manner that his bountiful truncheon was openly displayed.

  I remembered that I had told Walrus-moustache that it’s not what you have but the way that you use it. All I could say now was that I’d better use what I had pretty damned skillfully.

  As a second pair of bare-breasted pygmy girls followed him with smoke-spouting censers, my nemesis strode majestically to the center of the marble tub. Head haughtily held high, shoulders proudly thrust back, he turned a small right-face toward Douzi. Then, executing a small and almost condescending bow, he did an about-face toward me. His bow this time was accompanied by a sneer, which I returned. Then he right-faced toward the femme physicists, whom he favored with individual bows and smiles before about-facing again toward the door.

  These maneuvers having been completed, a eunuch materialized behind him and took his cape. Then he lay on his back in the tub, his head resting on a pillow at the tub’s edge.

  Promptly the five pygmy girls in his retinue positioned themselves on all fours around him. One, kneeling over his face, dangled her breasts provocatively in front of his mouth; he began licking them hungrily. Two others coiled their bodies snake-like over his outstretched arms and began kissing him wetly on both sides of the neck while his fingers dived under the waistbands of their pantaloons and went to work on their Jade Treasures. The final two coiled around his legs and began kissing and licking his mammoth member, which promptly shot up to a high present-arms.

  I glanced across the room at Douzi, who obviously was enjoying the spectacle immensely. Since I last had looked at him, he had managed to hike Su Wing’s leather shift up above her waist and to maneuver her into place on her back across the bench. Now he sat locked in sexual combat with her, his legs straddling the bench, her legs wrapped around his waist, while he looked over his shoulder at Superman’s performance. His tiny body was taut with excitement, and his eyes were bulging like a pair of forty-two- D breasts squeezed into a thirty-six-C bra.

  My physicist companion, Olga, evidently was enjoying the spectacle also. During Superman’s grand entrance, she had managed to slide one leg over my lap and to line up my Stalwart Stallion with her Precious Sheath. During his decaping routine, she had managed to impale herself neatly on it. Now, as I peered over her shoulder at Superman and his five handmaidens, she was jouncing around on me like a cowgirl astride a bucking bronco.

  Gyrating my hips in a sensuous counter-rhythm to her movements, I continued to watch the show. After a moment, Douzi clapped his hands, and one of the eunuchs turned on a water fountain. The pygmy girls scurried out of the tub as the water began trickling into it. When Superman was submerged completely except
for his face and his still-stiff staff, Douzi clapped his hands a second time. The fountain then was turned off and the eunuch with the dome-covered velvet pillow waded into the tub.

  The time now had come for the “fountain of youth,” and, as I watched the eunuch remove the dome from the pillow,” I wondered if Superman’s version of the ritual would be the same as that which had been practiced in nineteenth century Paris whorehouses after the invasion by alumnae of the Constantinople harem of Abd ul-Hamid II.

  ’I had ample reason to wonder. In the Paris version, the name “fountain of youth” was especially appropriate, because the person who would serve as the “fountain” inevitably was an adolescent boy. Once he had been brought to erection, the fly with the amputated wings would be placed on the tip of his penis. Then the fly would continue to walk around until its movements brought the boy to orgasm.

  The reason a boy was used for the ceremony rather than a man was because a boy’s penis is far more sensitive than a man’s. Most men would need twenty to thirty minutes or longer to be aroused by the fly to the point where they would ejaculate, and many would lose their erection before ejaculation could take place. A boy, on the other hand, could be stimulated to orgasm in five minutes or less.

  Superman was no boy. In fact, he was thirty-five years old if he was a day. 1 found it hard to believe that his reflexes would be quick enough to permit him to perform the “fountain of youth” as it originally was intended to be performed.

  The eunuch who was attending him took the fly from beneath the dome and placed it carefully on his penis. The immense organ vibrated wildly as the tiny insect began to walk around it. Then it stood perfectly still, and only the grotesque contortions of Superman’s rugged sun-bronzed face served as testimony to the erogenous efficacy of the fly’s movements.

  Across the room, Douzi was gaping like a kid at his first peep-show. The half-pint President still was coitally joined to Su Wing, and his tiny hips continued to hammer against her. But his eyes were riveted to Superman’s shaft and the wingless fly that was crawling atop it.

  The femme physicists were getting quite a bang out of the ceremony, too. The blonde with the bountiful bosom had her two eunuchs working double-time on her breasts, while with one hand she was vigorously massaging her most intimate areas. The Oriental cutie next to her was doing some massaging also. And the raven-haired doll in the hopsack minirobe had grabbed her eunuch by the ears and was pressing his face so hard against her most erogenous zone that I thought for sure she was going to break his nose.

  A few minutes passed. The fly continued to walk its post, and Superman continued to grimace in response to its stimulation, but the moment everyone was waiting for seemed nowhere in sight.

  That is, Superman’s moment was nowhere in sight. Olga’s moment suddenly was closer than close.

  Her hips began grinding double-time, and her fingernails dug ferociously into the tensed muscles of my thighs. I thrust harder against her. She tossed back her head and bit fiercely into my neck. My palms cupped her breasts, and I began gyrating them wildly. Then her body stiffened. She moaned something in Russian which I couldn’t translate. But I had no trouble getting the message. I had just taken her where she wanted to go.

  I waited until the last spasm of sensation had left her. Then I slowly resumed my thrusting. She seemed kind of surprised that I wasn’t ready to drop out of the race. But she wasn’t at all unhappy about it. Murmuring sexily, she adjusted the rhythm of her hip movements to match mine. I kissed her on the cheeck and went to work in earnest, resolved that this turn around I’d show her an even better time than the first.

  Out in the tub, Superman’s grimaces were becoming more intense. His audience evidnetly knew this to be a sign that the fountain was about to spurt, because all of the girls began watching him more closely. Douzi was watching closely too, and to make sure I didn’t miss The Big Moment, he began waving at me frantically.

  I watched, and I saw what I hadn’t expected to see. Superman might’ve been well into his thirties, but he performed the ’fountain of youth” as flawlessly as the nineteenth century’s most youthful Parisian might’ve performed it. There was a brief, expectant moment during which his proud pike quivered wildly. Then, like Old Faithful, the geyser erupted. All told, the enterprise had taken less than ten minutes. Competitiveness aside, I couldn’t help but applaud the performance.

  The ceremony now over, Douzi waded into the tub and patted his champion on the back. Then he brought him to my bench, and we were introduced formally.

  “Pleased to meet you—and mighty impressed with your talent,” I said amiably, shaking his hand.

  He dismissed the compliment with a superior shrug. “It’s all in a day’s work.”

  “Speaking of work,” Douzi put in, “I can think of no better time than the present to see both of you in action. You, Damon, have already entertained Olga. But the other eight girls remain unsatisfied. I’m going to divide them into two groups of four each—one group for you and one for Superman. I’ll have the eunuchs turn on the steam. Then you can do your love-making right here in the tub. It should be an interesting situation for all concerned. you’ll be making love under water, and in a room as hot as any steam bath.”

  “Actually,” I interrupted, “I haven’t quite finished with Olga yet.” And I hadn’t. Superman’s eruption had cut short our second round just when it was starting to get good.

  But Douzi wasn’t about to have his plans upset. “She had her chance,” he said. “Now the other girls must have theirs.”

  He said something in Belgravian to one of the eunuchs, and the steam was turned on. Then he said something else, and the girls were divided into two groups. I was assigned the tall blonde with the beautiful face, the sloe-eyed brunette with the wild body, the Oriental girl with the fantastic hips and the statuesque brunette with the bountiful boobs.

  Superman took his girls to one side of the tub, and I took mine to the other. Then we got down to business.

  I tackled the sloe-eyed brunette first. Her name was Nadia, and she evidently had been very favorably impressed by my jousting wth Olga, because she came running at me with open arms. I would’ve liked to have set the stage with some long-drawn-out foreplay, but Douzi wasn’t in the mood for delays and I wasn’t in the mood to haggle with him. So, flipping her onto her back in hot water, I silently launched my invasion. A few minute later her moans and groans told me that I’d given her what she wanted to get.

  Through the corner of my eye I could see that Superman was still going at it hot and heavy with his Number One cutie, so I kept Nadia in place beneath me. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that she had a double-feature going for her, and she rewarded me by hipping up one of the wildest sex-storms I’d ever experienced. It wasn’t long before I was at the edge of the ledge myself.

  But I didn’t let myself go off. I knew that my success with the nine femmes would depend on showing them that I was a better man than Superman, and I had to make sure they read the message loud and clear. Biting my lip to take my mind off the maddening passions that were bubbling down below, I continued to hammer away. Nadia matched me stroke for stroke, each stroke making it harder for me to hold back.

  Finally Superman’s chick skyrocketed off into sex-tasyville, and he shoved her out roughly from underneath him. Playing the game for all it was worth, I slowed my rhythm to a leisurely larghetto and increased the depth and force of my thrusts. The change of pace made Nadia go wild with desire. In less than a minute she was up-up-and-away. Happily I stopped biting my lip and soared right up there with her.

  “Dr. Damon,” she smiled, staggering to her feet, “you’re too much.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured, pecking her lightly on the cheek. “But why didn’t you tell me you spoke English?”

  Her smile went coquettish. “You didn’t ask.”

  It was my turn to smile. “Well, we’ll have lots to talk about from now on.”

  Her eyes made a quick, appreci
ative tour of my body. ’Yes,” she said. “Lots and lots and lots.”

  She retreated to the marble stool where her eunuch was waiting for her, and the second girl in my fabulous four some took her place. It was the Oriental girl with the marvelous hips.

  Smiling amiably, I fell back on my old line. “Hi, my name’s Damon, what’s yours?” I said.

  She looked at me evenly. “I am sorry,” she said in perfectly unaccented English, “but I do not speak English. This is the only English sentence I know.”

  I did a double take. “you’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I am sorry,” she repeated, “but I do not speak English. This is the only English sentence I know.”

  I didn’t know whether she was putting me on or not. But I decided I’d have plenty of time to check her linguistic talents later. Superman had already flopped down with his second cutie, and I didn’t want to fall too far behind. Maneuvering the hippy honey into place beneath me, I went back to work.

  I had wanted to give her, like Nadia, two orgasms for the price of one. But I couldn’t quite make it. Her super-sexy gyrations were just more than I could handle.

  I tried distracting myself by biting my lip, then by biting my tongue. Then I tried counting backwards from ninety-nine to one. Then I attempted to list all the major U.S. foreign policy errors from the end of World War II to the present.

  The distractions worked for a while. But just as she was coasting down from her peak, I found myself scooting up toward mine. I kept thrusting after I got there, but she unexplainably stopped. Our language barrier made it impossible for me to tell her that I wasn’t through with her yet, and I could only assume that she sensed that I had had orgasm and that she believed once a chick was enough for any guy.

  Whatever the case, she slid out from beneath me and returned to her eunuch. I told myself that perhaps it was just as well. My manhood was still as capable as ever, but my back was sure as hell getting sore.

  At this point Superman took a break. He sat on the edge of the tub, his feet dangling in the water, and summoned one of the pygmy girls from his retinue. She hurried to him, carrying the wooden salad bowl laden with exotic-looking herbs, which she had brought into the room during the original procession. She was followed by one of the pygmy men carrying a small basin filled with a colorless liquid.