by Troy Conway
I decided to take a break myself. Ambling over next to him, I plopped down on the edge of the tub and curiously regarded the contents of the salad bowl, which he was shoveling into his mouth with great gusto. “What’s up, Doc?” I asked. “A little Vitamin E for sustenance?”
“A little mountain greenery,” he growled back between mouthfuls. “Just for the hell of it.”
Douzi materialized behind us. “Actually, Damon, Superman’s eating a rare Belgravian plant called the khourba. The girls have been fed on it. It has remarkable aphrodisiacal qualities. I’ve just eaten some myself, and you can see the results.”
I turned to face him. Sure enough, the khourba had worked. His rifle was at a proud port-arms.
But it really didn’t have anything to be proud about. According to an old wives’ tale among sexologists, pygmies are supposed to be tiny in every detail except penis growth—which is supposed to be comparable to the penis growth of full-sized males. But Douzi—and I was surprised at myself for not having noticed it before—was as small in the penis department as he was everywhere else. Little wonder that Su Wing went ga-ga over me in the car if she had nothing but his modest merchandise to keep her happy before I arrived.
“There’s some khourka here for you too, Darnon, if you’d like some,” Douzi went on. Then, glancing at my groin, he added quickly, “But you seem to be doing quite well without it.” His eyes widened in admiration. “How do you manage to stay rigid for so long?”
I saw no point in cluing him in just yet on the secret to my insatiable virility. “Lets just say that this is one of my good days. If I need any khourba, I’ll let you know.”
Douzi returned to his bench, and Superman finished his bowl of khowba. “If there’s anything I hate, Damon,” the abundantly endowed—but now very limp—super-stud told me, “it’s a show-off.”
I grinned amiably. “Like talk about pots calling kettles black.”
His brow furrowed. “The American slang—I don’t understand it.”
“You will, champ,” I chuckled. “Just give me time.”
He evidently decided to quit our little verbal duel before he fell even farther behind. Turning away from me, he lay on his back along the edge of the tub. Then he snapped his fingers and the pygmy man with the basin of colorless liquid knelt beside him.
The liquid, I noticed, smelled something like rubbing alcohol. But I had a sneaking suspicion that it was a lot more than just that. I recalled reading during the course of my sexual studies that the ancient Hindus favored aphrodisiacal potions which were massaged into the genitalia rather than being consumed internally, as is the case with most aphrodisiacs.
A favorite such potion, described in The Perfumed Garden by Sheikh Nefzawi, is made from pieces of arris root mixed with mango oil. Once the mixture has been prepared, it’s stored for six months in an aperture in the trunk of a situ tree. The ointment which then is extracted from the aperture is applied manually, and is supposed to be very effective.
I was willing to bet that the liquid in Superman’s basin was something of this sort, probably something Douzi had cooked up using Belgravian equivalents of the Indian raw materials.
The pygmy basin-bearer carefully stirred his compound, then touched a drop of it to his arm. Evidently satisfied that the preparation was okay, he summoned the pygmy girl who had brought Superman the khourba. She promptly dipped a cloth into the basin and began scrubbing the supine warrior’s wherewithals.
I might not have needed anything aphrodisiacal, but the idea of having one of the tiny girls scrub me was suddenly very interesting. I told Douzi what I had in mind and he obligingly summoned another basinful of the stuff. Lying on my back, I closed my eyes and waited for my pygmy girl to go to work.
I didn’t have to wait long, and I didn’t need to look to realize that the scrubbing had begun. No sooner had the liquid-soaked washcloth been touched to my groin than my whole torso screamed out with pain. I felt like I was being broiled, boiled, roasted and fried—all at once. A thousand fiery tongues shot through my flesh, and an uncontrollable spasm contracted the muscles in my lower abdomen.
“Hey!” I heard myself shout. “What is this stuff? Liquid lightning?”
“It’s one of my private preparations,” smiled Douzi, standing over me and watching with interest as my pygmy girl vigorously massaged me with her washcloth. “It’ll smart for a while, but the sting won’t last long. And when it goes, you’ll have nothing but pleasure.”
He was as good as his word. The stuff burned fiercely for about a minute and a half, then the burning slowly sub-sided and a warm glow took its place—a glow that felt very much like the sensation just before orgasm. Only this glow was better, because it didn’t stop.
My pygmy girl watched me writhe and squirm under the love potion’s influence. Then, dropping her washcloth in the basin, she leaned over me and began to kiss the area which she had just bathed.
Her lips were soft and super-sensuous. Her tongue was hot and wet and oh-so-talented. The warm glow which the aphrodisiac had triggered inside me grew hotter. Still, release was nowhere in sight.
The girl’s tight, round mouth closed around my manhood, and her head began moving gingerly up and down. Her tiny teeth nibbled at me teasingly, and her tongue was flickering a mile-a-minute. The sensation built, and it built some more. But I still wasn’t close to climaxing.
“I think he’s ready, Dr. Douzi,” said a sexily British accented voice behind me. “And frankly so am I.” To me she said, “What do you think, Damon? Shall we have a go at it?”
I looked up at a pair of classically proportioned breasts that were dangling provocatively over my face. Peering over them was the statuesque brunette who had led the original parade into the room.
Douzi was standing next to her, beaming at me like a fastidious maître d’hotel regarding his chef’s most celebrated pièce de résistance. “You heard her,” he rasped in a football-coach voice. “She’s ready. So give her what she wants.”
Suppressing my resentment of his master-to-slave manner, I gently disengaged myself from the caresses of the pretty and ultra-talented pygmy girl. Then I ushered my new customer into the pool.
“My first name’s Vera,” she told me en route. “What’s yours?”
“Rod,” I replied.
“Rod?” She giggled lasciviously. “How appropriate.”
I smiled to myself. Not that the pun was original or any-thing like that, but it was nice to know that my chick was fluent enough in English to use the kind of idioms. they generally don’t teach in language courses. I didn’t know what kind of sexual shenanigans it would take to win her over to my side, but if I did win her over, I’d have no trouble understanding the information she gave me.
When we were in the water, she automatically flopped over on her back and spread her legs. The thought of her breasts pressing against my chest while we made love was very appealing. But the thought of kneading them with my hands while I entered her from behind was even more appealing.
“Turn over, baby,” I said, giving her a playful pinch. “we’re going to make this one doggie-style.”
She evidently liked the idea. Clutching my eagerly distended manhood for support, she got up and turned toward the edge of the tub. Then, leaning against the edge, she offered me her buttocks.
By this time the steam which the eunuchs had turned on earlier was so thick I could hardly see her, but I didn’t mind. It was fun feeling my way.
My hands groped around until they were clutching her firm, neatly rounded buttocks. Then they slid over her hips and down her thighs. I parted her thighs, and kneeling behind her, I maneuvered my sex into place. Then I pushed forward.
She jumped as I entered her swiftly. “Oh!” she squealed. “That feels so good!”
It felt good to me too. In fact, it felt very good. The hot, tight pressure of the velvety-smooth walls inside her reawakened the warm glow which the pygmy girl’s scrubbing had set off. My body suddenly was as taut
as a violin string, and great shock waves of sensation surged through me—sensation that built and built until every cell of my being was alive with it.
Leaning forward, I took her breasts in my hands. They were full and round and unbelievably firm. I squeezed them tightly, and she shuddered with pleasure. Then I began gyrating them. Her hips set off at a frantic gallop. I licked the base of her neck.
The sensation inside me continued to build. I pumped harder, and it built some more. My legs were trembling, and I was gasping for breath. But I kept on pumping away, and the sensation kept building higher and higher and higher until I thought the top of my head was going to blow off.
“Oh, Rod! Ohh, ohhhh, Rodddd!!!” Vera was screaming. “Oh, Rod, you’re so hard! And so strong! And so powerful!”
I didn’t know whether she was addressing me or my manhood, but I liked what I was hearing, so I didn’t let up.
“Rod!” she went on. “You don’t know how good this feels! Oh, it’s so wonderful! And, Damon, your hands feel so good, too! Keep doing what you’re doing with them! Please don’t stop! It’s so good! And I’m going to—I’m going to—”
Well, one thing was clear anyway. I might not have been the Rod she was talking to the first time, but she sure as hell was talking to me now, not only with words, but also with the unbelievably wild movements of her overcharged hips.
Gritting my teeth to keep the ever-building sensation from running away with me completely, I hammered against her all the harder.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Ohhhhh!”
Her orgasm was like the chain detonation of all the gunpowder in an ammo dump. First there were a few little blasts. Then one or two slightly bigger ones. Then a really big one. Then a bigger one still. Then two that were absolutely stupendous. Then two that were only moderately big. Then a series of little ones that finally ended in something of mere firecracker dimensions.
With each blast, her body convulsed wildly—and the convulsions were always proportionate to the strength of the blast. In response to the two stupendous jolts in the middle she shook so violently that she almost knocked me out of the saddle.
I’d’ve liked to think that it was nothing but my sexman-ship which was producing this reaction in her. But I had a feeling that Douzi’s aphrodisiac lotion also had something to do with it too. Perhaps, I reasoned, the lotion, having penetrated my skin, had during coitus, managed to penetrate her skin also.
Whatever the case, our joust had certainly given her a king-size jolt. And I apparently had an even better one in store for me when I finally hit the top. I redoubled my efforts.
Somewhere to my right I could hear Superman splashing around in the water with the third doll in his foursome. From what I could hear of their conversation, I got the impression that they were just starting what Vera and I had already finished. That meant I had more time to work with than I originally had reckoned on. I slowed the pace of my thrusting, determined that this time around I’d give Vera a shot she’d really remember.
She matched her rhythm to mine. At the same time, her face swiveled around and her tongue went to work on the side of my neck. I tightened my grip on her breasts, and thrust-wise kept a steady course.
I was still keeping the course a few minutes later when the gasps and groans of Superman’s sexmate heralded her plunge into passionsville. Promptly picking up my thrust-tempo, I sent Vera off on her second orbit of the afternoon.
And what an orbit it was! She squealed like a stuck pig, and her hips began gyrating like the agitator on a brand spankin’ new automatic washer. Then the explosions started again, and this time they were twice as intense and twice as numerous as before.
What made things all the groovier was that just as she hit the apogee of her orbit my rocket blasted off. The pressures which had been building and building ever since the pygmy girl went to work on me with her washcloth suddenly cut loose. My muscles trembled and my head spun. A million shooting stars flashed in front of my eyes, and somewhere in the back of my brain a big brass band was playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
Like wow.
And double-wow.
And wow again.
As I disengaged myself from Vera’s loving grip, I was trembling like a drunk with the DT’s. I managed to stumble to the edge of the tub. Then I flopped down in a motionless heap.
Vera was even worse off than I was. She took two steps across the tub, then toppled over face first into the water. Two eunuchs promptly ran to her side and carted her away. Douzi squatted down alongside me and smiled satisfiedly.
“They don’t often pass out like that, Damon,” he said. “I’m proud of you, boy. Mighty proud.”
“Thanks,” I murmured.
Frankly I was proud of me too, but I was also becoming more than slightly apprehensive. If every day at the harem was like this day, I’d barely have the energy to walk, let alone to find the hidden bombs.
When Superman and his sexmate finished their round, we took. another break. Then the pygmy girls with the washcloths went to work on us again. A few minutes later, I was going at it hot and heavy with the final cutie in my foursome, the tall blonde with the beautiful face.
In all honesty, I wasn’t really in the mood for love; I was in the mood for sleep. My manhood was holding up fine, but the rest of me was coming apart at the seams.
Still, I had my job to do, so I did if and if the blonde was unhappy with the quality of my work, she sure as hell didn’t show it Her first orgasm was every bit the bell-ringer that her predecessor’s had been, and while she didn’t quite pass out after the second, she did require the assistance of a eunuch to make her way back to her seat.
The festivities now over, Douzi summoned the pygmies with the nargilehs and we all smoked some more hash. Then the tub was filled and everyone took a piping hot bath. This over, we adjourned to the tepidarium for a cool bath. Then the entire party moved to the vestibule, where we lounged around eating ice cold slices of melon and drinking steaming black coffee served up from a jewel bedecked finjan.
The four girls whom I had entertained, along with a couple from Superman’s group, crowded around me and made with some small-talk. I had a lot of questions to ask, but Douzi was never more than a few feet away, so I didn’t dare ask them Instead, I answered the girls’ questions, most of which centered around my sex research projects. The dolls all seemed very interested, which was a good sign. Now, if only I could get them interested enough in me personally—and in my mission—that they’d tell me where the bombs were … if they knew!
Finally Douzi clapped his hands and the coterie of pygmies slipped out of the room. This was the signal that the time had come for our party to break up. One by me the girls paired off with their eunuchs and left Then Superman and his eunuch left. Then Su Wing and her eunuch left.
What left Douzi and I and the last two eunuchs alone in the room. “Well,” said my host, patting me on the small of the back, which was just about as high as he could reach without standing on tip-toe, “you’ve acquitted yourself admirably. From now on you may think of yourself as a permanent member of my household. Mazimba here”—he gestured toward the swishier of the two eunuchs—”will be your personal servant. He doesn’t speak English well, but he understands enough of it to carry out routine orders. If you want anything, ask hi and he’ll get it for you.”
Mazimba beamed happily. “I om ott your service,” he said. His eyes darted to my groin, letting me know that there were absolutely no services excluded from his offer.
“As concerns your work schedule,” Douzi went on, climbing into his uniform, “I think you’ll find that the demands made on you are relatively light. Each evening at eight you will dine with the nine girls and Superman. On occasion Su Wing and I will join you, but more often than not we’ll be elsewhere. After dinner there will be a social period of approximately an hour and a half. You, Superman and the girls will adjourn to the recreation room adjacent to the dining room, where you may chat, watch televisio
n, play chess or otherwise amuse yourselves.
“At eleven, you and Superman will go to your bedrooms. Shortly thereafter some of the girls will come to visit you. The order in which they appear will be determined by me or by someone whom I’ve appointed to take charge of the matter. Each girl will be entitled to an hour of your time, during which you’ll be required to entertain her in any way she deems desirable. Occasionally, perhaps, all nine girls will visit you the same night. More often, however, you’ll be visited by only four or five. The girl whose turn is last will be entitled to spend the rest of the night with you if she chooses. However, under no circumstances is any girl to remain in your room after nine a.m. At that time, all the girls are due in the dining room for breakfast. You may choose to have breakfast with them if you like, or you may abstain. In either case, the kitchen will always be open to you. Anytime you want something to eat, ask Mazimba and he’ll get it for you.
“Festivities of the sort that took place this afternoon are not regular occurrences. They are held only on ceremonial occasions, or when my whims dictate it, which means once every week or two at most. Naturally you are required to participate each time a ceremony is staged, but the extra duty should not prove too burdensome. Besides, whenever a ceremony is staged, there’s no sex duty that evening, so everything balances out.
“As to how you will pass the daytime, you may do whatever pleases you. If you share Superman’s tastes, you’ll spend most of the time asleep or lounging around the outdoor pool. However, all facilities of the palace are at your disposal. You may use my library, my baths, my lake, my gardens or anything else which appeals to you. There are some areas on the grounds where you will not be permitted to enter, but these are carefully guarded, so there is no danger that you’ll enter them accidentally.
