by Troy Conway
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 1969 by Coronet Communication, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: May 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-54053-7
Contents
HOW THE BIG PRIG GOT HIS SHIRT UNSTUFFED BY THE COXEMAN
OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES BY TROY CONWAY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
HOW THE BIG PRIG GOT HIS SHIRT UNSTUFFED BY THE COXEMAN
Lord Brice-Bennington was so repressed that he was a threat to the safety of the Free World.
Rod Damon—the Coxeman—had to make a swinger out of him or he’d never be able to get the information on a scandal that could explode and topple the British government.
How does he do it?
Well, he uses every trick he ever learned (and taught) in the League for Sexual Dynamics.
What kind of tricks?
Satisfy your curiosity at once
The tale begins in Chapter One. . . .
Other Books In This Series By Troy Conway
THE BERLIN WALL AFFAIR
THE BIG FREAK-OUT
THE BILLION DOLLAR SNATCH
THE WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU, MA’AM AFFAIR
ITS GETTING HARDER ALL THE TIME
COME ONE, COME ALL
LAST LICKS
KEEP IT UP, ROD
THE MAN-EATER
THE BEST LAID PLANS
CHAPTER ONE
It began—where else?—in bed.
It began with a bazoomy bundle of bombastic energy whose name I never learned and whose face I never got to see because the lights were already off when I got to the party.
The party? More precisely, the annual office party of the League for Sexual Dynamics.
The League—or L.S.D., as it used to be called before a certain hallucinogenic drug gave the initials a bad name—is a legitimate research organization of which I am the founder and director.
I, of course, am Dr. Rod Damon, the man who brought the personal touch to the field of sex research—or, as I’m better known among readers of these books, The Coxeman, reluctant superspy for the United States Government.
For the benefit of those of you who don’t know about my past exploits, I’ll provide a brief biographical sketch a few paragraphs hence. But first let me tell you about the party.
The annual office party of the League for Sexual Dynamics is a sextravanganza to end all sextravaganzas. Its purpose, purely and simply, is to serve as an escape valve. Despite the incredible amount of sexual stimulation which we at the League experience in the course of our work, we make it a point to keep a tight rein on intra-office passions. We naturally participate in sex acts with our subjects, and we naturally have our own private sex lives. But, because we realize that there’s a point beyond which you can’t safely mix business and pleasure, we keep away from each other—three hundred and sixty-four days a year.
The three hundred and sixty-fifth day—appropriately enough, Havelock Ellis’ birthday—is the day we let loose. From six p.m. on September fifteenth to six p.m. on September sixteenth, we stage a nonstop, twenty-four-hour, intra-office orgy.
Every staff member and employee of the League comes to the orgy with a date who can be counted on to swing along with the best of us. After dinner, drinks and a round of stag movies, the lights go out and we play musical beds.
Each of the females present is assigned to one of the cubicles in the League’s subterranean laboratory. Each cubicle is equipped with a cot, a liquor cabinet and a variety of sexual appliances. The cubicle occupied by the League’s senior female researcher—a delectable brunette with a Ph.D. in abnormal psych and a body that’d make Wilhelm Reich want to take a flying leap out of his orgone box, by name Angela Lee—is also equipped with an alarm clock, the bell of which can be heard throughout the laboratory.
When the girls are in place, the guys pick numbers from a hat to determine who goes to which cubicle. Once everybody has been paired off, the action begins—and continues for exactly one half hour. Then the alarm clock in Angela Lee’s cubicle goes off, and each guy moves down the line to the next cubicle.
This sexual round-robin continues, interrupted only by brief pauses for food and drink, until exhaustion retires the participants or until the six p.m. curfew rolls around. In the interests of preserving everyone’s anonymity—so as to avoid repercussions during the three hundred and sixty-four days until the next party—the lights never go back on while the guests are coupled off. Consequently, the guys never get to see the girls they’re playing the game with, and the girls never get to see the guys.
When my date and I arrived at the party, the lights had already gone out. We’d gotten tied up in traffic, and we missed dinner and the stag films. But we arrived in time for the drawing of numbers from the hat. While Angela Lee hustled my date off to an empty cubicle, I took my place at the tail end of the line of guys who were drawing numbers.
I drew cubicle number nine, where I found the bazoomy beauty mentioned earlier. Evidently not a person given to wasting time with amenities, she had already stripped to the altogether and was sitting expectantly on the edge of the cot. I felt my way to her, my hands zeroing in instinctively on her full, ripe breasts. She reciprocated by gripping me at the groin before I even had a chance to sit down on the cot next to her.
Her mind evidently was unprepared for what her hands found. “Wow!” she beamed, obviously both surprised and pleased. “You’re ready already! This is going to be quite some night.”
I was inclined to agree with her. It doesn’t take much to turn me on, but, even if it did, this doll could’ve done the job. The feel of her creamy-smooth breasts set off a spark inside me, and the provocative caresses with which she was favoring my genitalia fanned the spark into rapid flame.
Without releasing her grip on me, she stood and offered me her mouth. Then, as my tongue probed its moist sweetness, she unzipped my fly.
Her slim, cool fingers played expertly against the hot, rock-hard pillar of my manhood. She fondled it lovingly and appreciatingly, much like an artist might fondle an especially fine piece of sculpture. Standing on tiptoe and arching her body toward me, she nibbled teasingly at my lips. At the same time, she began rubbing the blunt end of my instrument against her belly.
I started to unbutton my jacket. “No,” she whispered, “don’t take your clothes off. I want to undress you.”
Obediently I let go of the jacket, and, reaching behind her, started stroking the firm, soft flesh of her inner thighs. They quivered in response to my touch, and, pressing her body harder against me, she parted them slightly to give me easy access to the well of passion which lay at their juncture. I took the cue, and found that the well was far from dry.
“Mmmmmmmmm,” she purred as my fingers invaded her nether-lips, “that feels good.” Pause. “Ve
ry, very good.”
What she was doing to me felt very good too. And what she did next felt even better.
Ever so slowly, she cased her body away from mine and lowered herself to her knees. On the way down, she paused long enough to take my manhood between her breasts and rotate them tantalizingly against it. Then her breasts weren’t there anymore and her face was. She pressed my eager engine against her cheeks, covered it from bottom to top with a torrent of moist, tantalizing kisses and finally hid it deeply between her pursed lips.
I caressed her silky smooth hair, which was soft and straight and shoulder-long. The guy-wires of my passion were as taut as violin strings. Her mouth was hot and marvelously tight around me, and every movement of her talented jaws sent new waves of excitement coarsing through me. My hips fell automatically into a slow, thrusting rhythm. The warm glow in my gut told me that relief couldn’t be more than a swallow away.
But she wasn’t about to let the game end that quickly. Sensing that I was very close to the point of no return, she abandoned her maddeningly arousing jaw movements and began playing against the sides of my shaft with her tongue and teeth. The technique made me tremble with excitement. But the hotter I got, the farther away my boiling point seemed to be. No doubt about it, this chick knew her stuff!
She also knew, or seemed to, that I wanted to make love to her in the good, old-fashioned way. And she evidently shared my feelings. Still tonguing me like a clarinet player gone ga-ga over a new mouthpiece, she undid my belt and eased my trousers down my legs. I stepped out of them, and she tossed them aside. Then, replacing the tongue action with some more mouth action, she gently removed my shoes and socks.
I shucked off my jacket and unloosened the knot on my tie. She had said that she wanted to undress me, but I was too eager for the main course to waste any more time with aperitifs. She evidently understood my urgency, because she didn’t protest.
I had my tie, shirt and T-shirt off quicker than you can say “Masters and Johnson.” Then, clutching her under the arms, I lifted her to her feet. For a moment we just stood there, then, hugging and kissing like a pair of sex machines gone wild, we tumbled onto the cot in a tangle of arms and legs. A few seconds later, her legs scissored open and I, like the Durango Kid leapfrogging onto his horse, lunged into the saddle.
Ordinarily I’m not much of a guy for quickies. My stamina is one of my key stocks in trade. I’m a long-distance runner who can run with the best of them.
But this doll’s foreplay had been enough to wear down even my resistance. By biting on my lip and concentrating on the pain to take my mind off what was happening down below, I managed to hold off for about a minute and a half. Then the volcano erupted, and my lava bubbled over inside her.
Fortunately her sexual responses were as quick as mine. No sooner had I gone off than her fingernails tore into my back and her hips began moving frantically. The spasm that shook her body told me that she had climaxed along with me. My reputation as a man who never flies solo remained intact.
For a minute or two afterward, we just lay together in the silence of delicious mutual exhaustion. Then she suddenly noticed something.
“You . . . you . .” She paused, as if trying to think of a delicate way to say it, then blurted out, “You’re still up!”
I kissed her playfully on the lips. “Yep. Are you ready for another round?”
She was bewildered. “But . . . I mean . . . I did please you, didn’t I? . . . I mean . . . you did come . . . didn’t you?”
“I sure did! I came and now I’m back again.” I was grinning because I still remembered how good it felt
“But . . . I mean . . . you’re still up! I mean . . . how can that be? Unless . . . unless . . .” Recognition suddenly dawned on her. “You’re Doctor Damon!” she declared. “Wow! You’re Doctor Damon!”
(An aside to the reader who is meeting me for the first time in these pages and is unaware of the reason she recognized me: one of the reasons I’ve been so successful as a sex researcher is that I’m an extremely virile male. As a matter of fact, I’m insatiably virile. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afflicted—or, if you prefer, blessed—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’m different: I enjoy the best of both worlds; I’m not only always rarin’ to go, but I inevitably have one hell of a time when I get there. My delicate companion evidently had heard about my condition. Word of mouth is the best advertising there is.)
I acknowledged that I was in fact Doctor Damon. She favored me with another appreciative “Wow!” Then her voice took on a worried tone. “Gee,” she said, “my boyfriend’ll kill me if he ever finds out I asked you your name. I mean, he said that nobody was supposed to ask anybody their names here. He said it was all supposed to be anonymous. He said there was a rule. But I heard about your insatiable virility . . . and . . . and . . .”
I cut off her sentence by kissing her, then said, “Don’t worry about a thing. You didn’t ask me my name, you told me. And I’m not going to tell anyone you did.”
“I mean,” she continued, obviously not reassured, “I’ve heard so much about you. . . . And I always wanted to meet you. . . . I mean, what girl wouldn’t want to make it with the world’s foremost authority on sex? . . . And . . . and . . .”
I kissed her again. “Then let’s stop talking about it and let’s make it again.”
“Okay. . . .” She sighed her relief. “I mean . . . well, what I mean is . . . well, okay!”
We made it again. It took us a lot longer this time. In fact, it took us the rest of our allotted half-hour. The alarm clock in Angela Lee’s cubicle went off just as I was having my second climax and my ever-more-enthusiastic partner was having her fifth. Reluctantly I severed our union, kissed her goodbye and moved on to the next cubicle, clothes in hand. En route I cursed myself for establishing the rule about anonymity at the League’s annual office party. This was one doll that I woud’ve liked to have seen again—and again—and again.
I felt my way around the new cubicle. The cot was empty, and so was the chair next to it. “Yoo hoo,” I called, “anybody home?”
Suddenly a flashlight flicked on from the wall alongside the door. Its beam landed on my face. “Damon?” asked a female voice.
“Hey,” I replied, “no lights allowed. And how did you know my name?”
“I’m from The Coxe Foundation,” said the voice. The flashlight flicked off.
I swallowed hard. My first reaction had been surprise. My second was anger. But both the surprise and the anger quickly gave way to resignation. I’d been playing the Coxeman game for too long now to expect that there was anything I could do other than say “yes” when I was called on for another mission. And I obviously was being called on. I never heard from The Coxe Foundation unless I was.
“Damn,” I murmured futilely, “not again.”
“Again,” said the voice. The tone suggested that its owner was enjoying my displeasure.
I grunted. “You could at least have waited until tomorrow. I’m used to being interrupted by you bastards at the oddest moments, but the night of the League’s annual office party—that’s downright nasty.”
“We had to move quickly,” came the reply. “Every minute lost puts the Communists a step closer to getting the B-bomb and taking over England.”
“What B-bomb? And when in hell did the Communists get involved in England?”
“You’ll get all the details soon enough. Now come with me.” She reached out and took my hand. “We’ve wasted too much time already.”
I followed her out of the cubicle and through the corridor to the laboratory’s rear door. She seemed to know the place as well as I did. I wondered how she had become familiar with the layout, and how she had gotten in in the first place. All the entrances had been locked, and only the invited guests had keys.
She opened the door and gestured with her flashlight toward the stairs which led to the main floor of the building. I preceded her up them. “How come they sent you for me?” I asked. “What happened to my friend with the walrus moustache? Usually he does his own dirty work.”
“He’s indisposed,” she said softly.
“Something serious, I hope? Like leprosy, maybe?”
She didn’t bother to answer that one.
At the top of the stairs, she gestured with her flashlight for me to open the door and we stepped outside. In the greenish-white glow of the lights over the doorway, I finally got a look at her. Her face was more than vaguely familiar. I was positive I had seen it before, though I couldn’t be certain when or where.
But one thing I was certain of: she was one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen. Her eyes were shaped like a cat’s—wide on the flanks and in the middle, then narrowing to a sharp point on the insides. Her nose was smallish and straight, and her jaw was a perfect oval. Her mouth was wide and its corners were turned slightly upward, as if she were perpetually about to break into a big, warm smile. Her hair was honey-blonde and parted in the middle; it tumbled around both sides of her face, as though it couldn’t stand being so close to something so beautiful without touching it.
And her body was nothing to sneeze at either. That’s an understatement. I’ve come across a lot of sensational shapes in my time, and this one could hold its own with the best of them.
She was about five-five and probably not more than a hundred and ten pounds. And her breasts were two generous portions of pleasure. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but they were young and firm—deliciously tempting. Her blouse was a see-through, and my eyes searched hard for the pinkness of her areolae. Unfortunately the light wasn’t bright enough.
She stood facing me and waited until my eyes had done their tour of duty. Then, when they met hers, she said acidly, “Do you like what you see, you filthy sex maniac?”
I did a double-take. I’d been called a sex maniac before, but never by a doll who bounced around sporting a pair of uncorseted thirty-eight-C’s under a see-through blouse. “Yes, I like what I see,” I said, “But what’s this ‘sex-maniac’ routine?”
