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  She set off for the slot section, metamorphosing in full stride. Still dazed, he followed her ... him. Incubating, yes.

  The incubus took a token and shoved it into the slot they had visited before. His gesture in doing so was obscene. As the buttocks loosened and the crack opened he plunged his eight-incher into the hole with a loud slurp. As he delivered Prior's load, he pinched the buttock with fingernails that resembled an old-time can-opener.

  “Stop that!” screamed the owner's voice. “Go to the pervert department, you sadist!"

  “I have just put my brand on this hair-pie,” the incubus said matter-of-factly, withdrawing his spent tool. Even flaccid, it remained large. Prior stifled a siege of envy. “Or this harpy; maybe that version is better. So we'll know whether remission occurs."

  Sure enough, a mystic symbol was now evident on the reddened skin. There would be no problem identifying this exhibit. Meanwhile, he agreed: hairpie equated nicely with harpy.

  “Now I'll just go test out the sexviewer,” the incubus said. “Take care of your box.” He handed the tamponer back and walked away.

  “You can't use it right after you've spurted—the guarantee's void!” Prior called. But the incubus was already out of hearing. Well, maybe he'd succubate, then try the show. Or maybe he had ways to fuck up this type of machine, too, just as she had been ready to do for the parking meter at the beach.

  Prior's attention was attracted downward by the passing snicker of a ten-year-old girl. His spent penis was still hanging out, and the box's filament was nuzzling it.

  He whipped his organ out of the way. He had no hankering to have a tampon rammed up it. Or a lighted cigarette.

  Chapter 6—Party

  Two weeks later the demon was back. Prior had almost succeeded in putting her/him out of his mind, and he had long since had himself checked out again at the VD clinic and pronounced clean. (He hadn't actually had contact with the infected slot, but you couldn't be too careful about a thing like that.) He had not washed his penis in five days, and was feeling much more comfortable in the mundane world. He had perfected his tamponer by eliminating the cigarette-lighting feature—tampons did not burn evenly anyway—and modifying the filament and rinse. He expected to make his fortune momentarily.

  “It didn't work,” the succubus said. “That slot still has the clap."

  “She never had the clap,” he pointed out. “That means gonorrhea, not syphilis."

  “Details,” she muttered. “Your jism didn't jizz, regardless. She's as VD'd as ever."

  “So? You were the one who made the claim. I never thought my produce was premium grade. I'm just glad I never dunked my own tender flesh in that slot-cesspool."

  “There's still something. Maybe you radiate curative rays or something. Come on—I'm taking your pint-sized pekker to a specialist."

  “Pint-sized? That's sixteen ounces—a full pound!"

  “Pint it right this way, then,” she said, bringing him to the door.

  “What the—?” he cried. But she was already hauling him outside and around to his car. He didn't even have a chance to set down the tamponer.

  “Drive,” she said. “I'll tell you where and when."

  “I'm being hijacked by a demon,” he muttered. But he engaged the atomics and drove. Any time this creature wasn't interested in sex, something serious was up.

  It was a party. Costumed people drifted in and out of the multiple rooms sipping glasses of wine, beer, scotch, cucumber juice, urine, and kerosene, by the smell of it. “They aren't all human,” the succubus warned him privately, “so watch your language. Don't take the names of any supernatural beings in vain, or step inside any pentagrams or eat any apples or stroke any lamps. I'll see if I can find Tantamount."

  “Tantamount to what?” But she was gone.

  Prior drifted among strangers, nibbling a raw horseradish and sipping a horn of strong mead, alternately perching on top of the turned-off tamponer, which he didn't want to leave just anywhere. He quickly discovered that it was not exactly a costume ball. The costumes were genuine. A toothy vampire was not merely playing when he moved from woman to woman and deep-kissed each fair throat. The twin punctures remained above the jugular, though they did not seem to bother the wearers. A satyr made similar rounds, conducting the tittering victims to a separate chamber for an instant nuptial. Prior assumed at first that the vampire and satyr were fakers, but he spied blood welling out of some of those punctures and watched surreptitiously through an imperfectly closed door and discovered that the penile act was equally realistic.

  He turned after that to find the vampire at his throat. “Hey!"

  “Don't do that!” the creature said, annoyed. “You almost made me hit the carotid."

  “What difference does that make? I don't want my blood sucked!"

  “What difference! The jugular is placid, unoxygenated blood that I can keep under control. The carotid has fresh arterial blood under pulsing pressure. When my teeth dip into that, I have to seal it over hard to stop the spurt, and the toxin is carried into your system before I can recover it."

  “The toxin! What are you talking about?"

  “The vampire toxin, naturally. Anyone who absorbs too much of that becomes a vampire himself. Didn't you know?"

  Prior backed away, holding the tamponer up as a defensive shield. “No thanks!"

  “It isn't that I care about your sentiments, you understand. I just don't like the competition. Too many vamps spoil the blood."

  “Just leave me alone!"

  The vampire shrugged and zeroed in on another victim. The tamponer was now a liability. Somewhere along the way he had jammed into the on/off switch so that the machine was now locked on, its filament looking for an orifice to analyze. Prior set the unit on a vacant chair where he could keep an eye on it and fetched himself another drink. This one looked like rum, tasted like prunejuice, and had a kick like a shot of morphine. It would do.

  “I found Tantamount,” the succubus said beside him. “She'll be along in a minute."

  “Who's Tantamount?” he asked again. He was watching a whiskered man going from woman to woman and snapping their bras. It looked like fun, especially when he snapped a low-cut bra-less outfit. An excellent way of testing the firmness of the bosom, not to mention its authenticity.

  “The hostess. Tantamount Emdee. I want her to have a look at you."

  “MD? She's a doctor?"

  “She's a penologist. An internist in penises. Uh, I wouldn't imbibe too much of that particular brew, if you're not used to it."

  “Seems OK to me. In fact I'm beginning to feel real hairy. What is it?"

  “Werewolf elixir."

  Prior paused to consider this. “Does this mean what I'm afraid it means?"

  “That depends—"

  She was interrupted by a scream. The satyr was attacking a stout woman, right in the center of the crowd. But she hadn't cried out; he had. The party had reached the stage where all women were willing but not all men able. She was tittering, enjoying the attention. Prior craned to get a better view. The woman had been backed up against a wall and the hooved demon was having at her. His member was monstrous—a good foot long, about four inches thick at the base and tapering hornlike to a narrow apex. Prior imagined that such an instrument should be able to puncture panties readily and shoehorn its way into the tightest vulva—but he could not imagine any woman absorbing the whole of it.

  Nevertheless, the satyr was the one in trouble. Frustrated by some obstruction, he had yanked up the woman's dress and underdress and petticoats and slip, and yanked down her heavy-duty panties, and was driving vainly at her corset. The thing was stoutly ribbed and crosshatched with ivory stays and reinforced with layers of canvas. Prior fancied that a cross-section of that fabric would resemble the plies of a top-grade metal-braced nylon racing tire. Stout garters and straps depended from it, serving no purpose Prior could fathom since they did not hitch to stockings, but they did effectively wall off the crotch. No w
onder the satyr had been balked! The armor-like undergarment made a dandy chastity belt.

  “Good evening."

  Prior turned to find an absolutely beautiful woman adjacent. Her hair was a lustrous green fading to purple at the extremities. She wore an intriguing furry halter that offered tantalizing glimpses of the truly shapely breasts within. Prior studied the halter, fascinated. He was tempted to perform the bra-snap test, but there was no strap. The halter seemed to merge into her tresses without any demarcation. In fact—

  In fact, her hair was the halter. It looped back from her head, parted behind, and passed forward under her arms to embrace her luscious bosom. When she nodded her head, her breasts lifted and quivered invitingly. Prior was obtaining more erectile action from those living, breathing mammaries than he had had from anything short of the slot arcade. But the sex of the slots was fundamentally dirty; this beauty was fundamentally clean.

  Then he remembered the satyr. This was no sight for a lovely lady of such quality. “Let me take you away from all this,” he began.

  She smiled benignly. “I am Tantamount.” The very consonants of the name sent charming ripples through her superstructure.

  “I am incipient,” he said, shifting his posture to relieve sudden and pre-emptive pressure. “Uh, Prior. Gross Prior—that is, Prior Gross."

  She laughed, and her breasts did a rippling dance that nearly climaxed him involuntarily. “So I understand. Let's have a look at the subject."

  “The subject?” Did she mean the satyr's frenzied attempts to get through that fortress-girdle?

  Tantamount knelt before him and opened his straining fly. His penis sprang out, taut and turgid, before he quite realized what she was doing. Here in the middle of a formal party, yet! But he didn't know how to get out of this without calling even more embarrassing attention to himself. So far, most eyes remained on the Satyrical action, center-stage, fortunately.

  “How large is it when erect?” she inquired, tugging at the foreskin. “Oops, beg pardon! It is erect, isn't it!"

  Prior didn't comment. He was far too conscious of his days without a bath. The cheese would be strong, if she peeled back that prepuce any farther. He tried to back away, but he stood against a wall and could not retreat.

  “The question is whether your ejaculate has particular non-reproductive properties,” she said. “I had better take a sample now for laboratory analysis."

  She massaged his throbbing organ. Conversation around them ceased, and people glanced curiously at what was happening. Prior would have felt more embarrassed if he had not already seen worse than this, openly performed here, and if Tantamount's touch were not so professional. Maybe the werewolf elixir had dulled his inhibitions.

  She brought out a bell-necked test-tube and capped his glans with it just as he spurted. The thick white ejaculate splashed against the glass, urge after urge, until the container was a quarter full. There was a smattering of applause. Apparently the audience had expected less from so small a cock. But it was possible for a small cock to attach to a large keg.

  “Very good,” Tantamount said, bending to lick off a laggard smear. The touch was so exciting to his sensitized glans that he almost urinated in her mouth. “A quite respectable quantity. Now let's check the smegma."

  Prior was too bemused to stop her as she drew back the foreskin to reveal the whole purple glans. There was a coating of yellow, and the smell spread out powerfully. He stood helplessly, feeling the heat mount to his neck and face as the bystanders sniffed the air audibly.

  “Excellent,” Tantamount said. “I see the succubus told you not to wash it, so that a suitable specimen deposit could form."

  Prior was immensely relieved. It was all right!

  As his erection inexorably diminished, she took a plastic slide and scraped off a rich smear of cheese. “I'm so glad to see an uncircumcised organ,” she remarked. “So many today are mutilated.” Several of the men around who had begun to snicker now looked chastened. Evidently they had been mutilated, and were unable to manufacture decent samples of cheese.

  “I'm convinced that smegma,” Tantamount continued blithely, “despite certain charges against it, serves a necessary function. It is of course an olfactory stimulant that arouses some women.” Indeed it did; most of the women in the room were breathing deeply and edging closer to Prior. “And to me the natural, complete organ is a thing of beauty—genuine masculine appeal. The esthetics are so much more important than the measurements. The male organ really should not be cut, any more than a person's tongue or nose should be cut."

  “Butchery,” Prior agreed. With this encouragement, both ego and penis were rallying. It was true; he did have an unmutilated member. For the first time in his life, people were contemplating his diminutive phallus with respect.

  Tantamount held the cheese-encrusted slide in one hand and the test tube of ejaculate in the other. She stood up without support, lost her balance, and had to aim her pert derriere at the nearest chair, her microskirt flouncing out prettily.

  Prior cried an incoherent warning, but too late. She came down firmly on the tamponer.

  For a moment she perched on it, her skirt concealing the action. An indecipherable expression crossed her face, but she did not spill her samples or make an outcry. There was a click.

  Then she stood up carefully and marched sedately from the room with the undisturbed specimens.

  Prior put away his penis and checked the box. The counter indicated one tampon expended. He peered after Tantamount and shook his head. That was a woman worth knowing.

  Chapter 7—Contest

  Action elsewhere drew his attention again. The satyr had finally gotten past the barricade and into the nether bifurcation of the corseted woman. He was servicing her with the abandon of long-denial-now-abated while the onlookers clapped in unison with the thrusts. Otherwise, things were routine, considering the company.

  “Did you meet Tantamount?” the succubus inquired, coming up beside him.

  “I certainly did. She—took specimens."

  “Of course. She's a doctor. She's probably in the laboratory right now, analyzing them. She'll get to the truth of this."

  “She's quite a woman."

  “That's nothing. You should see her sister, Oubliette."

  “I can imagine."

  “I doubt that."

  The satyr finished with the corset and looked around for new romance. “Come on, banana-cock,” the succubus said as she broke away from Prior. “You'll never make it with these mortal dames. Their cunts are just flesh. I'll show you how to fuck so you'll stay fucked!"

  The satyr turned to meet her with a snort. “Is that so, suckbuss? You bisexuals think you know it all! You're just amateurs. Let's see you absorb this motherfucker!” And he brandished his impressive weapon, tall and strong despite its recent workout. A satyr was, by definition, insatiable; his member never lost its potency.

  “You call that a motherfucker?” she inquired derisively. “Just call me ‘Mom'!"

  They went at it standing up, with the spectators gathering into a large circle. Prior watched amazed as the towerlike penis plunged into the wide-open cleft—six, eight, ten inches. She had said she could take nine in a pinch; evidently she had understated the case. “That deep enough, sister?” the satyr grunted. “I struck bottom two inches ago..."

  “I don't know, brother. When are you going to put it in?"

  With an outraged snort the satyr rammed home another inch, though the going was obviously difficult. The base of his member distended her cleft, seeming almost as thick as a third leg, but she didn't seem to notice. It had to be an act; she must be hurting inside, her demonic gut wrenched three inches out of line. Maybe her flesh was more elastic than mortal tissue.

  “Cut out this preliminary diddle and start screwing, Granddad!” she said bravely.

  The satyr battered at the connection, hammering himself in by short hard blows to his own short-tailed rear. Gradually the remainder of the pond
erous member got inside. They waltzed around the floor, two figures with but a single crotch, and every spectator marveled at the authority of the connection.

  The satyr started thrusting in a business way, now. Slowly the slick horn came out an inch, slowly it squeezed in again. Out in, out in—faster, now, and with a longer stroke. Prior saw the succubus’ hips swell with each full insertion, spread by the mass of that trunklike base. Fluid dripped to the floor—not semen but lubricant. The tempo accelerated; the succubus’ feet began to leave the floor at the height of each thrust, and her breasts were shining with sweat where they bulged out of her costume, their nipples swelling like miniature penises. “Put it to me, Goaty!” she gasped.

  Then he came. He rammed so hard that she rose into the air and stayed there, hung on his phallus. She wrapped her legs around his narrow hips and hooked her feet together, riding there while he bucked his torso ferociously. Prior fancied he could see the bulge of the liquid bolus forming within the satyr, pressuring its way through an aperture that seemed all too narrow at this stage.

  There was a sound like escaping steam. The succubus leaned back and threw her arms wide, so that she projected from the satyr's torso like a woman-breasted phallus. His belly appeared to collapse, hers to swell, as the bolus transferred in a series of grotesque heaves. What an emission!

  Finally she leaned all the way down toward the floor, backward, her belly distended with the mass of ejaculate, and slurped off his pole. That incredible member was still hard; it sprang up again as her weight left it, glistening.

  She was changing already, her breasts and hips flattening but her abdomen still bulging. “Bend over, uncle!” the incubus cried, his own penis telescoping where the hole had been.

  “Here's shit in your eye!” the satyr said, presenting his hairy posterior.

  The incubus wedged his instrument against the tight anus, clasping the other about the middle to gain leverage. Prior was appalled, but could not take his eyes from the show. The member would not go in. “Get your turdhole open, cousin!"

  “Get your pisser hard!” the satyr replied. But slowly the orifice yielded and the eyeless head entered the first inch or two. The audience applauded.