After a time he rolled off her so she could breathe. He thought he had lost erection entirely and fallen out, but he had forgotten how lengthy this member remained in the flaccid state. A good four inches of semi-turgid flesh pulled out of the hot shadow between her nether mounds.

"You're coming along nicely," she murmured into the pillow. "I think one day you'll make a skilled lover. Tomorrow we'll try some of the more advanced exercises."

Chapter Seventeen

In the daytime Oubliette had her regular patients—a steady stream of men with damaged, undernourished, or impotent penises. Prior didn't inquire into their specific complaints. Obviously they did not have the privilege of playing the music of their organs for the pleasure of the doctor. He was a special patient, and he knew when he was well off, and he intended to stay out of mischief to be sure the situation didn't change for the worse. But daytime was dull.

He wandered through the library. Idly he took down a volume and riffled through its pages: Psychopathia Sexualis, by one Krafft-Ebing. Just as he had suspected: dull as hell. He glanced randomly at the spines of other volumes: first editions of Chin P'ing Mei, Bah-Numeh, Exeter Book, Complete Letters of Marcus Argentarius, and so on: all exotic, dated, obscure references of no conceivable interest to him. Not a good sex novel in the bunch!

He contemplated the pictures on the wall, but they were oddities of classical vein—Aubrey Beardsley originals, the erotic art of Pompeii, and similar. There was some decorative statuary—INDIAN EROTIC SCULPTURE, the plaque said. He yawned, not inspecting the stuff closely. Too bad Oubliette's literary and artistic tastes weren't the same as her medical ones.

For want of anything better to do, he visited the eegling. Its playpen was under a map of the United States, the nation somehow looking like underpants stretched across North America with the penis that was Florida poking out to spray the urine that was Cuba and the Antilles. Some pale splotches suggested that the eegling had been using the map for phallic target practice, and now had something in its member to squirt with. But for the moment the creature ignored the map and eyed Prior mischievously.

The eegling was larger already, especially its standing member. It strode up to Prior's side of the pen and jetted a drop of thick fluid at him. There was a faint whiff of butterscotch.

"Fuck you," Prior told it irritably. "To me you're no better than shit, and I'm the one who shit you."

Prior drifted back to his room and lay down. His crotch itched, so he opened a drawer and took out the largest of the attachable units and plugged it in. He lay on his back and watched it come alive. It took time to fill, for it had voluminous capacity. It would be disastrous to remove this one in the erect state: not only would the job be messy, his body would be deprived of a fair donation of blood!

And that would be an interesting way to donate, he thought as the tube of prosthetic flesh lengthened and thickened against his belly. Plug in a transfusion bag instead of a penis, then show stag films. Maybe the nurses could be nude. Maybe they could give a man a real thankyou for his donation. Put on a huge prosthetic, ram it into luscious nurse, take it off immediately after climax so she could pour the blood into her pot. In five minutes the average man might pump a painless pint out through his crotch, trying to fill a donation organ. Whoever received that blood in transfusion might feel horny as hell, too. If a pretty young woman needed blood, they could set up the input inside her vagina, and have a mating mechanism on the penis: his erectile blood goes directly into her body.... Little old lady in tennis shoes waking up and saying to the male attendant "I think I need a transfusion; gimme a quick fuck before the doctor gives me my sleeping pill"....

Prompted by his chain of thought, the member stood complete at last: twelve inches long erect, two inches thick through the massive glans. Prior could not even circle it with thumb and forefinger. What a monster!

It was a circumcised model. He didn't like this feature, but was morbidly fascinated. He licked his finger and ran it over the nude purple glans. There was sensation, but not as intense as that available from a foreskinned member. He wondered how men with such mutilated organs ever managed to ejaculate.

Maybe they just had to try harder.

Curious, he wrapped a section of bedspread around the thing and tugged it snug. It wasn't exactly the same as a living, pulsing vagina, but it represented enclosure of a sort. He clasped both hands about it and pressed down.

Now the gargantuan phallus responded. It throbbed against the confining cloth like the motor of a powerful car, swelling to even greater magnitude. He had been wrong about circumcision; it was possible to get adequate stimulation without the foreskin. He pumped the wrapping a couple more times, feeling the urgency develop. Ah, where was Oubliette now!

The door banged open. A grandmotherly woman bounced in and collapsed upon the easy chair across from the bed. "I'm so glad to find a waiting room that isn't crowded!" she exclaimed. "All those dirty old men..."

Prior glanced anxiously at his lap. A section of bedspread stood like a tower before him, a foot high. He couldn't put the thing away without unwrapping it—even if he cared to remove it erect—and he couldn't unwrap it in front of this unwanted visitor. The absent-minded or near-sighted grandmother had somehow mistaken his bedroom for a waiting room.

"What's in the package?" she inquired sociably. "It almost looks alive."

"Oh, it's the living end," he assured her weakly. "Are you sure you have the right room?"

"I'm not sure of anything since poor Herbie came down with cancer of the cock," she said. "He used to be a good fuck, but now he can't even get a good hard-on. A soft-on, is all. I have to use a banana on my cunt before I can get to sleep."

Prior stared at her, disbelieving what he had heard. She still looked every inch the conservative retired housewife. "Herbie has cancer? That's too bad. Must slow him down."

"Slow him down? Hell," she said crossly. "My grandson can fuck better than Herbie now, and he's only eleven. I sure hope the doc can patch up that prick."

"I hope so," Prior agreed. The monster within the bedspread showed no inclination to lie down.

"What did you say was in that package of yours? Smells familiar."

"Nothing of consequence," he said quickly. "Just a hunk of meat."

"Herbie loves meat," she said. "Makes him potent. Now he won't touch his regular food. I've become quite a connoisseur. What kind of a cut is it?"

"Choice."

"Are you sure? You know the state laws are very vague about grades of meat these days. Butcher will slip in an average cut and charge you for prime."

"I'm sure this is satisfactory." Prior found himself sweating, but his member refused to shrink.

"Just the same, I think I'd better have a look at it," she said in the way grandmothers have with young men. "I wouldn't want you to get cheated." She stood up and approached, not to be gainsaid.

"I haven't been cheated!"

But she was already pouncing on the package. Prior sighed and let her unwrap it. It might do this busybody good to get a shock like this.

She peered at the monster, squinting. "You're right," she said after a pause. "That's choice."

Prior rewrapped the meat, afraid to inquire whether she had recognized what she had seen.

"I haven't glimpsed such a fine cut of first-class boar pizzle in years," she said. "It looks almost alive."

Ah, so. "Actually, it's synthetic."

"Oh, no, it's genuine. I assure you, I know my meats."

Prior decided not to argue. Grandmothers could be very certain of themselves, particularly when they were short of information.