Dr. Jonas Stillwell was intoxicated.
He had not been drinking anything alcoholic. In fact, he was sipping at his second cup of coffee within a half-hour period. Sipping and thinking, as he sat at his laboratory desk on the ground floor of the Harshman Research Foundation.
He was intoxicated with his first truly genuine success in the act of sexual intercourse with a lustily responsive partner. And she was a beautiful, lusciously ripe girl, too.
After years of frustration, he had made it good. Good? Hell, he had come on like Gangbusters, Batman, and Errol Flynn all rolled together.
He knew how lucky he was that his early years of failures with females had not rendered him impotent. How many times had he got some doll all steamed up, and then when she slipped her hand over that skinny length of meat, felt it wilt in her grasp as she went into hysterical laughter over the misshapen thing?
And even the pros hadn't been able to hide their smiles. Sure, some of them had tried to cover it up fast, then goofed just as bad by letting their pity for his deformity show all over the place. Who could maintain an erection under those conditions?
He had sublimated like hell, driven himself all through those tortured academic years, suffered through the wet dreams, the lack of female companionship, and the odd looks from fellow students who figured that anyone his age who didn't date the girls had to be gay as hell.
His only release had been through masturbation or nocturnal emission, all those years. With one exception, which he didn't often let himself remember. But sometimes it crept back into his mind, when he needed something to cling to – some memory that gave him a half-assed hope of some possible solution to his unique problem.
The body had come in from County Hospital when he was on duty, and he had signed for it, filled out the tag required by university procedures, and added it to the ID tag on the corpse's foot.
It was when he had started to roll her into the vault that he did a double take over the OTHER REMARKS entry on the hospital's form. "Severely prolapsed uterus" was scrawled on the dotted line.
A long time before that day, he had wondered what it might be like if he could just get a woman to let him try to work his long, thin penis into her uterus. But even the pros were leery of that. And there had been all too few others who had let him even get the malformed thing into their cunt, much less lie still for any nonconformist monkeying around.
So he had never really had a tight fuck in his life, other than the collie bitch he had tried that time on his father's farm. And she had run away, yipping and growling before he could get it in far enough to get started.
So he peeled back the sheet on the cadaver and examined the genitals. The uterus was indeed severely prolapsed. When he spread the labia majors and inserted the speculum, there it was. The grayish pink fleshy donut of the uterus mouth was staring right at him, only an inch beyond the entrance.
The body had been warm from traveling in the hot county meat-wagon, and he knew that it had not been previously refrigerated, from the delivery record. So it was not far below normal temperature when he climbed onto the table with it.
As his unslung penis approached the cadaver, it seemed to get harder than he had ever remembered it. And when he felt the very sensitive rubbery tip press at the pliable opening of the uterus, he felt a wild joy. It slipped in snugly, grasping at his hard glans deliciously.
He got in only a few short strokes before his nuts came loose. He plunged into the spongy interior full-force and felt his load gush out around the end of his cock where he had it jammed against the far wall of the womb.
The aftermath was a nightmare. The scurrying around to get the uterus thoroughly douched out and swabbed reasonably dry before anyone came into the cooler, the shakes he had developed after he was safe, the way he had jumped at the smallest sound for the next hour. All of it had been enough to cure him of necrophiliac tendencies from then en.
But it had created the determination in him to advance his attempts at uterine penetration wherever the opportunity opened up for him. But it had never worked out until Pal came along.
He had tried it with both Betty and Heidi, many times. Sadly enough, for him, he had developed a phobia about mounting from the rear. It was due to the thoughtless females who had dubbed his poor tool "dog-pecker" and other…
But Pal's initial reaction to the sight of his equipment had given him a burst of courage, and he determined to try the rear entry position for the first time, caring not how dog-like it might make him feel, if he could just get it in where he wanted. And the sight of Pal's extremely provocative behind had been a bonus incentive.
Now he knew that a rear entry could gain him his goal, and it was like the first martini to a former teetotaler. He might even kick the discipline bit, with all the fun he could have without it.
He hadn't gone to a Leather Lovers' League meeting since the night he had lost his head and made that girl hemorrhage to death on the houseboat. Just because his penis-inferiority complex had him using oversize phallic devices to compensate for his natural deficiency.
He finished his coffee, and wondered if it might not be fun to go wake up Betty and phallate her from the rear. Then he remembered that Paul had her tonight.
He toyed with the idea of going to Pal's room, but he didn't want her to get the idea that he was dependent on her accommodations. The standard routine he and Paul had developed was psychologically designed to make the girls restless and unwanted by avoiding them for a day or two at a the, then taking them very casually or ruthlessly, to show the independence of mastery.
But his canine cock was hot to probe into some bitch, to sink past the plastic donut of a quivering womb-mouth. He got up and prowled the halls, then took the elevator down to the basement. He had to get into something soon, or he would go wild with the intensity of his new-found virility.
He paced back and forth in the basement hall, trying to decide what he should do. He opened one door a crack and looked in at the still form on the bed, then closed the door.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and blotted the accumulated perspiration on his white clinic jacket. He paced some more, then suddenly strode to a door, opened it, and went in.