Lenny parted from the dusky gypsy-beauty with some sadness. She knew that a grueling and perhaps dangerous task still lay ahead of her. After leaving a full report with Lenora she returned to her own apartment and changed into a suit and put her silky blonde hair up in a bun.
"That," she said snappily to the mirror, "ought to do for the sex-machine nuts."
She then caught a cross-town cab for the office of Masters McClain. The day, for this young woman at least, had just barely begun.
Though Masters McClain was waiting for her in his office at seven o'clock, he only saw her briefly. He instructed her to report to Mr. Cubbings immediately for a briefing on the performance.
"By the way, Miss Morgan," the dwarfish technology magnate snapped as she was about to leave his office, "I hope you brought your toothbrush."
"Toothbrush?"
"Yes," he grinned wickedly over his pencil-thin cigar, "you see, the performance will begin tonight at eleven o'clock, precisely. We'll make some overnight arrangements for you immediately after the performance. Unless, of course, you make some of your own." With this last comment, the little man arched his eyebrows scandalously and gestured for her to get out of his office.
Lenny rushed down the hall to the office of the second-in-command, Mr. Harold Cubbings.
Cubbings was waiting for her with a somewhat displeased look.
"Honestly," he complained, "I never know what the hell Masters is up to. To think of his inviting the guests for this very night."
"If it's so inconvenient," Lenny interceded, "couldn't you just postpone it and notify the…"
"Damn it, no!" snapped the irate Cubbings, "that's the point – the bastards are all as important as hell, they have to be invited to this damned bullroar months in advance."
"You mean that these guests were chosen before I was even hired?"
"Could it be any other way?" Cubbings rubbed his forehead despondently with the back of his sweating hand. "The bastard gambles on everything. Why, we'd begun advertising this little machine long before it was even off the fucking drawing boards."
Lenny noticed with some dismay that it was exceedingly difficult to pick out Cubbings' English accent when he was cursing so fluently. He sounded for all the world like a Boston stevedore; nevertheless, he was frightening her some with this talk of the performance. These people were obviously rather influential, if they were invited so far in advance. They must be the most prominent figures in American society.
It was a question of time, now. Somehow or other, the young Lenny Morgan had to get word out to Lenora or Boss Carl that the performance was to be tonight. The arrangements for the Carl Industries' counter-plot were not simple in any sense of the word.
If she failed to get word through to her compatriots, the elite and cosmopolitan citizens might very well fall for McClain's absurd and degenerate plan. Fall! She thought bitterly, they would probably swallow the whole thing, hook, line and sinker!
There was no question in Lenny's pressured mind that these people – once they were convinced that the Xylotrope was a desirable sexual status device – would lead millions of less advantaged and more envious dupes to stampede them like mistletoe in Christmas season.
A shiver coursed down Lenny Morgan's spine as the weak Cubbings began to give her the necessary instructions for sale of the fiendish Xylotrope.
"The main difficulty, of course," Cubbings had gained some semblance of self-control and was trying to rid himself of his plague of doubts by sounding as officiously confident as possible, "it is obvious isn't it, the main difficulty will be in convincing these devils that the Xylotrope is more exciting, that isn't quite the right word, huh, that the Xylotrope is more exotic as an experience than any physical relationship with a living body could ever be."
Boss Carl's parting instructions came up into the very back of Lenny's mind. She stiffened slightly as she heard them echoing through her consciousness once more.
"The trick is, baby," Boss Carl had admonished her with a gesture of putrid cigar smoke through the rancid air, "the whole trick for you is to make these dupes see that the one fault of this foul machine that McClain is putting on the market, the one single, fatal fault…"
Desperately, Lenny tried to bring the words into her memory, into clear focus in the edges of her mind. They would not come, however, everything was mixed up with the ugly control board blinking red lights and visions of gypsy queens flaunting their bodies with an almost holy abandon.
"What?" she asked suddenly, realizing that not a single word from Cubbings' mouth had entered her tormented skull. "What did you say, Cubbie?"
Harold Cubbings tried to look as out-of-patience as he possibly could. He performed this remarkable feat of physiognomical control by mimicking the exasperated expressions he had seen so often on the faces of those people to whom he attempted to tell amusing anecdotes from his past, or those even less fortunate bastards to whom he had on occasion imparted one of his latest stale jokes.
"I said," the slightly demented Britisher began again, "that the great problem you will face is…"
"Yes," Lenny leaned forward eagerly, hoping that she might make some connection between his "crucial problem" and her own. "Yes? What?"
"Uhhh! Damn it all! What bloody difference does it make!"
"I think it must make whole lots of difference, Mr. Cubbings," Lenny chirped helpfully, "or else you wouldn't have brought the whole business up at all."
"Yeah, bloody lot of difference."
The second-in-command was obviously suffering from a sudden recurrence of his old battle fatigue. His face had fondly smiled at the young woman before him, then contorted violently into a most horrible expression of disgust. Immediately, after these symptoms appeared the fellow went ash white and fell over backwards in his electronic swivel chair.
Lenny coughed her embarrassment and stood quickly. She supposed that she had ought to do something to help the weird character. On the other hand, her mother had always told her not to touch anyone who was having a fit.
"Are you having a fit, Mr. Cubbings?"
He scrambled clumsily up from behind the swivel chair and smiled weakly.
"No, of course not, just this infernal machine. For hell's sake!" he slid easily into a rather uneducated cockney accent. This both surprised and pleased young Lenny Morgan, at least he wasn't lying about being English, she thought.
"Excuse me, Miss Morgan," he said primly adjusting his wide tie carefully. "It was just a slip of the tongue, you understand, connected with my old war injuries."
"Lenny," he went on more seriously, attempting to regain some sort of control of the situation, "the responsibilities that you carry on your slender, lovely shoulders are manifold."
Lenny nodded, not really knowing what manifold meant – but not particularly caring inasmuch as she knew that it didn't have to mean anything, coming out of the rather garbled mouth of Cubbings.
"You must completely commit these patrons of ours to a life of sensual bliss with the Xylotrope and its soon-to-be-completed companion – the zylotrope. The zylotrope, naturally, will be the version of the device that is being designed for male enjoyment."
"I understand that, sir," Lenny commented coldly, "but there was something you were trying to say before – something about a special problem that I might have in selling this machine."
He nodded. "Yes, there will be one particular problem involved with your demonstration. You have to convince these suckers that our machine is more desirable from the psychosexual point of view than any woman-man or woman-woman or even, I shudder to think of it, woman-animal relationship – could ever be conceived to be!"
"You mean, sexier?"
"Precisely – as you know, sex is not only physical but mental. The essence of your assignment is to indoctrinate the potential customer with the idea that there is something, well, dirtier in sex with a zylotrope or Xylotrope than with any living thing."
"Dirtier?"
"Yes. You see, Miss Morgan, you may not be aware of it – but most sexual relationships are enjoyed partly because of the sensation of guilt they engender."
"Guilt?"
"Exactly!" Cubbings congratulated himself on how easily the young woman was catching on to his simple explanation of a complicated subject.
Lenny sighed sadly, she didn't actually understand a single word this demented man was trying to say to her – but one thing was obvious to her anyhow – he knew absolutely nothing about sex!
"So you see," Cubbings went on eloquently, "the man is unfaithful to his wife, not because the other woman is inherently more attractive – but because she is forbidden fruit. The same goes for all types of homosexual relations and really despicable things like relationships with animals."
He stared at her proudly.
She nodded. Not a word of what he had said made any sense to her at all.
Except! Suddenly the clue in his statement brought back everything that Boss Carl had said to her in those last, critically important instructions.
"The thing that makes the ultimate difference, is your ability to have a good sex thing going with the animals. But the real thing – the final element needed – that thing is the human need to sin! If sex isn't in some way dirty, then it is in no way interesting to the human being. Your job is to point out the many degenerate avenues down which the sexual connoisseur may wander if he follows my clubs and their unusual acts."
Lenny looked up from her strident thoughts with a start. There had been a strange noise behind the arrays by the windows. For a moment she had a terrifying fear that someone was eavesdropping on their conversation.
With a loud yelp, Mr. Cubbings' favorite pet – a huge Great Dane with a rather wild and lecherous gleam in his eye – leapt from behind the quivering arras and bounded across the room toward Lenny.
"Oh," the horror-struck Harold Cubbings cried out in dismay.
Lenny, however, remained calmer. As the beast descended on her with flashing red eyes full of lust, she managed to note this incident down in her memory. Obviously, Cubbings' weaknesses were deeper than she had hitherto expected.
The canine brute leapt onto Lenny with a force that almost knocked her over backwards in the overstuffed chair. He began to lap her exuberantly about the face and breasts.
"Hey!" she protested, "Bad doggie!"
His lappings were so energetic; in fact, that in a matter of mere seconds he had loosened the blouse front sufficiently that three buttons popped off in a minor artillery burst. This accident permitted an unhaltered breast to slip freely into the open air.
It might have been ego… but Lenny thought that the dog paused in his clumsy advances for a second – as though awed by the sight of such a flawless and well-endowed bosom.
However, he took little if any respite from his exercise. He began instantly to slurp loudly at her nipple.
"Uh, hey!" she was finding it harder to protest now.
The dog managed to work his muzzle in under what was left of her blouse and lap at the other lovely, white boob until it too sprang free of all encumbrances.
"Listen, hey, fella, bad dog!" Lenny's protests were becoming weak gasps. Something in the roughness of the canine tongue excited her. Her nipples froze into passionate rigidity. She could feel her breasts stiffening and becoming tense objects of sensual delight.
"Listen doggy," she tried once more to fend off his attack. This time she succeeded in pushing him off from her chest and down to the floor. But the Great Dane answered by lunging up under her suit-skirt this time. His tongue worked lustily at the naked orifice that he found there.
"So, yes, good doggie! Good boy! More!"
Lenny was quite out of control by this time.
Harold Cubbings, who had at first reached into his desk drawer for the revolver he always kept there, now stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding before his very eyes. His favorite pet, kindly old Horatio, was raping Miss Morgan! Worse still, Cubbings thought desperately, Horatio had chosen to rape the unfortunate Miss Morgan right here in the offices of Xylotropic Industries Incorporated!
"This," Cubbings admonished his dog from behind the safety of the desk, "this is truly outrageous!"
Horatio, dreaming nothing of other philosophies, proceeded with his attack, quite cheerfully, punctuating his probings and sniffings with exemplary wags of his huge tail.
"Bastard!" Lenny cried.
"Oh! Oh! Miss Morgan," the befuddled Cubbings stood behind his desk, struggling and twitching in a helpless fit of cowardice. "Miss Morgan, I am simply mortified!"
"Screw! Screw! Screw!" Lenny cried. With a deep breath and a set to his jaw, the terrified Harold Cubbings made a step forward, intending to break up the disgusting activities and rescue the attractive Miss Morgan.
He stopped suddenly in his tracks. His mouth dropped open, permitting a drop of saliva to drool down the corner of his lips.
Harold Cubbings could not believe his eyes!
Lenny had reached down and grabbed the animal by the haunches, and with a terrific wrenching motion, she managed to pull the animal up between her legs. This enabled him to hump his long, red, steaming prick up into her open cunt.
Lenny, in a distant land of delight now, thanked her lucky stars that she had remembered to wear her long suit and neglected to wear any panties. It had been her considered opinion that the situation at Xylotropic Industries Incorporated was such that she might expect to be called upon for "auditions" at any time.
One would have to assume that Horatio was also quite pleased with Lenny's decision in regard to her undergarment.
"Bastard mutt!" Lenny roared angrily, "When I say screw, I mean screw!"
As though he understood her shouted words, the Great Dane drove his red cock into her at a redoubled rate. His mouth hung open in exertion. His red eyes rolled crazily in their sockets.
Finally, with a cry of agonized pleasure, Horatio shot a load of doggie-spend up into the soft warmth of Lenny's snatch.
"Wow! Yummy! Yummy!" Lenny stretched and squirmed against the dog, but he was through.
Like any dog when through servicing a bitch, Horatio bounded down from the mount and dropped his carcass comfortably onto a plush carpet.
In that position, the Great Dane fell instantaneously and contentedly asleep.
By this time, the prim and sophisticated Harold Cubbings was having a heart attack. His chest heaved mightily and there was an aching growth in his crotch. He was immensely excited by the scene that had just transpired between Horatio and Lenny.
So excited, that he felt an extremely urgent need to get into the act.
"Fucking dogs!" Lenny was grumbling menacingly as she groped with her fingers beneath the hem of her tweed suit. "They never finish what they begin, dumb animals!"
"Miss Morgan," Cubbings ground out the syllables of her name, despite his extreme emotional upset. "Miss Morgan, I'm terribly sorry if the dog has done something to upset you."
Lenny looked around herself furtively, she heard a voice through the fog of passion, but she couldn't quite place it, whose voice was that? Where was it coming from?
"I can assure you that I'll pay for any damages, Miss Morgan, by that I mean, well, we don't generally like to see our employees treated like animals – uh, no – that's not quite what I mean."
"Aha!" Lenny screeched with gloating wrath. "Cubbings! So, it's you, is it? Come here you old fart!"
Cubbings stared at her blankly, of course.
After all, there was the other night. That was quite a friendly experience and this woman could not have forgotten that so soon. On the other hand, he reckoned grimly, she was a rather violent and emotional woman. There was something exceptionally dirty and degrading about being pumped by a dog – if she was that unstable, mightn't she kill him in vengeance?
"Please, Miss Morgan," he whined pitifully, "don't hurt me, I didn't have anything to do with this. It was my dog! If you have to hurt someone, Miss Morgan, please, hurt the dog. He did it! I had nothing to do with it!"
"Your bastard dog!" Lenny began fiercely, "Your bastard dog is not worth shit! He's a quitter!"
The whole business seemed entirely over Cubbings' head, he sank limply to the desk and buried his head in his hands. "Oh my, oh my," he cried.
"Cubbings!" Lenny's voice lashed his ears like a barbed whip. "Harold no good screwball Cubbings!"
In his distraught state, Cubbings had the terrifying vision that his mother was calling him.
"Cubbings you dumb eunuch! If you don't come over here and finish what your dumb-ass dog started, I'm going to go stark raving mad!"
He raised his head from his hands and stared at Lenny Morgan in disbelief. She was stretched out on the soft chair, her heels spread wide apart on the floor and her hips hunched up so that she was able to shove her entire hand into her open throbbing cunt.
In that instant of revelation, the whole thing hit him smack in the eyes like a visionary gleam. He roared with desire and ran across the floor, his trousers failing down about his ankles as he hurried to her side.
"Lenny!" he cried passionately.
Then he tripped on his trousers and fell flat on his face in front of her.
It was close enough for Lenny Morgan, her blonde hair tossed over her neck in waves, as she scooped up the crumpled form and pulled it onto her.
"I see!" Cubbings roared like a drunken preacher, "I see it all now! The Xylotrope is nothing but a big pain in the ass! What we need in the world is more filth!"
"Filth!" Lenny cried tugging his buttocks closer to her striving loins, "Hooray for filth!"
"Long live filth! Long live dirty! Long live fun! Long live the king!" With each thrust of his burning penis, Harold Cubbings shouted a new phrase of the revolution.
Without a doubt in the world, Lenny thought to herself later, there could have been no better preparation for the evening's performance than the briefing with Horatio and Harold that afternoon.
It was, of course, quite late in the afternoon, or she wouldn't have done it at all. Nice ladies never do anything like that until at least seven.