`You're so strange,' she said.
`This is a sacred moment. Go, and come.'
When she came out of the bathroom a second time two minutes later she was modestly holding a towel against her belly, but exposing two cheerful, round little pink breasts.
I threw back the covers on her side and she hopped in, a ten year-old child hopping into bed with her teddy bears.
Terry Tracy fulfilled her spiritual duties, my friends, with admirable warmth, poise, obedience and skill: Too much skill. When I had difficulty penetrating her at first, I encouraged her to baptize the uncircumcised child with the sacred water of her mouth and this she proceeded to do so devotedly that it was some several minutes before I recalled my central quest. By that time I was too spiritually primed to exert any pressure without the likelihood of my achieving immediate and complete divine grace. She sympathetically consoled me with her hands and then lowered her sacred mouth over the trembling child, bathing it: she spoke in tongues. I was groaning with total incoherence and indignity as one gets during such emotional services when I felt the Holy Spirit ascending. I tried to withdraw the uncircumcised child from the holy temple and whispered `Stop!' but the angel did not cease her ministrations. The nebulae, the child and I all exploded at once in a divine fusion of feeling: I plunged away in her mouth. After ten or fifteen seconds during which I was completely out of the mere world of mortal men, I returned from my spiritual journey.
Her mouth and hands were still warmly engulfing my penis and balls as if nothing had happened. I lay still for another half-minute and then putting a hand on Terry's hand I said 'Terry.'
She raised her head from me for the first time in three or four minutes, but without even turning to me she swung her behind around much nearer me and said Touch me: Oh please touch me.'
When I put my hands between her legs and began to stroke and poke, she pressed back fiercely. This time I slid a finger inside the appropriate and proper opening. Her mouth was trying to swallow a relatively relaxed and thoroughly baptized member. She rolled over and for the first time made a groan. Of sorts: it sounded distinctly like one of disappointment.
I was feeling depressed, guilty, angry and inadequate, but being the dice man playing the professor-priest-customer I merely rolled away from her and told her that it had been delicious.
She didn't say anything. We lay in silence for ten minutes. I was determined to ram home to victory as soon as I could rally my red army back into the peninsula, but for the time being all I could do was lie there and feel inadequate. I didn't even wonder what she was thinking.
`Can you try again?' she said.
We turned toward each other and fell into a passionate half hate embrace, until she clawed at my shoulder to tell me I was squeezing too tight. After a few minutes of love play I lifted her up on to her hands and knees and invited myself to try to enter from the rear. We placed the dragon's head at the mouth of the cave and tried to encourage him to enter.
It was like pushing a dog down the cellar stairs for a bath. We pressed again. A marvelous thing happened: my dragon suddenly sprung past the outside barrier and plunged in a full three-quarter inch. She screamed and fell forward. I began to apologize, but she got immediately back on her knees and was groping back between her legs: a steering committee. After a few more charges, the dragon had disappeared deep into the cave and seemed to be nuzzling contentedly at her stomach. My big hands manipulating her easily at the waist, I felt the present experience was well worth the wait. It was magnificent. The apartment doorbell rang.
For a moment both of us were so intent on the pleasure of my filling her insides that the noise didn't register. When it
did, she raised her head like a deer smelling a rifle and said: `What's that?'
Stupidly: `The doorbell.'
She pulled herself down and away from me and rolled over. She was frightened.
`Who is it?'
Stupidly: `I don't know.'
Then, regaining my superman self: `It must be someone at the wrong apartment'
`No. You'd better go see.'
Standing at the door was a short, thickset young man wearing glasses. He seemed stunned to see me.
`Is this-' he glanced again at the door I was holding slightly ajar. `Is this apartment 4-G?'
Not remembering, I leaned my naked torso out and around to look at what he had just looked at. It was 4-G.
`Yes; it is,' I said helpfully. He stared at me.
`I thought - I was supposed - to meet someone here at nine o'clock.'
`Nine o'clock?'
I was beginning to understand.
`I guess I'm a little late … Maybe'
'Were you - were you supposed to meet a girl here who -'
`Yes,' he broke in. `I was supposed to meet a girl here.'
He smiled nervously and adjusted his blond-framed glasses. I noticed two pimples on his forehead.
`What's your name?'
I asked, still holding the door ajar.
'Er - Ray Smith.'
`I see.'
His real name as I remembered it was O'Reilly, and he was, according to his answers on the questionnaire, a smooth,
uninhibited young man with women. He was to meet a prostitute, one I had personally hired and instructed to make
him feel as inadequate as possible. He'd arrived ahead of schedule.
'Come in, Ray,' I said and swung open the door. 'My is Ned Petersen. I'm here to make sure Terry - that's our girl's'
name - gives you her money's worth.'
He looked at me - I was naked - and at the absolutely conventional furniture as if he were the first visitor to a Martian
living room.
`Terry's already in bed. I was warming her up. You want to give her a ride now?'
`No. No. You go ahead. I'll read a book,' and he stared toward the bookcase.
`Don't be silly,' I said. `She's here for you. I was just tuning her up, breaking her in.'
`But if you . . .' he looked at me conscientiously. There was egg or something near the shoulder of his sweater. Not too
smooth.
`Tell you what,' I said. `Let's both go in to her. It would be lonely for either of us alone out here.'