Piers Anthony - Pornucopia

She twisted the flaccid member so that it snapped off. Some blood dripped from its base, giving him a shock until he realized that even a detumescent organ would have some stuffing in it, particularly after use. At least the automatic seal on the base structure was functioning; nothing leaked from his body. There was evidently some very nice technology involved.

Oubliette washed off the unit at the tap, shook it dry, wrapped it in gauze and replaced it in its box. "These should be cleaned regularly, of course," she said. "And boiled in a salt solution once a week if used regularly. The prosthetic is never quite as convenient as nature's original."

That was an inconvenience he would gladly accept. Despite the prematurity of his ejaculation, the experience had been memorable. Six inches erect! It was like a wrestling championship, a bowling award, a grand prize in anything—and look whom he had wrestled with, look what he had bowled over!

She opened another box. "Now this is one of our most popular numbers," she murmured in sales-clerk tones as she broke the seal. She hauled forth a four-inch dangle and attached it. "Try it erect."

"But I just—I mean, twice in a row? I never—"

She removed her hair-halter and showed her fine bosom unadorned.

Prior's new penis climbed invisible stairs. At the upper deck it stood: a proud eight inches, slender but strong. He looked down at it, amazed and fundamentally gratified. This doubled his best natural erection. He felt lightheaded; could all the blood have gone into the member, lowering his blood pressure elsewhere? A trifling inconvenience!

"Sometimes a substitution of units restores potency quite promptly," Oubliette remarked casually.

"I think your breasts had more to do with it."

"Oh? They're prosthetic, of course."

"Prosthetic!" His erection wavered and threatened to collapse.

"My little joke," she said quickly. "I grew these naturally. See for yourself."

He saw for himself, with hands and eyes. His hard-on became mighty indeed.

"But it really shouldn't make any difference," she said with medical detachment. "Your prosthetic penis is as serviceable and esthetic as the natural one, and prosthetic breasts would be the same. I have a professional friend, Bovinia, who specializes in such procedure."

"Women want larger breasts?" he inquired, intrigued.

"Many do. But her main business is replacing injured mammaries—ones that have been beaten or bitten beyond repair—"

"Beaten or bitten! What sadist would do a thing like that?"

"Not necessarily sadism. Merely overly enthusiastic love-play. And some are lost through cancer, even today. Then of course she has a fair trade in the gay community."

"Men? Men with breasts?" Suddenly he remembered the last statue on the route to the Egglayers.

"Certainly. Bovinia and I exchange referrals. When a couple wants to change over, I take care of the penis for her, and Bovinia handles the mammaries for him."

"And they actually work?"

"Well, the ejaculate isn't potent and the breasts can't be used for actual nursing, but apart from that—"

"Yeah," he said, dazed. If the other doctor's breasts were as good as Oubliette's penises, no client should have a complaint.

Yet it didn't seem the same. His prosthetic member was big and handsome and potent, but it wasn't him .

"We might be more comfortable on the bed," she hinted.

They were. A cubicle adjacent to the laboratory had a firm bunk offset by large wall-mounted mirrors. It was ideal.

Prior spread her out on her back and lifted her long lithe legs so that her cleft parted. He kneeled appropriately and wrestled his member down to nuzzle the dark opening. This time the angle was correct, and the curved head pressed between the pink lips and slid inside without obstruction. He watched in the mirror as the long shaft disappeared: two inches, three, four. Probably his own previous ejaculation provided the lubrication, for this was almost too easy!

His legs felt cramped, and he had to pause in place to straighten them out. He braced his arms against her thighs, keeping her legs elevated, and leaned into his chore. Another inch entered, and another.

The Eggers had been correct about Oubliette being bottomless. Six inches deep, and he hadn't met resistance yet. Seven.

Finally his loins met hers, pubic bone grinding against pubic bone, and the mirrors were useless. That was the trouble with mirrors, as with pictures—a complete entry showed nothing! Cartoons always showed the cock half-cocked, with only a couple inches submerged, so that it was quite clear that fornication was occurring, but who in real life ever stopped there? (Except for the dolt who climaxed at that stage; he could think of one of those, alas.) If he wanted a picture, maybe some kind of X-ray photography, that showed a solid penis.... no, the X-rays would pass through the penis too; it just didn't seem feasible. Only Superman had X-ray vision that showed things X-rays did not, because Superman was a fantasy. Sex, unless carefully posed, was inherently private, for purely physical reasons. Unfortunately.

Meanwhile he had a situation here. Oubliette had absorbed all his eight inches without complaint! What good was it to double his phallic size, if he still couldn't touch bottom? Also, his first performance, truncated as it had been, slowed this one down considerably. He wasn't close to coming.

Then her interior muscles began to operate. She squeezed his organ, kneaded it, milked it, without laying a hand on it. Prior had never experienced the like! Peristaltic ripples traveled up and down her slick canal. Pressure, suction, pressure, suction, squeeze and draw and stroke—and before he knew it he was spewing his essence with an imperative abandon he had never experienced before. It did not seem to be dulled because it was the second; rather it seemed to reach farther into the roots of him, extracting pleasure from hitherto untapped springs.

She let him subside inside her, and that was another kind of bliss. "Yes, I'd say the operation was a success. No doubt your technique will improve with practice."

Prior didn't answer. He had thought he had done a bang-up job, but evidently he operated in a lesser league. Oubliette must have been screwed by experts.

"Now," she said briskly, "for the next exercise—"

"You're joking! I never came twice that soon in my life before. The orange has been squeezed dry."

But she had little patience with excuses. "This one is special. It's prehensile."

"Come again?"

"You will, you will. And this time I will too, and we can call it a night. Wouldn't want to overdo it for your first workout, after all."

"No...." he mumbled agreeably.

She affixed the member. It was S-shaped, about eight inches long even when flaccid, but no thicker than a pencil. It looked unnatural on him, and he didn't trust it.

"Let's have an erection," Oubliette said crisply. "This will require a little practice, but you'll find it is worth it."

"I'm spent," he said regretfully.

"You have not yet begun to spend. Do you think I went to all this trouble just to have you poop out for the main event? Now let's get this crate into the air."

Prior tried valiantly, but the crate only twitched and hung its snakelike head.

"This is insubordination," she said, irritated. "I'll goose it into action." She brought out a douche-shaped vibrator. "Bottoms up."

She had not been speaking metaphorically. Prior turned around, leaned over, and presented his posterior to her. She turned on the vibrator and pressed its horn into his quivering rectum. He was getting goosed by a professional! For a man who did not like pederasty, he realized his anus was getting a lot of attention. First the Eggers, then the enemas, and now this.