Luke Rheinhart - The Diceman

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.'

`No,' no. You go ahead.'

`Won't do it. Absolutely refuse to leave you alone in the living room. Now come. Come on.'

I took him by the elbow and led him into the bedroom. The bed was empty.

'Terry?'

`Yes,' came a highly affected voice from the bathroom.

`A young student of mine is here. Young divinity student. Very lonely young man. Desperately needs companionship.

Can he join us?'

What Ray Smith O'Reilly thought of that I didn't know. From the bathroom came silence.

`Who?' she finally asked.

I walked over close to the door.

`A very lonely young anchorite needs your attention. He has a deep need. He's almost crying. Can he join us in bed?'

`Oh yes,' she answered promptly.

Beside the bed where I had left him, Smith stood like an abandoned bulbless lamp. With great gentleness I helped him

undress and guided him to the location of the bed. He pulled the covers up to his chin like an eighty-year-old preparing for thirty below. Soon Terry, clutching the same towel at the same place, came modestly out of the bathroom. Smith stared at her as at another piece of Martian furniture.

`Terry Thrush, I'd like you to meet George Lovelace. George, this is Terry.'

`Oh, hi,' said Terry; with a bright smile.

`How do you do?' said George Ray Smith O'Reilly Lovelace, `How would you like to fuck her, George?'

I asked, my own penis lifting its head in more than idle curiosity.

`You first,' he blurted.

`Okay, me first, Terry. Give me your ass again.'

Terry looked a little surprised, but quickly hopped into bed beside our young man, and stuck her little behind plumply into the air. Her face on a pillow she turned, smiling brightly at George, whose head lay looking ceiling ward on the other pillow a foot away. George looked sick.

I place my penis; prodded and poked, and, with all deliberate speed, it plunged deep into Terry's warm, wet interior. My God, that was good. Terry had helped aim me with her hands but now as I began easing myself in and out she moved herself on her elbows over to silent George and - undoubtedly smiling brightly to the last - moved her face over his and began giving him her sexy, snakelike kisses.

George lay as rigid as a dried straw, except for his central limb, which was as limp as a wet straw. I pulled Tiny Terry's thighs against me and more or less picked her bodily up and deposited her face on Georgie's belly. Discovering a poor, lonely, unloved cock, she did her duty.

The long and the short of it, Reader - and that is the usual sequence in these affairs - was that I made a splendid splash in Terry's interior and Terry did enough favorable groaning and straining to please everyone, presumably including herself. When she finally let go of old Sir George his limb was just as limp as before. However, as Terry rolled onto her back away from him I saw that the rest of him was at last limp too. Sir George too had seen the Holy Grail.

`Terry has a very nice mouth, don't you think, George?'

'Er, yes, she does,' he said.

`You're exceptionally beautiful in the interior, Terry,' I went on.

'Thank you,' she said. My two young friends were lying on their backs side by side while I had settled back on my knees near the foot of the bed. I was feeling very tired and depressed, and my mood was manifesting itself by my heavy-handed irony.

'Is your ass as warm and juicy as your cunt, Terry?'

`I don't know,' she said and she giggled.

`Live and learn, or in the immortal words of Leonardo da Vinci: "Anus delictoris ante uturusi sec."

Tell me, George do you feel now that someone loves you, that life does have a meaning after all?'

`I - beg pardon?'

`I was telling Miss Truss that you came here tonight very unhappy and lonely and unloved. Has she given you the

spiritual nourishment which you needed?'