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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 1969 by Coronet Communication, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Popular Library

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: May 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54143-5

  Contents

  CAN THE COXEMAN OVERCOME A TINY SILVER PILL?

  OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES BY TROY CONWAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CAN THE COXEMAN OVERCOME A TINY SILVER PILL?

  Rod Damon finds the toughest opponent of his career in a harmless-looking pill—a pill with the power to turn men into sex machines, and women into love-hungry fiends!

  The pill’s effects are unbelievable. Every man immediately becomes an insatiable stud. His sexual powers know no limits. And the women just take it lying down!

  But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and Rod must find the creator of the pill and destroy the formula—before the sexual balance of our whole civilization is screwed up!

  Other Books In This Series By Troy Conway

  The Berlin Wall Affair

  The Big Freak-Out

  The Billion Dollar Snatch

  The Wham! Bam! Thank You, Ma’am Affair

  It’s Getting Harder All The Time

  Come One, Come All

  Last Licks

  Keep It Up, Rod

  The Man-Eater

  The Best Laid Plans

  It’s What’s Up Front That Counts

  Had Any Lately?

  Whatever Goes Up

  A Good Peace

  I’d Rather Fight Than Swish

  Just A Silly Millimeter Longer

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Mmmmmm“

  “Umph .. . ahhhhhh“

  “Oh! Oh!“

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh“

  “Oooooooooooooooh“

  Mingled with all these usual sounds of sexual gratification were an assortment of grunts, groans and sighs. It was useless to try to decide whether the two women were enjoying themselves more than the two men. Or vice versa. Either way, all the graph charts on the small aluminum table in the Study Room were jitterbugging like mad. I hadn’t seen the wired pens dance like that in days.

  The Masters-Johnson technique of studied sexual response between the male and female of the human species has its champions. I, Rod Damon, am certainly one of them. I have always been interested, if that is the word, as to what exactly happens when Madame and Monsieur get together between the sheets, or above them. You might say it is my reason d’etre, what makes me tick, what runs my motor, and what makes me sing Hallelujah! I am a man first and a scientist secondly. Happily I have been able to coordinate both achievements, to the delight of my own existence and the enrichening of mankind’s knowledge as regards Sex. And you don’t have to be French to understand the thesis of Rod Damon. You have only to be a human being.

  Like Suzanne and Annette and their two steaming, panting, piledriving paramours on the big wide table-bed in the heart of the room.

  They didn’t pay any attention to me at all. As they should not, of course. The subject was Research. I had wired their ankles and their hips with the sets of electrodes and circuit relays so that the graphs and charts before me could record their sexy efforts. Naturally, they were enjoying themselves. That was the whole idea or the project would be a frost. I am a scientist, as I said, not a voyeur. But just as Dr. Masters and Dr. Johnson found out, the viewing of males and females enjoying the world’s greatest indoor (and outdoor) sport, does take its toll. The blood pressure count is all-important. It varies so much.

  The Study Room was air-conditioned, uncluttered and subtly lit to induce relaxation and libertinism (my idea), and the two couples wildly copulating before my eyes had gone to town.

  The pen tips were drawing racing, jagged lines on the charts; my own hands were racing to keep track of the progressive dips and rises on the graphs; and I was beginning to firm up myself in the old, familiar way. I cannot help it. I have priapism, and ever since I astounded the world of men and knowledge with my startling papers and books and experiments in Sexual Research, and founded L.S.D., The League of Sexual Dynamics, I have been a marked man. My capacity for love and love-making is ten times that of the average male, and since I am six feet two, well-conditioned and mentally solvent, I’ve been riding the gravy train ever since. The university which I made world-famous with my work honors me with a laboratory, a bachelor apartment and all the time and willing coeds I can desire. I desire a lot of them, but lately I had been spending a great deal of time in Theory, I must admit. Now I felt the old sensual yearnings of Practice assert themselves.

  It was either Suzanne’s fault or Annette’s. It was hard to tell them apart in the writhing pile on the bed-table. One of them had the sauciest, most dimpled derriire in the universe, and she was using it like a weapon on the man beneath her. The couples had gone from formal fornication to Free-Style, and one of the worthies on the table (I never look at men) was being battered into submission. I wasn’t surprised. It has been my experience that the average woman, given the time and the inclination, will outlast the average man. It is estimated that females average some fourteen orgasms, albeit minor, to the two or three savage blasts that males unload during a session. It’s all quite simple, really. Women have the itch, men have to scratch it. Scratching does take more physical effort. Or rather, the key has to move; the keyhole merely is. You see what I mean?

  Anyway—the Masters-Johnson technique had been a roaring success. I’d had time to study one hundred couples in action. The university has classrooms busting and bursting with sexually starved students. Also, to study under the Great Damon is a stunning stimuli to Education in General. At the university, a student majored in Sex. There were the usual lot that wanted to be doctors, lawyers, engineers and journalists, but by and large my university turns out the Sexually Free and Uncomplicated graduate. And any one of them would have laughed right in the face of Mrs. Robinson. She couldn’t have taught them anything like she taught Dustin Hoffman. The idea!

  I wiped my hands on my white smock coat and put my pen down and turned off the switch on the graphs and charts and electrical outlets. The two couples did not cease in their efforts. Indeed, they were now skin-deep in the ploy I had suggested before they had taken their positions. The circular, clock-like revolvement around the center of things. The men seemed to find this hard to do but the twin females were having no trouble whatsoever. I call this the Beat The Clock method.

  One of the partners lies still and supine beneath; the partner above (male or female) then merely lies on the love object and rotates, clockwise or counterclockwise in a complete circle. It is three hundred and sixty degrees of sheer delight, given the proper partners. Suzanne and Annette wer
e now doing this with high glee. Their tanned, lithe bodies were finely dewed with animal perspiration. Their melon breasts and bell-shaped hips were gyrating wonderfully. But beneath them, the men had obviously reached their limit. I couldn’t blame them, exactly. They had done pretty well for themselves. A glance at the watch on the desk showed me they had serviced Suzanne and Annette for nearly forty-five minutes. Not bad. Not bad at all But the pulse count was astronomically high.

  I had spotted Suzanne and Annette for what they were. Two free, unfettered dames who could ring bells or have them rung until the cows came home. Though Annette’s blood pressure was slightly higher.

  Mooooooool

  I called Time. The men on the table looked up at me gratefully. They were pooped, beaten, worn out; and their eyes had that curious dull glaze that suggests they have had enough screwing to last them until Christmas. The young are so stupid, really. College boys. They would learn—eventually. Right then and there, I didn’t care.

  Suzanne and Annette pushed back from their men and lay back on their haunches. They were a pair of rippling tigresses, all right. I could see the pouts and sulks on their sullen, lovely faces. They were both brunette, tanned and architecturally perfect. And in full bloom. Nineteen, going on toward a million acts of intercourse. I didn’t need a crystal ball. I could see it in their futures. Women with asses like they had had changed the history of the world. Ask Caesar, ask Napoleon, ask all the ancient philosophers and sexologists who have seen it happen.

  Ask Yankowski, Dillon, Von Firtz—any of the great ones of my field—ask me. I know.

  I am a leg man, a face man, a breast man, and I do like all that there is that constitutes the female body, but if I had to choose one stimulus, one catalyst that sets the whole thing in motion, I would have to say it was the female ass, hands down. Or up.

  Suzanne and Annette had two of the outstanding stimuli of the world.

  For a long quiet moment, the tableau froze. Then as previously indicated, the two naked men rose from the bed, waved to me almost red-faced, as men do, and padded quietly and quickly out of the back door behind the table-bed. The women hadn’t moved. They were lying there, gathering their strength, and staring at me. Like two cats in the dark measuring a mouse for a meal.

  I smiled at them. They smiled back.

  I took off my smock.

  They batted their eyes.

  I stepped out of my shoes. The ladies squealed with pleasure.

  They rolled erect, squatting on their rumps, eyeing me up and down. I got down to the buff in record time. When the assets of Rod Damon sprang into view, there was a concerted hoarse intake of breath and one of the women crossed herself.

  “Cut that out,” I snapped. “I’m a self-made man.”

  “Mon dieu!” the one on the left giggled, her eyes bulging. “Why did you let me waste my time with that one” —she jerked a shapely shoulder toward the door through which the men had gone—“when you had this treat in store for little Annette!”

  “So you’re Annette?” I looked at the one on the right, who was now lying back, letting a pink tongue play around her red lips, her eyes doing the seduction routine for me. “Then you are Suzanne?”

  “Out,” they chorused.

  They were really French. Too good to be true. I remembered now that we always had Exchange Students on tap. What a parlay for me. Two little mademoiselles from Gay Paree. I almost said oolalala!

  “You two sisters by any chance?”

  “Oui.” Again, they answered in duplicate.

  My heart glowed. Siblings! Again a chance to enjoy research while reveling in my favorite form of activity. I really don’t need an excuse, but it always warms the cockles of my heart when I can push the culture a step further along the road that Freud got waylaid on. I had tangoed with many a set of sisters in my time. Once there were four sisters in Dayton who had cornered me in a hayloft and one of them had gotten so jealous and upset she nearly impaled herself on a pitchfork. But that’s another story. Anyway, I’m always interested in sensational-looking siblings. Far more than I’m interested in being the world’s greatest amateur spy; that curious role foisted upon my life by the man I call Walrus-moustache.

  That imperious bastard is the one who threatens my sane existence by employing me as a sex-spy-expert in matters best left to the people like the CIA and FBI. But I’m stuck with him. The Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation gave me the grant that allows me to enjoy my college life. The Coxemen pose as a Far Right group of charitable intent, but in reality they are an undercover ring always interested in keeping the world at peace and free from war. Unhappily, I’ve had to make like James Bond in the process. Happily, my balls are still intact, no thanks to them. They have put me in the wringer over and over again. I’ve been lucky enough to stay alive and uncastrated. No thanks to Walrus-moustache who always gives me the most dangerous and sanguine assignments.

  “What will you do to us?” Annette cooed, placing both her hands around her own globes to show me how round and willing they were.

  “You will be a very naughty boy?” Suzanne suggested, hooking a gorgeous knee in my direction so I could see how deep was down.

  “That depends,” I said, walking toward them in full-sail. Their hungry eyes followed me, heads going back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. I must admit: The family jewels are incredible to behold even under normal circumstances. Now, they were astounding. I’m the only man who ever drove Nine-Inch Nelson to drink. The man who loved women more than Sex itself. I inched past him and he never forgave me for it

  Suzanne and Annette started to gather their muscles, circling me, fanning out, wondering who could get the juiciest morsel first. I held up my hands and clapped them together. They came to attention like the schoolgirls they really were. Their breasts wobbled like Jello.

  “All right, girls, listen to me. We are going to try the Sandwich ploy. But there will be no pulling or tugging or fighting or the whole thing is off. Get me?” They nodded their heads rapidly, fearful of dismissal. They looked even yummier as kittens. “Now lie down. Side by side. Just leave enough space for me and mine. Got that?” They did. As quiet as the room was, they were even quieter. Meekly, splendidly, they obeyed me. For a second, I feasted on the two lovely dishes spread out for my sampling and pleasure. There was Annette, on the left again, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Long of thigh, limber of leg and bursting of bust. She had a strawberry mole on her left hip. That was a break. I could tell them apart now. And there was Suzanne, holding down the right side of the table. Just as long, lithe and lissome. Their twin navels winked at me. For a mad moment, I wanted to fill things. Then my eyes traveled down. Their Venus mounds, dappled, high-rising, fairly bristled with expectation, in spite of all the energy they had already expended. It made no difference that I could see. The Suzannes and Annettes of this world are always ready. They stay ready.

  I slid down between them. Easily, lightly, taking great care not to touch them. They moaned and shivered with ecstasy. I lay between them for only a few seconds more. What a pair of bookends they made!

  The three of us lay there surveying the ceiling. It needed a paint job. But I’m sure none of us was thinking of that.

  The electrodes were off; the charts were still; the lights were low; the anticipation was high. I could tell and they could see it.

  “This sandwich—” Annette purred. “How does it go?”

  “Yes,” Suzanne murmured. “I am so hungry. . . .”

  “Patience,” I replied. “It is all quite simple. You, Annette, are one slice of bread. You, Suzanne, are the other. I, of course, am the slice of ham, beef or cheese, if you prefer. Now we have all the ingredients, you see, for a fine sandwich. We have only to get down to making the sandwich. Understand? It is a love sandwich, but of course.”

  They giggled, in unison again, but the giggle was charged with fever and unrest and eagerness to get going.

  “When do we begin?” Annette begged.
/>   “Yes, when?” Suzanne echoed.

  “Now,” I said. “I’m hungry too.”

  They were sisters, all right, each knowing as much about the other as anything short of extrasensory perception allows. In one second flat, we made a sandwich. Annette slammed her slice into me and Suzanne just as quickly pounded her contribution into place. They closed over me like the French finally giving De Gaulle the bum’s rush. Only there was love and lollipops in this, not hate and hard times. Annette, lucky for her, was on the front end of the shipping department and in seconds, she was pistoning and pumping for her share of the mayonnaise and salad dressing. I didn’t disappoint her. As her eyes widened in surprise, I flooded her. She moaned and cried out in terrified pleasure. Suzanne couldn’t wait. In a moment, she had reversed me, vised me with her thighs and she too, responded with a mammoth twitch that accomplished the second coming. It didn’t matter. I could go on like that for hours. With the initial fever of the ladies satisfied, we then settled down to the extraordinary niceties and complexities of making a Love Sandwich.

  It was a great club job all around.

  There was food for all and enough to go around more than once. In no time at all, I had two French converts to the Damon method of Self-Expression. One of the methods, that is. I got a million of them.

  With rolling eyes, gyrating mounds of flesh, and low whimpers and moans, the sisters devoured me. It was a great arrangement. I couldn’t lose for winning. When I was in Annette, Suzanne was behind me, gouging and suckling me. When I was in Suzanne, Annette took over with the extras. Too bad I didn’t leave the machines on and the electrodes attached. The room was a symphony of slurps, smacks and collective moans, oohs and aahs of sexual fun. The sisters had not misunderstood the beauty of the Love Sandwich. While straight intercourse was the main course, there was no end to desserts and parfaits. Indeed, the greatest thing about this ploy, which I readily admit is one of my own inventions, is that all three partners wind up thoroughly steamed, reamed and dry-cleaned. There is not a second, or a person, or an area of erogenous zone wasted. The activity, if a bit frenzied and rapid, is at the very least, completely satisfying. No one has ever emerged from the Sandwich ploy sexually unfulfilled.