The Sex Machine Read online

  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 © 1970 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

  Popular Library is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Popular Library name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The coxeman name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: May 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54145-9

  Contents

  THE DELICIOUS DOLLS

  OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE DELICIOUS DOLLS

  had Rod Damon—The Coxeman—limp with exhaustion.

  Invited by the Red Chinese to test his famed virility against the wildest women in the inscrutable East—Rod finds that he’s just not up to it. The dolls have done him in!

  But then Rod’s agile brain smells a switch, and he stumbles onto the weirdest sex secret in the annals of international hanky-panky.

  A secret so devastating that even Rod isn’t sure he can handle the consequences . . .

  Other Books In This Series

  By Troy Conway

  THE BLOW YOUR MIND JOB

  JUST A SILLY MILLIMETER LONGER

  THE BIG BROAD JUMP

  I’D RATHER FIGHT THAN SWISH

  A GOOD PEACE

  WHATEVER GOES UP

  HAD ANY LATELY?

  IT’S WHAT’S UP FRONT THAT COUNTS

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  THE MAN-EATER

  KEEP IT UP, ROD

  LAST LICKS

  COME ONE, COME ALL

  IT’S GETTING HARDER ALL THE TIME

  THE WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU, MA’AM AFFAIR

  THE BILLION DOLLAR SNATCH

  THE BIG FREAK-OUT

  THE BERLIN WALL AFFAIR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The women bore down on me in a squealing, screeching line. There is something terrifying about a mob of women—there must have been hundreds of them—descending on you at the gallop, yelling their delight at sight of your face. Famous people will know what I mean, movie stars and all that, pop singers, Frank Sinatra and The Beatles.

  Me, I was no movie star.

  I paled visibly and reached out for support. I caught hold of Miss Angela Montosores, the advertising representative of Blake, Bannister and Hadshaw, my publishers. I had written a book entitled The Sex Machine, and now I was paying the penalty of its being on the best-seller list one week after publication.

  “Help me,” I moaned.

  Her dark eyes danced gleefully. “Why, Professor Damon! Women are your speciality. Your book is going to break all records for sales.”

  The women reached me, grabbed for my tie, my coat and its buttons, even for my pants. I tried to laugh as I put my arms about two of them. A pair of soft, moist lips jammed against my mouth. Involuntarily I kissed them and found my tongue being gently bitten between a set of teeth. Perfume and silk and soft flesh was all around me so that I floated in a sea of sensuality and squealing sexpots.

  I had no idea this would happen when I began The Sex Machine. Maybe I would never have written it if I’d been gifted with foreknowledge. Or maybe I would. I am a professor of sociology and the founder of the League for Sexual Dynamics at the university. It always enhances the reputation and earning power of a college professor to write a book or two. This was mine. In it I was passing on to an eager public the vast sexual know-how I have acquired with the women of live continents.

  In my book I teach men and women how to have a good time with each other. It is a primer for phallic expertise. I include a virility diet for husbands and playboys. I slip in amorous asides to my female readers, telling them how to make sure their husbands and lovers can best maintain Karezza—power to prolong the act indefinitely—which they all seek.

  I am gifted with karezza by nature, since I suffer—if suffer is the word—from satyriasis. Coitus prolongatus is a way of life with me. I can enjoy multiple, complete orgasm. This is fine for pasonamiac play—pasonomia being the condition in which one is interested in all forms of sexual intercourse—but it does have a strange effect on the women whom I bed down.

  They exhaust themselves trying to make up bizarre ways to expel male juice. This makes for very interesting results, and more than once has helped me in my role of secret agent for the Thaddeus X Coxe Foundation. But my case is unique. In my book, I address myself to most men and most women. The majority rules, especially in a sex tome.

  I wrote of foreplay and flirtation, of pleasure plateaus and phallic inventiveness, of prolongation, of aftermath and response. Mine was the one definitive book on human sex relationships. I told it all and I told it the way it really is

  Mainly, however, The Sex Machine teaches people to psyche themselves into being great lovers. The sex act is very much a product of the mind, of the mental attitude. And the minds of our western men and women have been so conditioned by the puritanical attitudes of the early settlers and colonists that they still regard the sex act as somehow sinful. I am sure that many of them subconsciously blame God for not having created man and woman in a form that would do away with the need for sex relations to have a child.

  To overcome this tendency to think of sex as sin, I devote many chapters in my book, explaining that good health and a liking for rollicking sex go hand in hand, and that a man or a woman can achieve this marvelous balance of health and loving by talking himself into it, by psyching himself into overcoming the puritanical repressions of his environment and bringing-up.

  In my mind it is the most important part of it.

  It sets The Sex Machine apart from all other sex manuals.

  I tell it as it is.

  Judging by these females around me—jumping and jerking against me, squealing and sighing—I had told it very well indeed. I could hear Angela Montosores begging them to be patient and to line up for me to autograph their copies. She was ignored, thrust aside to the perimeter of the mob.

  I had to quell this uprising by my lonesome.

  I grabbed a handful of black hair and used it to boost myself upward. I planted a foot on a thigh and hoisted my body until I could transfer my other foot to a shoulder. The women were laughing, weeping, clapping their hands in mass hysteria. I got my other foot up so that I towered over them, standing on two different shoulders.

  They stared up at me with adoring eyes, as if I were the sex god, the Shiva or Baal their excited little minds were making out of me.

  “Ladies,” I began.

  They squealed. I lifted my hands. They quieted.

  “One at a time.” I smiled down at them. “We’ll never get anywhere carrying on like this.”

  “Give us a sample,” somebody cried.

  Angela Montosores was blushing and making signs with her hand as she peered at me from the edge of the crowd. I glanced down. My fly had come open, the zipper tugged down by some overenthusiasti
c hand. No wonder the girls were going wild. I pulled up the zipper and tried to restore order.

  “Do we have a private room where I can speak with each lady?” I called to Angela

  The desk and chair had been set up in a corner of the store, away from the other shoppers. The desk was piled high with copies of THE SEX MACHINE for those who had their twenty-dollar bills handy, and lacked a copy. The store had set up this publicity arrangement, Now that publicity gimmick was backfiring on it. I could see a couple of horrified floorwalkers and an assistant manager or two standing in the aisles, their eyes bulging,

  I jumped down, saying, “All right, ladies, this way.”

  I grabbed Angela Montosores by the arm. “A private room. Get me a private room with a desk and a chair in it. Otherwise, we’re going to have a riot.”

  She looked dazed. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever been confronted with a situation like this.“

  Y-yes, I g-guess so,” she nodded.

  She ran ahead of me, making frantic motions at an assistant manager. The women were all around me, and the crowd was getting bigger. I began to curse the day I’d begun writing my hints to needy females. Since some of the book was partly my own memoirs, in which I discussed love methods and habits around the world, and hot women I have known (without mentioning names), it was easy to see why these dames looked on’ me as a combination of Casanova and Don Juan.

  Those boys are dead. I was here, in the flesh.

  The assistant manager and Angela Montosores conferred. Then the girl turned and waved an arm, began racing off toward a different corner of the store. Behind her the assistant manager made signals at a couple of long-haired, young male stock clerks gawking at me with open mouths and envious eyes.

  The women sensed I was about to grant them each a private interview. They squealed even more shrilly and hurried me along until my feet were barely touching the floor. I saw a green baize curtain. I was pushed against it, the curtain flew off to one side, and then I was standing in a little room not much larger than those cubicles men enter when they are buying a new suit, to put it on for tailoring.

  There was a desk in the room, and a straight-backed chair. I don’t know how they had done it so fast, but there were a number of copies of my book on top of the desk beside a ball-point pen. I drew a deep breath. Angela Montosores peeped in at me, past the green baize curtain.

  “Ready?” she caroled.

  “As I ever will be. Send the first lady in.”

  I sat down on the chair and reached for a pen. The curtain swished and a pretty little housewife came running in, yanking up her skirt. I did a double-take. She had quite good legs in beige stockings, and garters from a girdle clasping them. The skirt went up above the pink girdle.

  “Ma’am, now look—”

  “Oh, come on!” she squealed. Her hand tossed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill down on the desk. “Sign a book! But first —”

  Her hand went to my zipper. Then it was burrowing inside my open fly, seizing upon my manhood. It was limp but her hot little hand did things and when the hand came out of the fly with its prisoner, her lipsticked mouth made a round wet O and she breathed, “Oooooooh!”

  “Lady, this meeting was for the purpose of—

  She lifted a shapely leg and put it over my thighs. She beamed down at me, her lips slightly open.

  “You wonderful man,” she panted. “You’re all a human male should be. I just want to see if you’re everything your book says you are!”

  She sank down slowly, taking me all in. She gave a soft cry and her girdled hips lurched. Then she was posting up and down like an accomplished horsewoman.

  “Don’t tell me all the others are as curious as you?”

  She kept her eyes closed as she talked, but she let go of her lower lip. She had clenched it between her teeth.

  “Certainly, darling. The whole kit and caboodle of them. Why else do you think we’re here? Oooooh, don’t talk, just go on being the big darling you are and—oh! Oh! Oh!”

  I thought she might call it a day after peaking so marvelously, but she got right back into the saddle and went off on her rantum-scantum ride again. Once she said, “I’m a little disappointed in you. I thought you knew same extra little tricks that would increase my pleasure. All you do is sit there.”

  It came to me that I was a public figure, with fans could not fail them, I told myself. I ran my palms along her soft bare thighs above her stockings. I slid one hand inward along her upper thigh and my fingernail scratched.

  “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes!” she wailed.

  “I haven’t begun yet,” I told her. “If you want to sample some of the love mysteries of the Orient, there is always the Persian method of awurd-o-burd, in which the male aids the enjoyment of the female by. . . .”

  My words trailed off. My finger had found her clitoris hard and fairly long. I caressed it; I lavished upon it a cascade of caresses. The lady went crazy, bucking and bumping. She began to weep real tears and her mouth was wide open in a silent scream.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “I can’t span you much more time, my dear. It’s after three and there are others who—”

  She shut me up by gluing wet, wide lips to my mouth. We went on and on. I was having a ball, I admit. Most authors don’t get this kind of reaction to their books and I was human enough to enjoy it. There was a nagging worry about the rest of the women, however. If I had to service each one of them ad infinitum, if I had to prove to each individual reader that the memoirs parts of my book were not all lies, I would be here forever.

  There are more than a million women in this city. If only half of them were to buy my book and demand a personal proof of my abilities as a lover, I would be busy until—

  “Professor Damon!” cried a voice.

  I looked at the curtain where Angela Montosores had thrust her pretty face with the tumbled-down mop of thick brown hair atop her shapely skull. Her red mouth war wide open, and her eyes bulged. Then a couple more faces came into view. The other women registered jealousy, lust, rut-heat, anxiety, and impatience

  “Lady,” I said. “There are others who——”

  “Up theirs!” my love-mate screeched.

  She was insatiable. She just could not get enough of this. Her leg muscles tightened and loosed as she went up and down on her toes, her thighflesh rippled and shook, her hips went back and forth, up and down and sideways.

  I wondered if she knew we had an audience. I whispered, “The others are watching, lady.”

  “Let them! They’re seeing a girl get banged in a dozen different directions. You got any more tricks?”

  Of course I did, but I was not going to tell her that. She was being very selfish, and the sooner she learned the goodies were not exclusively her own, the better for everyone concerned

  A bell rang somewhere in the store.

  “That’s the warning signal, Professor Damon,” yelled Angela Montosores. “The store closes in five minutes.”

  “Well stay,” screamed the ladies.

  “Me too,” echoed my tireless partner, still bumping and grinding away.

  “How about tomorrow?” I said.

  My housewifely doll opened her eyes wide. “Tomorrow? You’ll be here tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here for a month, looks like,” I muttered.

  I was enjoying myself! I’d be a cock-eyed liar if I said I wasn’t. But the man likes to have some say as to when and where he sheathes his saber. Being attacked and semi-raped like this is not my idea of perfect pump thunder. I felt like the old Roman god, Mutunus Tutunus, on whose wooden member Roman brides used to sacrifice their virginity on their wedding nights.

  Another bell begin to ring.

  “Professor Damon,” called Angela Montosores. I’ll call the guards. Really, you must pull yourself together. I want to go home.”

  “I know, baby. So do I.”

  She glared at me. I had to do something drastic. My free hand slid below the girdle, toward the ba
re buttock cheeks of my partner. I readied my middle finger. I drove it home. The woman screamed and collapsed.

  I pushed her off, but I supported her with an arm about her middle. “Give me a hand here,” I called to Angela.

  The Spanish girl ran in, reaching for me with quivering fingers. “Not there,” I yelled, pushing her hand aside. With her! Get her presentable, get her out of here. And then sneak me out, too.’

  Angela yanked down the woman’s skirt, nodding. “Yes, yes. Well get all the women out, then we’ll go home, professor.”

  I sank back into the chair as Angela led away the dazed darling. The other females oohed and aahed. I half expected them to push their way in and take what I had to offer, but the store managers finally discovered a way to manage a crisis like this. The uniformed guards made a flying wedge and though I heard the sounds of slaps and grunts, they got the women out of the store.

  I stared at the copies of my book and snarled.

  I could not take this, day after day. Or could I? Physically yes. I am a veritable Hercules when it comes to heating the meat. It was my psyche that was tired at the moment. Man needs a rest at times, even from what he does best.

  I put myself to order and stood up.

  I walked out of the room into a deserted store. The lights were going off one by one. Beyond the big front windows, snowflakes were starting to fall. It was a cold winter night, the weather forecast was for snow flurries, and the wind was damn-chilly, cutting through my topcoat and my Pierre Cardin suit. I shivered as I eased myself out a door.

  The women were gone, I guess the cold weather had put a damper on their rut heat. At any rate, I was alone and unbothered. I pulled the collar of my topcoat up around my jaw-line to hide my face.

  “Psssst! Professor—this way,” a voice hissed.

  It was Angela Montosores, leaning an arm through the open window of a white Mustang and waving it at me. I wanted no part of Angela Montosores, but she had driven me from my apartment just off the university campus, and it was a long walk home. I grinned weakly and moved toward her car, seeing a white Camaro right behind her, waiting for her to move.

  She was all smiles and bright eyed, with a length of nyloned Ieg showing where her mini-skirt was pulled back. I saw the glitter of a garterclasp as I slipped into the bucket seat beside her.