“One time doesn’t make a tradition,” I protested. I Was standing at the base of the tree now, and she was already about ten feet up the trunk.
She wrapped her legs around the tree, hung upside down, and stroked her pussy with both hands. “You talk too much,” she told me. “My mouth is waiting. And not for talking.”
Hell! I started climbing the tree.
Alicia let me get within licking distance of her clitty before she resumed climbing. Every so often she’d stop again and let me get in my licks. A couple of times she did her upside-down act and took some scintillating puffs on Old Lucifer. It was a little like engaging in oral foreplay games with an energetic orangutan. On the other hand, it was exciting enough to make me ready for orgasm once again by the time We reached the top of the palm tree.
It wasn’t that simple, however, to resume the position we’d established on the ground before. Palm fronds kept turning up where my tongue expected to find lust-oiled female organs pulsing for release. And Alicia’s nose was bumped by a coconut she mistook for my scrotum.
When we finally unscrambled our organs from the fruit and fronds of the palm tree, we had other problems. In order to reach Alicia’s yawning vital area, I had to hang my head so low that I became dizzy. And Alicia had to stretch so hard that she got a kink in her neck which forced her to eject Old Lucifer from between her lips.
We made adjustments and compensations. We dared to stretch out and trust our weight to the bower of fronds. We tried again, this time with more success.
The spurs to oncoming orgasm were once again transmitted from our mouths to our organs. Alicia was ready. I was ready. Together we -
Shee-it!
Together we aborted our mission!
You’d think if there was one place in the world a couple could be sure of privacy, the top of a palm tree would be it. That’s what you’d think! But you’d be wrong! You’d be wrong because you wouldn’t have reckoned with --
Charles Putnam!
Jolly Cholly and his hummingbird helicopter! The Edgar Cayce39 of coitus interruptus! I looked up from the tasty morsel I was mouthing to find him right at eye level. Alicia noticed the whirlybird at the same time, and she scrambled to cover herself (and her activity) with some palm fronds. The two of us were so taken aback that we damn near fell out of the bloody palm tree!
“Mr. Victor!” Putnam hailed me merrily.
“I thought your name was Powers,” Alicia whispered, confused.
“I’ll explain later,” I promised her. “What do you want?” I answered Putnam.
“I want to apologize to you, Mr. Victor. I was unduly harsh in my assessment of your handling of the assignment before. But now I’m in possession of all of the facts and I feel I owe you an apology.”
“I accept the apology,” I told him. “Good night.”
“One moment, Mr. Victor. Don’t you want to know what caused the explosion that destroyed former President Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not,” I sighed.
“I knew you’d be interested. Well, he didn’t self-destruct as Rococco thought. At least not deliberately. What happened was that somebody shot him and the bullet hit his self-destruct button.”
“What about my button?” Alicia whispered to me impatiently.
“Who shot him?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Either Marsha Twitchell, Dotty Whiskers, or Rosalie Forest. All three fired at him with long-range rifles at the same time. We’re not sure which one of them actually hit him. We found the guns in the bushes, you see. With their fingerprints on them. When we confronted the ladies, they broke down and confessed.”
I remembered the first attempt on Dickson with high-powered rifles. At first I’d been sure Rococco’s hoods were responsible. But then I’d come across the three women in the woods, and near them I’d found three high-powered rifles still warm from being fired. Rococco’s hoods had confused things, but now it was clear that the three women must have been responsible for that first attempt.
“What was their motive?” I Wondered.
“They were working for D.O.P.E. They were zealously devoted to the D.O.P.E. cause.”
“I don’t understand. Why did D.O.P.E. want Dickson dead?”
“The same reason the country forced him out of presidential office,” Putnam told me.
“Huh?”
“Think back, Mr. Victor. In the ultimate analysis, was Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson pushed into becoming the first deposed President of the United States because he tried to cover up the breaking into of the opposition political party’s headquarters? Because he accepted campaign contributions in exchange for raising buttermilk price supports and/or arranging to have dropped an antitrust action against I.L.L.? Because he tried to cheat the government out of several hundred thousand dollars in income taxes? Because he indirectly okayed the break-in into the office of the astrologer of a man being prosecuted by the federal government? Because he established his own secret police with powers beyond all constitutional restrictions? Because he established Enemy lists and tried to use federal agencies to harass his foes? Were any or all of these the reason he was forced out of office, Mr. Victor? They were not! The plain truth is that Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson was forced out of office because he committed the one crime which the society of American people could not countenance. He used dirty language. He cursed. He had a bad mouth!”
“Yeah,” I remembered. “That’s right. They ditched him because of all those deleted expletives.”
“And that’s why D.O.P.E. wanted him killed,” Putnam summed up. “As the foremost living proponent of the removed expletive, he had to be destroyed -- actually as well as symbolically.”
“They didn’t know he was a robot,” I realized.
“I’m not a robot!” Alicia hissed. “I’m flesh and blood. Warm flesh and hot blood. Remember?”
“No, they didn’t know,” Putnam agreed. “But it’s lucky for us he was a robot. Now we can hush the whole thing up and rebuild him and nobody will be the wiser. Only this time President Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson will be under our control!”
“You mean you’re going to bring Dickson back to life?”
“As far as the world is concerned, it will be like tonight never happened,” Putnam said smugly.
“Old Presidents never die,” I reflected. “They only rust away!”
“I’m going to rust away!” Alicia announced. “If you don’t start paying some attention to me.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Putnam.” I decided she was right. It was time to end this conversation.
“Just a minute, Victor. I’ve got something for you. A souvenir.” He reached out of the helicopter and handed me a metallic gadget about the size of a pack of cigarettes.
“What is it?”
“The voicebox from the Dickson robot.” Putnam chuckled. “I thought you’d like to have it. Just push that button to activate it,” he called out as the chopper rose up above the palm tree and headed away. “Good-bye, Mr. Victor.”
I didn’t bother answering his good-bye. Nor did I bother fiddling with the gismo he’d given me. I had more important things with which to fiddle. Namely, Alicia and her various fixtures.
I put my mouth where my memory was. She did likewise. I kissed. She sucked. I nibbled. She licked. I tongued. She lapped. I came! She came!
We came!
Together!
Orally!
It was super. We damn near fell out of the tree again with the thrashings which accompanied our orgasms. And one of the inadvertent results of those ecstatic thrashings was that one of us tripped the mechanism which activated President Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson’s voicebox. Thus, in the throes of our mutual climax, this was the music which assailed our ears:
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear . . . wallowing in Watergate . . . [Expletive removed]! . . . Executive privilege! . . . [Adjective omitted] . . . One year of Watergate is enough . . . [Characterization deleted]! . . . I am not a crook! . . . I am not a crook! . . . I am not a crook! . . .”