Now you stare at them. That’s an awful lot of . . . sex . . .
“But now, we’re off to your bedchamber, where your very personal harem awaits.” And then Howard takes you up more steps, down a torch-studded corridor, and into a long room adorned with all manner of jewels and precious metals.
“Holy shit!” you yell.
Howard frowns.
You’re staring at the bed. “I’ll bet you didn’t get that at Mattress Discounters.”
The bed is circular, twenty feet in diameter, but the mattress itself is somehow a mass of Human breasts.
“The Breast-Beds are Hexegenically manufactured, for Privilatos only,” Howard informs. “I was never possessed of much of a sexual drive—much to my wife’s ire, and I’d bet my precious Remington she was committing infidelities in Cleveland.” Howard paused amid the digression. “Er, anyway, even I must admit, I wouldn’t mind stretching out on such a Breast-Bed.”
A bed made of tits, you tell yourself. And not just any tits—GREAT tits.
“But didn’t you also say something about—”
“Your personal harem,” Howard went on. “Oh, yes.” Again, Howard snaps his fingers.
A door clicks open and in walks a very perfect and very buck-naked—
“It’s Pam Anderson!” you wail.
And so it is. The woman curtsies for you, then stands in a displaying pose.
“She’s even better-looking than she was in Barb Wire,” you observe, but then your eyes bulge when five more identical Pam Andersons enter the bedroom and stand in formation.
Your gaze snaps to Howard. “Six Pam Andersons? All for me?”
“All for you, Mr. Hudson, should of course you accept the Senary.”
You stare at the impossible line of spectacular women. “But how did you . . .”
“They’re products of quite an impressive occult invention, called Hex-Cloning,” Howard explains. “They look—and feel—exactly like the genuine woman in the Living World you so desire, but they’ll do anything you tell them. Anytime you want.”
You gulp again, looking at those six pairs of legendary breasts . . .
“And I suspect you’ll enjoy the next prospect: the Bath,” Howard says and takes you into what you guess is the bathroom.
Solid gold toilet. Solid gold sink. A claw-foot tub made of still more gold sits on the immaculate floor.
“Pretty nice bathroom,” you say.
“You’re welcome to partake in baths with pure water, or, if you prefer . . .” Howard snaps his fingers one more time.
Several large-bosomed and sultry She-Demons enter next, their bodies nearly as provocative as the half dozen counterfeit Pam Andersons in the bedroom, only these women have petite horns and various colored skin.
“What’s the big deal with these chicks?”
“They’re your Bath Girls, in the event that you don’t want to take a normal bath.”
You blink at Howard. “Huh?”
“Girls?” Howard addresses them. “Be so good as to show Mr. Hudson your surgical augmentation.”
All at once, then, the She-Demons open their mouths and stick out their tongues.
“Woe-boy!” you exclaim.
Each woman extrudes a tongue the size of a beef liver.
“Their tongues are huge!”
“Of course, they need to be. They’re Bath Girls. Only Privilatos, Exalted Dukes, and District Emirs are afforded this very expensive luxury—along with Satan himself, of course. Their sole purpose is to administer to you what’s known as a tongue-bath.”
You stare at the women’s tongues as much as you stare at the consideration. Tongue-baths . . .
“Anytime you so desire,” Howard says. “For eternity. It’s my understanding that the sensation is most stimulating.”
I’ll bet it is . . . I’ve got all these hot chicks here, that I can get it on with anytime I want . . . IF I accept the Senary . . . But then the reality sets in. “Look, I’ve never even had sex before but I’ve been told that a guy can only do it so many times before he gets worn out.”
“Ah, yes, refraction, the bane of all masculinity, but let us convene now on the north bulwark, and I will show you yet one more otherworldly benefit of Privilato status.”
The Bath Girls all wriggle their giant wet tongues as Howard moves you out of the chamber and onto a lofty balcony. From here you see the entire castle grounds, the inner wards, various stone buildings, intermediate towers. Birds that appear to be normal—falcons, doves, sparrows—sweep across the sky; while the sky is normal, too. Blue, with wisps of white clouds.
“How can . . .” you begin.
“Hallucinosis Transformers at the fringe of each Privilato estate provide the preferred environment,” Howard answers. “Should you so desire, Mr. Hudson, your sky will always look exactly like the sky in the Living World.”
“Incredible,” you mutter, but then you think of something. “There’s an awful lot of—what?—supernatural technology here—”
“The proper term is Occult Science or Systematic Magic.”
“Fine, but it’s still the opposite of science in the Living World, right?”
“Quite right. It’s antithetical. As I explained previously. The subjective on Earth is objective here. The blacks and whites of the Living World is the all-crucial gray area in Hell. The hard science of God’s green earth is magic in Lucifer’s kingdom.”
“All right!” you exclaim, “but that’s my point. If Lucifer can do all of this with Occult Science, then what has God done in Heaven with Godly Science?”
Howard seems taken by your observation. “I am quite regrettably unqualified to render an answer but I must speculate . . . It must be rather dull when compared to all of this.”
Really? You stew on the words. I’ll have no way of knowing, will I?
“But to return to our former topic—there,”—Howard points over the parapet—“the Satanic Chapel. You will have to attend Black Mass on occasion, but I would think that little to ask in view of what you’ll be receiving, hmm?”
The black church sits in the corner, past the courtyard proper, almost quaintly were it not for the high upside-down cross erected on its steeple. Several bosomy nuns busy themselves about the small building.
“I mean your previous question regarding, um, sexual refraction,” Howard goes on, “and your potential concern about the prospect of being ‘worn out’ by the bevy of sexually available women at your disposal.”
“Huh?”
“Privilato status entitles you to your very own personal aphrodisial farm. Note the garden, Mr. Hudson.”
You see the area of space, a great square of flower beds tended to by sultry women in white cloaks and hoods. Only their breasts can be seen through apertures in the cloaks.
“The women are Bio-Sorceresses, and they will suffice for your groundskeeping staff. Every Privilato gets his own rod of Orgia Extremus Root. The Bio-Sorceresses are occult chemists who pick the root at harvest time, extract the Inhuman Growth Hormones from it, and then further process a priceless Gonadotropic Elixir that not only abolishes sexual refraction between climaxes, but allows for massive orgasms that last for not seconds but the equivalent of a full hour.”
Your demonic mouth hangs open at the information.
“It should go without discourse that Privilatos spend most of their time engaged in one manner or other of licentious congress.”
Hour-long orgasms, you think.