Phineas Phinephallus's Phun Pt. 01

Swooning, she said, "Let me feel it!"

At long last, I unclenched. Spasms rocked from my gut to my thighs, and Gloria hollered, long and loud. The wet heat inside her increased, as I sent ever more offerings to the altar within her blessed temple.

My arms buckled, and my chest rested on her back.

She said, "Please stay in."

I did. Over the next five minutes, there followed more rushes for her, and two aftershock orgasms, as she squeezed, and I moved, what was left of me. I wallowed in delightful lassitude.

***

In the shower I asked, "Why won't you come along?"

"To give my boobs a break," she said, laughing. For several minutes I had been kissing and fondling her bosom, as we washed and rinsed and repeated. She had enjoyed it nearly as much as I.

It's not just that her breasts are very large. They rest high and proud on her rib cage, with wide, puffy areolas and thick, russet nipples. With a long and focused effort, I can give her breast orgasms. Today, she had preferred to go straight to our standard whoopee. She took what I did now as one of many pleasant sensations from our bodies together in warm, falling water.

I gave her a serious look. "You say that you accept what Lucy has in mind for me. But does it bother you, at some level? So you don't want to be around when it happens?"

Her look was mild, even gentle. Ohhh, her big brown eyes, her firm cheekbones and jawline, her olivine skin! She traces her ancestry to the Balkans, with ethnic mystery that may include the Romany. "Your writing has done wonderful things for women who need something wonderful. What would worry me is how they'd feel if your wife was around. Please give yourself to any lady who opens her legs to you. When you get home, be prepared for a whole lot of apologizing."

"You'll be here all alone," I said with a cocked eyebrow. "Or will you? Should I expect you to apologize?"

"Only from the usual," she said, closing with me, smiling warmly. "No other man, alone, can compare with you. I'll need two or three to get close to your level of accomplishment."

I knew the seven men who made up the pool of other worshippers at her temple. I had no problem with them, because they had happy open relationships with their significant others. Their visits to Gloria harmed nobody. Some of their significant others graciously accepted my own amorous overtures, and I eagerly accepted theirs. As I noted earlier, mine is a very lucky life.

"If you do something really remarkable with them," I said, squeezing her soapy buttocks, "take notes that I can use later."

"In this context, the word 'use' can have many meanings," she observed.

With two fingers stroking my junk, she said, "I'll let you reserve your next upwelling of virility for bedtime."

***

October 17

Ecstatic Esthetics seems to have gotten everything right in the field of text erotica. Short fiction is submitted at no charge by authors, and posted free to readers on the website, while longer works are published as books, and sell for excellent money. I retired from real work two years ago, at age 43, and live on the amazing proceeds of my novels.

At Lucy's insistence, my true name would not be used at the convention, even though anyone getting a phone pic of me could match the face to one Chester Simmons, Jr. "Here," she said as we walked through the hotel lobby with our wheeled suitcases, on Monday afternoon, "You are Phineas Phinephallus. You're the one who cooked up that moniker, now you have to own it."

I kept my voice low while admitting, "I'm used to being addressed that way. By Gloria."

"Good," she said. Then she took the lead at the check-in counter, on behalf of both of us.

There was an excited buzz in the lobby. I expected most of the attendees to be straight men, but I saw quite a few women, of various ages. Surely, my own bias had me noticing the women more than the men.

EECON14, the 14th annual staging of this event, had a half-day start on Monday, ran through full days on Tuesday and Wednesday, and finished with a half day on Thursday. How would everyone here feel, by the time they departed?

I stayed quiet while Lucy spoke with the registrar, but in the elevator I asked her, "Separate rooms?"

"Suites," she said. "You'll also be doing business in yours. The film rights, remember?"

"And you?"

"I'll be with you for the actual business stuff. When the pleasure starts, I'll retreat to my adjoining suite."

"Lucy, are you here only for drudgery?"

"Part of my line of work. I have other clients, who need more help than you do. Also, I know several people here. Um...colleagues, in literary management. I will...um...interact with them."

"Mincing words?"

"You bet!" she said, beaming. "And you should assume the worst!"

I smiled, relieved. "As long as you enjoy yourself."

"Chet, Phineas, stop giving! To me! You're here to give to your fans!"

We were alone in the elevator. She pulled my head down for a quick kiss, then added, "And to give to the pornstars who are fighting over the rights to your novels. I think you'll enjoy that."

***

The hotel connected with the convention center. By the time I had things squared away in the suite, it was late afternoon, and a couple hours into the opening half-day. I went down there for a glimpse of what I had gotten myself into.

The exhibit hall, and the displays and activities within it, resembled those common to most 'glamour' conventions. EE gives space to (and takes the money from) several producers of explicit video, and independent content creators, and vendors of 'adult novelties.' Their exhibits featured sexy performers, sexily performing. But EE reserved plenty of space for itself, including for live readings of various written works, spoken by attractive people, not necessarily the authors, provocatively dressed (or un-). Each EE category of erotic fiction had a booth, with swag for free and merch for sale.

I strolled along, alone, seeing this as my opportunity to use whatever anonymity I still had. That could vanish once I was in a public event.

I was unsure about lingering, or rubbernecking, at the table where my books were being sold. Nobody noticed me, however, so I hung around. I flipped my lanyard badge so my (pen) name didn't show.

Five women, of various ages, were chatting excitedly about what I'd written previously.

"In Chapter Seven, when she finds someone who liked to eat pussy, I was thrilled!"

"And he wasn't some wimpy worshipper. He was a smart, strong man. Once she came, they were ready to screw, as equal partners!"

"Stop it, I'm getting wet!"

The EE employee selling the books said, "Mr. Phinephallus will gladly autograph these books in Ballroom F, at 7 pm Wednesday."

A young dark-haired woman said, "He better autograph all the old books I dragged here, too."

A blonde grinned, and said, "And with personal messages."

A short South Asian woman said, "From more than his pen!"

A lean, gray-haired woman teased up the hem of her skirt and said, "He can sign any part of me, with a pen or anything else!"

They all laughed, looking at least as excited as they were amused.

I was more perplexed than aroused. I thought that Lucy must be exaggerating. These women seemed too smart and level-headed to do anything sexual with a total stranger, especially (or even?) one who writes smut. They must simply be having fun.

I was scheduled to participate in a panel discussion in the evening, with a few other EE authors. Before then, I met Lucy for dinner in one of the hotel restaurants.

She told me, "Your VIP badge gives you access to service corridors whenever you need them. Which you will, as soon as the audience for the discussion knows what you look like. You can also use the freight elevator to get to and from your room. The room service here is decent."

I spluttered, "I have to go into lockdown?"

"We are all just prisoners here," Lucy sang, sounding not at all like Don Henley, "of our own device."

I shook my head. "I think that once they see I'm a bland, middle-aged guy, they'll lose interest."

"You can think that," she said, picking up her phone, "but be ready if you get another think coming." She held up the phone, and looked at me earnestly. "I've sent you the three-digit code to request help from Event Security. Don't confuse it with the code that allows the normal elevators to get to the floor where we're staying."

"I knew I shouldn't have come here," I said.

"Phineas," she said, leaning close and impaling me on the spears of her green eyes, "Is this really going to be a problem for you? Accepting blunt invitations for sex, from very eager women?"

Stammering, I said, "I, uh, it's so weird. Even when I've written about this kind of thing, I never expected it to become a reality." The previous day, Lucy had sent me some of my fans' videos. I was agog, and very turned on, but I still couldn't believe they were more than extremely sexy jokes.

Lucy asked, "You understand where we are, don't you?"

I shrugged. "Somewhere outside Las Vegas."

"Far enough outside that certain things are legal. Not just prostitution. Did you see the sex shows in the exhibit hall?"

"I assumed there was a special license for that."

"Not just for them. This whole complex is a limited edition of the kind of all-whackcess you recently visited. Anyone in the convention center, at any time, can expose all body parts, and in some locations, engage in consensual sex. I've been here before, I've seen it. You will be asked, probably after the panel discussion. Or during." She gave me the smile of a dear friend. "You are going to make love to strangers very soon. Your next erotic creation will be an autobiography. And it'll be wild."

I thought again of the women buying my books. Dots connected in my mind, and I realized that two of those women had sent me strip videos.

I got hard.

Not quite fighting down a smile, I said, "Maybe."

"If you don't feel ready for that," said Lucy, "you can trust anyone who shows you this."

She fingered her phone a few times, and showed me a strange graphic representation of my 'Phinephallus' handle, with lots of colored circles, like a color-blindness test card.

"They're friends of mine," said Lucy. "They're good at getting people through unwanted crowds. They're also very eager to, and I'm mincing words, enjoy your company. I think you'll be very happy with them."

"Are you pimping them?" I muttered. "Or me?"

"Yes," she said with a grin. Then she stood. "Charge the meal to your room, we'll work out the expenses later." Then she sashayed off, hips swinging.

***

The topic of the panel discussion was "Sex-Positivity in Various Erotic Genres." I entered the room four minutes before the scheduled start, and found all of the hundred-some audience chairs full, with standees along the back wall. A young man in an Event Staff t-shirt ran a bar-code scanner across my badge, then guided me along a side wall towards the dais, where five chairs were arranged behind a long ruffle-draped table. It looked so similar to what I had seen at conferences in my earlier work, in real estate. Yet this audience included many excited women. I'd never seen that level of interest in real estate.

At the stairs to the dais, a burly African-American man looked at my badge. "Ah, so you're Phinephallus!" He handed me a tent card with my 'name' printed on it. "You sit in the middle. If they rush the stage, the rest of us will slip to the back door. You're on your own."

I laughed, thinking this was a joke. The other guy didn't even smile.

I read his badge.

"Otis Mustbelove," I said. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

He nodded, and looked away.

"Don't mind us," said a bubbly, plump white woman, whose badge read Mistress Amaranth. "We're all jealous of your success."

"I'm sure you all have devoted fol--"

"Save it for the panel," said the other male in the group, bald and white, whose badge I couldn't read at a glance. "We'll need you to get your readers to buy our stuff."

The Event Staffer said, "Take your seats, please."

I filed onto the dais with the others. I had to wait behind a white woman who ascended the stairs slowly, with the use of a cane. I offered to help her, but she must not have heard me through the room's heavy crowd murmur.

Now primed for some sort of reaction from the audience, I set my tent card on the table and looked elsewhere. I heard, clearly, a rise in the general buzz, and a few isolated statements: "It's him!" "Oooooh yeah!" "Him? Really?"

I couldn't help but smile at that last one. With my blah features and thinning hair, I had a face easy to forget. Except, I guess, here, for the next few days.

Mustbelove was the moderator. He said into the microphone. "Welcome, everybody, to our blatant attempt to get you to buy our books. This is behind the veneer of a discussion on sex-positivity." He then announced who we were, and had to wait about ten seconds after saying my name, and raised his voice enough to fill the room with mic feedback. This was more effective at quieting the crowd than anything he said.

Each of us was given a chance for an opening statement, on how we incorporated sex positivity in our works. Wisely, Mustbelove called on the other panelists first, including himself. The only one of these statements that stuck with me was from the woman with the cane. Her straight gray hair was long, but tied back. She wrote under the name Zenobia Thistledown. I knew her works well, they featured women who overcame tall odds to make their lives tolerable. "You can't rely on your life experience to make you sex-positive," she declared. "You have to decide that sex should be beneficial, even if it never has been for you. It takes will power. It takes a determination to get out of any situation that does not satisfy you sexually."

She declared this forthrightly, but as I looked at her dour expression, I wondered if she was finding her own sex beneficial. Of course, one should never equate works to a writer's own life, so Thistledown might not always be overcoming tall odds.

Although, as far as works and life corresponding, in my case...

"And now," said Mustbelove, "Let's hear from Mr. Phinephallus."

There was a standing ovation, which grew to jumping and waving.

From that point on, it was difficult for any of us to stay on task. I gave my usual spiel about how sex positivity worked best when all participants care about the others' pleasure and give it higher priority than their own pleasure. After that, crowd noise interfered with every attempt by panelists to converse with each other on the topic. I did, as asked, praise the other panelists' works, and urged the audience to check them out. (The writer whose badge I didn't see at first was Tom Essence, and he was especially miffed because most of his writing is about gay men. From what I could see, though, some of the women seemed intrigued by hot male coupling.) I even said that requests for my autograph should be delayed until the signing session in two nights. But I had no reason to believe that any of this got through to anyone.

The crowd was, I think, about two-thirds women. The men there may have wanted to hear what the panel had to say, but either they didn't gain much, or they accepted being distracted by the high energy of the women.

Eventually, Mustbelove astutely said, "It's time for Q&A. I'd like a show of hands. Does anyone here have a question for anyone other than Phineas Phinephallus?"

The crowd noise ramped up, but no hands were raised.

"In that case," said Mustbelove, "Mr. Phinephallus will stay here until it's time for the next panel. On behalf of the rest of us, good night."

The other panelists left the stage. Several attendees stood, and while they didn't rush the stage, they did press in closer.

I felt silly sitting behind the table, alone, far away. I got up, and sat on the front of the dais, legs dangling.

The Event Staffer desperately tried to clear space. The women held back, I believe on their own, a bit bashful. They had me where they thought they'd wanted me, but with the moment having arrived, they were unsure about following through.

Trying to relax, I asked the group, "Questions?"

"Will you come to my room tonight?" came a voice from back in the crowd. There was nervous group laughter, but the voice continued, "I'm serious." Then from other voices, a blur based on "Me too!"

I hoped my smile didn't show panic. "I appreciate your interest, Ma'am," I said, "but I'm still a little shy about all this."

Another voice: "No kidding. Is it really all right for people to do what they're doing out there?"

The Event Staffer chimed in. "Yes. In your information packet from registration, your liberties are spelled out. Interpersonal genital contact is limited to designated areas, and solo genital contact to those areas and some others, as shown on the floor plan in the packet. Nudity and body adornment are permitted everywhere." He looked at me. "In this room, if there is full consent by all parties, genital contact is allowed."

There was a raucous cheer, although it still sounded nervous.

"I like the idea," said a young woman with long blond hair, "but I don't think I'm ready for it yet. Maybe tomorrow?" There was a group murmur of agreement.

"I'm ready for it now!" A short woman pulled up her t-shirt and pogoed to bounce her freed breasts.

Despite misgivings, I was getting hard.

"How about this?" I said. "In the few minutes we have in here, I can answer questions, as my plain, boring self, using only words. As for other activities, maybe we can think about them tomorrow."

There was general voicing of disappointment, but many in the crowd looked relieved. I proceeded to answer questions about my work, and my plans for future work. I tried to laugh off, or be vague on, questions about my favorite sex positions, and my libido, and what turned me on in a potential partner, and if passages in my fiction were based on my own experience, and what I like a partner to do, and could I at least take the passcode to meet the questioner in her room in half an hour. Finally the Event Staffer said that it was time to set up the next panel.

As we all milled towards the exit, I tried to be gracious while accepting the non-incidental contact of some women who had exposed their fun places and wanted them autographed. Signing a breast here, a butt cheek there, was shaking my composure. These women were eased aside by a tall, pretty brunette who got next to me and said, "Selfie, please?"

She grinned up at her phone. I looked at it also, and saw the odd 'Phinephallus' design.

After faking the taking of a pic, she leaned to kiss my ear, which covered a rapid murmur: "My partner and I can get you out smoothly, nobody will get hurt or upset." During this I noted that she was above my height, and that she got that way with platform heels.

I started through the space she cleared. She looked to the side, and another woman eased in to join us. Her own height showed me a nimbus of curly brown hair and a face full of cute freckles. She also wore platforms.

I wasn't sure exactly what they did, but they somehow controlled the crowd as we emerged from the ballroom, and then surprised the crowd by having us duck into a service corridor.

"To whom do I owe my thanks?" I asked as they led me past stored tables and chairs.

"I'm Alyssa," said the brunette with a dimpled smile.

"Ruth," said the curly one. I could now appreciate their fitness, despite their plain, loose clothes.

"Have I been freed?" I asked, "or captured?"

Ruth looked at me, picking up that I wasn't bantering. "Do you hate the idea of this?"