Chairman Horse was mulling the fund-raisers. Brooding. “Shakespeare in the park...” he thought. “Children’s art. Car washes ... A bake sale ... Shit, why does filling the coffers always have to come into it? Shit, shit, shit.” Horse let his gaze wander down the right-hand row of droopy committee men. “Manure, that’s it. We’ll sell manure. There’s always a market for select manure. And so as not to impede business, we’ll do the deed right here at the meeting table. I’ll design special chairs, and sterile underneath compartments, and we’ll conduct business and contribute to the coffers at the same time. Eliminate waste.” The chairman chuckled, and his eyes came to rest on pretty, prim Camilla Mueller picking at her bran muffin. “I wonder what she looks like shitting,” Horse said to himself. “That’s something I wouldn’t mind seeing.” He had a sudden image of the woman astride him, riding. Riding to beat the band, and he wondered if a woman could fuck and shit at the same time. Shit and come at the same time. If shitting enhanced the pleasures of orgasm. Horse felt himself grow hard. Miss Mueller was staring across the table, at what’s his name, Mel Cameron? Vinnie? He and Camilla seemed to have a thing going. Was that a muffin crumb resting on her blouse, two inches above the obviously erect nipple? Brown or pink? Horse gritted his teeth, covering the grin with the back of his hand. Steam drifted up from Vinnie’s coffee, and Vinnie took a heedless sip. Yeah, well, you two can look at each other all you want while you fill the coffers. Horse surreptitiously reached below the table to brush the edge off his erection. Hmm ... stud service. Select sperm. Black market babies. But on the up and up. Or a good cause anyway. The up and up. Horse cuffed his stiffness, but it did no good. The huge cock reared. “Excuse me,” he said.