Chapter 19

Dr. Jonas Stillwell was intoxicated.

He had not been drinking anything alcoholic. In fact, he was sipping at his second cup of coffee within a half-hour period. Sipping and thinking, as he sat at his laboratory desk on the ground floor of the Harshman Research Foundation.

He was intoxicated with his first truly genuine success in the act of sexual intercourse with a lustily responsive partner. And she was a beautiful, lusciously ripe girl, too.

After years of frustration, he had made it good. Good? Hell, he had come on like Gangbusters, Batman, and Errol Flynn all rolled together.

He knew how lucky he was that his early years of failures with females had not rendered him impotent. How many times had he got some doll all steamed up, and then when she slipped her hand over that skinny length of meat, felt it wilt in her grasp as she went into hysterical laughter over the misshapen thing?

And even the pros hadn't been able to hide their smiles. Sure, some of them had tried to cover it up fast, then goofed just as bad by letting their pity for his deformity show all over the place. Who could maintain an erection under those conditions?

He had sublimated like hell, driven himself all through those tortured academic years, suffered through the wet dreams, the lack of female companionship, and the odd looks from fellow students who figured that anyone his age who didn't date the girls had to be gay as hell.

His only release had been through masturbation or nocturnal emission, all those years. With one exception, which he didn't often let himself remember. But sometimes it crept back into his mind, when he needed something to cling to -- some memory that gave him a half-assed hope of some possible solution to his unique problem.

The body had come in from County Hospital when he was on duty, and he had signed for it, filled out the tag required by university procedures, and added it to the ID tag on the corpse's foot.

It was when he had started to roll her into the vault that he did a double take over the OTHER REMARKS entry on the hospital's form. "Severely prolapsed uterus" was scrawled on the dotted line.

A long time before that day, he had wondered what it might be like if he could just get a woman to let him try to work his long, thin penis into her uterus. But even the pros were leery of that. And there had been all too few others who had let him even get the malformed thing into their cunt, much less lie still for any nonconformist monkeying around.

So he had never really had a tight fuck in his life, other than the collie bitch he had tried that time on his father's farm. And she had run away, yipping and growling before he could get it in far enough to get started.

So he peeled back the sheet on the cadaver and examined the genitals. The uterus was indeed severely prolapsed. When he spread the labia majors and inserted the speculum, there it was. The grayish pink fleshy donut of the uterus mouth was staring right at him, only an inch beyond the entrance.

The body had been warm from traveling in the hot county meat- wagon, and he knew that it had not been previously refrigerated, from the delivery record. So it was not far below normal temperature when he climbed onto the table with it.