And thought no more.

He woke in his own apartment, his penis itching furiously. He reached down automatically to rub it, trying to remember how the past evening had finished—and found a bandage.

A bandage! Had he come down with VD after all?

He sat up groggily, yanking at the dressing. It came away with a flash of gruesome pain. For a moment he stared at his crotch uncomprehendingly.

He did not have VD. The reality was much worse.

His penis was gone—all 3.97 inches erect.

It had been amputated.

Dazed, he sat on the bed. How could such a thing have happened? He still had his testicles—but what good were they without the delivery system?

He thought back to the party. He had seen the satyr making out with the succubus. Then Tantamount had summoned him, and—

"Why, that thieving bitch!" he exclaimed, and the effort made his nonexistent penis hurt again. She hadn't been attracted to him at all, but to his penis! So she had drugged him somehow and stolen his masculine member. For the smegma she so worshipped. She had talked so long before coming to the point in order to distract him and keep him quiet until the drug put him down; only when she had been assured she had him, had she allowed him to have her.

But he had taken no drug—not since the werewolf elixir, and that was not exactly a sleeping potion. He had put nothing in his mouth except Tantamount's lovely nipples....

No! He had chewed on that tampon!

He saw it now, with an awful, betrayed clarity. She had removed the tampon after his machine had raped her with it. She must have dosed it with something, then reinserted it. That was why it had a menthol flavor. What fiendish female cunning! He had supposed it was a ritual punishment, but it had been far more sinister.

And the paper he had signed during his bemusement as she bobbled her fine breasts, her matched and matchless breasts under his nose—that document was surely a release for his penis. He must have unwittingly—but legally—donated it to the cause of venereal research. Brother!

And what was he going to do now? Storm back to Tantamount's house and cry "Look here, Miss Emdee, I demand my penis back!"? And she would show him the signed release and that would be that. When someone donated a kidney for transplant, he could not storm back after the surgery and demand it back. How could it be otherwise with a penis?

But was he to go through the rest of his life with an effeminate hole where his meat should be? What would that do to his love-life? He was no succubus, to convert that hole to an impressive mansized member at will!

Prior dressed and drove to Tantamount's house. He didn't know what he was going to do, and knew it wouldn't work, but he had to try.

She opened the door promptly. "Why hello there, Mr. Gross! So nice to see you again."

This set him back. She was absolutely ravishing despite the mundane dress and conventionally bound hair. Now her tresses were ordinary brown—had the color been a trick of the night lighting?—and her bosom was demurely de-emphasized under a laboratory smock, and her fair face was innocent of any sign of any thought touching on anatomical matters between the shoulders and the knees. Yet he felt his absent penis stiffening, hoist by its own imagination, and he could think of nothing appropriate to say.

"Do come in," she said, as though he were an old friend. And when he was in: "Are you in pain? Let me check the dressing."

She kneeled before him, opened his fly and ran her slender fingers over his smarting crotch. "Oh, you removed the bandage. That won't do. This will heal nicely, but it has to be protected for the first few days. The operation was a success."

Sure, he thought laconically. The operation was a success, but the penis died. "I—"

"You were so generous, contributing to science and health this way. Let me show you."

She took him to a small office where she rebandaged him, leaving a pipette for urination, then led him back to the laboratory.

His penis was ensconced within a maze of glass tubing. Colored fluids traveled to its base, and there was the steady hum of a pump. A plaque set in the base of the display said: DONATED IN THE INTEREST OF THE WELFARE OF MAN—PRIAPUS GROSS.

Good god! What kind of a monster would he seem if he took it back now? Yet—

"You see, we have it transplanted into a compatible environment. Other organs have been kept living and functioning for years in the laboratory, such as chicken hearts, but this must be the first time it has been done with a penis. Isn't it a beauty?"

"But it's my—"

"And this way it will produce smegma under controlled conditions. We shall surely unlock the secret of its chemistry. Venereal disease will become a hobgoblin of the past. Between this and the Pill, there will be a new era of sexual freedom." She paused, then added with less enthusiasm: "For those who really want that sort of thing. To me it is more of a technological challenge."

Remembering the night past, he appreciated her limited candor. She was much stronger on clinical sex and lecturing than on actual man-woman performance with human feeling. She probably would not have played up to him at all if she had not wanted his penis so badly.

"But what about me?" Prior cried at last. "I need it too. And not just for the cheese!"

This time she didn't even flinch at his use of the vernacular. "Oh, didn't I tell you? My sister Oubliette specializes in the practical aspect. She's a bit liberal for my taste, but quite competent. She will provide you with a prosthetic free of charge, because of your service to Science. You will be very well off, by your definitions—her members are world-famous. In fact," she added with a frown, "you will be able to perform as never before."

"I perform perfectly well with my own prick, when not drugged!" he protested.

"Here is her address. She'll be expecting you." Tantamount presented him with a card.

"But I don't want a fake pe—"

He was already outside again, and the door was closing. She had managed him as readily as if he were a rebellious child. Perhaps he was, compared with her cynical subtlety.

But her sister Oubliette was too liberal for her taste.

Well, why not? He could stop over this evening, after work.

Prior looked at the card. The address was about two thousand miles away.

Oubliette Emdee was, if anything, even more physically attractive than her sister. She knew the hair-halter trick, too, and filled her tinted tresses just as generously. She welcomed him warmly with a delicious kiss on the mouth. "We'll do the exploratory surgery this afternoon," she said cheerfully.

The kiss palled. "Exploratory surgery! All I came for was a fake—"

"After all, we can't very well stick it on with glue," she pointed out, taking his hand and using it to comb through her hair where it stretched across her fine cleavage. "We have to match cell types to be sure there is no problem of tissue rejection, and we have to phase in the nerves and conduits. Otherwise sensation will be imperfect."

"Sensation!" he exclaimed, in his surprise grabbing hold of her left nipple and getting a nice dose of sensation himself. "On a prosthesis?"

"Certainly. Ours are very special members. Every aspect must conform precisely to the original so that no one can tell that the organ is not genuine. Didn't Tantamount tell you?"

"She's more conservative about such details. I thought it would be, er, a dead stick. Like a peg-leg or imitation arm. I—uh, does that include anti-VD smegma?"