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CARNAL CHEM-LAB...

... Dr. Whitman's experiments in sex had cost him one job but gained him another. He now worked for a secret organization which was founded on depravity and dedicated to lust. His past journeys into shame were mere gropings, for now he was using KSLA-14, a chemical that reduced women to tireless machines of lust. Once the women were under the sin-chemical's influence... helpless victims of—

...SIN FEVER!


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Sexperiment

Clyde Allison

This page copyright © 2014 Olympia Press.

http://www.olympiapress.com

SEX SEMINAR!

Dr. John Whitman had chosen an unusual branch of medical study, and now his license was about to be taken. He had penetrated the far reaches of the human id, sought and found the human capacity for unspeakable depravity and sensual lust. He'd been expelled from the university staff when it was learned that his seminar was nothing more than an endless orgy among the students, who had turned veteran voluptuaries, eager to plunge further into the realm of physical sensation, no longer concerned with mental discipline. And so Dr Whitman was no longer with the university, but that had been only the beginning. He was ready to expand his operations. In his book. Sex In Society, Alex Comfort writes: “Any attempt to isolate sexual behavior from the other factors in a social pattern is bound to hinder our comprehension of it and to lead to false emphasis. Societies are the direct products of their economic, historical, and climatic background, and as such, they require to be studied as wholes.” But Dr. Whitman was not interested in the whole society. He merely wanted to experiment in sexuality farther than any other human being — he succeeded!

SEXPERIMENT

 

by

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

A LOT OF PEOPLE THINK SEX IS THE GREATEST THING in the world. I'm one of them.

A lot more people think sex is so great it couldn't be improved upon.

They're wrong. Dead wrong. Not stupid; just wrong.

I too, once, thought sex couldn't be improved upon. And I'm a doctor. Or an ex-doctor, at least.

I should have known better. As it was I had to learn. The easy way, you might say. Which is also the hard way, in a manner of speaking.

Sex could stand a little — or a lot — of improvement all right. Sex — but let me define my terms. Or term.

You'll have to forgive me if I sound a bit like a schoolteacher. I'm not a stuffy type. Far from it. But medical training sinks into a man, makes him conscious of scientific terms and definitions.

So; to define my term. By sex I don't mean the anatomical and physiological distinction between males and females — I mean what most people mean when they say sex. I mean the greatest thrill in the world. I mean what takes place after man and a girl shed their clothes and inhibitions and climb into bed together.

In a word, sex.

And sex, believe it or not, could theoretically be improved upon. In three separate and distinct ways.

Doubt me? Think I'm crazy?

Well, stop and consider a moment. Think. Ponder.

Okay? Have you figured out the three separate ways in which sex could be made even better? If not, don't feel too bad. Lots of people live out their whole lives without realizing that the best thing in life could be even better.

Here, then, are the three separate and distinct ways in which sex could be made sexier, more satisfying:

One — frequency.

And by frequency, I don't mean sampling ten or fifteen different voluptuous, eager girls every week instead of just two or three, though that's desirable too, of course. I mean the frequency with which you can have fun with the same girl in the same night.

Lusty fifteen-or sixteen-year-old boys may scoff at this. With some justification. Fifteen-and sixteen-year-old males are, according to Kinsey, at the peak of their amorous stamina. Some fifteen-year-old boys are quite capable of taking a girl (or girls) a dozen times in one night, though not without showing some signs of fatigue the next morning.

However, rare sexual athletes and the lusty private eyes of fiction to the contrary, few adult males can say okay when a girl asks them to try again ten or fifteen minutes after a frenzied bout between the sheets.

And if he does say yes, and makes good on his promise, the average man is going to need a spell to recuperate before starting up again.

No matter what you may read to the contrary.

Say twenty minutes. Or half an hour. Or an hour. Or two hours.

Sure, the pace can be forced — an ingenious, shameless girl can coax and stimulate a man — with her fingertips and breasts and lips and tongue — to the point of ultimate passion time after time within a surprisingly short period.

But a man who is satisfied, sexually speaking, five or six times in an hour is not having five or six times as much fun as he did the first time. He begins to ache with fatigue all over, and to ache with fatigue with almost painful intensity in certain specific muscles.

I know. Once when I was a medical student I went on a beach party with a bunch of classmates and twelve chorus chicks. The party developed into a swinging orgy, and before the night was through I'd enjoyed the favors of all twelve girls, and four girls twice over.

But I felt it. Oh, how I felt it the next morning. Tired? I could hardly sit, let alone stand.

Yes, something could or should be done to increase masculine stamina when it comes to bed-fun.

Imagine how great it would be.

You bed a ripe-breasted chorus girl — a buxom blonde. Your fingers gently strip away her blouse, unhook the straps of her bra to let her billowing breasts bounce free. You kiss the hot globes of her breasts as nipples, squeeze the lustrous globes of her breasts as if kneading hot, yielding clay.

Now her skirt. You cast loose a button, unzip a zipper, thrust down the soft cloth.

Now she's nude save for a pair of scanty black panties.

“Rip them off!” she gasps, clinging to you passionately, mashing her full breasts against your bare chest, grinding her torrid zone against your eager, naked flesh.

You rip off her panties.

Now she's nude. Nude, eager and willing.

You slide to the floor (or the bed or the mound of hay or whatever,) your bodies pressed excitedly together, her hands shamelessly exploring your; ability, your hands cupping and squeezing the trembling hot globes of her breasts, the resilient hemispheres of her buttocks, the saucy curve of her full thighs, the sleek warmth of her flat belly.

Your lips mash against the ripeness of her mouth and her tongue darts like an erotic serpent, probing wantonly, lasciviously at your mouth.

You roll together on the soft floor/bed/mound-of-hay/whatever. Now she's lying on her back and buttocks, and you're lying against her soft body.

Her long legs thrash, whip with passion, invitingly.

“Now!” she whimpers, “take me now!”

And you position yourself just right, and start pleasing her. Rapidly, pulsingly, satisfyingly.

A spiraling glow of ecstasy flows through your body as the pace quickens, the excitement mounts.

Now she's writhing and churning, her hips responding in passionate counterpoint to your actions.

Now she's gasping and moaning with delight; now she's whimpering and screeching as her fingernails claw your back in frantic passion, total abandonment.

Now you're not just with a buxom blonde — you're on top of the world. A fierce burning glow of ecstasy is pulsing outward through your veins. You're no longer human, no longer a rational being but a frantically driving sex machine, a throbbing engine of desire.

Her hips roll, thrash, bounce like wild things; her muscles are flickering and squeezing in a wonderful frenzy. Again and again, faster and faster, glowing, whirlpool of her flesh.

Then it happens — the sizzling, dazzling, scorching incomparable moment of ultimate sensation — the throbbing, pulsing apogee of existence.

Again and again your body rocks against hers with sledgehammer-like effects as she screams insanely with lusty delight, and then it's over.

And you're dead. Finished. Beat. Dripping with sweat, your heart trip-hammering in your chest. It's all you can do to sprawl beside her on the floor/bed/ pile-of-hay/whatever.

Your fingers, when you light a pair of cigarettes, are shaking with fatigue.

And at that moment another chorus girl saunters by on her high heels. A redhead. And nude save for her high-heeled shoes. And what luscious nudity she displays — wide, erotically shapely hips; long, limber thighs; pouting, uptilted breasts that shake and sway enticingly as she struts by, her head turned to give you an encouraging, suggestive smile.

She knows it's only been a matter of seconds since you gave the buxom blonde the joy-ride of her life, but still the shameless, shapely redhead is hinting you should sample her charms.

What do you do?

Stare at her lifelessly, listlessly, without desire or, at most, without the strength to put desire into practice?

No!

You reach for a small pill, a quick dissolving fast-action pill no larger than a vitamin tablet. You gulp it down.

Instantly fatigue flows from your body like water going down a drain. And in place of utter exhaustion comes a new surge of passion and vigor, and instantaneous mounting of interest.

You spring to your feet lightly, capture the laughing redhead with clutching hands, fling her down, and give her just what she wants, just how she wants it.

The redhead proves to be a real she-panther, a clawing, spitting, wriggling sex-happy animal packed with passion. It takes a long, long time to satisfy her needs, but in the end you're both totally, completely satisfied and satiated.

Also exhausted.

Too exhausted to eye the saucy little brunette who strolls by ten seconds later, her smooth, plump buttocks switching teasingly from side to side?

No. Another pill down the throat. Another miraculous resurgence of virility and strength, and down goes the brunette, squealing happily as you claim her teasing young body.

Wouldn't it be great if a man could recuperate so fast? Wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to sample a hundred different gorgeous young girls in ten hours, and feel no fatigue or loss of ardor when you reached for girl number hundred and one?

You know damn well it would.

So that's one way sex could be improved upon. Frequency. Or, if you like recuperation.

The other two ways? You've guessed them already, I'm sure.

Number two, of course, is duration.

You know how it is when you're with a girl and you suddenly feel a tremor run through her body, and at die instant you feel the tremor shake her body she gasps “It's happening — it's happening now!” and you know that she's reaching the glorious point of no return, that the pinnacle of sexual sensation is surging like a tidal wave through her emotions.

And at that instant you too reach the high point of orbit, the unendurable wonderful unthinkable delirious frenzy of sexual delight.

They have this trick they use, to teach astronauts what it's like to be in the weightless state. They take a jet plane and point it almost straight up, and when the plane is umpteen thousand feet above the ground, soaring upward like a rocket, they nose over in a gentle arc, and for perhaps ten, perhaps twenty seconds — before the plane noses slowly earthward again, the man aboard the plane is in a state of weightlessness.

That's the way it is, for me at least, when I reach the high point of all feeling. First the soaring, mounting upward flight, flashing upward through ever great levels of pure pleasure. Up and up and up — until with an emotional explosion as shattering as if you'd broken the sound barrier — you flash into a new world.

A weightless soundless, visionless world of pure sensation. A pulsing, screeching, agonizingly wonderful pinnacle — or rather plateau of limitless lust, unbounded ecstasy.

How long does it last, that miraculous high point? A few seconds, at most. It may seem longer, perhaps. Time may seem to dissolve, to leave you hurtling through a short eternity, through a new dimension, but a stop watch will prove that the so-called moment of truth is just that — a moment.

Then weightless — and total bliss — fades, and you are gradually down to reality. Whatever reality may be.

But while it lasts, during the short few seconds it lasts, what an incomparable experience it is to ride an arcing jet plane through the mortality barrier.

It is — if I may wax poetical for a moment — as if one lived all the time beneath a dark layer of clouds. And only occasionally, transported by the greatest vehicle ever devised — a girl's body — one soared up through the cloud layer to bask, for a few wondrous moments, in the bright warm sun of paradise.

Those few moments of ultimate sensation make all other aspects of human existence seem dull and drab by comparison. What is the pleasure of inhaling a lungful of cigarette smoke, a mouthful of bonded Scotch by comparison? Driving a sports car at full speed is exhilarating, but not nearly as exhilarating as the pinnacle of physical love. Tasting a gourmet meal is satisfying, but can it compare to the joy of tasting the fruits of paradise?

Of course not.

And what man, deaf, dumb, blind, and all but senseless with joy as he reaches the ultimate peak of sexual satisfaction, what man has not found himself thinking if only this could last...

Well. What if it could last? Last, at least, for minutes instead of seconds.

Could flesh and blood stand it? Could a man's fuel tanks sustain him for minutes, rather than seconds? Most of the time a man's body burns fuel as conservatively as a diesel engine. But during the peak moments of love the body burns fuel like a dozen rocket motors.

If, through some chemical or physiological adjustment, a man could learn to stretch the high point from seconds to minutes, he'd have to expect his food bills to double.

But wouldn't it be worth it, though?

The long-lasting finish would be as great an improvement over the normal, short-lasting one as a flight to Venus would be over a single orbit.

Yes, if the duration, the ultimate point, could be multiplied a hundred or two hundred fold — what a boon to mankind. And girlkind.

Those are two ways sex could, theoretically at least, be improved upon: frequency and duration.

The third way sex might be improved is, of course, so obvious as to need no mention.

I will mention it, however, because I'm cursed with a tidy, methodical mind; I like to get all my thoughts down on paper.

The third theoretical manner in which sex could be made even better is, needless to say, in intensity.

No human being (note my limitation: no human being) has ever experienced a more intensely enjoyable sensation than that provided by the heights of loving.

The intensity of the sensation varies from person to person no doubt. (I say no doubt because little research has been done on this fascinating subject. But we know that different people vary in the intensity of pain they feel, and it's only logical that men should therefore differ in the intensity of physical joy they feel.)

But only slightly. If a hundred men were placed with a hundred equally gorgeous and sexy girls, and measuring instruments (if such instruments existed, which they don't) were to be attached to all parties to measure the amount of physical joy they were experiencing at the moment the bed springs creaked the loudest — if such a test could be given, and the results recorded on a graph, the graph — in the eyes of most authorities, and in my opinion also — would show remarkably little difference between the kicks experienced by the couple at the low end and the couple at the high end.

(To be truly scientific and accurate, of course, such a test would have to be given a score or more times to the same subjects, and the results averaged. Because as all of us know, due to a multiplicity of psychological and physiological reasons, the joy of sex is greater at some times, lesser at others. But I'm speaking here of averages, so my example holds.)

To repeat, within fairly narrow limits, every normal, healthy, non-neurotic male in the world gets roughly the same amount of joy out of the culmination of love.

If ecstasy could be measured in units, as pain-sensitivity is now measured, we might say that the average ecstasy score of the average male would be one hundred. Some men might average ninety or ninety-five, others a hundred five or a hundred ten — but the mean, median and average would be a hundred.

Okay.

What if the intensity of sex pleasure could be increased to two hundred? Or five hundred?

We can't imagine what the sensation would be like because no human being has ever experienced a two hundred (or five hundred) score. We can only speculate and extrapolate.

And wonder. Wonder shivering. Shivering with excitement.

Could a man — or a girl — take it?

There's evidence to indicate that, during the ail-too short few seconds of the normal affair, all men — and women — are momentarily insane within the legal definition of the word.

(Could you reason logically or do long division in your head during those crucial, wonderful few seconds when the girl and the bed and the room and the world seem to spin around you?)

So the question is, how much increased intensity could a human being take without risk of death or permanent insanity? Would the pleasure transmitting nerve fibers burn out, the way a thin wire vaporizes when subjected to a ten-fold over-load of electricity?

Would the joyful shock to the brain be so great as to send the consciousness spinning off into permanent, irrevocable insanity?

After a certain multiplication of sexual sensation, there's no question but that permanent insanity would result, the brain, after having experienced an intensity of pleasure such as no human being had ever experienced before in all history, would refuse to accept the termination of such sensation. The nerve endings would be blocked and the subject, inert and almost comatose, would spend the rest of his (or her) life soaring through an imaginary sexual pinnacle of unimaginable intensity.

If one has to go insane, obviously this would be a great way to go.

But equally obviously, a method of increasing sexual pleasure to the point where it produced permanent insanity would not be practical.

Hence two questions, not one, must be answered concerning the possibility of increasing the degree of sexual ecstasy experienced by men and women.

First, can it be done? And, second, how far can such ecstasy be artificially increased without killing or crazing the subject?

As to the second question, nobody yet knows. As to the first, yes, in all probability modern medical science could increase the intensity of the most joyful experience known to man.

What about frequency? Could medical science fix things so a man could pleasure two or three or four or five times as many girls in the same length of elapsed time?

In all probability, yes.

What about duration? Is it possible to extend the precious few seconds of ultimate bliss? The answer is yes, certainly; it's been done many times.

How do I know these things? Am I an expert on the science of sex? Certainly not. The study, the serious study of sex — and the sensation attendant to it — are in such a primitive, rudimentary state that nobody can truly call himself an expert.

But I probably know as much about the subject as any man. I should. I've made it my life's work. And not too many months ago I was hired by a millionaire — a millionaire I didn't realize at the time was also a lunatic — to delve into the possibility of finding practical, usable means of increasing the frequency, duration and intensity of — you know what.

It was an interesting quest. This is the story of that quest.

I would like to state now, and will probably state many times again, that I never dreamed that my innocent scientific quest would lead to, in the words of a high government official, “Some of the most shocking episodes in all human history.” Nor did I dream that my detached, objective scientific experiments would lead to a serious of orgies too horrible to describe (but which, because of my devotion to scientific honesty, I will describe.)

And I most certainly never suspected that my serious scientific quest would end with my personally shooting, stabbing and crushing to death — or else roasting alive — several score of naked, teen-age girls.

These things just — happened.

In any serious scientific quest one must expect a certain percentage of accidents.

My conscience is clear. More or less.

How did all this start?

It's a long story.

And like many long, important stories, this story — this sequence of events — has an entity, an existence of its own. In short, I cannot tell it truthfully, scientifically, in chronological sequence.

Because the full import of tins story, this scientific quest, did not dawn upon me until some time after it had been, to all effects and purposes, terminated. In short, until after they arrested me.

 

It was a long, sparsely-furnished conference room. The long table in the center had been designed to accommodate a couple of dozen people, but there was only a handful of us present on that fatal day.

The sun slanted in through the long French windows, lending an almost festive air to the doleful proceedings. I remember that motes of dust floated in the slanting rays of sunlight; dancing, obscure, Brownian movements while the Inquisition — I could think of it as nothing less — took place.

I, of course, was the victim.

Not handcuffed, tied, roped, or gagged, I sat almost as a free man might; lounging — a little uncomfortably — in one of the wooden swivel chairs that ringed the table.

I was wearing a button-down shirt, tie — I felt it would add a certain sprightly dignity to me — and a rather rumpled brown suit. I forget what the others were wearing.

“In all of my years in public office,” said the man from the district attorney's office, “and private service I have never heard of, nor heard rumors of, such a revolting case.”

I nodded gloomily.

“You,” said the judge, pointing a bony finger directly at my Adam's apple, “actually admit that you slaughtered dozens of young girls.”

I wriggled uncomfortably in my chair. “Well, not dozens,” I said weakly. “Two or three dozen perhaps, but not dozens. Dozens sounds like — well like dozens. More than I actually, uh, disposed of, that is.”

“Huh!” said the judge.

“Hah!” said the man from the D.A.'s office.

The man from the U.S. attorney general's office said nothing, he merely frowned and ran his hand through his rather boyish-looking long hair and made a series of doodles on the scratch pad in front of him.

“In my opinion, Dr. Whitman — I mean ex-Dr. Whitman,” said the man from the D.A.'s Office, “you are the most repulsive mass murderer since — since Landrau. Since Miss Borden. Since Jack the Ripper.”

“Jack the Ripper,” said the attorney general's man thoughtfully, “killed only prostitutes. Cut them up with a knife, I believe.”

“That's right,” I said, just to be saying something.

The judge fixed me with a bleak stare.

“You consider yourself in a different class from Jack the Ripper?”

“Oh, definitely,” I said.

“Why?” said the judge coldly.

“Well, for many reasons,” I said, rather indignantly-

The judge leaned forward and pointed two bony fingers at me His face wasn't exactly twisted into a sneer, but he was coming close. I knew his type all right. Old New England family. Ancestors on the Mayflower. Puritan stock and all that. No doubt his forefathers had ordered many a poor girl hung as a witch in the old days, and grinned and licked their Puritanical lips with repressed sadism as they watched the luscious if witch-like young girls kick their heels at the end of a rope.

He licked his lips (with repressed sadism, no doubt) and said, “Name one reason you should be considered in a different category from the notorious Jack the Ripper.”

For some reason his question rattled me. Perhaps because I too, come from old New England stock. Maybe my ancestors had been witches and warlocks. Or maybe he just bugged me.

I said, “Well, for one reason, Jack the Ripper only killed prostitutes.”

“I see!” snapped the judge, waggling a whole handful of fingers in my face. “I see! The young teen-age girls you killed weren't prostitutes?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “They might have been... easy going. A wee bit amoral. Not too particular how they made money — big money. But prostitutes? No. I don't believe any of them would have been classified as prostitutes under the law. Even under the law of Massachusetts.”

“I see,” said the D.A.'s man, making a quick note on his scratch pad.

“And I,” said the judge, “see...

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