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Satyr Trek


Raunch Gaffer is being constantly transported. . . 1969 to 2060, to 2169, to 2269. . . He gets used to being abruptly jerked away from the edge of destruction, or at the moment of climax, thereby escaping annihilation or castration. His experiences with the strange and beautiful feminine beings he encounters during his interstellar adventures make Satyr Trek the first erotic science-fiction extravaganza ever.

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Satyr Trek

Ray Kainen

This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.

one. A Questionnaire Is Filled Out

Raunch Gaffer idly bit at the rubber eraser on his pencil.

It was an unconscious gesture, due perhaps to the somewhat uncomfortable position he was forced to maintain while sitting at the desk in his den. It wasn't really a den, sort of an abandoned porch, and the desk was hardly worthy of the name.

But it gave him some privacy.

Otherwise, he would hardly dare to have a hard-on. It made him uncomfortable, just sitting here with it. It was a phenomenon that he hadn't experienced since he was in high school, forced to sit long days in schoolrooms in which the musty smell of the furniture polish mingled with the sweat of the girls and their perfume, and he would close his eyes, lost in the outer reaches of the tangle of arms and legs and cunts that he projected against his skull, his reverie broken only occasionally by the bored drone of his teachers.

He was glad he had learned something in school. How to read, for example, and write. Otherwise, he would never have been able to see the ad in a magazine he bought and smuggled home, Twat. Raunch Gaffer rather admired the pictures in Twat, of young naked women with their titties and, their pussies exposed to his gaze, and some of the cartoons and jokes were funny. But the ad had caught his eye.



We know what that something is. And we know what to do about it. Thousands of satisfied subscribers to our service have allowed their most secret wishes to surface and have been fully satisfied with the results. We can put you in touch with those of your inclinations, someplace, somewhere, who share the same needs and desires that you do.

We are not a computer dating service. Those of you who are reading this ad know what a computer dating service is, and realize that it interposes a step between your needs and their satisfaction that is often difficult to overcome. Who cares if your date likes bananas?

We skip the intermediate stages.

For a complete explanation of our service, send for our brochure and questionnaire. You will get your first thrill just looking our service over. And that's only the beginning!

Don't wait to get complete information in a plain brown envelope.


Raunch had thought about it for a long time.

A long time was four days of dullness down at the shop, seeing the same people he saw every day, then coming home to his wife and, as usual, with the defenses that he had developed, not seeing her, not tasting her meals (which really, he thought, weren't too bad) and doing the same thing night after night, on his set schedule.

Tonight, for example, was his wife's beer-drinking night. After doing the usual chores and grunting to each other, she would go to the refrigerator about nine o'clock and take out a beer. She would always ask him if he wanted one. Ritually. he would shake his head.

He had nothing against beer. He knew that on these nights the Thing had happened and he would be expected to perform. The Thing was always mysterious, some combination of chemistry and glands that came to the surface at certain times, when Velma would want sex. She would pour the beer into a glass and watch television for a while, and then her leg would cross and it would start to bounce up and down, and he could imagine the contact of thigh against thigh under her house-dress. She would finish the beer and get another one, and again the process would repeat itself, except that Raunch could almost feel the clenching of the thighs as they tightened around the pussy, as she unconsciously, not letting herself know, heated herself up.

Raunch rather liked it. It excited him. It was faintly wicked, even though he and Velma had dutifully gone through the marriage manual given them by the minister when they had been married five years ago. Or was it six? Time seemed to go by so fast.

After the third beer, Raunch knew what the next step would be. She would finish it, her rhythm gradually increasing with each sip, her boobs starting to bounce a little now, her dress coming apart to show him a little, and then she would stand up, yawn, and say that she was going to take a bath. She would take out another beer from the refrigerator and retire to the bathroom.

On those occasions she always took a long time. Raunch knew how long it would take, so he would go to his bottle of bourbon, the one that he bought every fourth payday, pour a straight shot, and wait. That was why he didn't want to drink beer. It somehow seemed shameful, but it bothered him when he had sex, the extra liquid he was forced to ingest, and the bourbon gave him the little high that he needed.

Sometimes he wished that she would vary the routine. Or that he would have the guts to vary the routine. That she would forget the towel in the bathroom, or ask for another beer, and he would go in and soap her down and play with her in the bathtub, laughing and giggling and splashing, and maybe even crawl in with her, slipping and sliding out of each other. The marriage manual, which was supposed to be a good one, by somebody called Wonder Welt, had only included things like that under Other, and Velma wasn't the type to do things that weren't clearly defined.

He would finish two good shots of bourbon while she was in the bathroom, and then she would come out looking all rosy with her hair up, her face clear, her figure clearly outlined under the rather prim robe she wore for these occasions. It wasn't bad. Neither of them had married very young. They had decided not to have any children, and he had left how that was managed up to Velma. But she kept herself up. He could almost repeat her next words from memory: she went over to the refrigerator, took out another beer, and said she thought that she would go to bed after she finished it. He poured out another shot of bourbon, and went in and took a shower.

Afterwards he put on his pajamas, since sex-day was also clean-pajama-day at the Gaffer household. He would go to the bedroom feeling pleasant from the bourbon, and he knew where he would find her.

In his bed, naked.

When he had started going with Velma it was, he supposed, the thing that he wanted most of all, and he would have laughed at anyone who would have told him that he would ever get tired of it, that someday he might wonder if there were anything else, and that he would be sitting filling out a randy questionnaire from a dubious organization.

Raunch knew that the next few steps were so inevitable, so patterned, that it might have been the script for any one of a dozen TV shows that he watched. He knew exactly what was coming, as if it had been written by a scriptwriter and rehearsed by a director. And the worst thing, he thought, was that he couldn't do anything about it, he didn't dare change; even though he sometimes wondered if Velma wanted a change; if she would have liked to see some variation. But it was more than that; it was a vague dread that if he did, the whole thread of his life would snap and he would be left, empty and shivering, on the bed.

His pajamas were still on, and he would reach around her to her back, putting his hands under the nylon shorty nightgown that she always wore, first giving her a good squeeze on the rump. Sometimes he wished that she would take her panties off before she came to bed, even though he noticed they had been getting frillier and smaller as time went by, although the cheeks of her ass were fleshier then when they first married. Then he would work his hands up her back, kneading gently as the manual had suggested, until his thumbs reached her armpits, where he would spend a quick moment gently tickling them, always rewarded with a half-giggle, half-gasp, and then move down to her full breasts, perhaps a little too full for her figure. By this time her gown would have worked its way up and it would be crumpled, but it wasn't time to take it off yet, for he would cup his hands over the nipples and feel them as they increased in size, as they became harder, and this was always the best part of the night, for his own prick would rise as if connected to them by some mystical power source, and he would knead harder and as he worked, her breath would become deeper, broken with sighs, and her bottom would begin to roll around slightly.

That was the signal to take off their clothes. He would move his arms around to her back and she would raise herself to a half-sitting position, and he knew that there would be a languorous droop to her body as he pulled the flimsy garment over her head. While he was in that position he would let her go and unbutton his pajamas and drop them by the side of the bed, then reach down to pull his bottoms off. He would notice her moving, her leg coming into contact with his as she pulled off her panties, and then they would face each other again.

The only difference from their wedding night was that he used two fingers instead of one. While she hadn't been exactly a virgin, he had never explored the matter further, and he knew (both from the marriage manual and bitter personal experience) that some stimulation was necessary before she was ready. She had been tight, but the years had put on a little more flesh, spread the lips a little more, and made the whole pussy a bit bigger, so that now he was able to take his index and middle fingers and gently insert them, and to roll the clitoris between them, up and down, back and forth, until her hips assumed the same rhythm and the juice began to flow, while at the same time he would use his other hand to work his hands around and over her breasts. There would be a sudden tightening of her body that signified that She Was Ready, as the manual would say, and any further stimulation would cause it to disappear and her body to become slack again. So he would withdraw and roll her over onto her back (gently of course, a habit from the honeymoon days) and then carefully place his elbows on either side of her body. She would reach up and hold him around the neck and he would place one knee between her legs, careful not to put any weight on her, and then the other knee, and carefully position himself.

She would always reach down and help him insert it, and he would never plunge it in, but let it ooze slowly down until it seemed to reach a plateau, a shelf, that was really not a plateau or shelf, but merely the hard bit of contracted muscle that it was his responsibility to work through. Then he would raise it again, and this time her body would follow upwards and he would again move downwards, slightly faster this time, feeling his prick become harder as he worked at that magical barrier; and then on the third try, or sometimes the fourth, it would break through, and the head would be caught for a moment; almost frantically he would pull upward, her body now clamped in his, her knees raised, and they would begin the plunge together.

The plunge for her, that is.

That was why he drank the bourbon, to dull himself, so that he could feel her wriggling under him, pushing upward; he would give her a brief kiss on the lips, and her head would move to the side and her lips would slide on to his throat and her throat would issue half muffled sounds that she hardly dared to utter out loud. He would force himself harder, sweating a little, and suddenly, at just the moment that he knew how many strokes were left (six), she would raise and stiffen her legs, her arms would disengage from his neck, she would clasp her toes, and he would swiftly push her over, her cunt biting into him with the added leverage.

It wasn't over yet. They had found out from the marriage manual that a woman was capable of more than one orgasm, and she had always felt incomplete after only one, even though it was hard for her to put it into words. So he had learned to hold himself in, to think beautiful thoughts (which really was not so hard, since they mainly concentrated on what the boys at the shop would think of this, but he supposed they had their own problems) and then they would go into the next stage.

It was as unvaried as the first. Her legs and arms were up. He would raise himself and pull his arms around her legs so that his chest was against her thighs— and she was surprisingly strong, he thought, surprisingly strong—and then he would begin to pump away again, feeling sometimes ridiculous, sometimes transported by the posture of being up in the air, away from her.

She would slowly return to engorgement, her pussy tightening under his efforts, and her head would again roll to the side, flat against the pillow. Her tongue would flick out of the corner of her mouth, and sometimes Raunch got the impression of an insatiable insect about to devour him: a white-bodied mantis who was drawing him in as his prick went in and out, pressuring her, so that her body would rise; and then he would feel it, the tendons in her thighs getting tighter, her calves stretching themselves with the tension, her heels digging into his shoulders; and suddenly there would be a rush as her body, not athletic enough to get the entire fulfillment of the position, would grunt and gape, and she would be still.

Raunch would still be erect.

For this was the preordained pattern, the carefully worked-out cut-and-dried path of passion that he and Velma had taken. And it was good, he would say to himself, as he shifted position, this time to the rear entry position. Velma would be quite tired by now, but she was still receptive, and it was important, he knew, to satisfy a woman fully. They would both be stretched out, her back to his front, invariably on their left sides, her buttocks pushing themselves into the hollow of his body so that for a moment his stiff prick, wet with both their juices, would be in the crack of her ass. But she couldn't allow that for more than a moment, no matter how much it might make her ass twitch, sending the slight shiver up her back; she had to push herself further into the curve until his prick, now stiffer as her warm, wet body honed into his, suddenly popped through the space between her thighs, and, almost shyly, she would reach down and the palm of her hand would direct it in.

At the same time, Raunch, by now both excited and, although he hardly dared admit it to himself, a little bored, would reach around her neck with his left hand and work on her breasts, cupping alternately one and then the other, rolling the nipples between his fingers. If she were especially hot, as she seemed to be at certain times of the month, her hand would reach up and force him to press harder, and her other hand would take his and bring it down to her pussy. Almost automatically he would go into the two-finger technique while the rest of his hand would rub her lips, the swelling inner and outer labia that seemed to open up like a pod, and his movement would increase in intensity to match her, until sometimes she would utter something, something half intelligible, which he finally interpreted as Put It All The Way Up My Throat. Indeed, he thought, it would seem to go all the way up, to the roof of her womb, until there seemed to be no barrier, no end; then they would both go into the small frenzy when he could no longer control it, and the hot, sticky splash would empty itself into her while she gasped and vibrated. Then they would lie there for a moment before she clumsily moved over to her side of the bed, awkward in her nakedness.

But Velma had never been very athletic, Raunch thought.

He had finally sent for the questionnaire which arrived, as promised, in a plain brown envelope, and although Velma had looked at him curiously as he took it into the ratty little den, she had said nothing. After the duty of the meal and the minor tasks around the house were finished, he had finally opened it, not knowing what he would find.

It seemed legitimate. It was printed, not too well, on several sheets of paper, with the usual spaces at the right hand side for answers. The top was impressively engraved with the name of the organization: Heat To Meat, Incorporated. There was a brochure which did very little more than repeat the terms of the ad, and asked that the questions be answered correctly, and an addressed envelope, without a stamp on it. The top of the questionnaire requested that fifty dollars in check, cash, or money order, be sent along with the finished questionnaire, and then there would be a short waiting period while it was processed and matched up with the most fitting respondent from their vast files.

Raunch bit into the rubber eraser, wondering what he should do about his erection. The questions bothered him.


Would you like to eat pussy?

Do you like it slow or fast?

It bothers me when my partner farts during intercourse.

I have a big prick (or cunt, as the case may be).

I have dreamed of going to bed with my mother.


Raunch squinted at that one. It made him feel queasy. Who would want to do that, except some kind of a pervert? Of course, his father must have done it at least once. Besides, his mother wasn't really that great. Velma was a lot more of a dish, really.


I push with my right leg during intercourse.


Push what? Raunch asked himself. He tried to remember. He used his weight, mainly, and of course he had to balance himself. He supposed it was whether you're right or left-handed.


Occasionally, I feel great strain during intercourse and must rest.


Didn't everybody?


I like sex at least once a day.

I like sex several times a week.

I like sex at least once a week.

I like sex occasionally.

I hardly like sex at all.


As Raunch filled in the spaces, YES, DON'T KNOW, NO, he wondered why they had the last question. If somebody didn't like sex, it didn't seem as if they would be a very good candidate for the questionnaire,


I like to nibble on my partner's toes.

I like to nibble on my partner's ears.

I like to nibble on my partner's navel.


At least, that seemed to cover it, from head to toe.

Raunch worked on, almost oblivious to time, finding that his prick gradually descended as the shock effect of the words wore off. That bothered him as much as having it erect. Was he losing it. Age? Impotence? Hesitating, as he finished, he felt his crotch to make sure it was still there.

A shadow appeared in the doorway. Raunch was startled.

He turned. It was his wife.

She seemed to be finished with her second beer. She smiled, and said, “Raunch, I think I'm going to take a bath.”

Raunch nodded, knowing what it meant. She moved back into the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door open, and the pop of a beer can. He waited until she was in the hallway to the bathroom before he turned back to the questionnaire. He signed it, not bothering to read the fine print, took out his check book, made out a check to H TO M, marked it down as auto repairs, which should pass scrutiny, he thought, tucked it into the envelope, and sealed it.

He would mail it tomorrow morning. The water was running in the bathroom as he walked into the kitchen. He reached for the bourbon.

two. A Zip Code is Cracked

Raunch Gaffer, on his way to his employment at the Entrail Tool and Die Works, dropped the letter into the corner mailbox, after buying stamps at the store on the corner, which used to sell them over the counter at face value and now offered a machine that gave you twenty percent less. He wondered if he were doing the right thing. He felt heavy and satisfied from last night, remembering the scented body of his wife. Then the image of her sleeping as he left for work came back, and he shrugged. A change was what he needed.

The letter had been addressed to Heat To Meat, Inc., 69 Erotomanic Lane, New York 17325.

What Raunch Gaffer did not know was that this address did not exist, despite its printed reality on the envelope. Heat to Meat, Inc., was not truly incorporated within the laws of New York State or any other state, and its numerous addresses, all titillating (such as Fanny Hill Drive), had no real existence. Only the zip code was real, and the two promoters of the scheme would make elaborate explanations to the post offices involved and somehow, short of actual theft, get their mail, one jump ahead of the postal inspectors, rush to the nearest bank and cash the check, and be gone.

Raunch Gaffer, as others had done, would have waited patiently, and when nothing appeared in the mailbox, would have shrugged it off as fifty dollars lost, not wishing to become involved. Some of the more stubborn ones might have gone to the post office, and the bureaucratic machine would wind endlessly.

However, on this particular morning, the letter was picked up and dumped into a special bag, which in turn was dumped into a special truck, which in turn moved into a special building across town, and that particular bundle of mail, as well as others gathered randomly, was dumped into the maw of a special machine.

The plaque on its side said, MODEL 3-X VISUAL SORTER. PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVERNMENT. It was designed to read postal addresses and sort them into the correct boxes.

Clerks usually did this. This machine was faster than a clerk, but at present made a great many more errors. A great many. And cost a great deal more.

But the U.S. Government, whose property this was, had tried to balance the future needs of their communication system against the present needs and capabilities of their human sorters, and had worked out a compromise. Which, as usual, since it was designed by the genius of American Industry, worked only part of the time.

It read addresses, but was confused by various types of addresses. So they kept sending it back to the drawing board. It was drawing-board day at this particular installation.

And on this particular day, there were several deviations from the original specifications, of which its designers and operators, its users, and above all, Raunch Gaffer, were not aware.

Metal fingers pushed through the mass of letters, and as Raunch Gaffer's letter was reached, several things happened.

A condenser that had intermittently flashed over previously did so once again.

The insulation of a printed module took on a slightly different value because of the pastry that a technician had eaten that morning, and whose whorl-like imprints had been left on it while he made some adjustments.

A cam that controlled the arm that threw the mail into various different locations had worn down, because of a manufacturing defect, into several degrees of arc difference from the original blueprint.

As Raunch Gaffer's letter was scanned, the various functions for which the machine was designed happened simultaneously. The sensors read the address of the letter and the zip code and began the process of speeding it toward its destination, but the letter never reached the bin for which it was intended.

None of the components of Model 3-X Visual Sorter were able to use Logical Thought; they were totally unaware of the Laws of Physics that Governed The Universe As It Was Known, and when the letter did not reach its intended destination, it did not Sound The Alarm or Send Out The Bloodhounds. It did not know or care what had happened. It did not have the preconceptions of time and natural law that were required for it to make a prediction, so it merely continued along in its blundering path.

While Raunch Gaffer waited.

It could hardly have known that Proto-Computer-Tech VII Form had had an argument with his girl friend that morning. Or boy friend, since the genetic constituents of Proto-Computer-Techs hardly lent themselves to classification by sex. This was purely an internal differentiation, placed there by its designers so that it would have motivation to continue its existence and its job.

Form was essentially a white corpuscle in the blood stream of Earth Central Data Control. The message had come through loud and clear: FOREIGN OBJECT WITHIN CENTRAL MEMORY BANK.

His mission was to destroy it. It was what he and innumerable other generations of his kind had been bred to do: to cleanse the vital blood stream, blindly to keep the subliminal pulse of electron flow, so that man could remain logical by means of ECDC, taking data from sense receptors across the galaxies and making sense.

Form slithered his way across crevasses of pure knowledge and brooded about the slight he had received. What could she see in that Proto-Molecular-Tech Dang? he thought, knowing that she could see no better than he, feeling his way along in the electron flow for a blockage.

Form found it, and it felt odd, not like most of the obstructions that he handled. This was organic. It seemed to have some type of symbols on it. It was also large, but Form didn't bother to wonder why it might be here. His job was to chew it and digest it and clear the sub-molecular pathway for the constant flow of information that was the life blood of the universe.

But he did nothing. He had been demeaned that morning. Perhaps, he pondered, there is something I can do to make my mark in the world. If I don't do my job right, they'll know about it.

The voice of ECDC echoed in his hand. HAS FOREIGN OBJECT BEEN CLEARED?

Proto-Computer-Tech Form jumped silently and guiltily. He suddenly wanted to do something that would show everybody that he was somebody. Especially his girl friend. He searched the memory banks of ECDC and finally came up with a phrase that seemed to fit, even though he didn't understand it. UP YOUR ASS!

Earth Central Data Control was used to taking instructions literally. There was no way it was programmed to do differently. With a great deal of effort, using built in repair mechanisms, and ignoring Form, it moved the object to its input unit, opened the letter, scanned the symbols, instantaneously translated them into its own language, and began to act.

For a long while Earth Central Data Control had been able to transcend time and space. Very little use had been made of this facility, since no one had asked. There was some doubt if there was anyone left to ask, since all functions had become specialized, and this was certainly outside of anyone's specialty.

But it acted. And no one knew. Not even Form.

Except Raunch Gaffer.

three. The Moon is a Garish Fortress

For Raunch was transported.

He would have to admit to spending quite a few idle hours that he should have spent tooling his dies ($5.64 per hour) transported into idle thoughts of the future, when his request for satisfaction would have been granted by Heat To Meat, Inc. Perhaps, he thought, they would give him a stripper.

A slow, lazy, sensuous, big-bodied woman coming out of a purple spot, a faint sheen of sweat over her tanned body, nothing on except the faintest of G-strings, her pussy hot, hot, hot, hot with the lights that had beat on her as she whipped through her phantom convulsions, hot from the eyes that were licking her pussy and her cunt; so hot that they wouldn't wait, they would go to her dressing room and he would throw her on the satin-covered couch, all arms and legs and twat—

But this time Raunch Gaffer was literally transported, to the lip of a huge bowl.

A monstrous bowl.

It looked like a bowl to him, even though it must have been five hundred feet deep, a smooth symmetrical surface dropping from sheer sides that glowed with a faint radiance. Glancing upward, he saw nothing but darkness, punctuated with pinpoint after pinpoint of light.


This is what I get, he thought, for not eating my Wheaties this morning.

The lip was not open. He seemed to be standing in a little padded alcove that shone with the same ghostly light. He felt strangely airy and took a deep breath.

He was dressed strangely: in a white costume that fit skintight over his body, that hooded his head, but left his face free. His face and one other part of his body. His cock. It stuck out in front of him, an alien object in the midst of this technological splendor. It, too, felt airborne.

“Let's see what they sent up this time,” said the bored voice. Feminine.

Raunch half turned, instinctively keeping his prick away from the source of that sound, his hands reaching down to cover himself. She didn't seem to care. She was short but perfectly formed. She looked like a diminutive Playboy bunny, except that her cunt was uncovered.

Raunch gaped at it for a moment, at...


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