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firmness of the bosom, not to mention its authenticity.
    "The hostess. Tantamount Emdee. I want her to have a look at you."
    "MD? She's a doctor?"
    "She's a penologist. An internist in penises. Uh, I wouldn't imbibe too much of that particular brew, if you're not used to it."
    "Seems OK to me. In fact I'm beginning to feel real hairy. What is it?"
    "Werewolf elixir."
    Prior paused to consider this. "Does this mean what I'm afraid it means?"
    "That depends—"
    She was interrupted by a scream. The satyr was attacking a stout woman, right in the center of the crowd. But she hadn't cried out;
he
had. The party had reached the stage where all women were willing but not all men able. She was tittering, enjoying the attention. Prior craned to get a better view.
    The woman had been backed up against a wall and the hooved demon was having at her. His member was monstrous—a good foot long, about four inches thick at the base and tapering hornlike to a narrow apex. Prior imagined that such an instrument should be able to puncture panties readily and shoehorn its way into the tightest vulva—but he could not imagine any woman absorbing the whole of it.
    Nevertheless, the satyr was the one in trouble. Frustrated by some obstruction, he had yanked up the woman's dress and underdress and petticoats and slip, and yanked down her heavy-duty panties, and was driving vainly at her corset. The thing was stoutly ribbed and cross-hatched with ivory stays and reinforced with layers of canvas. Prior fancied that a cross-section of that fabric would resemble the plies of a top-grade metal-braced nylon racing tire. Stout garters and straps depended from it, serving no purpose Prior could fathom since they did not hitch to stockings, but they did effectively wall off the crotch. No wonder the satyr had been balked! The armor-like undergarment made a dandy chastity belt.
    "Good evening."
    Prior turned to find an absolutely beautiful woman adjacent. Her hair was a lustrous green fading to purple at the extremities. She wore an intriguing furry halter that offered tantalizing glimpses of the truly shapely breasts within. Prior studied the halter, fascinated. He was tempted to perform the bra-snap test, but there was no strap. The halter seemed to merge into her tresses without any demarcation. In fact—
    In fact, her hair was the halter. It looped back from her head, parted behind, and passed forward under her arms to embrace her luscious bosom. When she nodded her head, her breasts lifted and quivered invitingly. Prior was obtaining more erectile action from those living, breathing mammaries than he had had from anything short of the slot arcade. But the sex of the slots was fundamentally dirty; this beauty was fundamentally clean.
    Then he remembered the satyr. This was no sight for a lovely lady of such quality! "Let me take you away from all this," he began.
    She smiled benignly. "I am Tantamount." The very consonants of the name sent charming ripples through her superstructure.
    "I am incipient," he said, shifting his posture to relieve sudden and pre-emptive pressure. "Uh, Prior. Gross Prior—that is, Prior Gross."
    She laughed, and her breasts did a rippling dance that nearly climaxed him involuntarily. "So I understand. Let's have a look at the subject."
    "The subject?" Did she mean the satyr's frenzied attempts to get through that fortress-girdle?
    Tantamount knelt before him and opened his straining fly. His penis sprang out, taut and turgid, before he quite realized what she was doing. Here in the middle of a formal party, yet! But he didn't know how to get out of this without calling even more embarrassing attention to himself. So far, most eyes remained on the Satyrical action, center-stage, fortunately.
    "How large is it when erect?" she inquired, tugging at the foreskin. "Oops, beg pardon! It is erect, isn't it!"
    Prior didn't comment. He was far too conscious of his days without a bath. The cheese would be strong, if she peeled back