had left her too damaged for more, Penny lay in bed and asked Max to read to her from his notebook of test results. Freshly massaged and sippinga glass of Côtes du Rhône, she’d curl in her nest of satin sheets. Max would sit on a straight-backed chair beside the bed. Attired in a tuxedo and white bow tie, he’d lick a fingertip and page forward and back in his book until he found just the right test subject.
“ ‘Date: June seventeenth, the year 20—,’ ” he read. “ ‘Test site: the Mall of America in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Product: Beautiful You item number two sixteen, the Veggie Play Shaper, a food processor that quickly turns any raw vegetable into an erotic tool.’ ” In his flat, robotic voice, Maxwell described standing at a folding table as a stream of shoppers moved past. A few lingered, watching as he inserted uncooked carrots and zucchini squash into a plastic housing. With a single deft movement, he pressed a lever. Unseen blades within the device shaped the vegetable and out popped a phallus engineered for maximum fulfillment. As curious shoppers coalesced into a crowd, Maxwell demonstrated how the internal blades could be adjusted to make the resulting sex toy longer or shorter, thicker or thinner. Other blades carved channels and ridges that would excite the vaginal opening. His audience giggled and gasped with amusement, but they didn’t leave. A voice near the back of the crowd called out, “Will it work on eggplants?”
Maxwell assured them it would.
“How about potatoes?” asked another shopper.
Max asked for a volunteer.
Reading to Penny, seated on a straight-backed chair beside her bed, his legs crossed primly at the knee and his notebook balanced atop them, he said, “The test subject, number seventeen sixty-nine, gave her name as Tiffany Jennifer Spalding, a twenty-five-year-old mother of three and homemaker. Height: a hundred and seventy centimeters. Weight: sixty-one kilos.”
There in the Mall of America, he dialed the adjustmentknobs. “How thick do you like it?” He grinned lecherously. “Your potatoes, I mean.”
She blushed. “Not too big around. Medium.”
“Smooth or textured?”
Tiffany Jennifer tapped a finger against her temple and thought for a moment. “Textured.”
“Ridges or nubs?”
She asked, “Can you do both?”
The crowd held its collective breath as he lifted the device’s top and wedged the tuberous vegetable into the chopping chute. Like a magician performing a trick onstage, he ceremonially asked his volunteer to press the blade-activation lever. “Is this your first time?” he asked.
She nodded, trembling. Reality slowed to sex time.
To steady her, he slipped an arm around Tiffany Spalding’s waist. He placed both her hands on the lever, then laid his own atop them. “You must shove it quickly and smoothly.” On the count of three, they pressed together and the onlookers gasped.
Maxwell lifted the safety panel to reveal a perfect phallus. Sleek and slightly curved, it didn’t suggest the rude Idaho spud that had gone into the top of the device. With sufficient sanitary precautions and a thorough cooking, he assured the onlookers there was no reason it couldn’t go from the farm field to the bedroom to the family dinner table. For a young mother on a tight food budget it would pay for itself in a matter of weeks.
“Now,” he boasted, “you can have your good times and eat them, too!”
Several people laughed. Everyone applauded. Money in hand, they surged forward to buy. No one recognized him. They never did. The disguise he donned for such occasions was simple and effective. Even when his false mustache fell off during cunnilingus, as it often did, test subjects never realized whomthey were cavorting with. It was too impossible that C. Linus Maxwell, the richest man in the world, was the stranger fishing his prosthetic facial hair from their bedclothes.
Still reading in his Paris penthouse, Maxwell edged his chair
“ ‘Date: June seventeenth, the year 20—,’ ” he read. “ ‘Test site: the Mall of America in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Product: Beautiful You item number two sixteen, the Veggie Play Shaper, a food processor that quickly turns any raw vegetable into an erotic tool.’ ” In his flat, robotic voice, Maxwell described standing at a folding table as a stream of shoppers moved past. A few lingered, watching as he inserted uncooked carrots and zucchini squash into a plastic housing. With a single deft movement, he pressed a lever. Unseen blades within the device shaped the vegetable and out popped a phallus engineered for maximum fulfillment. As curious shoppers coalesced into a crowd, Maxwell demonstrated how the internal blades could be adjusted to make the resulting sex toy longer or shorter, thicker or thinner. Other blades carved channels and ridges that would excite the vaginal opening. His audience giggled and gasped with amusement, but they didn’t leave. A voice near the back of the crowd called out, “Will it work on eggplants?”
Maxwell assured them it would.
“How about potatoes?” asked another shopper.
Max asked for a volunteer.
Reading to Penny, seated on a straight-backed chair beside her bed, his legs crossed primly at the knee and his notebook balanced atop them, he said, “The test subject, number seventeen sixty-nine, gave her name as Tiffany Jennifer Spalding, a twenty-five-year-old mother of three and homemaker. Height: a hundred and seventy centimeters. Weight: sixty-one kilos.”
There in the Mall of America, he dialed the adjustmentknobs. “How thick do you like it?” He grinned lecherously. “Your potatoes, I mean.”
She blushed. “Not too big around. Medium.”
“Smooth or textured?”
Tiffany Jennifer tapped a finger against her temple and thought for a moment. “Textured.”
“Ridges or nubs?”
She asked, “Can you do both?”
The crowd held its collective breath as he lifted the device’s top and wedged the tuberous vegetable into the chopping chute. Like a magician performing a trick onstage, he ceremonially asked his volunteer to press the blade-activation lever. “Is this your first time?” he asked.
She nodded, trembling. Reality slowed to sex time.
To steady her, he slipped an arm around Tiffany Spalding’s waist. He placed both her hands on the lever, then laid his own atop them. “You must shove it quickly and smoothly.” On the count of three, they pressed together and the onlookers gasped.
Maxwell lifted the safety panel to reveal a perfect phallus. Sleek and slightly curved, it didn’t suggest the rude Idaho spud that had gone into the top of the device. With sufficient sanitary precautions and a thorough cooking, he assured the onlookers there was no reason it couldn’t go from the farm field to the bedroom to the family dinner table. For a young mother on a tight food budget it would pay for itself in a matter of weeks.
“Now,” he boasted, “you can have your good times and eat them, too!”
Several people laughed. Everyone applauded. Money in hand, they surged forward to buy. No one recognized him. They never did. The disguise he donned for such occasions was simple and effective. Even when his false mustache fell off during cunnilingus, as it often did, test subjects never realized whomthey were cavorting with. It was too impossible that C. Linus Maxwell, the richest man in the world, was the stranger fishing his prosthetic facial hair from their bedclothes.
Still reading in his Paris penthouse, Maxwell edged his chair
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