"Three point nine seven inches!" he whispered. "Erect."

"You mean all those emanations I picked up, all that worry about your hard-on showing, like a tower standing out for miles around... four inches?"

"I have an ambitious imagination," he admitted.

"Ambitious! That's fraud!" she said crossly. "Here I thought I'd get my bore properly reamed...." She manipulated her buttocks to bring him in further. "I assumed that anyone named after Priapus—"

"That was my old man's wishful thinking." He had been through this before. "But my dong ended up just like his. Potent, but small."

She sighed, clenching him internally. "Well, too late to cry over spilt milk—not that I ever do spill any. Let's have it."

As she spoke, the muscles of her vulva contracted with singular authority, milking him compellingly. His orgasm ripped through his body like a fire through dry timbers. He climaxed at once, his hips thrusting up convulsively as his juice let fly. If he had done that in air, he could have knocked a seagull out of the sky!

The fire burned out as quickly as it had spread, leaving him breathlessly limp and warm. "Well, at least you had a fair quantity," she observed as he shuddered to a halt. "Good things sometimes do come in small packages." Her vagina still clasped him tightly, squeezing out the dregs and holding them as his spent penis slowly shrank. "Good to the last drop. But you really should wash your miniature more often."

"It itches when I wash it," he protested, embarrassed. Then "How can you tell?"

"Sex is my business, you know. I can taste and measure everything that enters that vestibule. Your seed is potent enough, but your tool is small and uncircumcised, and frankly it's pretty cheesy too."

"Smegma is a natural secretion," he said. But he was chagrined. It did collect when he wasn't careful, and he hadn't been careful the past few days. Maybe that was the cause of his erection. Had he known what would happen on the beach....