Sadly for Doyle, it was only a brief instant. The fresh clay of her face rippled and reformed into the mask of a triumphant predator on the verge of claiming its kill. She pursed full glistening lips and fell down on Doyle in a kiss that bore him back down. Her arms and legs moved around him in a passionate clinch as her lips pressed against him and she kissed all the resistance out of him.

Her super-malleable vagina continued to throb around his cock in liquid pulsations that sent bolts of pleasure crackling down into his groin. He erupted again and this time her body milked him with slow, steady squeezes.

And then, on this most misbegotten of nights, the most unfortunate-or fortunate, for some would regard the sensual pleasures Aralia visited on his body as an experience worth any price-Doyle Lowry sank beneath the surface. Ripples and thick bubbles stirred the surface of the building site. Beneath the surface Aralia's lips and hands softly caressed Doyle, revealing to him a world of blissful depravities he'd never known existed. The rhythmic throb of Aralia's vagina expanded to encompass the whole of Doyle. Enveloped in warm and mobile clay, his body shuddered and twitched in what felt like endless orgasm.

Within her he didn't feel the need to breathe. And then-once Aralia had emptied him-Doyle didn't need for anything at all. Before conscious thought was driven from him he wondered why he'd fought so hard to avoid this.

A final bubble burst with a plop and then the surface was once again still. The security lamp blinked off. Doyle, an unfortunate observer on plans and schemes beyond his understanding, was swallowed up by the earth as though he'd never walked it.

Crabs What do you get the man who has everything? Newman G. Smythe knew the answer to that question.

A bigger fucking dick.

He stood in a fancy hotel room many floors above street level. The room was familiar, comfortable. Hotel rooms didn't vary that much. The walls were covered in plain burgundy wallpaper and decorated with bland prints of modern art. There were two queen-sized beds. A large television set stood in a cabinet against the far wall. The door to a large en-suite bathroom was located off a short entrance hallway. Wardrobes took up the opposite wall of the hallway.

Smythe had spent many nights in rooms like this.

The view wasn't quite so familiar. Smythe looked out of the window onto a chaotic, sprawling city. Numerous neon signs lit up the maze of streets. Those streets, the veins and arteries of the city, were clogged up with traffic that honked like frustrated beasts. It was at once both recognizably human and completely alien. It was such a contrast to the pebbledash council estates of his youth. It reminded him how far he'd come.

He wasn't here-hadn't flown all the way out to the other side of the world-for the sightseeing.

There was a knock at the door, soft enough to almost be inaudible.

Smythe was familiar with such knocks. Like the hotel rooms they'd been a regular part of his life over the last decade. He felt the same anticipation, the same response-heart beating faster, palms growing sweaty-even though this time his excitement had a different cause.

"Mr Smythe, please allow me to express our deepest apologies. At Tor Noire we expect our girls to be the pinnacle of professionalism and courteousness. Our client's pleasure and satisfaction is of the utmost importance to us. I'm truly mortified one of our girls has given you such a negative experience."

It must be serious. Trish had very little to do with the day-to-day running of the Tor Noire agency nowadays. For her to contact him was an indication of how seriously she regarded the incident.

Smythe was flattered but only partially mollified. He was owed some serious ass-kissing on this.

He'd known something was wrong as soon as he'd opened the door. He should have sent her back right then. He didn't because she was absolutely stunning. Tall and slender, her dark hair cascaded over dusky shoulders. Her lips formed a full, deliciously kissable pout. She had an athletic body, but still possessed enough curves to be sexy. Gorgeous.

Despite all this, he should have sent her away and requested another girl. He knew it at the time. Smythe had no illusions about the nature of their transaction, but he liked the girl to at least feign interest. He picked up no vibe or spark from this girl. The only thing in her eyes was attitude and boredom.

The sex was crap. She lay back, opened her legs and did a passable impression of a lifeless rubber sex doll. If she wasn't staring into space, she was staring up at the clock and counting down the minutes. It was about as erotic as fucking a corpse.

Smythe climbed on top and gamely thrust away, hoping the hotness of her body would be enough to get him off.

It wasn't. He felt nothing emotionally. He didn't feel much between his legs either. Her pussy was so loose there was barely any friction at all. He kept pumping away, but it quickly became apparent he wasn't getting anywhere. His hard-on was already softening and no amount of coaxing would bring it back to life.

"You done, honey?" the girl asked, her tone bored.

"Yeah," Smythe replied. He rolled off her and pulled the still empty condom off his dick.

It was one of the inevitable downsides to his 'hobby'. Every so often there was a mediocre experience. Although it had been a while since he'd had a session as disastrous as this one. It was surprising it had come from one of Tor Noire's girls. Normally they were very good.

Smythe paid the girl after they both got dressed. He was surprised when she didn't leave immediately, instead pausing at the door. Was she waiting for something?

"Do you have a little extra, honey?" she asked.

Smythe was stunned. The girls at Tor Noire were not allowed to ask for tips, or even receive them, not even for the taxi fare home. The Tor Noire agency was very strict on this. He'd tried to tip a girl before, after a particularly enjoyable romp, but she'd given him the money back. This girl must be new.

"You do know that wasn't a particularly good session," he said, trying to fathom how the girl could justify to herself she warranted a tip. "Even if I could tip, which both you and I know Tor Noire won't allow, I wouldn't. Not for a service as average as that."

The girl's expression soured.

"Well I can't help it if your dick's too small to feel anything," she huffed, before storming out of the room.

Smythe was left stunned, speechless even.

"The girl was a last minute replacement to fill in for one of our regular girls after she got sick," Trish explained over the phone. "Needless to say, she won't be working for Tor Noire again. The girl who recommended her has also been sternly reminded of the importance we place on client satisfaction in maintaining Tor Noire's illustrious reputation."

Trish was so keen to protect Tor Noire's reputation she scheduled Smythe a free appointment with one of his favourite girls.

Smythe liked Jo. She was loud, rowdy and absolute filth in the bedroom. The previous times she'd visited him had been a great deal of fun. This time...

"What's the matter, honey?" Jo asked, noticing the flaccid state of his manhood.

The words the other girl had said to him were still preying on his mind. Did he really have a small dick? He hadn't given it much thought before. He'd always assumed he was perfectly average in that regard. Sure, he knew he wasn't humongous. He knew he didn't match up to the porn star studs, but he was also sensible enough not to try and compare himself against such atypical ideals. He was a normal bloke with a normal size, or at least he'd thought so. Now he wasn't so sure.

"How do I measure up to your other clients, in this department?" Smythe said, glancing down to his crotch. "I'm about the same, right?"

Jo paused. For a moment she seemed unsure how to respond. Eventually she burst out laughing.

"Oh honey, you're not really worried about that, are you?" she said. "You know the saying. It's not how big it is, it's how you use it."

Not exactly the most reassuring of answers, Smythe thought later. At the time, Jo took his mind off it by bending down and gobbling up his cock into her warm and very talented mouth.

"And there you were thinking it was only women who obsess about their body parts," Smythe joked once Jo had finished coaxing him up to a state of reasonable hardness with a skilful blowjob.

"At least we've got the good sense to flaunt it when we've got it," Jo said, pushing her considerable boobs together.

They both laughed. It was too late though. That insidious doubt had crept into Smythe's mind, and once in there had found fertile folds in which to take root. The thought he might be inferior to other men, that he couldn't give her proper pleasure, choked him off down below. His erection subsided to floppiness and remained that way despite Jo's best efforts.

Right then he knew he needed to get it fixed.

Smythe had fixed everything else in his life with the same implacable, dogged determination.

Money had been the first. He'd dragged himself out of a god-awful sink estate with his own two hands. While his contemporaries had been content to sit back and blame all their ills on a nebulous 'system'-the police, the schools, the government, the bankers, or whatever group they perceived to be oppressing them-Smythe had been out hawking his services to the local office buildings as a repairman extraordinaire for all kinds of technical problems. At first it was him, a push bike and a toolkit. The bike had become a van, the van had become a shop, the shop had become a chain, the chain had become a brand, until Smythe was head of one of the most successful electronics firms in the country.

Money enabled Smythe to fix his own physical shortcomings. He'd fixed his teeth-getting them straightened and whitened for a smile an American game show host would be proud of. He'd fixed his body-procuring the services of a svelte fitness trainer to halt and turn back the tide of his expanding waistline. He'd fixed his eyes-finally ditching a pair of bottle-bottom spectacles for laser surgery. More surgery had fixed his receding hairline.

Newman G. Smythe was Mr Fixit. He'd fix this too, whatever the cost.

It had brought him here, to a hotel room on the other side of the world, above a sprawling city that was bright, chaotic and fundamentally alien.

He heard the soft knock and opened the door. For a moment he could have fooled himself it was the exact same usual scenario. A tall, extremely exotic Oriental girl stood in the corridor outside. She was dressed in a long, flowing black silk robe. The snakelike bodies of sea serpents were stitched into the fabric with golden thread. A black case stood on the floor next to her feet.

Smythe was a little disappointed it wasn't the usual scenario. The girl was strikingly beautiful. Unlike most other Oriental girls, she was tall and there were noticeable curves where her breasts swelled outwards against the tight-fitting fabric of her elegant robes.

"Mr Smythe?" the girl asked.

"Yes?"

"I'm Xie-Mu Huang. I'm the representative from the Ye-Xie Clan."

"Do you have it?" Smythe asked, feeling his blood rush through his veins.

Xie-Mu smiled. She picked up the black case and carried it into the room. Smythe shut the door and watched expectantly as Xie-Mu placed the briefcase on a table and flipped a catch. The lid swung open to reveal an exotic little casket held in place at the centre of the case with black foam padding. The miniature chest was about the same size as a jewellery box and decorated with complex, exotic carvings of serpents, squid and other marine life. The box looked like it must be worth a small fortune, but it was its contents which most interested Smythe.

His eyes shone as he walked over and opened the ornate little box. It was filled with white spherical pills. They looked like pearls or maybe even eggs. Smythe estimated there were maybe a hundred or more in the box. He picked one up and examined it between his thumb and forefinger.

"This is the treatment?" he asked.

"Yes," Xie-Mu replied. "Take three a day-one in the morning when you wake up, one at lunchtime and one in the evening before you go to bed."

"What's in it?" Smythe asked.

Xie-Mu tapped her nose. "Secret clan recipe," she said. "All natural ingredients."

"Powdered rhino horn and that sort of thing," he said.

Xie-Mu smiled and said nothing. Her face was completely inscrutable.

And beautiful.

"How can these little pills..." Smythe held one up to the light. It was even slightly translucent like a pearl. "...bring about a physical change in the body?"

"You know how Viagra works?" the girl asked. "It loosens the muscles around the blood vessels entering the penis. The vessels open wider and more blood flows into the penis. This gives the man a longer lasting erection."

Smythe wasn't interested in generating regular erections. He wanted bigger erections, whopping great erections that would have girls gasping and moaning in pleasure at the sight of him. He couldn't see how a little pill would achieve this.

"These pills work in a similar manner," Xie-Mu said. "Your penis..." She stepped forward and placed a hand flat against Smythe's crotch. He was surprised by her sudden invasion of his personal space, but pleasantly so. "...is like a bag of blood. When it fills up, you get hard. Increase the size of the bag and you increase the volume of blood it can hold. The more blood it holds, the larger an erect penis can get."

She ran her fingers up the outline of his dick as it lay in his pants. Smythe shivered in pleasure, feeling his cock start to strain against his underwear for the first time in a while.

"The pills contain a hormone that acts on the tissues lining the blood vessels in the penis. It causes them to loosen and increase the capacity of blood your penis can hold."

Her fingers pinched him through his trousers.

"Sounds fantastic," Smythe said. "Why haven't you found a way to mass-market it? You'd make billions."

Xie-Mu looked away. "The raw ingredients are rare and difficult to obtain. There is a reason the treatment is as expensive as it is."

That was true. This was a luxury far out of the reach of most individuals.

"Aren't you going to try it out?" Xie-Mu said, extra meaning in her eyes as she glanced sideways at him.

Smythe looked at the pill between his thumb and forefinger.

Why not?

He popped it into his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue. It was sugar-coated and tasted sweet. Smythe knew most medicine tasted foul once the coating dissolved, so he swallowed it and washed it down with his cocktail.

He waited for something to happen. The fear this might all be a highly expensive scam was still lurking at the back of his mind.

Wait! He felt something. A twitch in his trousers.

Xie-Mu turned to him with a seductive smile and rubbed a palm against his crotch.

No, more than a twitch. That felt quite nice.

Xie-Mu turned her back to him. She backed into him and rubbed the shapely curves of her ass against his groin. A twitch became a throb. She took his hands in hers and brought them around her body and pressed them against her breasts. He felt their weight and softness between his palms. She was very much atypical for an Oriental girl in this regard. Her nipples were hard like bullets. Smythe rubbed them beneath his fingers and Xie-Mu gave a soft sigh.

"Would you really like to try it out?" Xie-Mu turned her head to him, letting Smythe's lips brush across her smooth cheek.

So it was the same as all those other furtive knocks on hotel doors, Smythe thought.

"Yes," he said. He didn't really need much encouragement.

Xie-Mu took a step forward. She turned her head back to glance at Smythe. She undid the sash around her waist. Her robe slipped off her shoulders and slid down her body to form a black puddle of silk at her feet. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

What a body.

Through his 'hobby', Smythe had seen a lot of beautiful women naked. He'd even gone on to fuck most of them. There were limits to what money could buy. Xie-Mu was almost in the category above-the one reserved for top actresses and models. Her body was a work of art.

In more ways than one.

Tattoos covered her body. Her skin, with the exception of her hands, neck and face, was a canvas of rich, fantastic imagery. Smythe had seen tattooed girls before, their adornments ranging from delicate little flowers or butterflies to larger designs sprawling across their back and shoulders, but he'd never stood in the same room as a girl tattooed to this extent.

"Beautiful," he said, running a hand across her shoulder.

"It's a tradition in my clan," Xie-Mu said. "Outsiders sometimes find it a little strange."

"Not at all," Smythe said. "It's very exotic."

He traced a finger along the black wings inked over her shoulder blades. Unlike most tattooed wings, they were not the feathered wings of an angel. They were sable-black and looked more like the wings of a bat. Or devil.