Seven Pillows 8 - The Year of the Sex Olympics

[ismenin]

In the 1968 - yes, that long ago, before my Richie was born, even - there was a tv play called The Year of the Sex Olympics - a fururistic drama, (!) in which the participants had sex on tv, and the hoi-polloi - tautology, tautology! - sat at home, watching them, and didn't have sex at all - voted for the best couple.

Being 1968 all you got to see was a lot of writhing silkily-clad bodies, lots of leg, and the occasional orgasmic expression. It was laughably awful. Now, of course, it's acclaimed as 'prescient and terrifying' - why do I not remember it being in any way remarkable, except for the title?

This story has nothing to do with that, at all, except that I stole the title.:oD

This is the second chapter of part eight of The Seven Pillows of Wisdom - for anyone interested. :D





2

The Year of the Sex Olympics


The Mighty and All-Powerful Raybit, King of Djellirole had gone to Brisk to visit one of his many mothers-in-law. None of his wives thought His Majesty would survive the Year if he had to witness all the exciting thing that the Year would offer him.

The Sex Olympics took place every twenty years. If it had occurred any more frequently, half the men in Djellirole - and all of its surrounding kingdoms - would be either dead, or put off sex for life by the surfeit. The wives did not desire such an outcome.

Therefore, his wives, in solemn conclave, decided that Brisk was far enough away for the king not to be able to sneak back at night, and Prince Liyjah, and his spouse Prince Domrah Kushti of Pling Altar, were left to supervise the proceedings.

The Tribes began to gather. All the Shrieks of the ruling tribes were placed in tents in a row, numbered one to nineteen, for ease of identification, and their flocks, other foodstuffs and harems were housed in smaller tents a little out of the way. It got crowded during the Year, and no-one wanted other men's sheep, or conkerbines cluttering up their space. Their own were enough to cope with.


***

The slave Orlando came in, as Liyjah was being dressed for the Opening Ceremony in a rich blue silk tunic, with sapphire and adamant adornments. Dom was much enjoying the spectacle.

Orli leaned against the tentpole, and watched as the white silk turban was wound around Lij's head, by the White-Silk-Turban-Winder and a sapphire as big as his palm was fastened thereon by the Only-Up-To-Three-Inches-Across-Sapphire-Pinner-Onnerrerrerr. Such a sight deserved a moment of silent reverence.

"What is it, Orli?" Lij asked, smiling at his favourite slave.

Orlando shrugged. "Another sheep has gone down with it, my Lord - The Threspian Gripe. The Shriek that it belongs to is very cross."

"Why is he so angered?" Dom asked, picking up his staff of office, and preparing to leave the tent with his love. "He has other sheep, surely?"

"He has, my lord, but he's sick, as well; He has a bad dose of the Bungles. The Shriek, I mean." Orli shrugged again. He was only a minor Shriek, but he was very demanding. "And the sheep is his favourite - Greenfaced Striped Highland, Number Six, so I understand. And the sheep was to be his partner for Round One."

"Good grief! he is not one of the competitors for today's showing, is he?" Lij asked, annoyed. Orlando nodded. "He is, Your Enormity."

The Chief Ogler came in that moment with the tally of competitors. "Ah, Segway!" Lij said, relieved to see the man with the clipboard. "It seems we may have a slight problem," he said to the elderly Ogler. "Which Shriek is it, Orlando?"

"Tent number six, Oh, Gracious-Owner-of the-Longest-and Lusciousest-Longham-in-the-Land," Orli said formally, as there was a witness present - viz, to wit - the Ogler.

"Segway - the sixth sick Shriek's sixth sheep's sick, and the sixth Shriek's even sicker, too," Lij announced, to a round of applause. (Well, you try it!) "Find another participant for his slot, pronto. The Oglers will want to see-and judge-sex. It's why everybody is here, after all."

The Ogler rushed off - as fast as a one hundred and three year old man can rush, to find a new contestant, whilst Dom and Lij sat down for a cup of quaveh to give the man time to accomplish the task.

Oglers - especially Head Oglers - had to be old men. A younger man had once been given the task, and had orgasmed himself to death before Round Three. There was a lot of sex on show - it was the Olympics, after all.

Dom and Lij made their way slowly to the large tent, already redolent with sex, excitement and lavender oil.

There were six large beds laid out in a row, and a box of chickens, several mice, a flock of very happy looking sheep and an assortment of props, vegetables and fruit lined the sides of the tent from which the competitors had to select what they'd like best.

Six couples - or triples, or quadruples - competed against each other, and the best two - or three or four - went on to the final. The competition took a year because, it seemed, everyone in the surrounding Kingdoms wanted to prove they could do it, and many died in the attempt, proving that they couldn't.

Lij saw that nothing changed. Some valiant soul had ordered a Judhai-Stand, and several Prembles. Obviously the fool was going to attempt the Peck of the Demented Rooster, which impossible position both Dom and Lij had been the first to accomplish - and live.

Dom, staring a the couple waiting proudly before the Stand - Prince Slightly of Clot-Minor and his partner, Prince Cylinder of Pronce, wondered at which point in the congress, Slightly - the fatter of the two - would fall from the Judhai-Stand, and break his neck.

Lij was wondering how far Slightly would climb up on the Stand, in the first place, if he could climb up it at all. Lij stood up, holding aloft his Prodding Stick, presented to him by Marciple Proddy himself in honour of vanquishing the Demented Goat.

Lij let the Stick drop. "Let Congress Begin!"


Marciple Proddy, Exalted Micturator of the Church of Vital Things That God Ordered Should Have Been Done Yesterday, and his acolyte Widdle Poe, carrying the Sacred Piss-pot of Threem, hurried into the compound.

They could hear, from the cheers and groans emanating from the largest tent, that the competition had begun.

"Hell's own bells, Poe - I really, really don't want to see Prince Liyjah's face when I tell him what the God Procrastor wants him to do this time - no, nor Dom's either!"

Inside the carpet bag strapped in Poe's back, the Invisible Screaming Wimble-bear started squealing with delight.