Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Murder on Tiptoes
    Murder on Tiptoes
    Murder on Tiptoes
    Ebook367 pages3 hours

    Murder on Tiptoes

    By TONY NASH

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    MURDER ON TIPTOES

    DCI Tony Dyce wakes with an erection, the first sign, though he is unaware of it, that he is being set up as the fall guy for the very set of serial murders he is investigating.

    The killer, who has successfully murdered a dozen prostitutes in other parts of the country and had their deaths attributed to others who are now imprisoned for the crimes, is the first Dyce has come across who never makes a mistake and only leaves clues to deliberately mislead or incriminate a third party.

    The murders continue, with a rising tempo, and still there is no lead, until forensic diligence gives Dyce's team its first breakthrough. The serial murderer is arrested, but as the blockbuster court case is approaching its conclusion the tables begin to turn, and the killer is about to walk free…

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTONY NASH
    Release dateOct 29, 2020
    ISBN9798201303891
    Murder on Tiptoes
    Author

    TONY NASH

    Tony Nash is the author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels. He began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

    Read more from Tony Nash

    Related to Murder on Tiptoes

    Related ebooks

    Crime Thriller For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Deep Impact

      May 31, 2020

      Deep Impact
      9 min read

    • Article

      What We Loved This Week

      Jun 15, 2018

      What We Loved This Week
      4 min read

    • Article

      Podcasts Are the New Xanax

      Mar 17, 2017

      Podcasts Are the New Xanax
      3 min read

    • Article

      A Year in Reading: Tim Lane

      Dec 8, 2021

      We stopped at the Topaz Internment Camp, where my wife’s family was held during World War II, near the tiny town of Delta, Utah. We found the apocalyptic remnants of one of our country’s great shames. The post A Year in Reading: Tim Lane appeared fi

      7 min read

    • Article

      Nothing To Fear

      Jan 26, 2021

      Nothing To Fear
      8 min read

    • Article

      Take a Writer Like Him: My Complicated Love Affair with Kingsley Amis

      Aug 24, 2018

      1. As much as I may rack my brain, there are 15 minutes or so in the dark that I can’t account for and that I’ll never get back—15 minutes during which, I have to think, that creep’s hands were touching my body. It’s a weird thing to think about all

      12 min read

    • Article

      Speedboat

      Mar 24, 2022

      Nobody died that year. Nobody prospered. There were no births or marriages. Seventeen reverent satires were written – disrupting a cliché and, presumably, creating a genre. That was a dream, of course, but many of the most important things, I fi nd,

      14 min read

    • Article

      Notes on Etiquette

      Mar 1, 2019

      Notes on Etiquette
      10 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems

      Jul 1, 2020

      The purpose of being alive is to carry a sequence of code.And so, being adopted, I’m part of a plot, a sleeper cellin enemy territory, quietly working against the systemfrom within. It’s fall, I’m on an ancestry website signing up for a DNA kit,becau

      4 min read

    • Article

      Siphons

      Feb 6, 2020

      Siphons
      6 min read

    • Article

      Bearing Witness

      May 30, 2021

      Lauren Hough is unicorn-level rare: someone who strode on to Twitter cracking witty and street-wise, a sharp-tongued yet strikingly kind presence. She wrote a cracking essay that went, well, pandemic-level viral, was snapped up for a book deal, and h

      4 min read

    • Article

      A Year in Reading: Sophia Shalmiyev

      Dec 20, 2019

      Let us begin at the natural home of all the white-men-are-garbage controversies and go right to the crotch area. The post A Year in Reading: Sophia Shalmiyev appeared first on The Millions.

      5 min read

    • Article

      What We Loved This Week

      Jul 27, 2018

      What We Loved This Week
      5 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Murder on Tiptoes

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Murder on Tiptoes - TONY NASH

      Copyright © 2013Anthony Nash

      Other works by this author

      THE TONY DYCE/NORFOLK THRILLERS:

      Murder by Proxy

      Murder on the Back Burner

      Murder on the Chess Board

      Murder on the High ‘C’

      Murder on Tiptoes

      Bled and Breakfast

      THE JOHN HUNTER/MET. COP THRILLERS:

      Carve Up

      Single to Infinity

      The Most Unkindest Cut

      The Iago Factor

      Blockbuster

      Bloodlines

      Beyond Another Curtain

      HISTORICAL NOVELS – THE NORFOLK TRILOGY:

      A Handful of Destiny

      A Handful of Salt

      A Handful of Courage (WWI EPIC)

      No Tears For Tomorrow  WWII EPIC)

      THE HARRY PAGE THRILLERS:

      Tripled Exposure

      Unseemly Exposure

      So Dark, The Spiral

      THE NORWEGIAN SERIES

      LOOT

      CNUT – Past Present

      CNUT – The Isiaih Prophesies

      CNUT – Paid in Spades

      CNUT – The Sin Debt

      CNUT – They Tumble Headlong

      CNUT – Night Prowler

      CNUT -  Cry Wolf

      CNUT -  When The Pie Was Opened

      CNUT – The Bottom of the Pot

      CNUT -  Mind Games

      CNUT -  Nemesis

      CNUT -  Cut and Come Again

      OTHER NOVELS:

      The Devil Deals Death 

      The Makepeace Manifesto

      Panic

      The Last Laugh

      The Sinister Side of the Moon

      Hell and High Water

      Hardrada’s Hoard

      ‘Y’ OH ‘Y’

      The Thursday Syndrome

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

      Sunday April 14th 0600

      The urge to masturbate was almost overpowering. Waking with an erection hardly made me unique, but it was way off my norm, and incredibly painful, like a red-hot alien inside me, determined to burst its way out. I’d never before experienced anything like it, even during adolescence. Besides, there was no reason for it: the pillow next to mine had no buxom blonde bombshell’s head resting on it, and I had been celibate for longer than I cared to remember. Like all red-blooded males, I still had my early morning moments, but a cold shower, a brisk run, or listening to the news and weather forecast were all sure cures. Not today. It seemed that I needed a woman, any woman. I was in such a state that I think I could have even screwed my ‘ex’, while she did her famous long-suffering ‘lie-back-and-think-of-England’ routine, and that was really stretching the imagination to breaking point. The problem remained through hurried ablutions and breakfast, while I tried to think of remedial actions. Gardening was not going to help, that was for sure; I needed diversion.

      Though it was Sunday, I drove in to Headquarters, went to my office and took out the monthly stats, normally boring enough to cure any problem; worked until one thirty, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing thing between my legs, drove home, changed frantically, ran four fast miles, for once avoiding the park, with its crumpled-up drop-outs, bushes hanging with more used condoms than leaves, discarded syringes and dog mess, preferring the spray from passing cars, and going through the puddles left from last night’s rain, to the desolation and degradation of the greener area.

      Once home, I pumped iron for thirty minutes, and stood under an ice-cold shower long enough to cool anyone’s desires, but the damned thing was still standing to attention, throbbing so hard it was as if my heart was inside it. I remembered Aunt Violet’s favourite remedy for anything that ails you, All you need is a nice cup of tea.

      I tried it, very sweet, with two sugars. Good try, no result.

      I had always prided myself on my will power, but I knew I was fighting a fierce rearguard action. The last time I had given in had been on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, when the girl who had seemed ready for anything had suddenly said, No! and ran out, tugging down her pink chinchilla-wool pullover over her bare breasts. The next day, I had been commissioned as a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, and had made a firm commitment to myself that from then on, since I was now a man, there would be no more self-abuse, and, in truth, there had been no need, with a long succession of beautiful debs and lesser society girls only too willing to do their bit for king and country, and excuse the spelling.

      Though I spent eight years seconded to the SAS, I still played the bored Guards officer at the dozens of shindigs that the Regiment played host to, and the girls just kept coming. Sometimes with a scream, sometimes with a whimper, but it was all the same to me, and every one of them was wonderful. I thought it would go on forever, but the monumental cock-up when we rescued the German minister’s kidnapped son, made me useless for further undercover work, and quickly changed my future. If I’d stayed on in the Service, it would have meant becoming either a desk wallah or a parade ground Pongo, no longer part of an elite team, where life was one long adrenalin high, and the thrills and danger came fast, furious and often. It was what I lived for.

      They managed to patch me back together somehow, though it was touch and go for a while, and as I was reaching the end of my recuperation, the Met had a recruiting drive, targeting the services. It seemed like an opening into the same sort of life I‘d been leading. I could not have been more wrong, and not only that: when I resigned my commission and joined the Met, the supply of girls dried up completely. They may well have wanted a dick, but, with very few exceptions, they did not want a ‘dick’, and women police officers of any rank seemed ready to scream ‘sexual harassment’ at the slightest sideways glance.

      The same thing applied, only more so, when I transferred to the Norfolk Constabulary, and after a stormy marriage to a senior officer’s daughter, I had once again become mainly celibate, with no problem until now. I could not understand why that damned thing had suddenly decided to ruin my every waking hour, and give me such vivid erotic dreams, when I needed every bit of concentration, to catch the serial killer who was causing us so much heartache and bad press.

      Thinking jazz might help the problem I sat down at the piano and was surprised to see one of my books of Cole Porter tunes on the front of the music stand.

      I knew I hadn’t used that particular book for some weeks; it should have been somewhere in the music cabinet, and I couldn’t believe that Mrs Dunnett, my daily, had put it there. I was sure that she was not a pianist and made a mental note to ask her about it, and also about the little Norwich School landscape hanging awry in the hall. I guess a small voice was telling me that at her age she might be getting a little senile and forgetful. At the time, I certainly did not have the slightest suspicion of anything more serious. The book being on the stand was not important at the time: I did not need any music today - it was in my head.

      I began to play. After a couple of minutes of ‘Take Five’, as I segued into my own version of ‘Swinging Shepherd Blues’, it seemed that it might work, as the erection began to fade at last, but as it did, that part of my brain which was not involved with the music suddenly presented me with a dreadful supposition: was my 24/7 preoccupation with the murder of young prostitutes somehow causing a Freudian reaction within me? Was I being turned on by the murder of these women, who earned their living selling their bodies?

      The thought was appalling. If that was so, I was no better than the murderer. I stopped playing abruptly, the mood gone in a flash, leaving me wondering: what was he doing at that moment.

      Dusk Sunday 14th April

      To hell with the egg – with him the chicken definitely came first. That old rooster had a lot to answer for: the first cobblestone on his personal road to damnation.

      The fowl was ancient in chicken terms, so old that its once-red wattles were as purple as a come-to-Jesus microbus – so old that at seven years old, he could not remember a time when he had woken up without the blatant challenge of the ancient bird chanticleering from the roof of the outhouse two doors down, banishing the remnants of his dreams. For all of that time he’d treated it as a non-owned pet, throwing down crumbs and peelings for it every day. It belonged to the witch-skinny old Mrs Woodbridge; her of the baggy grey skirt and shapeless, over-washed pullover, heavily darned with multi-coloured wool at the elbows, clicketty-clacking along in down-at-heel men’s shoes that were at least a size too large, making her pick the heel up at the end of every step, and push the toe forward to begin the next, giving the impression of a matchstick woman, whose two bottom matchsticks have been broken and reset by a blind, drunk surgeon in his first week of training.

      Never fed at home, the bird worked the entire street twice a day, begging food like a stray dog, hanging around each doorway until thrown some scrap of waste. He had tried to make friends with it once, just after his seventh birthday, holding out a piece of bread in his hand. Whether by design or mistake, the bird had dug its beak into his thumb, making him drop the morsel, which was then quickly grabbed and digested, even before the first drop of blood hit the ground. He fed it only once after that, on the day it died, brooding for months on revenge. He had no experience of death, he just knew he wanted to kill it, and the feeling festered inside him for almost a year before he hit upon the plan.

      Dan Collyer, who kept the Marquis of Brandon, five doors down from his own house, had a dog - a pit-bull terrier, kept in the small yard behind the pub.

      Using the dustbins left outside, he had climbed the wall on several occasions to look at the beast, and each time he’d been scared to death, even when the dog was asleep. He had also seen that the door to the yard had a lifting latch, which could only be worked from the inside. For several days he kept bread over from his meals, hiding it in his pockets, and stole some more from the larder until he had enough to lay a trail from the road round to the back of the pub.

      Getting up half an hour earlier than usual, he took a piece of string with a loop in one end and, having climbed the wall, lassoed the latch lifter, leaving the string dangling down the other side, so that he could get to it easily without having to climb the wall again.

      Back at home, he watched through the window until the old bird appeared, then quickly went outside and began laying a trail of morsels, which the stupid bird hastened to follow, right up to the gate in the wall. He gently pulled the string to lift the latch, and pushed the door open to its full extent, hoping the dog was asleep. Then he threw the rest of the bread into the yard, and watched the cockerel go after it gratefully.

      As soon as the bird was past the door, he slammed it with all his might, dislodging his string, which he quickly recovered, and waking the dog.

      As he hurried away, the sound of the fight was music to his ears, and though the howls of the dog meant that the bird was giving a good account of itself, there was no possible doubt of the outcome.

      For days he expected to be severely punished, but no one had seen a thing, and it taught him his first and most important lesson in crime: no witnesses – no punishment.

      Now he stood erect, head held high, for after all he was a god! Only a god could control Destiny.

      The tension and restlessness of the last few days were forgotten, as a frisson of excitement lifted his soul. His senses seemed infinitely acute, and the accompanying alertness bequeathed on him a godlike immortality, the loud, insistent beat of his heart like the drumbeat of Eternity.

      Already he could feel the beginning of the erection that would hit explosion point when he reached the spot where he had committed her body to the water. He liked them to struggle, but this one had really not wanted to die, and fought so hard that she had broken the nail on his right index finger, making him angry with a subject for the very first time. The nail had taken two whole weeks to regain its former glory; two weeks when he felt his body was less than perfect. In some ways, it had been a shame to kill her - she had been such an outstanding artist in her chosen profession, but he already had a replacement, and he thought of women as his uncle had thought of cars. He could hear him now, with his deep-voiced growl, Never get sentimental over a car, son; there’s always a better one, and if there isn’t a better one, there’s always a newer one of the same marque.

      Now he stood a hundred yards away from the spot, waiting, watchful, wary. No way was he going to risk an approach until he was sure he was alone. He knew they had dropped surveillance of the area many months before, but there was always the chance of stumbling over a courting couple or a tramp, even at this time of the day and year.

      It was just on that point of dusk when even the crepuscular shadows seem to move, but as a creature of the dark he felt at home. Upstream, the turgid surface of the river, now just on the point of the ebb, reflected the Victorian glory of the bridges and the lights of the vehicles passing over them. Between the two bridges the new housing development on the eastern side of the river made a pool of more concentrated light, while on the opposite bank the bulk of the old, disused brewery and its associated warehouses were shrouded in a stygian gloom, clothing the private boats moored below them in broad, deep shadows, with impenetrable depths.

      The rain had stopped and the clearing sky had turned a deep purple.

      He fancied he could detect a faint smell of spice on the air, from the mustard factory close by, making a strange mixture with the less than salubrious odours coming from the river.

      Stepping slowly and carefully, he moved along the huge granite blocks capping the river walls, their surface slippery with the green slime that comes with the end of winter, stopping every few yards to look around him. He was glad the coarse fishing season had just ended, or there would, no doubt, have been anglers to spoil his enjoyment.

      This part of the riverbank, as close as it was to the center of town, was rarely visited, even by dog walkers. The city council’s grandiose schemes for a marina were on hold, and the vegetation had been allowed to go back to nature. In summer, with the grass high, the stinging nettles and brambles grew to six feet, but now the grass and the brambles were laid flat and the nettles dead, with new growth only just beginning to show through at the base. One or two ancient industrial buildings, unused and boarded up with small, windowless brick blocks between them, used for God knew what purpose a hundred years before, stood like silent sentinels of the past. Even the houses in the streets surrounding the site were mean affairs of the two-up, two-down terraced type, touched neither by the main tonnage of Hitler’s bombs, nor, as yet, by the inexorable inroads made by the thrown-up, breeze-block-based, so-called executive accommodation, encroaching everywhere else. Give it time, he thought, and it will certainly happen here, when the builders get their hands on the land.

      It was quiet, apart from the muted hum of traffic over the nearest bridge, and the near-silence helped him to appreciate more the feeling he enjoyed whenever he came to the scene of one of his kills. He stopped suddenly at the sound of a movement on his right and concentrated hard on locating the origin of the noise. It came again, a crunching sound, and he moved silently away from the river’s edge towards it. There it was again, directly ahead of him. Two paces more and a cat, which had been hiding in a heap of bricks and other rubbish, sprang away from him and onto the top of a low wall, turning immediately to face him, spitting and hissing in anger. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, registered a light-coloured, probably ginger tom.

      The cat had to be feral, living, like him, on its wits and its innate ability to beat the odds. He grinned, and acknowledged quietly, Good for you, killer. We’re two of a kind.

      Back on the riverside, he could see clearly, now that it was dark, the granite pillars of the old nineteenth century swing bridge, which they had to open to allow larger vessels through. Built in a much more laid-back age, it caused huge disruption to today’s traffic, and at rush hour was one of the city’s bottlenecks to be avoided like a precocious virgin.

      Aware of the cat, keeping pace with him at a respectful distance to the side, he approached the spot where the steps went down to the slow, greasy surface of the river, dotted with the flotsam of an untidy society: a wine bottle, half submerged, its dark green label peeling off, forming a drab streamer in the water, a decomposing condom, and last night’s fish and chip paper, on the first lap of its week-long journey of bio-degradation, from the establishment known as John’s Plaice, in Carter Street, to the open sea.

      This was the spot where he’d forced her into the water. He had kept her mouth covered until her head went under and held her by the ankles until her struggles ceased, then watched her body float away silently, sinking gradually out of sight into the depths.

      These steps were always dangerous, even when they were first built, in the long-ago days when sailing vessels carrying grain and timber traveled this far up the river. They were lethal now, with a covering of silt from the recent floods, and coated with slippery algae, just as they had been on that March night three years ago, when the girl had gone to meet her Maker, and only his strength had kept him from joining her in the river. Standing there, slowly working the muscles of his palm, the excitement in him building to a pounding crescendo, taking over his entire body, he could still feel her tiny snub nose and full, kissable lips trying to move, silently begging, beneath his hand, and her body, which he’d used so many times, pulled in close to his.

      At the very last second, he rammed the zip down, freeing his member, as the explosion rocked his very being, and the love juices dedicated to her memory spurted through the air onto the surface of the river.

      A beatific, superior smile spread slowly across his face, as he whispered into the night, Come and get me, Dyce. If you can.

      0500 Monday 15th April

      I woke an hour earlier than usual and immediately knew why: the pain from my groin was even worse than the day before. I had read of such cases of priapism, named after the minor Roman deity Priapus, who was renowned for having a grotesquely large, continuously erect penis. With me, the problem was only a couple of days old, but I knew how the old boy must have felt, stuck with the problem for the whole of Eternity. I also knew that it was no laughing matter, and could have serious consequences. I decided I had better book an appointment with my doctor.

      I threw on a tracksuit and took my German shepherd, Bess, out into the garden to do her business, since she was too heavily pregnant to come on our usual run, then spent ninety minutes instead of my usual half hour in the gym, before micro waving my breakfast: forty grams of porridge with three hundred milliliters of semi-skimmed milk and two heaped teaspoons of sugar.

      Bess lay at my feet while I ate, making a series of small groaning noises while moving her body and legs. I guessed the puppies, which were almost due, were kicking inside her, and I murmured, Not long now, girl. I was rewarded with one small wag of her tail.

      Still somewhat early I spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, drove to the veterinary surgery and dropped Bess off, before carrying on to the station.

      For once there was a respite from the torrential rain of the past few days. It was one of those wonderful spring mornings, when the sky is a heavenly light blue, the only cloud is a light touch of alto-cirrus, and there is no wind at all, so that it seems possible to actually smell the season - a day to feel glad to be alive, but quite apart from the priapism, my own personal horizon was heaped with thunderclouds: there was no end to the murders, and I had never before known a case that provided no clue whatsoever. It was literally unbelievable. Criminals, and particularly murderers, always made mistakes or left traces, which could be used to identify them. This murderer was fiendishly clever and informed. Despite all our best efforts, we had absolutely nothing

      A relatively new, out-of-town, architect-designed building, the headquarters has a spacious atrium with a central reception desk, beyond which are the offices. I greeted the two ladies on reception and carried on to my divisional section offices, where Sgt Simmons was just coming to the end of his shift on the control desk. I asked him if anything important had happened during the night.

      There was a nasty accident on the A47 near Dereham just after three o’clock. One killed, one seriously injured. A lorry hit a car head on. The lorry driver is in the cells. He was driving a forty-tonner and was four times over the limit. The only other thing was another of those burglaries.

      I groaned inwardly. Not only were we getting nowhere with the murders, but this particular burglar had been avoiding us for months, again with no clues left. I thanked him and moved on to my office, surprised to see my secretary, Trish Sallas, already there at the filing cabinets.

      She turned as I entered, began to speak, then stopped, and I could see that she was looking at my groin.

      She grinned, My goodness, Tony, you really are glad to see me this morning.

      Oh, God. I groaned, Please don’t say it’s that obvious, Trish.

      Well, she opined, If I were you, I would carry a file or a briefcase around with me today.

      Trish was one year my senior. A pretty redhead with startling green eyes, lips that seemed to demand to be kissed, a great figure and a tremendous sense of fun, she had received her decree nisi on the day I first arrived at this station. We’d immediately bonded and began a tremendously enjoyable no-strings-attached affair, which lasted three months before it started to become serious, when we both decided that it was not a good idea to continue working and sleeping together. We’d discussed marriage, but it was not an option: she was still hurting too much from her first, and I was not ready for it. We were still good friends. I told her my problem.

      For a while she kept silent, her facial muscles working, and I could see that she wanted to erupt into gales of laughter, but somehow she managed to control the urge and eventually said, Have you checked your sugar bowl for Viagra?

      I started to say how ridiculous the suggestion was, and then I thought of the Cole Porter songbook and that picture in the hall. Was it possible? There was an easy way to find out.

      I asked her, Would you drive over to my house and ask Mrs Dunnett to give you the bowl of sugar from the kitchen? Take it to Jane and ask her for a spectrographic analysis. For God’s sake don’t tell her whose it is.

      Trish gave me a quizzical look, I always knew you fancied her. Why haven’t you done anything about it?

      I felt myself getting hot around the collar, Don’t be ridiculous, Trish!

      She pursed her mouth and raised an eyebrow, Hmm.

      When she had left, I telephoned my doctor. As is the latest practice, the receptionist wanted to know why I needed an urgent appointment. I said it was personal and very urgent, and with what sounded like bad grace she asked me if I could be there at nine-thirty. I said that I could.

      I whiled away the time by collecting and reading the report on the latest burglary. Again, only money was taken. Nothing was damaged or disturbed and there was no sign of a forced break-in or damage to the locks. No third party fingerprints or DNA. The occupants of the house had slept soundly through the night, and it was only because the man of the house had left sixty pounds in cash on the sideboard, ready to pay a bill, that the burglary had been noticed. Again it seemed obvious that an accomplished thief who was very adept with skeleton keys had carried out the burglary.

      We had done a ‘Claude Rains’ and pulled in all the usual suspects several times, but had not been able to charge any one of them, and, at one time or another, all of them had unbreakable alibis. I decided I would ask Inspector Jamie O’Rourke if he had any ideas.

      Doctor Callas was a dapper man in his early fifties - slim, fair-haired, with smiling brown eyes in an attractive oval face that I guessed made him a favourite with his women patients. I had rarely had occasion to consult him, but on the few occasions we had met I had found him most efficient and knowledgeable.

      We shook hands and he asked what the problem was.

      When I told him, he looked grave, We’d better have a look at it then, he said, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, Up on the couch, and open your trousers.

      He inspected the offending member carefully, feeling every part of it, causing me to blush with embarrassment at being handled for the first time by another man, before asking, Does it hurt to pass water?

      I told him truthfully that it was no problem, apart from that of directing the stream.

      "That is excellent. The immediate diagnosis, without seeing the penis, would be that it was a case of ischemic priaprism, which would be a medical emergency. Ischemic or veno-occclusive priaprism, as it is sometimes called, can be very serious and cause severe and permanent injury to the penis, and affects the blood flow to and from the corpora cavernosa, the paired erectile top parts of the penis, and, in fact, can stop the outflow of blood from that organ entirely, which is where the danger lies, but your problem does not follow the classic formula for ischemic, which would normally have a very hard shaft, but the head of the penis, or glans, would not be swollen. That is because the erectile tissue in the two parts of the penis are separate: that in the glans, which is part of the corpus spongiosum, is

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1