Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit

by Robert Devereaux

  But inside us, an idea was gathering bits of itself together.

  The location of rope and tools in the garage, of clean dust rags in the closet, of scissors and carving knives in the kitchen, suddenly took on grave importance. It was as if the house itself was shoving Dad and me into some inevitable sequence of bloody dance steps.

  We heard Jason’s thin voice fielding inane questions.

  From the way they received his answers, it seemed that our facade of calm was somehow being maintained. And when we moved into the dining room, watching the maddening thighs of our proper wives sway this way and that, we heard Jason announce that he had a special surprise for his three most favorite women in the world. You’d think the odds against one man subduing three women would be pretty high. And in most cases you’d be right. But people become surprisingly compliant when they’re in a festive mood and someone they trust—a son or grandson for example—sets down the rules of playful bondage they must submit to in order to receive an unexpected gift. In no time they were blindfolded with their hands tied tight behind them, a predicament our dear Lorelei was used to.

  Not so Arlene and Rhonda. They complained, playfully at first, then more vociferously, about the chafing of the ropes. But their protests really began in earnest when we tied their ankles to the chair legs—right to right, left to left—and removed their shoes. People tend to be funny that way about their feet.

  We let them sit there complaining into unresponsive air while we lowered the blinds and gathered tools. Some of the things our hands lifted off the garage pegboard or dug out of the drawers in the kitchen astonished us at the time, made us worry we’d gone off the deep end, though on hindsight they all made perfect sense. Once we had them laid out on the rug, our first order of business was the unclothing of our women. Because garments are not easily stripped from bound limbs, we used Rhonda’s pinking shears for most of it. Arlene freaked when we scissored away her stockings, maybe from the feel of the cold metal moving up along her thighs, I can’t be sure. Her shrieks spiked out into these absurd high-pitched bursts that sounded like a jackal in a trap. So hard were they on the ears that we decided to remove her blindfold and gag her with it. We did our best to ignore the look in her eyes; it was too painful to dwell on for any length of time. Dad was a little bit ashamed of her, weren’t you Dad? I mean at that point we hadn’t so much as broken skin, we hadn’t even hinted that that’s where things were headed, yet already Arlene was huffing and going all red in the face like McMurphy being electroshocked in Cuckoo’s Nest.

  Rhonda was a lot cooler about things, asking her son what he was doing, keeping her voice as calm and soothing as she could. When we felt like answering her, which was seldom, we kept our responses brief and noncommittal. We preferred letting our Fiskars do the talking for us. We liked their unrelenting ways, the steady rise and fall of the alligator mouth, the steel bite of perfectly zigzagged teeth, the falling away of fabric, and the slow, hypnotic unveiling of forbidden flesh. From the look of Rhonda’s private parts, a bit puffy and vaguely gleaming, we half suspected our perversity was turning her on.

  You can imagine the effect all this snipping away of blouses and bras and panties was having on us. But mixed in with the arousal was a sadness, a bitter sorrow at the ravages of time on human flesh. Here, emerging one sharp snip at a time, were the beloved bodies of our dear wives, hidden away for nearly twenty years. Our idle fantasies at childhood’s end, our torrid love affair with onanism in adolescence, our imagined substitutions of these two women when we squeezed shut our eyes and eased into Lorelei—all of that had been erected on memories two decades old. We were ill-prepared to witness the accumulated assaults of age on their flesh: the sag, the flab, the withdrawal of vibrancy and resilience and muscle tone.

  We dimmed the lights.

  When we finished denuding our women, we took Rhonda’s suggestion and turned up the thermostat. I was able to convince Dad, despite his initial resistance, that we too ought to disrobe. His preference was to unzip, reach into our shorts, and bring out into the open Jason’s erection only; but I argued that we were, after all, going to be doing more than simply fucking the odd vagina and that it would be far easier to shower blood off our skin than to remove it from our best suit, and he, inordinately fond of that suit (his taste, not mine), could only agree. So we removed Rhonda’s and Lorelei’s blindfolds, not wanting to limit our display to Arlene only, and slow-stripped for our three naked mates. It’s fair to say we surprised ourselves—Wouldn’t you agree, Dad?—with our prowess as ecdysiasts. I sincerely believe we turned the ladies on, even Arlene gasping behind her gag; I can testify that we surely turned ourselves on.

  Not to put too fine a point on it, we pleasured them, our wives and the vapidity they flanked. If they played at resistance, which one or two of them did, we read their coyness as a come on, and came on. At one point, Rhonda, acting the castrating bitch, snapped at our penis, but we had matters well in hand and snatched it free of her cruel jaws, backhanding her for her naughtiness and clamping our own choppers on her left nipple until she screamed out an apology profuse enough to satisfy us. Even so, we steered clear of her mouth thereafter, though memories of my lusty young spouse feasting at my groin during our married life drew me back to her lips again and again, and Dad had to intervene several times for the sake of our manhood.

  Finally, when we’d gotten as close to our women as we were going to get without breaking skin, Dad and I began our failed—albeit noble—experiment. Looking back, it astounds us that we never once questioned the fundamental wisdom of what we were doing. But in this short, sorry life, one moment often leads to the next without time to entertain consequences. There seemed an inevitability in operation at the time, a passionate surging forth which no attempt at mere reason stood a chance against. Maybe all of our synapses weren’t firing properly that day, or maybe something inside of us snapped. Whatever the reason, we forged ahead.

  From the way Arlene and Rhonda were behaving, it was clear they would never consent to the group marriage idea that had occurred to us first. The very gathering of the tools—

  the saws, the screwdrivers, the staple gun—was surely our subliminal recognition that that scenario was not about to play itself out. To our unsettled minds, that left but one option: the scavenging of our wives’ bodies and the bold reconstitution of what we liberated from those hallowed grounds into as near perfection as we could get on the blank canvas of Lorelei’s body. We began with the teeth. To our surprise, Lorelei resisted.

  But a small clamp at either corner of her jaws rendered her struggles pointless. Although our first extractions were bumbling and amateurish, before long we were uprooting her stubborn molars with all the élan of any D.D.S. out there.

  When only gums remained, we found some cotton balls in the medicine cabinet to plug our ears with. Lorelei’s gurgled screams were no joy to listen to, and we suspected that Arlene and Rhonda, once we began on them, would be no less merciless in their protests.

  I hated what came next. Each of us, as you might imagine, was partial to his own wife’s dentition, so we decided, after heated debate, to alternate extractions, taking the odd-numbered teeth from Arlene and the evens from Rhonda. To keep them in their proper sequence, and to counter our worries that teeth, like seedlings, might require immediate transplant to remain viable, we followed each tooth’s removal with its immediate insertion into Lorelei’s gums, tapping them in as gently as possible so as not to injure their roots. What I hated about all of this were the heartrending screams of my wife and mother. I wasn’t prepared for the way their distant cries tore through my innards, making my brain beat with pain.

  It grew worse when we began on the fingernails. Dad cursed me for a coward but I hung back and let him perform the slicing, and pliering, and supergluing on his own. I felt bruised and blistered everywhere inside.

  Still shaken, I joined Dad in shaving Lorelei’s head, removing her ears, and stitching Arlene’s on. But when it came t
ime to scalp my dear sweet Rhonda, I couldn’t bring myself—in spite of my lust for her lovely blond hair—to help him grasp and guide the X-Acto knife and the scraping tools.

  Instead, I tried, over the static of my father’s anger, to soothe Rhonda’s torments. I assured her, though I’d begun to doubt it myself, that once she left her own body and moved into Lorelei’s with Arlene, she’d come to appreciate the diligence with which we had harvested her hair and understand that the agonies we were putting her through were worth the final result. She did nothing but scream bloody murder and strain her abraded limbs against her bonds.

  I wept openly then, while Dad bent, grim-faced, to his bloody task and pressed the blond skullcap down onto Lorelei’s bare, glue-smeared scalp.

  Next came the mammaries. There was little point in giving our lovely new bride long tumbling blond tresses if what they tumbled down onto was a couple of flat nubs rather than the breathtaking swell of two hefty kissable lickable squeezable suckable breasts. Dad and I were used to that kind of pleasure, given the endowments of our old wives. But we found ourselves once again at loggerheads, and it was worse now because Dad had by this time lost all patience with me.

  Rhonda and Arlene both sported superb knockers and we were not about to break up a set by taking one from each woman.

  Yet Lorelei barely had room on her chest for two decent-sized tits, let alone four. In the end we decided to fasten one pair to her front and another to her back. I lost the coin toss, but I don’t think it’s sour grapes to say that I got the better of the bargain, because our first mastectomy came off rather badly and in my opinion—You just keep still, Dad!—in my opinion, we botched Arlene’s breasts badly. When it came to Rhonda, who was pleading like a little girl at this point, I was ready to refuse the carving knife again, but Dad jammed an awl into my left arm. Then he gave me a powerful talking to, really chewing me out good—“The next time it’s your balls, boy!”, that sort of thing. I know you meant it, Dad; just shut your yap. Anyway, partly because of what Dad said and partly because I wanted the job done right, I helped with the second operation, which I believe we carried out with a greater sense of professionalism and pride. What did I care about having to go behind our new woman’s back to get to Rhonda’s breasts as long as they retained their full loveliness?

  We were in the midst of the arduous task of making a vulval triptych across Lorelei’s stretched inner thighs, parenthesizing Lorelei’s pussy with the harvested quims of our wives, when there came a distant pounding at the door, and a trio of faces filling one windowpane briefly with ugliness, and then a loud intrusive sound like crunching wood. One pair of arms grabbed us from behind and another handcuffed us, and the rest of the night was nothing but sirens and naked rides and cold baths and damp blankets and question after question after question.

  You know the rest. Aside from discounting our reincarnation story and sensationalizing out of all proportion what we did, the Bee and the Union did a fair job of reporting the truth.

  What did we learn from all this?

  We learned that happiness can’t be forced. It’s not something that yields to a desperate scheme and a crosscut saw. It’s not something you can construct. We tried to piece it together bit by bit and we failed. Those of you out there whose minds may be starting to warp the same way ours did, take my advice and forget it. If kind words and gentle persuasion don’t get you what you want, then cheese graters and electric drills and large knives with serrated edges aren’t going to do it either. We tried. We failed. And we’re going to pay for it. Next time, whoever’s body we end up in, we’re not even going to think about doing anything like this again.

  At least I won’t.

  Dad tells me he’s planning to major in pre-med.

  THE SLOBBERING TONGUE THAT ATE THE FRIGHTFULLY HUGE WOMAN

  Sally Holmes was married to a swell guy. She liked working in the lab. Holding clipboards and making notes for Doctor Baxter while hiding her beauty behind glasses and a tight bun was her idea of fun. She did it well.

  And she gave her husband John a nice home. Soon, if they could figure out where children came from, there’d be pattering feet to feed. John was a good man. They’d been childhood sweethearts. Now John was a police lieutenant. She didn’t understand his work. Heck, truth be told, she barely understood her own. But all Sally had to do was to poise her fountain pen smartly above her clipboard and act as if she were saying clever things, and Doctor Baxter was more than pleased to keep her around.

  The one thing Sally liked about Doctor Baxter, other than her paycheck, was his way with words. He was a blob in pretty much every respect, balding, sags of flesh stuck on his face like sneezed boogers on a mirror. But when he spoke, his labials, his fricatives, his palatals, his urps of intelligence, the way his moist pink tongue oystered in his mouth—all of those oral sorts of things made Sally go all soft and squoozy inside.

  For months he’d been working on something top secret, putting in so many hours he might as well have camped out at the institute. He let no one into his inner lab. But the notes he dictated tantalized her. He overworked his staff, but Sally didn’t mind (she knew that John did). It just meant more toward their nest egg, more smart repartee over the clipboard, and more of that clever tongue.

  When Doctor Baxter invited her that evening into his inner lab, just him and her around, Sally had no inkling that anything more than science was on his mind. He held the unsealed door for her, and she stepped in, sniffing a barnyard stench she’d caught wind of before.

  John lay there in his pajamas, wanting his wife next to him.

  It felt so great to hug her, pajamas to pajamas, and give her a pristine little kiss goodnight. And every so often—once every few months if he was lucky—she’d be open to cuddling in the dark, to undoing certain strategic snaps and letting him shoot an icky mess inside her while she lay there so calm and sweet and receptive. He’d give his standard “Sorry” in her ear, then roll off her, shame in him yes, but feeling glad too that she hid her disgust so well.

  It proved she loved him.

  Still, he sensed there was something missing in their marriage. As Sally flitted about the kitchen or Hoovered the rugs or knelt to dust the baseboards, John felt as if there were a crack in her smile—almost as if, God forbid, a first wrinkle were appearing in that smooth peach-infant face of hers.

  His wife needed reassurance.

  Oh, heck. He’d drop in at the lab. Yes, yes. He’d dare to be different. Flinging the covers back, he leaped out of bed.

  Would he put on the clothing he’d tossed into the hamper? No.

  New ones. He wouldn’t sweat too much in them and he could wear them again tomorrow.

  Sally’d be thrilled to see him. A sweet surprise.

  Baxter anticipated her amazement.

  “Oh, my!” she ejaculated, her fetching shoulderblades flexing like coy airplane struts under that white coat she plumped out so well in front.

  “You’ve never seen a ten-foot cock before?” The bird was indeed awesome there in its cage, its magnificent head turned in quirk, one squint-eye wide as a saucer. Too bad he hadn’t chosen a hen for his experiments. She would’ve made one heck of a meal, and there were other interesting avenues (so to speak) that might have been explored. He was tired of cleaning up after Giganto here, and tired of feeding him. Damn rooster was due for death.

  “Goodness, Doctor Baxter,” Sally exclaimed. “What’ve you been up to?”

  “See that?” he said, pointing to the bell jar on the table, with its throbbing pink crystal. “I concocted that substance. I call it gargantuum. It makes organic matter grow. Don’t ever disturb that glass container, or there’s no telling what will happen.”

  “I won’t.” She shook her pretty little head so that her radiant tresses primped and fluffed like in a shampoo commercial; no, wait, he was imagining that. Her bun held her hair tight, severe, puckered like a clenched rectum.

  Baxter stepped in front of her. “But that’s not
why I invited you into my inner lab.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.” He eased the carving knife from his cavernous coat pocket. “I’d like you to undress for me, Sally—nice and slow, nice and sexy, one button, one snap at a time.”

  Sally blanched fetchingly. “I can’t do that.”

  He placed the blade against her neck. “You can,” he insisted, “and you will. But first, undo that god-awful, fershlugginer bun. Let your Prellity down, sweetcakes.”

  Tears welled up as she reached to free her hair. Her breasts rose with the motion. Doctor Baxter fixed on them with those ugly eyes of his. He was a loathsome lunk of a man. Except for his tongue. Poor thing seemed shanghai’d into saying awful things, but somehow that didn’t diminish its beauty.

  The magnitude of her anger startled her.

  Sally’d never been angry about anything in her life, not one blessed thing.

  But, even as her fingers worked the buttons and tears gathered in her eyes, she was angry about this. Her anger was hot and solid, coming deep from her insides but hiding itself as it grew. He couldn’t detect it. But she could surely feel it.

  And soon, but she feared not soon enough, it would lash out at the scientist Sally had trusted to be good but who was very bad indeed.

  “Not fast enough,” he said. His free hand shot forth and yanked her lapel to one side, so that her white satin slip showed from her right shoulder strap down to where it cupped in lacy fullness her huge right breast. Where his brutish paw touched her, her flesh ached.

  She looked at the knife in his hand, the sharp blade, the brown rippled wood of its handle. She wanted so badly to wrest it away from him, to use it on him.

  “Faster!” he said, drool dripping from his lips. You never knew about people. You just never knew.

  John adored being a police lieutenant. All the boys in blue, nice decent Christian fellas, loved and respected you. You got to wear stylish suits with papercut creases ironed into the legs.