by Edward Lee
Back to square one.
How about that nameless brunette from the Tobe Hooper flop Lifeforce? Ooo-la-la. And all those silly ditzes in those Girls Gone Wild video commercials? Better. When the doctor thought of Ellie May in her too-tight one-piece lounging by the cee-ment pond, he actually felt the inklings of, perhaps, legitimate vasocongestion. It’s working! he thought. It’s working! But, alas, a fraction of a second later, Jethro trundled into the image and all was lost again.
“Time’s runnin’ out, Doc. I’ll give ya to the count of three.”
The doctor wiped his mental slate clean. Enough of that! Instead, he put his fate simply into the hands of the human survival instinct.
“One.”
I’ll do it!
“Two.”
Come on!
“Thr—”
Presto! The genuine threat of death did the trick, and no forced thoughts of voluptuous vixens were necessary. Before the doctor could worry any further, six hard-as-ever inches stuck out grandly.
“Three cheers for Doc!” Vinchetti celebrated. “Not bad for an old fuck!”
I’d duly flattered, Dr. Prouty thought.
“Now get that California baloney pony where it belongs, and don’t make me have to count to three again.”
Dr. Prouty didn’t expend precious time thinking; he merely followed Tony’s fine technical example, spat into his hand, and transferred the all too critical lubrication to his erection. Then, with some effort, he pushed up the upper slab of Hymie’s buttocks and—
Don’t think about it! Don’t think about it!
—slid his glans into the terrifying crevasse. Luck was on his side—for a change—as said glans found the area in question almost instantaneously: Hymie’s rectal sphincter. Dr. Prouty urged his pelvis forward, felt some understandable resistance, then sighed in relief.
He was in!
“There ya go, Doc. Now give that fat shit a butt-fucking like his momma never dreamed.”
It felt like the tightest of o-rings clamped around his penis. It did not feel good. Nevertheless, realizing his life was at stake he…butt-fucked the living daylights out of Vinchetti’s unfortunate former accountant. An errant glance aside showed him that Tony was doing the same to Darcy as she continued in her whistle-like protests. The slaps of their groins to their subjects’ rumps provided a bizarre stereoscopic sodomy. Tony was going hell for leather, and some inexpressible inclination caused Dr. Prouty to keep pace.
“Remember, boys,” Vinchetti said, “I need wet shots. Spunk ’em both up good. Oh, and Doc? How’s this for a deal? If you get your nut before Tony…I’ll let ya go.”
Dr. Prouty’s heart surged at the pledge, then more survival instinct kicked in. No erotic imagery needed, no luxurious fantasy required to prompt the called-for effect. Deft as a porn star, the doctor withdrew his member and—
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
—fired half a dozen gouts of sperm a yard across the table.
“Holy shit, Doc!” Vinchetti cheered. “That’s some serious baby-batter you’re pumpin’ out! Hey, Tony! The old geezer beat ya to the finish line, and—holy shit!—he just hosed ’em both down!”
This was a fact. Dr. Prouty’s veritable vault of semen had not only plastered Hymie but Darcy as well. Like trails of egg-drop soup, the viscid lines lay across their sides. One shot even made it to Darcy’s left ear.
Prouty leaned back against the wall, too exhausted to even pull his pants back up. Inside, though, he beamed. He’d done it.
“I’m proud of ya, Doc,” Vinchetti said, “and I’m a man of my word, so don’t you worry. But we still got a little more to do before you go waltzing out of here.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I’m free! Prouty thought. I’m finally going to get to leave this h ell hole!
The thumping from the table intensified; Tony was reaching his own moment of crisis, care of Darcy’s throttled rectum. The stainless steel examination platform actually shook from the concluding strokes. Then—
“Here’s one for the Gipper, bitch—”
Tony too demonstrated an impressive ejaculation, spackling Darcy’s clenched, moon-white bottom until it sufficiently shined.
“Good cum-shots, boys, real good,” Vinchetti praised.
Tony’s cheeks billowed as he let out a long breath. “All in a day’s work.” Then he looked down at his slackening penis. “Hey, boss, how do you like that? Clean peter, not a speck’a shit on it.”
“Yeah, these crackheads, ya know? They barely eat nothin’,” the boss eloquently pointed out.
Prouty, when he dared look himself, wasn’t nearly as lucky. His penis was caked with feces; he even noted a telltale piece of corn. Embarrassed, he quickly rebuckled his pants before the others could notice.
He’d…clean up later.
Vinchetti shot him a glance. “Okay, Doc, now that you’ve had your fun, when’s the puke party gonna start?”
It was a reasonable question. Both subjects continued to mewl, writhing within their bonds. Dr. Prouty knew that if he didn’t get this show on the road, all previous bets—i.e., his freedom—were off, and he knew what the problem was: sheer physical mass.. He prepared another injection of the copper sulphate—ten times the recommended maximum human dose. A dose this large would cripple liver and pancreatic function as well as cause considerable brain damage but…
Hymie won’t need any of that, the doctor realized. All Hymie needs to do is vomit.
And vomit Hymie did—in grand style—less than a minute after the second injection. Much gastric turbulence preceded the event—sounds akin to a fish tank—and then came the salvo of muffled retches. Lip-locked, Hymie and Darcy’s eyes shot wide open, their faces turning red, their limbs suddenly seized by shock.
That’s the ticket, Prouty thought in relief.
Hymie’s fat cheeks ballooned, then the retching deepened, and after that, a simplicity of molested nature took its inescapable course.
“Here comes lunch!” Vinchetti shouted in glee.
Even the doctor, in the most abstract of notions, found the atrocious exhibition to be strangely fascinating. One stomach emptying into another. Food consumed previously being ejected into an adjacent mouth only to be consumed again. It was the ultimate in recycling.
Vinchetti and Tony hooted and hollered like a pair of riotous fans at a football game. All the while, Hymie continued to throw up into Darcy’s mouth, and Darcy—little trooper that she was—continued, somehow, to swallow each hot, chunky gust. Dr. Prouty, in a moment of morbid query, wondered what hash and eggs tasted like the second time around.
It went on like that for a good ten minutes, and even when the contents of Hymie’s stomach had clearly been displaced, he just kept right on retching.
Vinchetti asked the seemly question, “Hey, Doc? How can he keep puking like that?”
“Dry heaves, as one might say,” Prouty replied. “The copper sulphate will remain active for hours; the stomach will continue to spasm whether there’s food in it or not. All he’s vomiting up now is latent bile.”
“I like it!” Vinchetti barked.
“Latent bile,” Tony remarked. “That’s a doozy of a dessert.”
“And would you look at the skinny bitch?” the boss added. “She looks knocked up!”
The two subjects shivered on the table, both their faces pinkened in exhaustion, Hymie still dry heaving, and their open mouths still securely stapled together. Prouty had been right in his estimation: Darcy, in order to stay alive, had indeed consumed the entirety of Hymie’s vomit, but in that absolutely massive transference of partially digested food, one had to consider the disparity of proportions. Hymie, a 300-pound glutton, and Darcy, a 90-pound crack-tart. Now her own stomach was surely stretched to its physical limit; hence, the effect left the rack-skinny girl with an abdomen so bloated she looked as though she were in her third trimester of pregnancy. It was an amazing sight.
“Okay, Doc. Time to get thi
ngs goin’ in the other direction.”
Dr. Prouty administered the next injection of vomitive, this time to Darcy, and the desired effect was almost instantaneous due to her diminutive body weight. The show began again, Hymie now on the receiving end.
“They’ll just keep going like that till they die,” the doctor assured.
“Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack!” was the sound that Darcy made once she began heaving in earnest.
“Peachy,” Tony said.
Vinchetti frowned. “Yeah, but its gettin’ a little—a little. Hey, Doc, what’s the word I’m lookin’ for?”
“Wearisome?”
Vinchetti scratched his chin. “What’s that mean?”
“Boring.”
Vinchetti cracked his hands together. “That’s the word! Come on, let’s go into office, leave these two to puke themselves to death. You too, Doc. I wanna show you and Tony my latest vid.”
“Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack!” Darcy seemed to reply as they left. Vinchetti led them out of the work room and down a few dank cinderblock halls. Muted shrieks could be heard from a number of closed doors, and from somewhere deeper in the block compound, the pit bulls were at work again. Vinchetti stopped and opened one door, stuck his head in. A woman blubbered in a voice scarcely human: “Please, no more, no more…”
“Hey, fellas, how’s it going?” Vinchetti called in.
“Great, boss. This hosebag’s really kickin’ it up.”
“Neat-o. Later.” Vinchetti closed the door, leading on. “Paulie and Charlie’re in there skinnin’ the bitch who runs our massage parlors in Utica. She was takin’ clients on the side.” He shook his head a moment. “Fuckin’-A. Looked like Paulie was pulling down wallpaper.”
“Cunt had it coming,” Tony remarked.
“It’s a good trick. When they’re done skinnin’ her, Logman comes in and fucks her to high heaven. Comes all over her whiles she’s shakin’ on the floor red as a beet.”
“Cool,” Tony said. “So what’s this new vid you’re talkin’ about, boss?”
“Aw, it’s great, Tony. You’ll love it. Come on in.”
Vinchetti’s office looked typical for a man of his stature: rich paneling, a side bar, cherrywood furniture. Behind the desk, a dark portrait of his father loomed, overseeing all. Several televisions and a row of VCRs occupied the opposing wall. Vinchetti hit the PLAY button on a remote.
“Nice,” Tony said, looking up at a screen. There, a exquisitely shaped female rump was poised, fine and white as alabaster. Elegant fingers slipped back, parting the buttocks to reveal a delicate rectum.
Vinchetti whistled. “How’s that for an ass? Ain’t that somethin’?”
“Sure is, boss. Fuckin’ thing should hang in a museum,” Tony remarked.
Next, on the screen, a greased erection appeared, and within seconds, the beautiful derriere was being fastidiously sodomized. Dr. Prouty watched from aside, fairly bored.
Vinchetti turned up the sound. “Stick me!” a woman’s hot voice implored. “Stick me right in the ass! All the way in! Hard!”
The penis on-screen obliged.
“Thing is,” Vinchetti went on. “See that cock? It ain’t my cock, I can tell ya that. But the ass that it’s goin’ in and out of happens to belong to my wife.”
Tony’s face was already going pale as cream. Before he could reach into his jacket for his gun, Vinchetti had already drawn down on him with his own pistol. The room seemed to freeze, its only movement coming from the TV screen where the sodomy continued. Eventually the camera lens opened, enlarging the scene well enough to show Vinchetti’s pert strawberry-blond wife bent over a vanity. The man sodomizing her was Tony.
“Boss,” Tony grated, “you don’t understand…”
“I understand that you’ve been butt-fuckin’ my wife in my bedroom. What else I need to understand? See, I had Lunky put a camera in there after he put the one in the cash room that fingered Hymie.”
Beads of sweat trickled on Tony’s forehead. “She came onto me, boss—I swear. Said if I didn’t do it, she’d tell you lies about me. I swear on my mother’s grave, boss!”
Vinchetti upped the volume some more, and now his wife—between proddings—snickered, “Thank God you had the balls to put the make on me, Tony. Ain’t no one else in this joint’s got the balls to.”
Tony paled further as Vinchetti kept the pistol aimed at his head.
“A woman’s got needs, ya know?” her voice continued. “A woman needs a cock up her ass sometimes, not that little thing my husband’s got. Christ, it feels like one of those little Vienna sausages.”
Oh, dear, Dr. Prouty thought.
Vinchetti turned off the video.
“Come on, boss,” Tony pleaded, having already urinated in his farcical white slacks. “It was just one of those things, ya know? I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Sure, Tony, sure. And I don’t mean nothin’ by this…” He gave a curt nod to Dr. Prouty who immediately stepped up behind Tony and snapped him in the side of the neck with a Bush automatic injector full of tranquilizers.
Tony staggered a moment, then was unconscious before he hit the floor.
««—»»
Vinchetti’s wife had been previously “prepared.” Naked, of course, she sat strapped to an examination chair, her pretty head belted back against the adjustable head rest. Terror sheened her impeccable white skin and jutted her breasts out like ripe peaches above the chest strap. Tony, too, had been strapped to a chair, though far less intricately.
“You’re a genius, Doc, a friggin’ genius!” Vinchetti complimented, rubbing his hands together.
Dr. Prouty rolled his eyes.
Neither victim could make much in the way of vocal protest, just grunts from Tony and raving whimpers from Vinchetti’s wife. No, their mouths had not been stapled together like Hymie and Darcy—Vinchetti like variation. Instead…
Pretty proficient work, if I may say so myself, the doctor thought.
He’d run a half-inch-wide esophageal catheter down the throat of Vinchetti’s wife, after which he’d instigated what you might call a stomach pump in reverse. He’d also, quite skillfully, performed a modified ileostomy on her upper-left abdominal quadrant. In medical terms, the procedure (unlike the more familiar colostomy), circumvented the mid-small-intestinal process (known as the jejunum) through a surgically constructed stoma (or aperture) after which the small intestine was severed at this proximal point and stitched to the inside of the stoma. Dr. Prouty’s modification, however, bypassed this final step, and merely extricated the severed intestinal length.
In less-than-medical terms, he’d cut a slit in Mrs. Vinchetti’s belly, reeled out some gut, and snipped it.
He’d left the lower end of the intestine to dangle. The higher end he’d stapled to Tony’s lips via the McCrath Model SS40-C.
“Looks like a hose runnin’ from her stomach to Tony’s yap,” Vinchetti observed.
“Yes, a…hose,” Dr. Prouty offered, “from which chyme, mucosa, and partially digested intestinal material will empty.”
Another familiar Vinchetti chuckle. “The low-down prick likes stickin’ his dick into my wife’s shit, let’s see how he likes eatin’ it, huh?”
“Precisely.”
“It’s almost like you hooked her ass up to his mouth!”
“In a manner of speaking, that’s correct, sir. However, I thought you would enjoy a variation of that description. What I’m referring too, of course, is my decision to transect the jejunum rather than, say, the sigmoid colon.”
“Huh?” Vicnhetti expressed his incomprehension.
“It’s the large intestine that wilts the majority of moisture from the feces, sir. But severing the digestive tract at the jejunum will detour that effect.”
Vinchetti’s brow creased. “She’s gonna shit in his mouth, right, Doc?”
“Yes, but with intestinal matter that hasn’t been fully subjected to the complete digestive process. What voids into T
ony’s mouth will be essentially diarrhea.”
Vinchetti cracked his hands yet again. “The Hershey Squirts! Neat-o!”
“Yes, sir,” the doctor continued to elaborate, “and given my previous preparation of goat cheese, raw garlic, baked beans, and canned dog food, it should make for an interesting mix.” (After the ileostomy, Dr. Prouty has emptied this mish-mash of ingredients into Mrs. Vinchetti’s stomach through the esophageal tube by means of a surgical aspirator pump.)
Tony’s mute face began to redden, as Mrs. Vinchetti’s bowels began to move.
“He’ll have to eat it,” Prouty said, “or he’ll drown.”
The gray-pink length of intestine began to squirm. Muffled gargling could be heard, and Tony’s cheeks billowed hugely at each blast of diarrhea..
“Gorgeous, Doc. You’re a true star.” Vinchetti patted Prouty on the back and led him out of the room.
Dr. Prouty tried to rein his enthusiasm, to control himself. “So, um, we’re done now, sir?”
“With them two? Sure. We’ll let Tony chug on that for a while before I have the boys feed ’em both to the pits.”
Warm joy surged through Prouty’s veins. “So then… I can go now?”
“Sure, Doc, you can go just like I promised—”
Prouty nearly squealed in delight.
“—after pigs can fly and fuckin’ Santa Claus come down the chimney to hold my dick for me when I piss,” Vinchetti finished. “When bears wear funny hats and the pope shits in the woods.”
Prouty’s heart seemed to drop to the floor. He stood and stared. “But…sir. You said—”
“Yeah, I know, I said you could leave if you fucked Hymie in the ass and got your nut before Tony.” Another slap on the back. “But there’s one thing you gotta learn, paisan. My word ain’t worth a tick on a dead dog’s balls. Never trust a goombah slime-bag mafia fuck like me, Doc.” Vinchetti walked on, belting laughter, but then he turned and winked. “Me, you, and that fancy stapler of yours? We’re gonna have ourselves a lot of fun in the years to come. Later, Doc! Have a great day!”
