"Look, Doc," Vinchetti said with an eerie calm. "Either you cornhole Hymie or I'll kneecap you and feed ya live to the pit bulls.

Now quit dilly-dallying. Get some s.h.i.+t on your stick."

A deep breath, thena"capitulation. Dr. Prouty began to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e, standing right there with his trousers at his ankles. His p.e.n.i.s felt like a piece of warm taffy (a small piece), and now his previous words were haunting him in a manner that he could scarcely conceive of. The primal instinct for a human being to survive is unfathomably spirited, he determined just moments ago. Well, here was his chance to prove that particular maxim.

Oh dear me ... He could imagine how he appeared: huffing and puffing, knees shaking and eyes squeezed shut, hands plying a dead d.i.c.k. The mewls of horror issuing from the table didn't exactly help him get in the mood. He rea.s.sembled any erotic image in his mind: Farrah Fawcett in Playboy, the models in the Victoria's Secret catalogue, and all those nut-brown, bikini-lined Beverly Hills bimbos he'd had on his own table not too long ago. He imagined Cindy Crawford's hand in place of his own, while Ginger from Gilligan's Island tended his testes with her tongue. The latter image was beginning to work until some devious mental glitch replaced Ginger with Gilligan himself.

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!

"Thra""

Presto! The genuine threat of death did the trick, and no forced thoughts of voluptuous vixens were necessary. Before the doctor could worry any farther, six hard-as-ever inches stuck out grandly.

"Three cheers for Doc!" Vmchetti celebrated. "Not bad for an old f.u.c.k!"

I'd duly flattered, Dr. Prouty thought.

"Now get that California balony 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 b.u.t.tocks anda"

Don*t? think about it! Don't think about it!

a"slid his glans into the terrifying creva.s.se. Luck was on his sidea"for a changea"as said glans found the area in question almost instantaneously: Hymie's rectal sphincter. Dr.

Prouty urged his pelvis forward, felt some understandable resistence, then sighed in relief.

He was in!

"There ya go, Doc. Now give that fat s.h.i.+t a b.u.t.t-f.u.c.king like his momma never dreamed."

It felt like the tightest of o-rings clamped around his p.e.n.i.s. It did not feel good.

Nevertheless, realizing his life was at stake he . . . b.u.t.t-f.u.c.ked 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 h.e.l.l for leather, and some inexpressible inclination caused Dr. Prouty to keep pace.

"Remember, boys," Vinchetti said, "I need wet shots. s.p.u.n.k '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-tbr effect Deft as a p.o.r.n star, the doctor withdrew his member anda"

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

a"fired half a dozen gouts of sperm a yard across the table.

"Holy s.h.i.+t Doc!" Vinchetti cheered. "That's some serious baby-batter you're pumpin" out!

Hey, Tony! The old geezer beat ya to the finish line, anda"holy s.h.i.+t!a"he just hosed *em both down!"

This was a fact. Dr. Prouty's veritable vault of s.e.m.e.n 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 Km 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.e.l.l hole!

The thumping from the table intensified; Tony was reaching his own moment of crisis, care of Darcy's throttled r.e.c.t.u.m. The stainless steel examination platform actually shook from the concluding strokes. Thena"

"Here's one for the Gipper, b.i.t.c.ha"

Tony too demonstrated an impressive e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, s.p.a.ckling Darcy's clenched, moon:white bottom until it sufficiently s.h.i.+ned.

"Good c.u.m-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 p.e.n.i.s. "Hey, boss, how do you like that? Clean peter, not a speck'a s.h.i.+t 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 p.e.n.i.s was caked with feces; he even noted a tell-tale piece of corn. Embarra.s.sed, 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 nan, 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 betsa"i.e., his freedoma"were off, and he knew what the problem was: sheer physical ma.s.s. . . He prepared another injection of the copper sulphatea"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 dida"in grand stylea"less than a minute after the second injection.

Much gastric turbulence preceded the event-sounds akin to a fish tanka"and then came the salvo of m.u.f.fled 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 Darcya"little trooper that she wasa"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,'1 Tony remarked. "That's a doozy of a dessert."

"And would you look at the skinny b.i.t.c.h?' the boss added. "She looks knocked up!"

The two subjects s.h.i.+vered 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 ma.s.sive 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 things 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 a.s.sured.

"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 littlea"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 nosebag's really kickin' it up."

"Neat-o. Later." Vinchetti closed the door, leading on. "Paulie and Charlie're in there skinnin' the b.i.t.c.h who runs our ma.s.sage parlors in Utica. She was takin' clients on the side." He shook his head a moment. "f.u.c.kin'-A. Looked like Paulie was pulling down wallpaper."

"c.u.n.t had it coming," Tony remarked.

"It's a good trick. When they're done skinnin' her, Logman comes in and tucks 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 VCR's occupied the opposing wall. Vinchetti hit the PLAY b.u.t.ton 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 b.u.t.tocks to reveal a delicate r.e.c.t.u.m.

Vinchetti whistled. "How's that for an a.s.s? Ain't that somethin'?'

"Sure is, boss. f.u.c.kin' 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 a.s.s! All the way in! Hard!"

The p.e.n.i.s on-screen obliged.

"Thing is," Vinchetti went on. "See that c.o.c.k? It ain't my c.o.c.k, I can tell ya that But the a.s.s 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 b.u.t.t-ruckin' 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, bossa"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 wifea" between proddingsa"

snickered, "Thank G.o.d you had the b.a.l.l.s to put the make on me, Tony. Ain't no one else in this joint's got the b.a.l.l.s 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 c.o.c.k up her a.s.s 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."