Grimoire Diabolique

The doctor remained locked in rigor.

“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 shit on your stick.”

A deep breath, then—capitulation. Dr. Prouty began to masturbate, standing right there with his trousers at his ankles. His penis 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 dick. The mewls of horror issuing from the table didn’t exactly help him get in the mood. He reassembled 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!

“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.