“A simple saline and copper sulphate solution injected intra-muscularly,” Doc said. “Once the compound comes in sufficient contact with the stomach’s exterior blood supply—”
“Shaddap,” Vinchetti said. “Just take his word for it, Tony. It won’t be long before Hymie’s blowin’ chunks like a fuckin’ bilge pump.”
“You figure she’ll be able to do it?” came Tony’s next query. “You know, eat all that puke?”
Both mobsters considered the rather remarkable question. “What do you think, Doc?” Vinchetti asked, chuckling. “I mean, seein’ that you’re a gambling man, if you had money to bet, would you bet she could do it?”
“I would, sir,” Dr. Prouty responded in certainty. “The primal instinct for a human being to survive is unfathomably spirited. In fact, I’d say she’ll survive several cycles.”
“Cycles?” Tony asked.
Vinchetti explained. “See, if the bitch manages to swallow all that puke, then Doc injects her with some of that fancy copper stuff. Get it? Then it’s her turn to puke into Hymie’s mouth. They’ll just keep puking back and forth like that till they croak.”
“That rocks!” Tony exclaimed.
Prouty noticed a gradual increase in respiration in the victims. Eyelids began to flutter. “If I may interrupt, sir. I believe our subjects are regaining consciousness.”
“Tony! Turn on the camera,” Vinchetti made the zealous command. “Get us a wide shot, the whole table. I want to see ’em convulsing’n shit.”
Tony did so, and soon the convulsing began. First, though, came the initial recognition of the calamity. Hymie and Darcy’s eyes did indeed flutter open. They stared glazily for a few seconds… and then the rest hit them: they were strapped to each other, face to face, irrevocably joined at the lips.
Then they began to scream into each other’s mouth.
The sounds were muffled, of course, more like a panicked mewling, Hymie’s lower, in staccato-like gruffs, Darcy’s a long high baffled whistle. It was a sound unlike any Dr. Prouty had ever heard. An additional leather strap girding their necks prevented any possible action to pull back and tear out the staples. The victims squirmed within their bonds, bug-eyed, trying to kick, frenetically jerking, trying to somehow twist out—but each and every gesture proved futile.
All three men stood stock-still, watching raptly. A considerable erection became evident at the front of Tony’s preposterous white slacks, but Vinchetti himself seemed to be growing bored. “Hey, Doc. We got video runnin’ here, ya know, and we ain’t got till fuckin’ Christmas. When’s Hymie start to let ’er rip?”
Prouty felt a few pops of sweat come out on his brow. “It used the maximum human dose, I assure you, sir. Given Hymie’s greater than average capillary tract, due to the excess of fat, the vomitive compound may take a trifle longer than expected to reach the target duodenal blood vessels. You see, sir, a person such as Hymie—clinically obese—actually possesses a higher volume of hemoglobin due to the fact—”
“Shaddap,” Vinchetti said. “Just make him puke, Doc. If that sack’a blubber ain’t pukin’ in five minutes, I’ll have my boys hang you upside-down from a meat-hook in your asshole. Savy?”
Dr. Prouty gulped through a nod as he spied the recurring image in his head.
“Shit, Tony,” the boss went on, “this is makin’ for some pretty dull footage. I think what we need is a little rodwork to spice things up while we’re waitin’ for Hymie to blow chow.”
Tony popped a brow, half eyeing Darcy’s quirming buttocks. “Yeah, boss, but you know, like I was saying before, I’d never fuck around with any of your squeeze.”
Vinchetti cracked a laugh. “She ain’t my squeeze no more, Tony. Shit, you think I give a shit now? Once we’re done with the fun and games here, I’m gonna have Knuckles Jr. carve her up and put her in the grinder for the pit bulls. So go ahead, paisan. Use it or lose it.”
Tony shrugged. “Don’t mind if I do.” He lowered his ludicrous slacks and zig-zag-patterned Fruit of the Looms, freeing a hard penis that looked more like an eight-inch length of knockwurst. He slicked it up via some spit in the palm and wasted no time getting it where he wanted it. As if Darcy’s plight weren’t regrettable enough—now this: perfunctory sodomy. She really began to squirm.
“And don’t forget the wet shot,” Vinchetti reminded. “After all, this is video.”
“Got’cha, boss. When I’m done coring this stringbean, her ass is gonna look like a rum bun.”
Since Darcy and Hymie were strapped face to face, her buttocks were positioned quite conveniently. All Tony need do was step right up and slip it in. Her whistle-like mewls heightened whilst Tony’s frightfully thick member methodically plumbed the depths of her rectal passage.
Then Vinchetti looked over at Doc and said, “You too, Doc. Get on it.”
Prouty froze. “Uh, pardon me?”
“Whip out your johnson and put it where the sun don’t shine.”
Prouty’s mouth fell open but no words came out. A quick appraisal of the obvious (there were two naked asses on the table, and one was currently occupied) did not leave him with much of a positive conclusion. “Uh-uh-uh… you want me to-to-to—”
“That’s right, Doc. Get your dick out, get it hard, and fuck Hymie in the ass. Jesus Christ, you act like I’m askin’ you to build the Great Pyramid.”
The doctor looked at Hymie’s clenching buttocks. It was hairy… and huge. It lay there on the side of the table like one fifty-pound bag of flour stacked upon a second. Doc made the only logical response. “Uh-uh-uh… sir, I-I-I couldn’t possibly—”
Like magic, Vinchetti shucked a small semi-automatic pistol and aimed it right at Prouty’s face. “Come on, Doc. Chop chop. You know how I hate loud noises.”
Prouty stood in total paralysis. “But, sir, given the sheer size of Hymie’s buttocks, not to mention the considerable over-hang of flesh… I rather doubt that a… successful insertion… would even be physiologically possible.”
Vinchetti cocked the pistol.
Oh, dear, Dr. Prouty thought. “As I said, I’ll give it my most concerted effort, sir.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Prouty could scarcely imagine a predicament such as this. Tony didn’t seem to be having any trouble at all, but of course, for one thing, Tony was a demented sexual psychopath and, two, the lithe female derriere he so frenetically sodomized was a bit more pleasing to the erotic imagination than the corpulent mass that Prouty was tasked with. He lowered his trousers and briefs only to find his own penis so withered it appeared to be retracting into his body. I’m going to put THIS, he thought, and looked at Hymie’s ass, into THAT?
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.