INTAKE
They wheeled her into Dr. Sugismund Spivey's consulting room on a gurney. She was strapped down by not one, but count 'em, three straightjackets. At Spivey's request, she was further wrapped in gauze to resemble an Egyptian mummy Yet, even this triple wrap could not attenuate the erotic magnificence of Rhonda McMurphy's double-H hooters. Rhonda was well aware of the good (or more accurately bad) doctor's arousal, of his rock-hard scepter, and of the tightness of his writhing balls. She knew that Spivey's needs were shaped by his memories of Queen Hatshepsut, the foxy Egyptian mummy he had the good fortune to view at the British Museum a few years ago. God, he would have liked to unwrap that saucy bitch. He had longed to yank her embalming cloth and spin her around like a top. The chalky fetid aroma of the Egyptian queen's helpless rank flesh would have been completely exposed to the perverse nose and other sensory organs of one highly-deserving Sigismund Spivey. He would inhale the divine attar of her decaying organs and ravish her body cavity just as the hospital attendants had done to the comatose body of Uma Thurman (aka Black Mamba) in the classic film Kill Bill Part I, not be confused with the basketball player Kobe Bryant, who shares the same serpentine nickname . Kobe Bryant's first name, incidentally, was taken from a chain of Japanese steakhouses. It may be Bryant's good fortune that he was not named Jiffy Lube or Ibuprofen.
After the gurney came to a rest inside Spivey's office, he waved away the orderlies, "Thank you gentlemen, that will be all."
Once the attendants' heels had clicked their way down the hospital corridor, Spivey turned his attention to the gauze-wrapped beauty before him. He traced his fingers over her frightened large brown eyes. "Oh my dear, what fun we are going to have together." He made a slicing motion around Rhonda exposed throat and grinned.
He knew he had to keep it together this time. He had already been fired from several jobs, including as a medical examiner, coroner, forensic pathologist, crime scene photographer, and morgue attendant. His perverse desires had even gotten him fired from a position as a funeral director over in Sodom county. They claimed that his lascivious and inappropriate smiles had freaked out several mourning families. There had even been accusations of necrophilia. Now they had put him in charge of an asylum filled with lunatic sexual perverts, much to Spivey's carefully disguised delight.
Spivey silently chanted the mantra Nurse Crotchet it had taught him. "The dead are not my bed "The dead can't give me head. Hump the live instead."
Despite his chanting, Spivey felt his wand growing and throbbing in sexual hunger.
He looked at the swell of Rhonda McMurphy's fabulous breasts as they rose up and with each breath. This one still lived. He knew she was going to be a feisty one compared to the octogenarian maniac he had banged in this very spot yesterday . He remembered how that harridan spit her dentures across before room before she gummed him with her divine toothless mouth and roving tongue.
Spivey looked into Rhonda McMurphy's darting eyes. "Get ready for a ride on the Sigismund train," he told the newly-admitted patient, and licked his lips.
McMurphy tried to hold on to the last vestiges of sanity she had. This one was a puppet of the Six Dark Demons. She could even see the strings that the puppeteers used to manipulate Spivey's false flesh. She knew they were only hallucinations, but that did not make them any less real.
"Gonna you cook you like a chicken on a spit. Gonna shish kabob ya," Spivey informed his newest inmate. He pulled her arms over her head and handcuffed her to a rotating eyehook. He did the same with her legs. He cranked up a gear, and McMurphy's body became painfully stretched. Soon she was lifted into the air in true shish kabob fashion.
Spivey felt the softness of the gauze wrapping McMurphy's body. He had to hand it to his staff. They had done a fine job of mummification on this one.
He sniffed the ersatz mummy up and down her length. By the time he had reached her waist he, could easily smell the familiar order of decay. He knew it was not truly rot. They had used the latest and most refined scent for necrophiliacs on the market, namely Old Spice's Rotting Floater. He could also detect a whiff of natron, still the official embalmment agent of ancient Egypt and pharaohs everywhere. The staff had spared no effort in creating an authentic mummy for him (save for the highly pertinent fact that she still lived) . Spivey was quite touched by their efforts. Of course, lesser effort would have gotten them all summarily fired, but it was still a token of their esteem. A tear wended its way down his right cheek.
He reached out to grab one of the gauze strands wrapping the cocoon of the delectable Rhonda McMurphy and began to pull it. McMurphy's body began to rotate in true shish kabob fashion" as her wrapping unraveled.
"A bit chilly in here, wouldn't you say?" Spivey asked his new charge. He flipped a switch and a fire came to life below McMurphy. It seemed that she was going to be a literal rather than a figurative shish kabob.
Her eyes grew large, and shook her head frantically from side to side. "Moo goo gai pan. Auf Wiedersehen . Belarus," she protested.
"You know you really need to articulate more clearly. You sound as if you're talking with your mouth full.
"Here, let me show you," the insane former necrophiliac said. He pulled the squash ball out of McMurphy's mouth and cut back the gauze around her face to expose her large brown eyes.
"Now what were you saying?"
The would-be stiff replied "Get me down from here, you sick fuck."
"If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen," Sigismund Spivey told his new patient. "Oh, I forgot. You're pretty much chained to the kitchen."
Spivey pulled on the embalming strips until the McMurphy pseudo-mummy was completely unraveled. One-by-one, he undid the buckles on her three straightjackets and tossed them on top of her funeral pyre. She was now nude and chained helplessly before his eyes. Spivey flipped a switch and the shish kabob fire roared with even greater ferocity. Her chains began to move so that she was spread-eagled and helpless before the disgraced former funeral director. She was lowered so that she could feel the flames of the macabre mega-hibachi licking the skin of her flawless back. Her silky long hair began to smolder, but Spivey reached into a bowl and took a few hair clips and barrettes to pin her beautiful tresses out of harm's way. Chicks with half smoldering scalps were one of his pet peeves. Her beautiful brown-tipped breasts were even more beautiful than he had fantasized."
"You know the whole point of BDSM is to scare your partner, not to immolate her," Rhonda informed the disgraced morgue attendant.
"Well, as Henry Fonda pointed out in Once Upon a Time in the West, people scare better when they're dying."
"Point taken."
Sigismund buried his hyper-excited tongue in McMurphy's throbbing gash, quickly finding the hot bud of her clit. He traced his fingernails over her taut belly until his hands palmed her humongous perfect breasts, squeezing them cruelly. His mouth traveled up and down her flawless brown skin
Meanwhile back at her clit, Dr. Sugismund Spivey's tongue entered Rhonda's moist cooz, thrusting in and out of her dark, welcoming, pulsating love canal. Her whole body trembled at his complete command of her being. The disgraced necrophiliac's tongue performed a dance that would be the envy of any choreographically over-rehearsed NFL touchdown celebration. She squeezed the good doctor's head between her strong thighs as he ate her with the hunger of Takeru Kobayashi downing his 500th hot dog.
He rotated his muffin muncher around her sugar walls as a faster and faster rate. By the time he reached 20 rpm, she turned softly and called his name out loud. By the time he reached 30, she was sleeping. By the time he got to 40, she cried just to think his tongue might really leave her. She just didn't know it would really go.
"Gonna put you sunny side up," Spivey said, and pushed a few buttons. Rhonda felt herself being rotated until she was in the supine spread-eagle position, albeit three feet off the ground. She watched as the good doctor shed his clothing, with the exception of his socks.
What kind of a guy doesn't take off his socks? Rhonda asked herself. Oh right, a criminally insane director of a snake pit style mental asylum.
Spivey grabbed her by her chin and forced her to look out the grimy window at the angry mob assembled along the iron fence surrounding the Woody Allen Institute for Creative Paraphilia. Many in the assembled mob were attempting to scale the fence, others were attempting to knock down the gate. All of them were screaming obscenities.
"Why do they hate us so much?" McMurphy asked her temporary BDSM master.
"They do not hate us. Nothing could be further from the truth," Spivey told his chained, elevated and misguided slave. "They envy us. They think that if they could gain admittance to the Allen Institute, they would be in a sexual paradise. The fools do not realize that everything they need is already within their grasp. Everyone who walks this godforsaken globe is lonely and frustrated and harbors such dark fantasies it would curl you toes. You just have to find the right trigger. "
"I don't feel anything in my toes. But my cooze is soaked," Rhonda told the long-time necrophiliac. "Come on, massah, throw me a bone here."
Director Spivey walked around to Rhonda's anterior end, affording her a panoramic view of his jutting loony-lancer, which hopefully would soon be sheathed in her soaking birth canal if she had any say in it. But then she soon saw the strings of the of the six dark demon puppeteers, who manipulated the Spivey puppet. Both of them appeared to be hook operators as defined in Barbara O'Brien's classic book Operators and Things: the Inner Life of a Schizophrenic. All six were grinning at her and gave her a big thumbs up.
The Spivey thing hauled back and slammed his cock-a-doodle-doo ten inches down the welcoming throat of one Rhonda McMurphy. "You want a bone, here's a bone" Spivey told the chained prospective inmate. She closed her lips over his mighty shaft, as he grabbed her head in a viselike grip and pounded his way down her esophagus. She longed to reach out and show him what her hands and ass could do, but was frustrated by her chains.
His hands slid beneath her and began to massage her fulsome brown breasts, pawing them and mauling them roughly, as he continued to pound his way in and out of her helpless body. She let forth with a lust-filled ululation worthy of Xena Warrior Princess, but it was muffled by the pounding of the Director of the Woody Allen Institute's thrusts into her mouth. She wanted to grab his genitals and squeeze them like tube of Aquafresh toothpaste and to release his fun juice like a fire hydrant gone volcano. However, her longing was unrequited due to the chains that bound her limbs. All of a sudden, the good doctor walked around to Rhonda's rear end. Her posterior orifices were no less inviting than her deep brown eyes.
Unable to control himself any long, Sigismund Spivey spread Rhonda's ass checks and dove into her crack like a Philadelphia Flyers fan assaulting a greasy cheesesteak. His tongue wasted no time in rimming her and thrusting in and out of her delightful cornhole.
She cried out at this violation of her body. Her cunt was dripping wet with desire. Spivey grabbed her shoulders to hold her steady when he rammed into her again. He pulled out of her delightful corn canal and buried himself to the hilt in her honeypot. She sobbed as he began to batter his way in and out of her love canal.
She watched a flock of white cherubs as they flew circles around her head, firing hallucinogenic puffer fish darts into both of their bodies until they were in a state of sexual desire that dwarfed that of an elephant in "must" or a Vulcan science officer in the throes of pon farr.
