The Beast On Top Ch 01

In the bar, elbows flat on the wood, the dentist held himself up with another drink. He sipped the shot of Sambuca, and wondered about the three girls sitting next to him. Not the arrogant one closest to him, but the plump one in the middle. He watched her face in the reflection of the beer tap, almost hoping that she would look into the brass plate and see his desperation. He would not turn away; exhaustion had made him brave. His friend said something. The voice was droning far away. Yes, said the dentist, let's go, guessing correctly the gist of the mumbling.

He got home and hustled his empty carcass-shell up the back stairs, noticing the light under the door in apartment #2 where a large Vietnamese family lived. He fought with them about parking after they moved in. One of the girls was thin and moved with insect angularity, gesticulating with pointed black forearms. He liked her aura and imagined her feeding on him, ripping away his suit and scooping up parts of muscle from off the bone. He would choke her little head and thin throat with all his flesh.

He reached the top floor and the cold hit his body but fatigue numbed him well enough. Photos, slides and transparencies lay about the fold-out table in the kitchen. The photos were dark and depicted stitched-up gums at various stages of the operation. From out of the spidery mucosa erupted metallic prongs, the implants themselves. The dentures would snap over these implants after healing was complete. He did not have much time to finish the presentation and the thought of his impending doom rushed in and warmed his groin. He would have to do something, plead general malaise in order to escape his obligation. Would they believe him? No, he should just finish the presentation and get it over with tomorrow. He did not care so much to become a partner in the dental practice at that moment but knew that tomorrow morning he would indeed care very much. He stared at a photo and lost himself in the dark tunnel of throat. The darkness crept toward him crawling over the tongue and hung behind the pillared implants like an exotic caged animal. Then sleep.

The phone rang shrilly, waking him up. He did not answer. It was Marge. Her voice came out of the answering machine, asking about the presentation. If he needed any help. Marge was the obese dental assistant who helped the dentist beyond the call of duty. She was the one who inserted the plastic retractors that stretched the lips into a silent howl. She liked her job, and ended the message with a demanding entreaty for the dentist to call her back. Yes, why not, he would call her over. She would motivate him to finish. She always said that he had no guts. The gutless wonder, she called him, when he sniveled and kissed up to the older partners in the office. She guided him in and out of rooms, telling him what to do all day. He wanted to prove her wrong. So he called her up.

"Marge, got your message. How about coming over tomorrow morning and we can wrap up the presentation before nine?"

"How about I come over now, while I still have the good will in me," she said, and the dentist quickly acquiesced.

He hauled himself into the bathroom and looked at himself in the splotched mirror. He turned his head sideways and carefully noticed the prematurely graying hairs that people relentlessly brought to his attention. He noticed several black strands reaching outward from his nostril. He clipped them and began plucking the eyebrow hairs that seemed to grow back with vigorous spurts, making his brow join over the nose. The dentist was a swarthy man, darker and hairier than either of his parents. He attributed his physical appearance as well as his restlessness and sexual obsessions to over-abundance of testosterone. Often he dreamt of castration. It would solve many of his problems, he was sure, but he knew that enough courage would never muster. Also, he was not sure that life amounted to anything more than the basic sexual urges driving the world 'round. Without his sex, maybe life would end.

The dentist thought about masturbating but decided that there would not be enough time. Marge lived only one town over and would arrive within fifteen minutes. He did not like to rush the job, so he began doing other things to get ready for his visitor. Under a faucet releasing steaming water, he massaged the grease off of yesterday's dishes. He was thinking of Marge in her white uniform, her breasts leaping out as she bent over to suction away the viscous saliva and blood soup. She enjoyed the surgeries -- blood was something she was very comfortable with. She also enjoyed her time alone with the patients in recovery. In order to speed recovery, she pinched their ears with all her force. She smiled down as the pain penetrated the fleeting anesthesia and contorted the faces of the writhing victims, wordless protestations.. The other partners liked her efficiency. Our dentist protagonist knew better, and liked her for a different reason. The buzzer rang with a muffled and wasp-like sound, and the dentist released the door, saying suavely into the intercom that she should come up, apologizing for the lack of an elevator.

Her mammoth steps creaked the stairs and he could hear her asthmatic breaths as she approached his door. He opened the door, and she squeezed herself into the room smelling of strong perfume and cigarettes. She looked around for a place to sit. The dentist offered her a chair.

"You look …. Your hair is down. That's what it is."

"I'm not at work, am I?" she said with an acerbic edge. "Let's see the slides."

The dentist pushed the slides over the table toward her. He could not take his eyes away from her flowing blond locks resting on her shoulders and breasts. She held a slide up to the light and squinted. Black liner lay thick around her slits of blue iris. She left her mouth open as she concentrated on the tiny shapes, and switched her tongue over her teeth lasciviously. She looked at the dentist for a moment, still holding up the slide.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"I think we have some work to do. Let's see the photos," she said when she noticed the glossy master copies on the table. She traced a two-inch press-on nail over the photograph of gums as if she might feel their swollen contours. The inverted image was indecipherable to the dentist, who could only see black ropes of stitch diving in and out of a red terrain.

"Yes, we have work to do," she said musingly, her voice trailing off. "I'll take dictation if you want."

The dentist fidgeted and then began to ask, in extreme discomfort, if she could keep her generous cooperation from the others in the office. "You know, people might think something … After all, I, not you, am supposed to … am responsible."

"Don't you worry your little hairy head, doctor," she said laughing suddenly and with great volume. "Our little secret is mine to keep. And why don't you start."

The dentist was still put off by the loudness of her laugh, noticing for the first time how odd it was that her face should be so free of jowls and flab with a body so grotesquely overweight. This woman was full of contradictions. He tried to keep a calm demeanor as he began his dictation. She stopped writing after a few sentences and looked up at the dentist.

"Could you massage my feet, they are very sore. I can still write and you can still speak, it would just feel better and I could concentrate."

"Yes, of course," said the dentist with an eagerness which betrayed him. He blushed after this, and she smiled a deeply subtle and evil smile. She went to remove her semi-heels, grimacing and pulling and grunting while the dentist looked on helplessly. The shoe refused to cooperate. She began rocking back and forth, her face pinched up, both hands white around the knuckles from grasping the heel, and with each rocking motion she released a squeal which gurgled out of her damp throat like some wounded animal.

The dentist became very aroused and longed to see the stubborn thing finally freed, so he bent over her hulking mass to lend a helping hand, trying to adopt a scientific posture. After noticing the swollen flesh tightly wedged and bulging out over the shoes, he decided that he should pry the foot loose with his fingers from underneath. Although he pushed and pushed he could not fit his fingers down the side of her arch and underneath to the soft underbelly. She was obviously beginning to fatigue, an outward sign of impending defeat, but the dentist would not have it. He rushed to the refrigerator and found the margarine container. He flipped open the lid, tossing the plastic coaster across the room in a fervid motion, then plunged his hand deep into the cold margarine, grabbing gobs of the stuff and squeezing it out his fists. He held his coated hand out in front and scurried to aid in the release of the foot.

"What took you so long," Marge groaned as she felt the cold greasy hand. She did not like to be kept waiting, this is something everybody in the office knew. She would arrive an hour early to prepare the surgical trays, to make sure all of the instruments were greased and ready to go. Each surgeon had his preference, but she knew which ones worked most efficiently and she dressed them up with little pieces of blue tape and marked them up best she could in order to pass them off. And pass them off she would, slapping the impatient latex palm with their cool steel stems. She announced their names as she thrust them into the dentist's hands: "lower cow-horn, straight elevator, upper universal…" She did not use numbers like the other assistants, and she did not allow any room for doubt.

The dentist pushed his fingers between the taut lips of her shoes and pried upward trying to use his rigid fingers as a crowbar. The foot arched upward and he flipped his greased digits under her thick pads and massaged the foot loose. Marge groaned and passed her other foot over to the sweating dentist. He dove into the shoe with fervid greed and a resolve that Marge knew and respected. She had wedged her freed foot under the dentist's thigh for leverage. The dentist pushed his spindly fingers underneath her remaining foot. Marge grimaced with pleasure, worming her foot deeper to his groin, digging in with all of her thickness. The dentist was reddening with struggle, spittle coating his lips until finally he fell over, having freed her other foot.

She did not let the poor dentist bask in victory too long, though. "Lick the grease off, you dog," she said and thrust her toes into the dentist's mouth. His tongue scooped the fatty yellow artificial butter from between the toes and he gagged as she sent her foot further into his mouth. "Swallow it," she said and he swallowed the gobs while she deftly massaged his groin with her glistening heel to the point of near explosion. "DO IT," she said, "come on boy, do it". She somehow managed to simultaneously unzip him and yank down her own elastic ribbed pants, unleashing a sea of splotched flesh that began to glow pink as the blood filled back in. He dove his pecker into her body trying to reach the warm heaven of moistness but she spilled over him tying him down with heavy folds of skin and adipose. He struggled underneath her, jacking into her sagging buttocks with short humped thrusts, finally reaching climax.

He collapsed with exhaustion and shame by her feet, his orgasm hovering over him – a coagulated gob on her right thigh. Before he could gather more than two or three stentorian breaths, she was on top of him, straddling him, her pantied snatch exhaling into his struggling mouth. She held him with two hands by his thick graying hair, and gyrated violently back and forth for about thirty seconds until she too released her serous fluids.

She rolled off his semi-conscious frame. When the dentist finally came to he resembled a newborn – glistening, panting and ruddy. Marge was primly jotting down notes, having dressed herself and tied up her hair in a neat golden bun. The dentist did not know whether to apologize or to lash out with outrage, and decided in the end to be silent. He pulled himself up onto the chair. His shirt button had been torn loose, and a wet splotch marked his collar. He had survived a battle with raw experience, had lived out a moment that he would remember with ambivalence.

"I think that we can work together without the whole world knowing," Marge said. "Yes," said the dentist.

"I've done a few slides – the intro. You'll probably want to change the text." She handed the notes and glossy mother copies over to the dentist. He stared blankly at the paper, trying to concentrate.

"I want to follow this up with another, more interesting series of papers," said Marge with a mysterious edge. She smiled coyly and proceeded to explain her idea, how the dentist could help, and why the dentist would love to be the agent of a Dom-femme queen. Marge had the idea of a great crime, unparalleled to her own knowing, an investigation into new erotic pleasures. "I could have killed you, you know," she said coyly and waited for the dentist to respond.

"It sounds preposterous and dangerous, but I'll do it," said the dentist through a nervous smile.

And thus the deal was brokered, sealed with an impassioned kiss uniting these two lost perverts. They would search the files tomorrow after the presentation, after a day of work, when the office emptied out, and the two of them could conspire safely as to who the first victim would be. The dentist was eager to learn the hallways of evil, to understand the black power gravid in his curious soul.

He finished his dictation, which Marge skillfully translated into a coherent presentation. She giggled at the dentist's ironic slips, like "the patient did not go under easily" or "the gums were fixed with a row of useful implants", silly statements that could mean two things. In bed that night, the dentist wondered at Marge's comment, the words "I could have killed you," echoing between the walls of deep drowsiness, which were also the walls of his dream as a new strange hallway luminesced with hell's lantern.