Juicy rubbed his hands together with a papery sound that had gotten on Chuck P.'s nerves since they first met, and he stepped out of his track pants as he headed for the girl on the bed. She was playing with herself, using the same come here gesture she directed at Juicy on her g-spot with her other hand.
Juicy flipped her over on her stomach just like Johnny told Chuck P. he would, and hoisted her ass up in the air so she was resting on her knees with her tits pressed against the mattress. He spat into his hand, worked some onto his dick, then pushed a finger into her asshole.
Candy winced a little, not expecting him to dive right in, but she kept quiet. Chuck assumed she worried she might laugh if she said anything. Now that they were so close to launch, he had to bite his lip not to laugh himself.
He'd made sure to mix the red dye into corn starch and water nice and thick so it looked dark and ran sticky off the wooden spoon like blood. Some of it had spilled out of her asshole and dribbled down the inside of her thigh as he'd squirted it into her colon, but she'd wiped herself down well afterward, and had left no traces.
Her trick, which she performed twice weekly at The Canadian, was to give herself an enema before loading herself up with water and glitter, or milk, or whatever she'd decided would make the biggest splash, so to speak. Usually she would hold the liquids in her ass and solid objects in her pussy—like candy, or fruit, or ping pong balls—which was what had first caught Johnny's eye for obvious reasons. If he'd been blessed with such a strong sphincter as hers, he might have saved three lives that day in Room 6 instead of just his own.
So, Juicy rubbed the head of his cock up against Candy's asshole, using the paintbrush technique—wax on, wax off—and then he got so eager he pushed it right in there. Candy, being the pro she was, just moaned and kept holding it in. Juicy closed his eyes and started licking and biting his lips, his pale, skinny ass cheeks flexing as he thrust his dick in and out of her dark, wet pucker.
The other guys crowded around squeezing their tools, less into the sex than awaiting the inevitable explosion. Chuck P. had asked them to wear white T-shirts and socks so the fake blood would show up nice and red for Juicy to see.
The man himself had lost himself in the fucking, which was a real treat for Chuck P. (and later for Johnny, watching on Chuck's brand-new HD television). Juicy gave her ass a good smack, watching it ripple, saying things like, "Yeah, girl," and "Take it, take that dick, take all of that white dick," as if it was the biggest, whitest thing she'd ever experienced, even though compared most of the other guys in the room, all professional porn actors and most of them white guys themselves, it was relatively average. Still, as far as acting went, he was a natural.
Candy opened the one eye that wasn't squished against the bedspread and looked at Chuck P., who cued her with a finger: Ground Control to Major Torrent. She clenched her jaw as she bore down, letting loose a huge blast around Juicy's wet dick like he'd pressed his thumb on the end of a hose, making the fake blood spray out in a thick, wide jet, covering Juicy from head to toe, dousing the guys standing around jerking their limp noodles, even splashing on Chuck's shoes from ten feet away.
There was a reason her stage name was Candy Rains—and now Juicy, dripping with glistening, sticky red liquid he definitely thought was blood, had a reason for his.
His eyes bugged out of his sticky red face and he started screaming, and some of the guys started backing away, looking like they were about to puke. Chuck saw what they were seeing, and nearly gagged himself: Candy's cherry red insides had oozed out of her, and as Juicy pulled out his dick they unrolled like an inside-out sock.
She'd prolapsed.
Juicy kept screaming. He stumbled off the bed, tripping over his own feet and grabbing up his drenched track pants on the way to the door, screaming, "Oh shit, oh shit," in a high-pitched squeal while he dripped and left bloody footprints all over the carpet. One of the actors actually puked, a guy who hadn't done many fetish videos before. That was a freebie for Johnny and Chuck P., and Juicy held back his own vomit with a hand as he scrabbled at the door handle, and ran out naked into the parking lot.
"YOU KNOW, ALL of these stories are really getting me hot," Shyla wisecracked.
"I can tell," Angel said, her vagina making sticky sounds as he pistoned the fist-shaped dildo in and out of her. "Think you're ready to move up a size?"
She shrugged. "I think maybe I could handle it."
She groaned as the fist came out of her with a wet pop. He brought it with him to the bathroom, where he rinsed it in the sink, and returned it to the backpack. He came back with the large black cone, the narrow end moistened with lube.
"Johnny blackmailed Juicy for fifty large not to release that video. Since he thought it would damage his reputation, especially the part where he screamed 'like a little bitch,' as Chuck put it, Juicy paid out, and Johnny never saw him again."
"So what happened to Candy?" Shyla wondered. "I gotta say, I feel a kind of kinship with her. With those pussy superpowers of hers, she sounds like a true icon."
"She was, in her own way. At the time, Candy didn't even realize her colon was hanging out of her like a giant pink larva until Chuck P. pointed it out to her," Angel said. "And when he did, all she said is, 'Oh, not again,' like it happened all the time, and sucked it right back into herself."
Shyla grimaced. "Honestly? That's one thing I don't get about porno these days. How do they have a whole genre based on a woman's asshole popping out? We sure have come a long way, baby."
Focused on the task at hand, Angel didn't respond as he knelt on the mattress.
"Jesus, that thing must be as big as your head," Shyla said.
Angel regarded the dildo, like a small parking cone dipped in black latex, with fourteen raised rings, each an inch wide, in addition to the rounded tip, an inch in width and length. "Not quite," he said. "Is it too big?"
"I think we could try it."
Angel pressed it against her sticky cunt. Her labia parted around it, accepting two inches, then three as the rubber widened.
"How do you know all these stories?" Shyla groaned, wincing as he pushed the dildo in deeper. "Do you work here or something?"
"We're old friends," Angel said.
"You and Johnny?"
"The motel and I," Angel said, deadpan.
"You're friends with a motel."
"You've never been friends with an inanimate object? A stuffed animal? A binkie?"
"I mean, I call my vibrator my 'special friend,' but we don't go see movies together, or gossip about hot boys."
Angel shrugged. "This Motel and I, we've both suffered great loss. This room in particular."
"Like the Whale lost Jonah?"
"Exactly like that."
"You know, I knew you were weird when I first met you, but this is like… if Weird was a serial killer, this right here would be his creepy basement."
Angel grinned and eased the dildo in another notch, making Shyla grunt. It was advertised to widen by a half an inch in diameter per ring, so that at its base it was an impressive eight inches wide. He found no pleasure in the experience; this was not for her pleasure or his own. If she enjoyed it, he supposed it was to his benefit. The more natural lubrication her body produced—the more of this toy she was able to accept—the better.
"I guess as far as sexual preferences go," Shyla said, "you telling a bunch of stories while you fuck me with dildos isn't that bad. Some guys like to choke. I hate that. And this one guy had me piss into a wine glass so he could drink it. Then he wanted me to toast him with my own glass of piss, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to call my manager, Lars, to come and fuck the guy up."
"I'm sure you've got a lot of stories you could tell," Angel said.
"Oh, I could tell you some crazy ones. I've actually been thinking about writing them all down some day." She smiled. "The Curvy Hooker. You know, a play on the Xavier Hollander book? Or Memoirs of a Full-Figured Geisha."
"I'm all ears,"
Angel said.
"They're pretty small, actually." When Angel gave her a quizzical look, Shyla said, "Your ears."
"Ah." Angel grinned. "If you're not in the mood to tell a story of your own, do you mind if I tell you another, while we play?"
Shyla shrugged. "Sure, why not? No more poop and prolapses, though, okay? I had a beef on weck for lunch, and it isn't sittin' all that well after Johnny's trip to the toilet."
"Fair enough," Angel said, and began his story.
WOOM
THE WOMAN OPENED the door to Room 6 of the Lonely Motel with its brand-new key fob on an incredibly warm day in December of 1980. Cautiously, she stepped over the threshold, holding her pregnant belly as she breathed in the smell of cigarettes and stale perfume.
Ray and Lola Baumgarten had bought this plot of land along Genesee Street in the hope of attracting flight attendants and businessmen on layovers after the 1977 expansion of Buffalo Niagara International's East Terminal, but business had never picked up the way they'd hoped. Eventually what was known then as The Paradise Motel came to be synonymous with drug deals and cheap trysts with prostitutes.
In March of 1979, under the weight of massive debt, Ray Baumgarten passed away from a coronary. His wife, who fell into a deep depression, changed it’s name to the Lonely Motel before hanging herself in Room 6 in the fall of 1980. Under new management, The Lonely Motel welcomed prostitutes and drug dealers with open arms by renting out rooms by the hour.
Mary Booker had rented Room 6 for two hours, but she didn't expect to be there much longer than one. Her husband, Clevon, had left her shortly after she'd decided to keep the baby despite his objections. See, Mary had been raped on her way home from work—
"WAIT WAIT WAIT," Shyla said, holding up her hands. "You didn't say this was going be a rape story."
"It's not a rape story," Angel said. "Mary was raped, but that's just the, uh, what do you call it? The backstory. There's no rape in this."
Shyla narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure?"
"Is that a trigger for you, Shyla?"
"Don't."
"Don't, what?"
"Don't get all smug about trigger warnings. I know they're bullshit, but can't a woman just not want to hear about rape without it being a goddamn thing? Every time you turn on the TV there's another woman getting raped and murdered. Every time you flick past the news it's 'rape culture on campus' and celebrity sex assaults and some new moral fucking panic. Enough already."
Angel hadn't expected such a tirade, but he supposed just because he was paying her to listen he shouldn’t force that part of the story on her. She had a right to say 'no,' for now. "I was just setting the scene," he explained. "We can avoid it, if that's what you want."
Shyla nodded. "Please. Just… just fast-forward a bit, I guess."
FAST-FORWARD, THEN. Clevon didn't want her to keep the baby, but Mary was a good Christian girl who believed in the "sanctity of life." When Clevon left her, she still thought she could do it on her own. Mary was a big fan of What's Happening!!, and though it didn't look easy, she thought if Mabel could handle two kids on her own, she could handle one kid and part-time evenings at the Land's End Diner.
As time went by, her resolve weakened. She started to worry more. Violent crime rates kept escalating, and Mary began to wonder what sort of world she'd be bringing her child into; she only had to think about how it had been conceived to be reminded of it. By the thirtieth week of her pregnancy, her worry had grown into an obsession. She went to the hospital.
In 1970, New York State was the first to legalize abortions up to the twenty-fourth week. Despite the circumstances of her conception, Mary was too far along to legally have an abortion performed. They suggested she carry the fetus to term, and put him or her up for adoption.
Mary agreed that was what she would do, but she had no intention of carrying her child another day let alone twelve to fifteen more weeks. As she drove back to her flat from the hospital, she passed the blinking neon sign of the Lonely Motel. If ever there was a place she belonged right then, she thought, it was there.
The words HOURLY RATES caught her eye. She was naïve, despite her encounter, so she had no idea why a motel would have an hourly rate, nor why the man behind the desk, who wore a paisley shirt with a wide collar, and too much strong-smelling tonic in his hair and on his mustache, gave her and her swollen belly a lascivious look.
"Do the closets have clothes hangers?" she asked him.
He replied that customers expected hangers whether they spent the night or not, so they were provided free of charge.
"Yes, but are they wire hangers?"
He said he thought they were, and when the police asked him later why he didn't think to wonder why a woman in her condition might be inquiring about coat hangers, he reminded them that he was a desk clerk and not the Amazing Kreskin. He took her ten bucks and gave her the key, as he was paid to do by The Management. "Black, white, Chinese—all I care about is the green, you know what I mean?" he told them.
So, Mary entered Room 6 with a key whose fob brandished the motel's brand new name, and the man behind the desk thought about all the money he would make that evening from women turning tricks for businessmen on layovers who stopped by for a quick hump on their way to the Hyatt.
She sat down on the bed to remove her shoes. The mattress had a good bounce to it, she thought, not like the small, hard double she'd shared with Clevon, and had spent the last few months curled up on all alone, just trying to keep warm. She thought the room felt welcoming, as if it were whispering to her, lulling her into a false sense of peacefulness. Mary wrote all this and more down on the motel stationary, a letter she'd addressed To my Unborn Child.
It was the motel's idea for her to write the letter, according to her scrawled words—an indication of how deteriorated her mental state had become by then. She wrote about the assault, how she had tried to love and care for the child inside her despite how it had come to be, how she and her husband had argued day after day until he'd left her, how she'd tried to carry on with just the two of them when she couldn't be bothered to feed herself and get out of bed some days, and how she'd come to realize that her child was never meant to live. She feared for the future of the world, and "our children's children."
She wrote all this down, and signed it Love, Mom.
Then she rolled down her pantyhose.
She removed her pleated green wool skirt, and her slip. She slid down her nylon briefs. She unbuttoned her blouse, scowling at the vertical dark brown line that had appeared recently on her round belly, like a scar from her solar plexus through her navel to her pelvis. She folded the blouse and placed it on the bed alongside her stockings, slip and underwear.
Mary removed her Cross Your Heart bra (which the police bagged, only to file away among shelves of dust-covered evidence boxes, and later discard, the only indication it ever having been there an entry in an old ledger—one Cross Your Heart bra, one pair women's nylon underwear, one pair tan hosiery), and placed it with the rest of her clothing. She stood in front of the full length mirror, studying her newly curvy body, wondering how long it would take to get her figure back, wondering when the linea nigra—as the hospital OB/GYN had called it earlier in the day—would fade, if and when her breasts would return to their normal size.
She crossed to the bathroom and flicked on the light. Under the harsh bulb her eyes looked tired, her skin sallow, her hair coming loose from its tight bun. She turned on the water in the tub, and returned to the room.
On the bedside table she flicked on the clock radio, tuned to a modern rock station. When she did listen to music it was the oldies and classical, but she thought the rock music, if loud enough, would drown out any cries of pain she might make. The clock's red digital numbers told her she'd been in the room already for just over an hour.
The closet door opened silently on new hinges. The rack contained three hangers, two wire, and one wood with the paper dry cleaners' cover still on it. She grab
bed one of the wire hangers, bending it as she returned to the bathroom. The sound of water splashing in the tub drowned out the radio, playing some song with a hillbilly twang about a girl named Bobby Sue and a boy named Billy Joe.
She stepped into the bath, careful not to slip. The water warmed her toes. The rest of her felt frozen, as if in response to the horror of what she was about to do.
Sitting down in the running water, she opened her legs with her knees raised. She'd managed to separate the two ends of the wire, where it coiled around the hook, and attempted to straighten out the bends.
She bent the hook into a sharper curve, her fingers turning pale from the pressure against the metal. As she brought the hooked end to her vagina, she felt the baby kick. Mary hadn't felt him kick since that morning, before her visit to the hospital, where usually he'd been quite energetic, and it made her wonder if he somehow sensed what was coming for him, the way Room 6 had sensed her presence, and welcomed her inside. It made her wonder if she was doing the right thing, or if she should get up right now, get dressed, and leave.
With the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, she parted her labia.
Her right hand began to shake at the thought of inserting the hanger. She'd bent the wire so the sharp end would snag the fetus or at least the umbilical cord for her to yank it out. It looked vicious, like the knife the man had used when he'd done those horrible things to her.
The metal parted her pink flesh, cold inside of her. She felt it pushing against her vaginal walls as she inserted it as far as her thumb, then fed in another inch, two, three, making her think of lowering a rope for a child stuck in a well, like that episode of Emergency! Mary had seen when she was still a girl.
I'm not hurting him, I'll be saving him, she thought, echoing the words she'd written in her letter. Sparing him from a life of pain.
The coiled end of the wire kept hitting the floor of the tub, her wrist sore from bending too far back. The angle was bad. She pushed herself to her feet, holding the wire carefully so as not to drastically change its angle, and prevent it from coming out.
Woom: An extreme horror Page 4