Mark Carver: Family flesh feast

He called the emergency number of the local hospital. He explained the situation, trying to ignore the hysterical giggles on the other end of the line as he was passed from nurse to doctor to more doctors, all of them listening in on extensions. He told them to send someone over right away with a knockout shot for his wife, Thorazine preferably. Once she'd passed out he could slip his cock out, of course.

Of course, hell, a doctor told him, chuckling. It wasn't that easy. The spasm was in her vaginal muscles, which didn't always respond to sedation like other muscles. They would send out an ambulance and bring them both back to the hospital for further examination.

There was no other way, the doctor flatly told him after a furious argument. Sweating as he still tried to wrench his trapped rod free, Al finally agreed.

He knew what they were doing, the crude bastards. Just like they used to roll pussy locked couples in an open cart in Paris so the public could jeer at them, they were humiliating him – he, Al Langley, a fucking genius! The founder of Advanced Sexual Programming and Creative Cunt Control gritted his teeth as he heard the siren approaching, waking the whole fucking neighborhood for miles around.

Snickering violently, two attendants, two doctors and two nurses showed up – half the Goddamn hospital, Al thought with rage – poked and examined and giggled before finally transferring the two of them to a stretcher. They were kind enough to cover their faces along with their bodies with a blanket as they stepped out of the house, toward the ambulance.

That's when Al discovered his mistake. The ratio!

Wildly excited, he threw back the blanket to expose their naked locked bodies. He sat up, shouting: "It was the ratio, the fucking ratio! I should have used two ravioli for every ice cube! One ice cube followed by two ravioli! Twice as much heat per cold units, you see?"

Dozens of curious neighbors were milling around when the ambulance approached. Now they, looked on in astonishment. They always knew those Langleys were crazy, but this!

"Listen to me!" Al clutched a doctor's sleeve, his face frantic. "One ice cube to contract the vaginal muscles, followed by two hot ravioli, left in twice as long! It'll work. Creative Cunt Control works! You understand?"

"Of course, of course," the doctor said soothingly. The other doctor moved rapidly forward with a hypodermic needle in his hand. Halfway to the hospital Al was in a deep sleep, while his wife sobbed with humiliation.

"Creative Cunt Control, huh?" one doctor said, shaking his head with a grin. "This one goes to the Psych Ward when they're pried apart, for a week's observation at least."

"Wait!" Georgia cried. "He's a genius! He did invent Creative Cunt Control! He has complete control over my pussy…"

"Of course, of course," the doctor said soothingly and the other doctor moved in with another hypo. Twenty seconds later she was asleep too.

"They both go to the Psych Ward," the first doctor said. "Never saw anything like this before. Never."

One of the nurses, a stacked, dark haired girl with sultry lips poked around in her purse, as if looking for cigarettes. She peeked again at the colored Polaroid pictures she'd stolen from the top of the bedroom dresser. Christ, they were obscene – and fantastically exciting! A beautiful, creamy skinned brunette going down on Mrs. Langley with ravenous fury. And then being brutally fucked by her, with a gigantic curved dildo, her face etched with savage passion.

The brunette looked familiar! She'd seen her somewhere, around town, in the hospital perhaps. Sooner or later the nurse would run across her in a small town like this. She'd never made it with a girl herself, but the brunette looked so damn sexy and stacked, so passionate.

The nurse closed her purse and stared at Al Langley on the stretcher and wondered. Suppose he wasn't crazy but a genius, like his wife said? Suppose he did actually invent something called Creative Cunt Control? A hot, rising curiosity stirred in her blood.

Because if he could invent Creative Cunt Control, maybe he could invent Creative Cock Control. The idea of controlling long, throbbing pricks by remote control or whatever method he used fascinated her, excited her tremendously. She would definitely look Langley up as soon as he got out of the Psych Ward.

If he ever got out of the Psych Ward…