The Minotauress

"Oh, hi, Grandma," Nancy said cheerily into the phone. "Naw, kind'a slow tonight, only had three tricks so far, and two of 'em were blowjobs. But then there was this one fella comes in sometimes'n pays me fifty ta put it in my backside... Oh, yeah, but you'n ma was right—this is a great way ta make a livin'. I'se so happy I took yer advice."

The Writer retreated from the room and closed the door.

His entire groin throbbed. How many years had it been since he'd masturbated? I cannot, I MUST NOT allow myself to succumb to primitivistic lust! he ordered himself. In order to be the best writer I CAN be, I must deprive myself of this volition-stealing vice, just as Salvador Dali accelerated his creative visions by depriving himself of sleep... There was too much stimulus around here, all these pretty prostitutes. I don't need to see any more of them tonight.

Just as he would enter his room, the plush blonde from downstairs exited the adjacent room with a look of need on her face. Grapefruit breasts sat in fishnet bra-cups like dainty hammocks.

"Beatrice, isn't it?" the Writer recalled.

"Yeah, but see me'n Anita gotta share a room'n right now she's got a trick. You mind if I use yer bathroom?"

What could he say? It won't take long...  "Of course, Beatrice. Come right in."

He watched the white rump bounce in see-through, black panties, and when she turned, the dark tuft of pubic hair was all-too-apparent, poofing out the sheer material of the front.

She giggled. "You kin watch if'n ya want," and then she strode briskly into the bathroom.

There was no logical reason to want to watch a woman go to the bathroom; nevertheless, the Writer—much to his displeasure—was hijacked by the primitive male curiosity that was probably a mental mechanism similar to that which causes people to peer at car wrecks or dead animals in the road. After a few moments of deliberation, and as delicately as possible, the Writer stepped into the bathroom.

What is— he began.

Beatrice was not sitting on the toilet as one might expect. Instead, she lay on the floor, and jutted her shapely legs in the air in order to slip off her panties. And she'd brought something with her, but the Writer had been too busy visually assaying her physique to take note of that fact.

She'd brought her Therm-O-Fresh Food Storage System.

Just the unit itself, not the bags or jars. And she'd already taken the liberty of plugging it into the outlet where the Writer kept his electric toothbrush.

"A gal kin save a lot'a money with one'a these," she said, on her back and with her legs widely spread. She'd already liberally lubricated her vulva as well as the machine's vacuum tube with saliva, and now, as she explained, she gingerly worked the tube into her vagina. "Most all'a us got one now. See, whenevers we'se a week late on our period, nine times out'a ten"—of course, she'd pronounced the word times as "tams"—"it means we'se knocked up, so's we use the machine ta git 'em out ‘fore they git too big. Ya git 'em early and I'se swear they ain't no bigger'n a popcorn kernel—ya know—before ya pop it. Mrs. Gilman showed us hows ta do it—only tricky part is ya gots ta git the tube right up inta this special place called a—dang—I'se cain't remember. She called it a servo? Or was it a servik—"

Outraged, the Writer offered, "Your cervical canal?"

"Yeah!" she beamed. "That's it! Ya gots ta git the tube up in that'n then push a little," and all the while her fingers manipulated the tube until—

"Uhh! I gots it!"

The Writer watched appalled, face sagging, as Beatrice turned on the Therm-O-Fresh vacuum machine. It hummed like a old-style aquarium pump, then seemed to admit a faint whine as if encountering resistence, and then—

"There!" she announced.

In an eye's wink, the tube filled with blood. Beatrice turned the machine off, extracted the tube, and got up.

The Writer's face continued to sag in uncomprehending horror. The girl detached the other end of the tube, then held it over the sink. When the tube failed to empty, she blew into its clean end and—

splat!

—something jettisoned into the sink, along with a modest spatter of blood.

"There it is. See?" She plucked something tiny up with her fingers and placed it in her palm. The Writer only ventured a second's glance, saw something like a blood clot with a disturbing configuration. A human spitball, he thought.

"Costs a lot less than goin' to a doctor," the blonde continued, "and it sure beats the hail out'a the hanger. And best part of all is it don't hurt none... "

The Writer gasped at a well of blood running down her thigh.