Cuckoo's Nest

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.

"Well, let's get started on the intake interview" Spivey said to the prospective inmate.

"Now? Really? I'm kind of in a sexual jones at the moment, " Rhonda told the former corpse-schtupper, just as he impaled her with his happy stick even more deeply.

"Oh, I think you will find my approach to intake interviews quite refreshing, Rhonda," Sugismund Spivey said as he slammed into her hard , driving the air from her lungs.

"Ooomph," said the soon-to-certified lunatic.

"You should draw a deeper breath before you speak," Siggie Spivey informed the new prospective inmate.

"Yeah, well it's a little hard when...ooof,." Rhonda said, as he went into a porking frenzy, licking his way up and down her spine. sending shivers up and down her back as he pounded in and out of her. He grabbed her by her long silky hair and pulled her torso into the upright and locked position.

"So let's get started, shall we? What brings you to this humble snake pit of ours today , Ms. McMurphy?"

"Goddamn Human Relations Department. I was trying to spice up the Board meeting over at Plastic Companions Technology, Inc. I asked those assholes if they would like to try out a real woman for a change, rather than a poorly lubricated and engineered plastic hoo-haw. They all raised their hands, so I stripped. and lay down across the table and I told them I would take them all on, one, two or three at a time, maybe four.

"By this time, they had all stripped and stood around the table with deprived shafts at full attention," Rhonda reminisced.

"Weren't you afraid of cooze burn?" Spivey asked the prospective inmate

"Doc, I got the hunger of a thousand women fresh out of puberty? You might say that I'm 35 going on 18 if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I know what you mean," Spivey said, elbowing Rhonda McMurphy in the ribs and cackling. "Deed I do. Let's take a spin on the big wheel, shall we?"

"We shall, we shall," Rhonda said, channeling Cleavon Little in Blazing Saddles .

Sugismund pulled a lever and the Roulette wheel to which Rhonda was chained began to rotate faster and faster and became horizontal. It was a kaleidoscope of fluctuating red and black flashes. Finally, the wheel slowed until it came up a green 00, and once again the house won.

"Looks like the house won a again." Spivey said, shaking his head back and forth. " Double 0s - what a coincidence! Who would believe it?"

"I know I don't, for one" Rhonda McMurphy interjected.

"What does it mean?" Rhonda asked him.

" Well pretty lass, it means we can do anything we want to you. So it's all good. At least for us."

"Do I have any say in that?" Rhonda asked her sadistic interviewer.

"Of course, it's America. You have the right to do anything you want, with certain exceptions. It's a free country. Oh wait, I forgot. We didn't pass the Equal Rights Amendment. Never mind. Looks like we can do anything we want to you."

"But can you do everything I want you to do to me?" Rhonda asked.

"That depends little lady. What do you want us to do to you?"

"I want you to porcupine me, slick."

"Porcupine you?

"That's right, You know, two salamis in my hoo haw, one up my cornhole, one through the Sylvian fissure of my brain and two raping my each of my nostrils and ear canals."

"Be a tight fit for those last four," Sigismund .Spivey observed.

"Micro Pete in the HR department over at Android Companions could do it," an inmate named Phillipe Pinel observed. "We're in a gamma testing program for a new wearable whole body condom that we call Flynn's Skin. You just rub it on your skin and then your entire body will be covered in Flynn Skin it on when you fuck and gang rape that special someone. Some say it is Flynn's actual skin but it's really the biofilm that covered his body when he died. It also confers a shape-shifting ability on each wearer of the Skin, included the ability to grow new sexual organs.. It also confers a highly-addicting pleasure to all who touch the Skin. Once touched by the Skin, a person craves renewed contact with it. Skin calls to Skin."

Rhonda looked at the portrait of Tom Flynn on the wall, with his handlebar mustache, and the dueling scar running down his cheek..

"I'm not going to look like him. am I? I mean it would take a hundred hours of electrolysis to get rid of that 'stache?"

"No, as I told you, it's just the biofilm that killed him, not his actual skin. Besides it's just a film coating your skin. Your skeletomuscular system will be the same, including those delectable hooters and your unsurpassed caboose"

"It killed him? I don't like the sound of that."

"Don't be a wimp. Here, I'll rub a little on your cheek."

As soon as Spivey placed a dab of film on Rhonda's cheek, she felt the most intense pleasure she had ever experienced suffusing her skin from head to toe.

"Hold it right there," she said, and then cited the yens of the psychopath Frank Booth in the movie Blue Velvet, who famously said, "I'll fuck anything that moves.".

"Well, what are you waiting for people? This sounds like a job for the Board of Directors of Android Companions, Inc." Spivey said. He than pressed the intercom button on her desk. "All Android Companion Directors should report to the patient intake office immediately. The entire Human Relations Department should also report. All Janitorial Department personnel and Institute shoppers should note that there will be a massive cleanup on Aisle one-six-niner in in 35 minutes. That's one-six-niner.

"Copy that," a chorus of electronic voices said . Sigismund Spivey, Rhonda and a personnel technician named Flounder Dorfman rubbed their hands together and said in unison, "Oh boy, this is gonna be great!"

"Get these chains off me, boys and I will show you an office Christmas party worthy of Caligula and the Marquis de Sade, Rhonda told the assembled mob.

She immediately heard a massive clinking as all the chains in the room fell to the floor. She swept her eyes around the room. "Yours too", she said, and all personnel in room immediately stripped off their clothes. Of course, this was simplified considerable by the fact that every one in the room was wearing an open back hospital gown that appeared to be the fashion de rigueur for inmates and staff alike. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a clerk named Seymour Krelborn and his constant companion, a carnivorous plant named Audrey II. Seymour's six-incher was at three-quarter staff, but Rhonda felt his intense need, born of a thousand perverse, albeit unfulfilling acts of hand jive.

In Rhonda's philosophy, no creature should go horny, not even for a minute. She had learned this philosophy from a series of talks given by extraterrestrials as part of the Woody Allen Institute for Creative Paraphilia's lecture series on Alternative Moralities and Ontologies, when she was still outside these hallowed walls.

In fact, the Institute had had glorious founders. Aside from the Wood-ster himself., there was Havelock Ellis, one of the founders of the field of psychiatry, whose prime interest was the classification of sexual aberrations of all kinds, especially his own condition of urolangia (sexual excitation by the sight of urine, a perversion shared by at least one President of the United States). There were also the famous "anti-psychiatrists" R. D. Laing, and Thomas Szasz, both of whom asserted that mental illness is a myth. For Szasz, the confinement and treatment of these conditions as madness was a form of political oppression. R. D. Laing viewed mental illness as a condition that was superior to normal everyday states of consciousness. He once said, "If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched mind, if I could tell you, I would let you know".