House Call, part 1 (preg, semi-cons, snuff, abortion, MF + gg-unborn

Here is part 1 of 3 of a series I posted on Usenet, along with the 
original disclaimer. 

This story contains explicit depictions of the beautiful, violent death 
of an unborn child, a newborn baby, and their mother. Future chapters 
will include the violent deaths of one or more heavily pregnant women, 
as well as their unborn and newborn children. Some of the murders in 
this story are legal and others are not. Do not read this story if you 
can not distinguish fantasy from reality. 

House Call, part 1 

It was the rainy season in central Mexico, and the dusty streets had 
turned into impassible mud. The men of the village had left for el Norte 
three seasons ago, and I was busy delivering the babies of the women 
they left behind. The only men left in the village were the old men, the 
15 year old boys who would leave for California when the rains ended, 
and El Jefe's men. And me, a gray haired yanqui who knew a lot about 
birthing babies. 

I had just finished Graciela's birth. Like many of the women, she 
started early, but even at thirteen her body had known what to do. Her 
culture told her to trust me as she had trusted the boy who got her 
pregnant, so when I told her she would be alright, she believed me. Now, 
she was suckling her newborn girl, and I was trudging through shin-deep 
mud back to my home, when I heard the engine. 

Only El Jefe could afford the sort of vehicle that could make it through 
these roads, so I moved out of the road as quickly as I could. He owned 
the province, its buildings, its churches, its people. Most importantly, 
he owned its only cash crops, marijuana and poppies. When El Jefe or his 
men came into town, they would come with a purpose, and it was best to 
stay out of their way. As the large truck stopped, I realized that the 
purpose of the visit involved me. This sent a shiver down my spine, but 
I knew that as long as El Jefe needed my services, I would have a place 
in his province. El Jefe had many mistresses, but few children. He 
needed my abortion services more often than my deliveries. 

The door opened. El Jefe's was not in the truck, of course. I had never 
seen him. His man opened the door without a word, and I entered without 
question. We said nothing as the truck bounced down the mud tracks to 
the jagged hills at the edge of town. Had I dared to look out the 
windows, I would have seen armed men watching us from the cliffs, 
weapons trained on our heads. We stopped in an open plain, and the 
driver put the customary blindfold on my head. A few more minutes, never 
the same time twice, and we were inside El Jefe's compound. 

Still blindfolded, I was led through doors and hallways, and down a set 
of stairs. This was unusual. I had always treated El Jefe's women in the 
upper floors, in large bedrooms with majestic views of the jagged rocks. 
I would always be provided with the best medical equipment and 
medications. Performing an abortion on El Jefe's women was always a 
beautiful experience, especially since they were always at least six 
months along by the time I arrived. I would stay in the room with the 
women for the two days of cervical dilation before the delivery. This 
made the experience very peaceful for the mothers. 

It had been a year since El Jefe had last called for me. The mother's 
name that night was Evita. I was brought to Evita's room in the middle 
of the night, after a long day of deliveries, and fell asleep 
immediately. When I awoke, Evita was sitting on the edge of my bed, 
wearing a luxurious white bath robe. She was rubbing her belly through 
the soft fabric, with the sad look I had seen before. I was surprised at 
how large she was. "I am carrying twins," she said to her stomach. Then 
she looked at me and asked, "What do I do first?" 

First, we went to the bathroom suite, where I asked Evita to take a long 
shower, paying special attention to her female parts. I waited politely 
in the bedroom suite. When she was done, she laid down on her bed naked, 
and still dripping from her cleaning. The brass foot board had 
conveniently placed curves for her feet, which I padded with washcloths 
for her comfort, and I guided her body into the standard lithotomy 
position. Her breasts, swollen with milk, lolled toward her sides, but 
her pregnant brown belly rose high into the air. The even darker linea 
negra pointed to a full, natural bush. Speaking in gentle, comforting 
tones, I trimmed her pubic hair enough to avoid pulling, but not enough 
to change the natural look that I and El Jefe both happened to prefer. 

The first insertion of the dialators was very easy, since the two 
babies' weight had already softened Evita's cervix. I explained what I 
was doing, and showed her one of the long, thing, green devices. She 
laughed when I told her it was made from seaweed. We changed her 
dilators every two hours, and between sessions we talked and watched El 
Jefe's satellite TV. Most of what I know about El Jefe I learned from 
treating his women, nothing about his businesses, but a lot about his 
gentle demeanor and cold, sudden temper. I fixed microwave meals from 
the well-stocked refrigerator, as Evita giggled at a man fixing dinner 
for her. She had only seen such a thing on the yanqui TV shows, and 
would not believe it was real. 

She went to sleep at dark, and I when I woke her up at midnight for a 
dilator change, she was 8cm dilated. I packed in enough to get her to 
10. These twins were nearly full term, and I would need all the room I 
could get to complete the abortion. Then, I went to sleep myself. 

Early in the morning, as dawn was breaking through the window, I awoke 
to Evita's breathing. She was panting, and then I heard her stifle a 
groan. She was in labor, and trying to deliver without waking me up. 
Most of my El Jefe patients did the same, hoping to somehow save the 
lives of their babies. They knew there was no hope, but what woman could 
resist her child's plea to live? 

Sometimes, the women did deliver their babies. As Evita tried to hold 
her breath, I gently touched her raised knee, moved my hand down to her 
crotch, and felt the roundness of the first twin's head. I whispered 
comfort to Evita as I ran my finger around her distended vulva, sliding 
it between the baby's dark-haired skull and her slick, stretchy labia. I 
ran my finger around the entire circle of her birth canal, feeling a 
small tear in her perineum that made Evita jump. But she said nothing as 
I worked my way around to her clitoris at the 12 o clock position. I 
carefully pressed on her sensitive spot, and she gasped at the 
unexpected sensation. "You can push whenever you want," I told her, as I 
rubbed in small circles. Her breathing changed, from the gasps of labor 
to the rhythm of impending climax. Slowly, she built up to her next 
contraction, and when I felt it coming, I took her hand and placed it on 
her baby's head. As she felt the wet hair with her fingers, I pushed her 
palm into my other hand, giving her control of her orgasm. She took a 
deep breath, then another, and suddenly we felt the baby's head moving 
forward, forward, past our hands, shoulders pushing through and buttocks 
as Evita yelled in surprise at the deepest orgasm of her young life. 

I lifted the first baby up, as Evita's fingers felt the baby's legs 
emerge from her open vagina, and laid it on her chest. Instinctively, 
Evita guided the baby to her breast, and the baby began feeding noisily. 
I moved Evita's hand from her pussy to her baby, and guided her fingers 
between the baby's legs. "Una nina," she whispered. Her first twin was a 
girl. 

It was now time for my work to start. I climbed onto the bed and 
positioned myself between Evita's short legs. There was no need for 
lubricant as I slid my hand into Evita's vagina, following the first 
girl's still pulsing umbilical cord to her cervix. Just past her cervix, 
I felt the intact membranes of the second baby's amniotic sac. 
Squeezing, I could feel its feet and legs curled up. The second baby was 
breech, which would make my work that much easier. I climbed back off 
the bed, trying not to stir Evita and her sweet, doomed infant, and got 
the fully stocked medical bag El Jefe had supplied. 

Back between Evita's legs, looking at her dark bush and red, swollen 
pussy in the morning light, I took a small hooked instrument out of the 
bag. I slid my hand back inside her uterus, hooked the bag of waters, 
and pulled. The liquid that had shielded the baby from harm for its 
entire life burst out, engulfing my hand and spraying around my arm, out 
of Evita's vagina and onto the bed, which was already soaked from the 
first baby's birth. I pulled the tear open further, deep inside Evita, 
and touched the unborn child for the first time. Like its sister, the 
baby was only a little bit fat, indicating a little less than eight 
months' gestation. I reached further into the uterus, and felt another 
head of dense, wet hair pushing against the fundus. I squeezed slightly, 
feeling the baby's thin skull plates move under my fingertips. The baby 
moved its arms and legs, and I could feel its heartbeat under my palm. 
It was time. 

Normally, I would have to hold the baby's foot with forceps, pinching, 
breaking bones, tearing cartilage, but with so much room I was able to 
just hold both the baby's sweet ankles and pull gently down. I pulled 
the feet past Evita's cervix and out into the cool air. Then, I leaned 
over Evita's still swollen belly, and helped her and her little girl to 
sit up, just a little. I brought her hand back between her legs, and let 
her touch her second child. I looked in Evita's eyes. She was crying, 
but through her tears, I could see her desires. Her desire to please El 
Jefe, even if it meant the death of her own flesh and blood, her own 
soul. I knew she could take the next step. 

I took Evita's hand, and wrapped it around her partially born baby's 
legs. Together, we pulled gently, until I felt the resistance of the 
baby's shoulders and upraised arms against Evita's cervix. She felt it 
too, and she grunted involuntarily at the pressure. Again, I guided her 
hand up her baby's legs, and her eyes widened. "Una nina," she repeated. 
"Yes, you are blessed with two daughters," I whispered to her. The baby 
moved, kicking, and I pressed Evita's hand to the baby's bottom, and 
guided her fingers deeper to the baby's sex. The little girl's vulva was 
fuller than usual for a partial-birth abortion, since the late-term 
delivery gave her time to grow more baby fat. "This is you," I told the 
mother, "Touch yourself, Evita." 

With a fingertip, Evita probed the folds of her baby's labia, truly her 
own body, as the baby's head was still inside her uterus. Touching the 
little girl's clitoris was like touching her own, sending waves of 
pleasure through both connected bodies. She moved slightly, and found 
the vagina within her own vagina, and as many of my atients before had 
done, pressed inward. The mother's small finger slid past the baby's 
flexible hymen, and mother and daughter shook in wonder and ectacy at 
the feeling. As Evita moved her arm and hand back and forth, she rubbed 
the baby against her birth canal, and her breathing changed to moaning. 
I didn't have much time. 

I took the modified Metz scissors out of my bag, and prepared for the 
final touch for this baby. Normally, the scissors are inserted into the 
base of the baby's skull, but Evita's arm was in the way. This tool, 
supplied somehow by El Jefe, allowed me to follow the bottom of Evita's 
vagina to the baby's head. I slid the instrument carefully, to avoid 
damaging El Jefe's prize, and moved it along the baby's chest. When I 
felt the device reach its rest under the baby's jaw, I pressed down on 
Evita's hand. "Be ready," I told her. She took a deep breath, and I 
pushed the scissors forward with a single, practiced thrust. They 
crushed through the baby's sinuses, pierced the brain, and stopped at 
the thin but sturdy bone of her skull. The little girl jumped violently, 
forcing Evita's finger into the little vagina, tearing to the side of 
the cervix away and into the baby's abdomen. I opened and closed the 
scissors, over and over, moving them up and down, drawing blood from the 
tear in Evita's perineum. As the baby's brain disintegrated, Evita 
orgasmed, and pushed the dying baby onto the bed where she lay, still, 
as spent as her mother. 

I lifted the warm, dead baby to Evita's chest. The first girl had 
finished her meal, and was sleeping peacefully on the breast, clutched 
there tightly in her mother's arm. This was a very unusual abortion, but 
before I could say the words I usually said to mothers who had delivered 
a doomed child, she asked me if I could get her some water. "Sure," I 
said, caressing her face as she looked down at her daughters, dead and 
soon to die. I carefully climbed off the bed, and the equipment in my 
doctor's bag next to Evita clinked as I got off. 

As I turned the corner into the bathroom, I heard the clinking again. I 
knew Evita couldn't run, but I didn't want her to hurt herself in the 
attempt. I turned around to see my bag dumped out, and something in 
Evita's hand. It took a moment to recognize the silver instrument as 
something I hadn't seen in there the other times. It was a pistol, of 
rather large calibre, and I wondered how I'd missed seeing it. I looked 
at the young woman, barely out of her teens, and at the gun in her hand. 
She held it casually, pointing it nowhere, and looked back at me. I saw, 
for the first time, that her eyes were a deep green, not the brown of 
the rest of the women of the village. They pierced into my soul with 
approval. 

"Gracias," she said. 

"Vaya con Dios," I replied. 

Without another word, Evita pulled her last living daughter up, nestling 
the girl's head under her chin. She put the gun under her daughter's 
temple, and she and I both closed our eyes. When my ears stopped 
ringing, I saw for just a moment, the blood on the headboard from the 
bullet that had pierced the baby's skull, and entered her mother's brain 
from below her chin like a pair of scissors. Then, two bodyguards were 
there, throwing me to the ground, dragging me out, pointing their own 
large-calibre guns at me as a phone rang. One goon answered, listened 
without talking, and hung up. They holstered their weapons, motioned for 
me to get up, and from nowhere produced a blindfold. 

A half hour later I was back in my home, with my primitive birthing 
instruments and needy clients. I fully expected to be killed at any 
time, but after a year, I had come to terms with my fate. As I descended 
El Jefe's staircase, blindfolded, I fully expected to die. I refused to 
think of what exactly lay in store for me, I only prayed that my death 
would be as beautiful as those of the babies I had killed with my own 
hand. 

We entered a door. A brusque voice in border-town street Spanish told 
the men to remove my blindfold and leave. The door closed, and locked. 
Before me, I saw a well-dressed man with an unlit cigar and a broad 
grin. He spoke, this time in perfect Cuban-accented English. 

"You think you have come to die. This is not a day to die, my friend." 
He motioned to a comfortable chair in the dimly-lit room. "Please have a 
seat. We have much to discuss." 

End of part 1. 

Part 2: El Jefe's daughter is in love with his rival. The man is no 
longer a problem, but what about their unborn child? El Jefe does not 
leave loose ends. Coming soon.

d udet