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