Caviar

CAVIAR—PART 2

2003

The neighborhood was small apartment buildings interspersed with old houses, most of which had been renovated over the last decade. On the edge of the Pacific Heights section of San Francisco, the small grocery store was on the ground floor of a square two story building. Next to it was a barbershop, with small apartments above.

The cowbell attached to the door clanked and the teenage boy behind the counter looked up from his copy of Rolling Stone. He watched the customer stomp down the aisle toward the back wearing black army boots and a black leather jacket over jeans, then went back to reading his magazine.

The clerk looked up when the customer set a six pack of Red Bull and one of Gatorade on the counter and said "A carton of Marlboros, too. Box."

The clerk's eyebrows went up dubiously. "You got any ID?" He was presented with a driver's license which he squinted at, then looked from the picture to the person standing before him.

JESSICA RALEIGH, the ID read. From across the room he would've sworn she was a guy his age, with her flattop and soft round face, but it was her picture on the license. He glanced at the date of birth and was handing the ID back when the date clicked in his head. He pulled the license back and eyed her suspiciously.

"What, Ted?" she said in annoyance, putting her hands on her hips. The clerk looked at her, then back at the date on the license. If he'd had to guess he would've said she looked sixteen, maybe eighteen years old, tops. She was maybe five-six, with a compact, almost chunky body and big tits. There wasn't a wrinkle to be seen on her face, no touch of grey in her ultrashort hair.

"How old are you?" he quizzed her, his eyes going back to the DOB on the license. Did he know her? How did she know his name? Did she go to his school?

She rolled her eyes and peered around him. "Mr. Lee? Can you come on out?"

The elderly Chinese shopowner shuffled out of the back office and peered at her over his thick glasses. The clerk didn't have time to wonder how she knew Mr. Lee had been in the office, since it didn't have any windows and the guy never made any noise.

"Ah, Miss Jessica, good morning!" he said cheerfully, with a little bow and a big smile that didn't touch his eyes. His eyes quickly took in her body language. "You have problem?"

"I'm trying to buy some cigarettes," she said through tight lips, looking at the clerk who still held her license.

Ted held out the ID for Mr. Lee to look at and opened his mouth to speak. Lee waved him off.

"Miss Jessica good customer, been coming here long time," he said dismissively. He peered at her closely. "Long time," he said again. He squinted at the bright, early morning sunshine coming in through the store's front door. "You up early."

"I'm up late," she told him. She ran a hand back over her short hair and her many earrings glinted in the light. She had six stainless rings running up her left ear, with a tiny cross stuck in the lobe. She had one small ring through the very top of her right ear, with a very thick captive bead ring stretching its lobe.

"Ah," Mr. Lee said vaguely, studying her again.

Under the leather jacket she wore a white T-shirt and she caught the clerk staring at her tits, wondering if they were implants. She scowled at him and he jerked back.

Lee looked at his clerk. "Treat her nice," he instructed the boy, then nodded at Jessica and shuffled back into his office.

The clerk blinked twice, then turned and handed the license back to the woman. "Marlboros?"

Jessica shut the door and slid the two massive deadbolts into the frame. The apartment was on the top floor of a building that had been built in the thirties, short on style but solid and well made. She set the grocery bag on the kitchen table and shrugged off her leather jacket onto the back of a chair. Her arms were heavily muscled for a woman, and with the crewcut she did look like a young man but for the large breasts filling out the white tank top.

She looked around the big apartment, which was silent, and cracked open first the carton and then a pack of Marlboros. As she lit up she could hear faint traffic sounds coming through the closed window nearby but the building below her was quiet. Not quiet, exactly, but the walls and floors were practically soundproof, so her neighbors couldn't hear her and she couldn't hear them, which was exactly how she wanted it.

She sat in a chair and began to unlace her boots, then stopped and studied the back of her right hand. She'd burned it badly the day before, cooking dinner, a third degree burn, blisters and all, and not a sign of the injury remained. She flexed her hand, then shook her head. Even after all these years she still couldn't get used to it. Every time she walked in front of a mirror she still got a jolt.

Once undone she kicked off her boots, revealing bare feet. Her feet were small, toenails glossy with clear polish. It was her one and only nod to femininity.

Still puffing on the cigarette she stood and unbuttoned her jeans, letting them drop to the floor. She was nude underneath, and hairless; she'd started shaving her pussy not long after the hair had started coming in, and kept at it until laser hair removal came along.

She took another long drag on the cigarette and then stubbed it out in the full ashtray. She smoked two packs a day and had since she was sixteen. She'd tried quitting once, years before, and found that the nicotine seemed to have no hold over her, she didn't go into withdrawal at all. Now she smoked more out of habit than anything else, and because it seemed to piss a lot of people off when she lit up in public.

More out of curiosity than anything else she'd run in a 10K race about ten years earlier, long before her experiment with non-smoking. She didn't try to go fast, and finished without breaking a sweat in just under thirty minutes. She hadn't tried it since, she hated running, but a month ago she'd got it into her head to see how many pushups she could do. After a hundred she was starting to breathe hard and getting bored and stopped. She wondered if the smoking even made a difference.

No one called her Jessica but her mother, and she was in a nursing home losing her battle with Alzheimer's. Everyone who knew her—but one—called her Ral. She'd never felt like a Jessica.

She pulled her tank top over her head and dropped it on the kitchen table, revealing a firm, muscled stomach and round, heavy breasts. They were high and firm enough that just about everyone assumed she'd gotten implants, but she'd never been touched by a surgeon's knife. They were all real. D cups, if she remembered correctly, 36D, but she hadn't worn a bra in decades. Although she doubted they were exactly the same size, she'd noticed her body had been changing, albeit subtly. Fat stainless steel rings pierced her brown nipples. She'd had them pierced when she was twenty, long before it had been fashionable, and kept increasing the ring gauge just because she liked the shocked looks. She couldn't take the rings out without the holes healing up almost immediately, she'd found that out a few years before, but then again the fresh piercings had healed up in a few hours.

Ral grabbed the Red Bull and Gatorade and walked nude toward the rear of the big apartment. Her legs were shapely with muscle and flexed with every step. The apartment had two big bedrooms. The main one was at the end of the hall and had its own bathroom. She instead went through the open doorway to the right.

Hole hadn't moved from the chair. Dating from the fifties, if Ral had to guess, with cushions and pads covered in off-white vinyl in-between a lot of gleaming chrome, they'd found the examining chair in the estate sale of some dead gynecologist and knew it was perfect. Ral had the chairback tilted almost horizontal, with the stirrups cranked so far back Hole's knees were touching her tits. Half her ass stuck out past the edge of the seat, about eighteen inches off the floor, which was just about right. Ral had permanently attached a pair of workboots to the stirrups and laced Hole's feet into them. Modern examining tables didn't have arms, but this one did, and Ral had superglued thick leather welder's gloves onto their ends, then worked nylon laces through the wrists so she could secure Hole's hands in them. Not that hole would try to get out, but it was the principle of the thing, they both needed Ral to be in command.

Hole noticed Ral right away. "What took so long?" she croaked.

"Shut your cunthole," Ral said distractedly, looking for a place to set down the Red Bull.

The two had met one night when a young, stumbling drunk pregnant girl with dark circles under her crazy eyes had pushed in front of the oldest, meanest, butchest dyke in the leather bar, slapped her, and told the leather dyke to fuck her like a farm animal. Ral dragged her into the bathroom and threw her face-first against a wall while the other regulars stood outside the door and kept the prying eyes out. She cut the young cunt's damp sweatpants off with a switchblade—what the fuck was she doing dressed like that in a fucking leather dyke bar?—and had three fingers into her dripping twat before she realized the girl's geography was all wrong. Whether it was the fingers that precipitated it or not the girl took that moment to gush like a busted fire hydrant, all over Ral's leather pants and boots. Ral had been around the block enough times to know something was seriously messed up with the girl, who sort-of half fell onto the bathroom floor shaking like she was having a seizure. Her knees shot up practically to her ears, so that Ral got a real good look between her legs, and then she squirted again even harder than before. A clear stream shot out of her halfway across the bathroom even as she appeared to pass out from however much alcohol she'd consumed.

Ral had never been one to back away from trouble, and in fact had spent most of her life flirting with it, engaging in one risky behavior after another. With the help of a few of the other regulars she got the unconscious, twitching, squirting girl into her car and brought her back to her apartment.

She had to drag her kitchen garbage can over between the little cunt's legs to keep her from ruining the carpet on top of the couch cushions. By the time the alcohol had worn off enough for her to wake up Ral had examined her as expertly as any doctor and knew that while the girl might be a lot of things, pregnant wasn't one of them. Normal wasn't either. A bit at a time, choking and slapping the young cunt to remind her who was in charge, Ral got the story out of her. Not that she believed it at first. No, not at first. That had taken a while. She figured the girl was a nut, but being a nut didn't explain what was going on between her legs. Ral didn't know why, sitting there next to the grunting, squirting girl, she decided to lick off her dripping hand, but she had, and the rest was history. Or maybe fate.

Ral crossed the room to Hole and tipped a bottle of Gatorade to her dry lips. Hole sucked eagerly, her sweaty body shining in the morning light coming through the window. Her shaved head was streaked with sweat trails, and there was a small puddle of it on her chest between her breasts.

As Hole sucked on the bottle the huge stainless steel ring piercing her septum clunked against the plastic. The ring was almost as thick as a pencil, and so big in diameter its bottom edge hung between her lips. The shaved head and nose ring threw most people off, even in San Francisco, but if they'd had to guess, looking at her face, they'd have placed Hole's age around twenty-five. Looking at her naked body, especially during what they called her labor days, they might have changed their minds, but Ral didn't let many people near her Hole when she was naked, and never during that time.

Ral looked down at Hole's body. Her abdomen was huge, as big as if she'd swallowed a basketball, even after six hours of contractions. Half a dozen fresh stretchmarks ran the length of her belly. She looked pregnant, and that in itself was strange if you were a dyke. Ral placed a hand on her stomach. It was hot and firm, and a few seconds later she felt it clench in a contraction. Hole's abdomen got even firmer and squeezed smaller for a few seconds as she grunted and gasped, and the familiar sound of splashing water echoed around the bedroom. Ral looked beween Hole's thighs, her expression unreadable.

Ral had met Hole just six months after she'd been changed by the collector. At that time her stomach would swell over a two or three day period until she looked four or five months pregnant. Then the contractions and fluid expulsion would start. They discovered that the more she drank during the contractions, the more she'd squirt. The contractions lasted eight to ten hours, but it took another twenty-four to thirty-six hours before the swelling in her abdomen went away. The cycle repeated every 28 days like clockwork, but after so many years only the length of the cycle had remained the same.

Hole's belly now started swelling at least 72 hours before her contractions started, sometimes as much as ninety hours beforehand, and when she was fully swollen she could have passed for a nine-months-pregnant woman if Ral had ever let her out in public during those times. And when all the swelling was gone and her abdomen was back to its regular size, people still thought she was pregnant, as her rounded stomach made her look four or five months along. And Ral wouldn't let her hide it. In fact, Ral usually made her wear clothing which emphasized her belly. And that thing that had once been Hole's uterus, that Ral called her squirtbox? Even at the opposite end of her cycle from her labor days Hole never had a flat stomach. What had once been her uterus bulged her stomach out slightly even during those early years, and the mouth of it protruded from her during her contractions. Once the swelling went down it retreated back inside her pussy, or at least it used to.

Those first years, the mouth of Hole's squirtbox had been about as wide as a Coke can, and stuck out of her about an inch during the contractions. It wasn't much more than a fat ring of blood-engorged muscle that pulsed with every contraction, opening in the center to reveal a hole about an inch wide as clear fluid gushed out of her. But as the body of her squirtbox inside her abdomen had grown through the years, so had its mouth.

Ral looked at it between Hole's thighs. The bulging red ring of muscle was as big around as a coffee can, and protruded from the sweaty woman nearly four inches. There was no way when Ral had met her that Hole's pussy, much less her pelvis, could have stretched to fit something that big, but years of internal pressure had changed her internally as much as she'd changed externally. The changes had taken place so gradually that Ral couldn't really remember exactly what Hole's dimensions had been, but looking at her now she was convinced the giant swollen organ inside her had, over the many years, bowed her pubic bone forward, and maybe pushed her hipbones outward as well. The massive mouth of her squirtbox still strained and stretched the flesh around it—it was the size of a large donut, and stuck out of Hole the length of a finger or more, and mashed her anus into a flat horizontal line—but she never tore. Ral had had Hole's cunthair lasered off years earlier, so there was nothing to disguise the massive thing protruding from her.

Hole's squirtbox used to hide just inside her cuntlips when she wasn't all swollen and squirting, but that was no longer the case. After all these years the organ, even fully contracted, no longer hid. Its fleshy mouth was still as big as the bottom of a Coke can, although dusky pink instead of blood red during those times she wasn't having contractions. It protruded from her maybe an inch or more, looking like nothing so much as a giant smooth asshole sticking out past her pussylips, albeit one that leaked regularly. If Hole had had a normal life, one where she had to get dressed and go to work every day, the leaking might have been a problem.

When she wasn't in her labor days Hole's squirtbox was pliable, almost rubbery feeling. With a little work Ral was able to slide her hand inside Hole's pussy alongside the dense organ and found it was like squeezing a water balloon made of rubber. When she slid a finger into the ring of muscle that made up its mouth she found that once past the squeezing ring Hole's squirtbox was just a soft, moist, spacious cavern. Hole could barely even feel the finger—when she wasn't in her labor days Hole's squirtbox was almost numb. A small buttplug inserted into the mouth of her squirtbox would stay firmly in place, even while standing, during those times when they had to go out and leaks would have posed problems, and Hole barely noticed it.

Ral gave the mouth of the hot, hard organ a sharp slap and Hole gasped as the slap brought initiated the next contraction. Ral watched the stream of clear liquid arc from the red, rubbery, protruding ring of flesh and splash into the baby pool beneath the examination chair.

The contraction period had lengthened over the years until it lasted at least eighteen hours. The amount of fluid she ejected during those first years was more than enough to fill up a kitchen sink, but over time that quantity had at least tripled until Ral was pretty confident Hole could just about fill up a fifty-five-gallon drum before she was through. Which was a good thing, in just about every way. When she wasn't in her labor days she leaked constantly, but Ral had found ways to turn that into a positive.

Hole was gasping, and the two studs in her tongue glinted in the light. The lobes of her ears had been pierced and the holes stretched until she now wore stainless steel eyelets a quarter inch in diameter through her lobes. Ral could run thin chain through them to control Hole if she needed to, but mostly she just liked the way it looked.

"You want another?" Ral asked her, motioning to the plastic bottles of Gatorade sitting on the dresser. Hole was panting, sweat running down her neck.

"Yes Master," Hole panted.

"I bet," was all Ral said. She bent down and sucked one of Hole's knobby nipples into her mouth. It was covered with leaking milk and Ral tongued off the sweet milk before sucking. Warm milk gushed into her mouth. She reached across Hole's chest with her other hand and squeezed her opposite breast. Multiple thin streams of milk shot into the air.

Hole's tits weren't nearly as big as Rals, but were droopy and soft even during her labor days when they got engorged with milk. They sagged off the sides of her ribcageas she lay there, and hung low when she was upright, as Ral never let her wear a bra. Ral could suck milk out of her at any time during her cycle, but during her labor days her nipples became fountains.

Her craving for sweets satisfied, Ral opened another bottle and upended it against Hole's mouth. Before she was finished she gasped as another contraction hit, and Gatorade ran down her cheek and chin. Ral heard the forceful spurt splash into the baby pool and realized she'd have to start emptying it soon or there'd be trouble.

When Hole had finished the second bottle Ral tossed it into a corner onto a pile of about forty others and stepped over to the baby pool. It was round and five feet wide and had six inches of fluid in the bottom. Hovering above it was the bulging mouth of her squirtbox, looking like nothing so much as a grotesquely prolapsed sphincter. As Ral watched the mouth of her squirtbox contract and then bulge, and a thick stream of clear fluid shot out into the pool. It looked exactly as if her squirtbox had spit. Between the spurting contractions her squirtbox dripped like a leaky faucet. Drip, drip, drip into the baby pool—sometimes Ral heard it in her dreams.

Ral left the sweating woman's side and went into the apartment's kitchen. The box of glass jars with O-ring lids commonly used for canning preservatives was right where it was supposed to be. Each jar held sixteen fluid ounces which, with Hole squirting out about four ounces every thirty seconds once she got going, meant that Ral would have to work fast filling them to keep the pool from overflowing. She usually filled about two hundred of the jars and put the rest in milk jugs for herself. She was getting five hundred bucks a jar from her clients, who went through one a week. Her business had grown totally by word of mouth, and once she'd run into the kind of people who were not just willing but able to part with that much cash, they led her, dragged her, to their friends. The money was insane, and she could have made even more, but she was more than paranoid about having enough for herself. She told her customers—almost all women—to drink two ounces a day, no more—only because she didn't want to sell them any more than that, and for no other reason. Two ounces a day were more than enough to give the women everything they wanted and a little bit more, but she wondered what they'd think if they knew she drank almost a gallon a day.

Ral didn't know what had been done to her Hole, didn't know what the stuff was her body worked so hard for days to make and then expel, and other than a vague idle curiosity she didn't really care. She wasn't dumb, and yet she couldn't explain the fluid's effects on her. It wasn't logical, or rational, or consistent with human biology as far as she knew it. All she was aware of were the changes it had wrought in her, and Hole, and that they liked them, and that was enough.

"Mr. Lee?"

"Yes, what?"

"Carol's here, so I'm going home."

"Okay."

The teenager shook his head. "That woman who came in this morning, with the buzz cut? The ID?"

Mr. Lee looked up. "Yes?" he said carefully.

"I still can't believe she was sixty-eight. She looked like a teenager. Hell, she looked thirteen. Is she a relative of yours? I could get in trouble selling to minors."

"You stay away from that woman!" Mr. Lee snapped at him uncharacteristically, all signs of an accent gone. "Be polite, say hello, say goodbye, say 'Thank You for Shopping at Lee Market', and that's it. She made a deal with the devil, that one. Hasn't aged in twenty years, and she can hear what you're thinking. Stay away from her."