The Writhing Key and the Tearing Back Door

"...... Patient...... discharge procedures......"

From behind her came a wave of sound — hard plastic joints grinding and clacking against one another. It was not footsteps. It was a dissonant march: dozens of dolls stamping the floor, each on its own broken rhythm.

Na-bi clapped a hand over her mouth and bolted down the corridor, unable even to scream. The new patient gown the Hospital Director had dressed her in was stiff canvas, and it turned every stride clumsy; the wide-cut trousers wrapped around her legs with every step, threatening to send her sprawling.

But the real shackle was not around her ankle. It was in her belly.

Each time she stretched a leg, gravity dragged at what she was carrying. The Living Key was sheathed in slick mucus, and it slid down the already ruined inner walls of her vagina as if the passage had been greased for it.

It's slipping out... no...!

"Hah... hh-hhk..."

Still running, she fisted a handful of the trousers at her crotch and clamped her thighs together, trying to pin the foreign thing in place. That half-crouched, hobbling posture was her undoing.

A mannequin's hand scythed through the air behind her. What it held was not a weapon — not in any ordinary sense. It was a grotesque twenty-centimeter plastic phallus the thing had torn from its own groin. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠To them it was not a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sex organ. It was a club for breaking bone.

A dull, heavy crack rang down the corridor.

"Ghhk—!"

Her calf folded as if a steel pipe had taken it. It was not flesh bursting — it was a dry, dense agony that rang through the bone. Na-bi lost her center and smashed face-first into the floor.

Shadows piled over her. Three or four mannequins closed in. Their faces held nothing at all as they raised the dildo-clubs high and brought them down on her lower body without mercy.

Thud. Thud. Thwack.

"Aagh! Ah! A-hhhk!"

Inner thigh. Buttock. Pelvis. They worked her legs with methodical cruelty, determined she would not run again. Every time a hard plastic mass drove into soft meat, a blue bruise bloomed black across the skin. When she tried to crawl, their fists snagged the patient gown and hauled.

The new fabric was tough. It would not tear easily — and that toughness became a noose. The cloth drew taut, cinching her throat, biting into her armpits hard enough to peel the flesh.

"Ukh... kuhp. Let go... I said let go of it...!"

She clawed at the floor until her nails scraped. The mannequins only twisted the hem tighter and, with the clubs in their free hands, stabbed and ground at the stretched cloth. The hard plastic shafts snagged, rubbed, punched small rents — and then a larger rupture opened, and the gown came apart in ragged strips.

Riiip—!

The fabric screamed and burst. The side seam of the trousers split from thigh to ankle in one long tear. Through the shredded remnants, her bare white legs — already blotched with contusions — and an ass wearing no underwear at all were laid naked to the corridor.

The top fared no better. When they wrenched the back panel, the buttons shot off like bullets and the front fell open. In a matter of seconds, Na-bi's body was as good as stripped, hanging with nothing but a few rags of cloth.

Shame burned across her face — and then a sensation arrived that made shame a luxury. The shock of the tearing, the shaking of her body, had pushed the key in her belly past its last hold. It slipped free.

A wet drag. A plop.

A red, sticky lump of flesh dangled between her thighs, a breath from the cold floor.

"No...! Don't come out!"

Even as they beat her, even as she crumpled, she shoved a hand through the burst trousers. She seized the slick, protruding head of the key in a brutal grip, hiked her hips, and rammed it back up with the heel of her palm. If it broke in her hand — if it tore — she would never leave this place.

A wet shove. A squelch.

"Hnnnnh...!"

A grotesque tableau: under a rain of blows, forcing a dildo into herself to protect it with her own body. Tears streaming, tattered cloth whipping around her, Na-bi crawled between their legs and dragged herself free.

Whether the sounds they made were giggling or only the shriek of joints, they simply watched her go. She threw herself toward the end of the corridor on wrecked, hobbling legs.

An iron door to the basement stairs waited ahead. She took the steps in a tumbling run.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Every drop yanked her viscera downward. Even with her hand clamped over herself, the key swung and slammed against her cervix, and the shock traveled all the way to her skull. Between her fingers, the mucus the key secreted mixed with her own slick and ran down in a filthy glaze.

She hurled herself against the iron door. The instant she rolled through, her shaking hands found the lock and twisted it.

Click.

"Haa... haa... hh-hhk..."

She slid down with her back to the door. Her heart felt ready to punch through her ribs. From the other side came a dull, pounding percussion.

Boom. Boom.

...... A scrape...... a grinding drag.

She was clamping her hands over her ears in terror when the knocking simply stopped. Not because they had given up.

Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter.

Dozens of hard footsteps peeled away from the door — sideways, upward, toward the vents. They were not so stupid as to smash a sealed door. Like a swarm of ants they were hunting other holes, circling, coming down into the basement by another path.

"Ah...... no......"

This place was not safe. Soon they would pour from the ceiling, or up through the floor.

Without even thinking to close the torn gown, Na-bi shoved the slipping key back in one more time and stared down the dark basement corridor. A faint green neon bled into her bloodshot eyes.

It was the only light pointing toward the next place — and it flickered not like salvation, but like a marsh-light, sick and waiting.

Step. Step.

Na-bi came down the lightless stairs and stopped before a massive iron door.

The damp particular to basements, the stink of rusted iron, and the reek of mold braided together and punched her in the nose. Above the door, a peeling, crooked sign hung at a drunken angle.

There would be medicine here. Clothes, maybe. Perhaps even a weapon. She caught her breath. Inside her, the foreign thing writhed. The Living Key the Hospital Director had given her — that nauseating lump of flesh — was nosing through the walls of her vagina, and gooseflesh ran over her skin.

"He said...... I could open it with this."

Feeling the heavy wrongness in her belly, she pressed her abdomen to the door handle. If the doctor had told the truth, the key she carried inside her would open the way.

Rattle. Rattle.

She gripped the handle and turned. Nothing. No click of a lock giving way. The iron door stayed shut as a vault.

"Eh......?"

Panicking, she ground her belly harder against the handle. Had it failed to read her? She smeared her lower abdomen across the steel plate. The key inside her vagina mashed against the metal and a sharp pain flickered through her — but the door did not so much as shiver.

"Why...... why won't it open? It's in me......"

Cold sweat ran. Behind her the mannequins were still coming. If she stalled here, it was over. And then the Hospital Director's warning surfaced in her mind.

Aroused. Enlarged. The blood left Na-bi's face. What she was carrying now was still small. Soft. She would have to take it out... and grow it? And once it grew, how much bigger would it get?

I have to take it out... take it out and get it hard again.

She sank down in front of the iron door. There was no other choice. She hiked the tattered remnants of the patient gown to the tops of her thighs and spread her legs in an M. In the dark, her thighs gleamed white, and the mouth of her vagina winked open — the hole the Hospital Director had ruined only a little while ago, still red and swollen.

She pushed her fingers in after the Living Key. The mucus it had poured out and her own slick had mixed until the inside of her was a swamp.

A slick catch. A slip.

"Ah — I touched it...... but......"

Her fingertips found a soft, slippery lump of flesh already nosing toward the entrance. She hooked her fingers like a claw and tried to drag it out.

A wet slide.

"Aukh! I can't hold it...... it's too slick......"

It was like a bar of soap steeped in oil. The moment she gripped, it popped free and fled deeper. Alive, and refusing to leave, it bored toward her cervix as if the womb were home.

Anxiety clawed at her. Her hands were greased, her mind was racing. If she wasted any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠more time, the mannequins would be on her.

Force... I have to bear down and push it out.

She dragged in a huge breath and clenched her lower abdomen — as if she were trying to shit, or to birth a child, shoving at the thing in her belly.

"Nnnngh...... ghhnn......!"

She strained until her face went red. Her muscles would not obey. Whether it was the leftover Muscle Relaxant or simple terror, the more she pushed the more her sphincter seized in a spasm and cinched the entrance shut, or the effort leaked away into the wrong places. Inside her the key only spun, a mill-wheel turning in empty water, and made no move to come out.

"Haa...... haa...... please...... come out......"

Tears stood in her eyes. What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to spit out something this slick? Then a thought surfaced. Position. She had to change her position.

She squatted on the floor. Gravity. She would have to use gravity — pull with her fingers and push with her gut at the same time.

One hand locked on the door handle for balance; the other she drove in deep. She raked along the vaginal wall, hunting the key, and found it hiding in a corner.

A gulp. A squelch.

The instant her finger touched it, the key answered. A writhe — as if it were being caressed, it twisted its body.

"Hht! Inside me...... it got bigger!?"

She recoiled. The finger-play had started to arouse it. The soft surface was firming, the bulk swelling. If it grew any more she would never get it out. It had to come out now.

Eyes gone loose with an unwilling pleasure, still squatting, she rocked her hips, trying to pour it out with gravity. The rocking, against her will, became stimulation. The Living Key smeared along her inner wall and kept mouthing at her, jabbing the most sensitive place she had — her G-spot — over and over.

"Nngh! Ah! Don't......!"

A sweet current climbed her spine. She bit her lip. She must not feel this. She had to get it out. But her body was honest. Slick ran out of her in a thin stream and wet the floor.

The climax hit. Her vaginal muscles clenched down around the key, then flung themselves open. In the same breath she slammed pressure into her belly.

A wet pop. Plop!

The mouth of her vagina yawned, and with a gush of viscous fluid the pink head of the flesh-lump nosed into the air.

"Grab it...... I have to grab it......"

With a hand still shaking from the orgasm, she snatched that slick, writhing tip. If it slipped it would go back in. This time — this time she would rip the filthy key out of herself no matter what.

A long, sucking pull. A wet slap.

It came free. Sitting on the floor, she stared at the monstrous thing in her hand. A lump of meat the size of a dildo, which until a moment ago had been sleeping in her belly. The instant it hit open air and her grip, it began to answer at a terrifying speed.

A gurgle. Throb, throb.

Like a madwoman she brought it to her mouth and sucked, stroked it with her hand. She had to grow it, fast, or the door would never open. Tongue, spit, the soft wet of her palm — and the key detonated into growth.

Veins bulged like worms. The yielding surface went hard as stone. The pink glans flushed dark, congested, and the thing's size ballooned by orders of magnitude.

"Mmph?! Khk—!"

She spat it out in a hurry. It had already grown past anything her small mouth could hold. This was no longer a model of a penis. Thirty centimeters long, as thick around as a tumbler, it pulsed in her palm as a giant weapon. The size of it was oppressive. Nothing human. A monster's cock.

"Hiiik...... too...... it's too big......"

She stared at the massive pillar, her face gone slack with revulsion. She was supposed to put this back inside her? The front was already too wrecked, too loose from overstimulation; if her strength failed it would slide right out. It had to be gripped tight or she would never last until the door opened.

And more than that — the root of the key had a peculiar curve. Structurally, feeding it in from behind would seat it deeper, more stably. When the time came to push it out, bearing down through the anus would be the easier path.

The back... I have to put it in the back.

With a hand that would not stop shaking, she brought the swollen key to the cleft of her ass. Her anus was clenched shut, as if it had read her terror — the same place the Hospital Director had torn and swollen only yesterday.

A tap. A blunt, meaty press.

"Aukh! It hurts! It won't go in!"

The instant the enormous head kissed her anus, the torn tissue screamed. It was too big. Even the head would not enter; it only butted and circled at the rim. She tried to pull her hips away. Her body refused on instinct. This was impossible. It would split her. She would die.

That was when she heard it.

Step. Step. Step.

From the top of the stairs, measured footfalls. Not one. Several. Hard, disciplined, like the tramp of heavy boots. The mannequins were coming down after their missing patient.

"D-don't come...... no......"

Terror drowned the pain. If they caught her she would be dragged back to that ward. Gang-raped by the mannequins, beaten across the belly, glazed in semen, made into the Hospital Director's eternal specimen. Not a sex toy — a test subject — and then she would walk around with her guts hanging out like the Patient Monster.

Better a torn anus than that.

She clenched her teeth. She put her back to the iron door and stood, then spread her legs into a horse-riding stance. One hand locked on the handle. With the other she lined the huge tip of the key exactly on the mouth of her anus. She planted the root against the floor and prepared to sit.

"Go in...... go in, you monster!!"

She squeezed her eyes shut and dropped her full weight. She threw her body onto the weapon fixed to the floor.

A massive, wet impalement—!!!!

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH————!!!!!!!"

The scream tore the basement corridor open.

"Hhhk! Khk! My— my belly! It's tearing!!"

The key had no mercy. The writhing organism, pulsing, spurting semen, smashed through the sealed back door and packed her lower abdomen full. Past the rectum, deep enough to threaten the sigmoid colon. A heavy foreign mass crowded her belly and crushed her organs against one another. Around the anus, blood poured from the torn flesh, running down the shaft of the key and dripping to the floor.

But it worked. The moment the key crammed into her belly drew near the handle, the sensor answered.

Whirr. Click.

Her belly against the handle, the living signal of the key packed inside her — the lock-light that had been red flipped to green.

A long, heavy creak—

The massive iron door swung open. With the giant weapon still buried in her ass, unable even to close her legs, Na-bi tumbled through in an ugly half-crouch.

A crash.

"Hnnn...... hh-hhk......"

She convulsed face-down on the cold floor. The key lodged in her anus knocked against her insides in time with her heartbeat — throb, throb. A hollow, scoured-out rawness, as if her backside had been completely gutted. She could not put her legs together. The cleft of her ass had been forced open and locked that way.

SLAM!

The iron door shut again. Beyond it, the mannequins' footsteps stopped. They did not knock. From the other side of the door they only tapped the glass — tap, tap — as if laughing at the prey that had fled with its anus torn.

"Hhhk...... hhhk......"

Through a dimming field of vision, Na-bi lifted her head. A place vibrating with the smell of drugs. A dark, damp room packed with display cases of unidentifiable bottles. The Underground Pharmacy.

Whether this was a new hell or a hiding place, she could not tell. But she could not stop. Dragging the handle of the key that jutted from between her buttocks along the floor, she began to crawl again, because she still wanted to live. The blood-smear she left behind painted the path she had taken a wet, vivid red.