56 - Tale of the Sideshow - The Girlhole

Jason cracked open another beer. Was it the growing darkness that gave his eyes a haunted look, or simply a memory? The others leaned forward a little as he began to speak, softly at first, and then loud enough for them to hear.

"I told y'all about Amelia, the Leech Girl," he said. "Well, that got the Boss looking for other—birth defects, you might say. She has a weird way about her. Got to looking at toxic waste sites, places with high levels of radiation, and the kids that ended up in orphanages or special schools from there. Which is how, one cold autumn, I found myself staring face-to-face with

THE GIRLHOLE

I've heard these places called Goodbye-Boxes. Places where people can be sent and forgotten about. Living their lives within regulated walls, to see to their needs, to do whatever work that people thought they could manage, but mostly to keep them out of sight, away from the world. This one was Saint-Something-or-Other's, a farm for the folks who were physically fit enough for such work, even if mentally disabled or otherwise handicapped. There used to be more of that kind of thing—blind people making pens for the government, that kind of thing.

This farm wasn't run by the government, though. It was run by nuns. Not the kind of women in wimples you might think of, your modern nun. The one who met us was wearing a business suit, a grey-haired matron with steel-colored hair and an easy smile. The Boss shook her hand, stated our business.

The smile faltered.

"Natalie," she said. "Her mother was—exposed—to various chemicals, before and during the pregnancy. She had a rather extensive history of **** use, sex work. The child was given up for adoption at birth. The system wasn't really prepared to handle someone with Natalie's condition—I'm not sure any system would be—and she eventually ended up in our care. We've had her for eight years now. She just turned twenty. I don't think—"

"We just want to make the offer," the Boss said, her own smile tight, predatory. "Let her make her own decision. She is competent, is she not? Normal intelligence? Has the right to manage her own affairs? Even leave if she chooses?"

The head nun—I don't know what you call them—pursed her lips.

"She is very intelligent, and has a GED. Yes, she can leave if she wishes to. However, her condition—well, you will see."

We followed her out of the main building, to a barn. A young woman, with freckled arms, was combing a horse's fur. She wore a burqa and veil, the first woman here I had seen dressed like that. So I saw her vivid grey eyes, the eyebrows so blonde they were almost invisible.

I hung back as the nun and the Boss spoke to her, but Natalie's eyes kept flicking back to me. Well, I studied her too. Not a tall woman, with muscular arms, but thin in her plain workshirt and jeans. Small breasts, slim hips. I wouldn't have said she was a good recruit for the strip show, though she could probably learn to dance well enough.

Then, she removed her veil and took off the burqa.

She had a button nose, and an extended philtrum—that's the little depression that runs down from the nose to the top of the lip. Except there was no upper lip. There was a clitoris. Small, but undeniable. Where there should have been a jaw, the lower face just fell away, the labia following the neck down, the skin smooth until it reached her collarbone. There was a soft down of hair—many women have that on their faces, so fine you'd never see it—but nothing like a mustache or pupic hair. The outer labia were smooth and pink, the inner labia, which protruded outward, hung in loose folds. A thin cotton thread hung suspended from the bottom of what was very clearly a vagina.

She was on her period, you see.

Natalie made a sign at me, with her hands.

Hello.

I signed back. A warm blush crossed her freckled cheeks.

The Boss talked us into Natalie's room for a "private interview," the head nun staying near the door. Her room was little more than a cell. A neatly-made bed, a crucifix on the wall, a bible, and a single stuffed rabbit. I felt worse seeing that rabbit than anything else. Something told me Natalie had never gotten a Christmas gift in her entire life.

Between the two of us, the Boss and I explained the sideshow, even the after-hours bits. That required some care. All three of us knew sign language, but there were concepts that Natalie hadn't encountered before. Sex work. Dildos. Her face turned absolutely crimson, and I felt—well, troubled. Here was a woman that clearly had limited, maybe minimal sexual experience, and the Boss wanted her to perform on-stage. I was rather amazed, to be frank, that she had survived this long without being molested, due to her condition.

Still, she was a smart cookie. Asked about money. Food. Shelter. Contracts. The Boss had brought along a sample contract, and Natalie read every word, asked questions, then called the head nun in and made her read it over. Of course, the contract didn't specify sex acts—which would be stupid—but even though the old woman had grave concerns, she seemed to accept it when Natalie signed it.

There were hugs, tearful goodbyes to some of the other folks, packing to do. The sun was setting when we got back in the truck, and I couldn't use my hands to sign while driving. Based on what I could see, Natalie was getting a crash course in advanced human sexual education. And asking a lot of very specific questions.

We had her room with Amelia, just until we could get Natalie's trailer set up. The two seemed to get along right away, since they could sign freely to one another. I was concerned Amelia might get catty or jealous, but I think they recognized something in each other. A kindred spirit. At least, if there was any shyness, I wasn't around to see it.

For her act, we set up a stripper pole. She didn't have much to show, but then she didn't need to get naked. The bikini she wore was revealing, and we sewed her a special veil to wear—just clear enough that people could catch sight of her pussy, but not see it clearly until she took it off. Then, on her knees on the stage, I'd offer to let people kiss her for ten bucks—and, well, that turned out to be a great attraction to lots of folks.

Come kiss the Girlhole.

We all got to be pretty friendly, and sometimes we'd do more intense acts for select audiences, and because Natalie trusted me and could talk to me, I was her partner for those shows. I can't tell you how strange it is, to suck and a clit and stare into a pair of grey eyes. Or to stand up, cup Nat's ears between my palms, and feed my dick into that hot, tight, hole. She did solo shows too, with a dildo or some beng-wa balls, and even a special trick with ping pong balls she'd blow out into the audience.

Well, then we notice a lump, right above her collarbone. We had to go into town for a sonogram, and the woman operating it looked like she had been clubbed over the head as she pointed out what was clearly a uterus, and there the embryo.

I wish I could say there was a lot of discussion after that, although really there wast just the one. The Boss was concerned about Natalie's health risks, offered to pay for an abortion if she wanted one. If not, she could continue to perform as long as she felt able, do other work when she didn't. There's no maternity leave in the sideshow, exactly, but we tended to consider each other family, and the Boss was understanding.

Maybe it was the nuns, the Christian upbringing. Natalie wanted to keep the baby.

That was a rough time. The lump grew bigger, day after day. The weight of it was all wrong, and by twenty weeks or so she was bedridden, lying on her side, Dr. Gyges saying there was too much weight on her neck otherwise. We set up a laptop for her, and the boss got her into an online accounting course. Said she could help do the books, back-office stuff.

Needless to say, I was pretty sure the baby was mine. At least, if anyone else had fucked Natalie's face, I wasn't aware of it. Amelia was very conscientious too, and I think they maybe had a thing going. I wasn't jealous; it's a bit like being in theatre. Everybody seems to be in and out of each other's dressing rooms all the time. As long as everybody's had their shots, it's not really a problem.

At thirty-eight weeks, we got her into a proper hospital to induce labor. There was always the possibility of a c-section, but the way her anatomy was, docs were afraid to cut on her. I was actually in the delivery room, holding Natalie's hand as she gave this kind of **** nose—a high nasal explosion—and then I saw it happen. The way her throat bulged as it moved. She was on her side on the birthing bed, and there was none of the normal abdominal muscles in the way, so I could see the baby's head squeeze its way up and up. Blood and amniotic fluid spilled out of Natalie's mouth, and for the first time I was glad she didn't have a jaw, for there was no way the baby could have fit through that.

How to describe the appearance when it crowned? Despite the ****, Nat's grey eyes were wide with fear and pain. Her nails dug into me and I stood next to her, absolutely helpless as the head pushed her pussy open to the breaking point—it did actually split a little, the doc had to stitch it back up...and then the doc had his gloved hands and was drawing the baby out. Nat lay there, panting, as they did their bit with the umbilical cord, the weighing and the washing. The placenta was vomited out while they were doing that, and the nurse took it away.

Then the doc stitched her up and...and for the first time in months, Natalie was sitting up in bed, her head on a pillow, holding her baby. Our baby; that's what was put on the birth certificate. His name is Jason John, though we call him J.J.

Natalie still does a few after-hours shows, although we're more careful now. Condoms, you know. And it turns out that Natalie and Amelia were more serious than I thought, because they got married not long after that.

Jason was about to snuff the candle when Leroy asked a question.

"How did she eat?"

Jason gave a smile then, kind of smug and ugly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

With that, he blew out the candle.