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He stole into the bathroom about an hour after she'd finished her shower, took one of the towels that was still damp with water that had touched her body, and wrapped it around his aching erection, trying desperately to assuage the burning feeling that she inspired, breathing deeply of the still damp air.
Every day now for the past two weeks. She works for the courier company. Every morning, half-past nine - oh god, there she is - yes, wearing those tight gunmetal lycra shorts. She looks like some sort of machine; those wraparound reflective sunglasses, that glossy black helmet; she can't be human ... she doesn't need to unlock her bicycle, the lock opens by itself when she commands it to, one device communicating to another, no words, no clumsy human constructions ... does she see me? Did she catch me staring at her? And if she did, would she care? Oh my god she did see me! She smiled! She places one muscular leg over the bicycle, feet slide into the pedal-stirrups, she arches her back, waving her smooth behind at me ... she knows that it drives me crazy, the bitch ... she's smiling because she's a machine and that she knows I'm made of flesh and I'll rot away and vanish one day and she'll still be riding around on that bicycle. The way the light reflects on her gunmetal hips which roll smoothly as she rides off as precise and mechanical as clockwork, the traffic parts for her, she doesn't even need to look around to see if anything is coming. I hate her. The bitch. Because she's a machine and she doesn't care. I wish I could be like that.
There was a flat, sloping wall of grey rock that went on forever. The sparse, moss-like greenery that adorned it faded into the hazy distance on either side of a tall, thin male figure embedded in the rock ... his face (eyes closed), part of his chest (she could count some of his ribs), one arm (skeletally thin) and his hips (bony) protruded. He was squeezing his erect penis slowly, pulling it upwards. On closer inspection, it began to look like ... it was her; no arms, waist fused into the tangled mat of slate-grey hair above a scrotum which she could feel as his long, splintered nails scratched it ... he squeezed, the terrible compression distorting her ... she deformed as if she was made of sponge rubber. He squeezed again; she gasped, mouth wide, as something stirred in the pit of her stomach, rushed up her throat and spewed out. As he squeezed, she vomited thick, salty fluid, in wrenching spasms, throwing back her head, the flow eventually diminishing to a bubbling dribble which ran down her chin and over his fingers which clutched her body, pressing against her breasts. The remainder of the fluid settled in her throat, a column of translucent stickiness.
They all worshipped her, fed her, kept her clean, but she was a prisoner of her position. She sensed that they respected her with what little intelligence they had, but she still screamed inside, for release, for rest, even. The process was endless. As she lay on her back, they stuffed junk food into her mouth. It was pretty funny, really, to see hordes of insect servitors as big as cats fumbling with chocolate bars, cokes, and jam vadhai, but that was about all the humour she could extract from the situation. The stuff moved down her throat, unchewed (they wouldn't even let her do that, although her mouth worked and saliva dribbled down her cheeks to mingle with tears of pain and frustration), the bulges slowly disappearing between her breasts. Her arms felt as though they were outspread, but she couldn't feel her fingers, and movement was restricted by swathes of connective tissue. The frightening part was that she could see her stomach and hips, at least five metres away, and she could feel the bulges in her belly as they moved towards their birth. She squeezed, her hips lifted and another one of those things dropped out, whereupon it rushed off to join the milling crowd which flowed around her. Then, something was kneeling next to her... one of those things, but bigger, almost humanoid. Its carapace was darker. It wiped at her chocolate-stained dribble with a tissue, dried her eyes, ran a finger along her cheek. The hand felt like cool, smooth plastic. She stared in wide-eyed terror at its working mouth-parts, four tiny mandibles arranged around the jaw, folding, unfolding. The palps seemed to lift at the edges, producing an effect almost like a smile, and it spoke. "Enjoying yourself? The diet gets rather boring, though... is there anything in particular you'd like?" |
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