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from Pixie's Pad

This will be a long post. I'm going to discuss recent fedi 'drama', particularly around Stux/mstdn.social and Byron/Universeodon, to call out the problematic behaviours by white guys that I'm repeatedly exposed to as a demifemme admin (experiencing this behaviour probably applies to anyone who is perceived as 'not male', though), and by the people who perpetuate the behaviour by either agreeing with it, or not calling it out: misogyny, DARVO, gaslighting, and abuser tactics. Content Warning: this post will discuss those tactics, and tangentially mention abusive relationships.

Part 1: Misogyny

To Stux, to Byron, to the privileged white guys who respond to my fediblock posts with threats of litigation, who try to bully and threaten me when I speak up about you, and to everyone who enables you: you're misogynists.

I want you to look at that word, hard, and I want you to feel its weight on you. I know you're probably scoffing, rolling your eyes, maybe tutting about me under your breath. You're already dismissing me. You? Misogynists? Nah.

~

For the readers: I'm going to present a definition of misogyny. It will include a description of behaviours that you're either familiar with from having personal experience, or familiar with from having heard people talking about their personal experiences. I trust that this definition and the provided examples are all things you're familiar with, and that won't be a surprise to you, given how common they come up when discussing misogyny; that is, you'll read the definition, and go 'Ok, yeah, those are clearly misogynistic'.

Hostile misogyny presents as beliefs and behaviours that are openly hostile towards women, viewing women as manipulative, deceitful, and needing to be kept in their place.

Examples can include using sexist language or insults, treating women people as subordinates, and punishing them when they step out of line.

Think of people like Trump and the kind of words and language they use to discredit their female critics; the things they accuse them of, the way they try to paint them as 'less than' and themselves as 'more than'. Things like questioning their mental state, their health, their ability, their credibility. Language that shames the woman and paints the woman as small, feeble, inept, and the man as big, powerful, competent. Words like 'shame', 'disappointed', 'nasty', 'irrational'.

Think about all of that and keep it in mind.

Okay, back to directly addressing my abusers.

~

Whenever I 'step out of line' you shame me, insult me, accuse me of beign manipulative, of lying, and you punish me to keep me in my place.

You're misogynists.

When I block your instance directly citing your behaviour and you respond by DMing or emailing me legal threats, that's you trying to punish me and to keep me in my place.

You're misogynists.

When I call you out on behaviour that I find problematic, you respond by threatening me, calling me names, treating me as your inferior, questioning my ability, calling me a liar, questioning my rationality, questioning my credibility, saying I abuse my power, questioning my health, my 'normality', disgracing me, calling me toxic, blaming me for your actions, claiming I'm manipulative, deceitful, and stepping out of line.

You're misogynists.

Still don't believe me?

Insulting me/calling me names

Stux, 'the nasty posts': https://mstdn.social/@stux/110570790071229972 https://archive.ph/2wS1z

Stux, 'the nasty admin': https://mstdn.social/@stux/110570709034574825 https://archive.ph/554VD

Shaming me / treating me as your inferior 'shame on you mastodon.art', 'it's shameful how they're treating the community' https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110576560037257542

'I am disappointed in mastodon.art' https://archive.ph/pMiRN

Calling me a liar/deceitful/manipulative https://archive.ph/uWgtQ#selection-2151.0-2151.93 In the same thread as 'i'm punished for being open and honest', saying 'and they blocked the entire admin community'

https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110618527857662981

And ending with claiming you're speaking the truth again: 'I can't do anything but clarify my position and speak the truth'

Questioning my rationality https://universeodon.com/@supernovae/110792017979976143, https://web.archive.org/web/20230723005724/https://universeodon.com/@supernovae/110752423959362422, 'I still chose to be a rational person' https://archive.ph/1O2zI

Questioning my credibility 'bad admin', 'defederated me on lies', spread lies' https://archive.ph/1O2zI

Saying I abuse my power https://archive.ph/w34Av

Questioning my health and 'normality' “this beef that mastodon.art wages is not normal. It's not healthy” https://ghostarchive.org/archive/nN92o?wr=false

Disgracing me https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110612692782940469 

Blaming me for your actions Accusing ME of the mstdn.social defed: https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110618244376288511 (the OP is gone but the preview is there) https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110622507795240380

Threatening me/Punishing me for stepping out of line Stux punishing me: https://mstdn.social/@stux/110577241910599246 https://archive.ph/32wnl

Calling me toxic and saying I'm happily inciting violence, holding me responsible for other people sending death threats and threatening to dox: https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110624074405406421

Most (all, maybe, considering Byron has deleted everything from his account older than a week or so ago and there aren't archives of much of it) of those posts are all from the first week that .art announced defederating Universeodon, and that behaviour continued from then until this week.

Whenever Byron spoke about .art, it would be with that misogynistic framing, calling for 'rationality' as if I had been irrational to that point, calling for punishment for .art (me). A month of misogyny whenever Byron brought it up, and he brought it up a lot, finding anyone talking about the situation and inserting himself into the discussions to keep driving the point home that he's just a rational, responsible, big smart man and I'm an irrational, irresponsible, small silly woman that needed putting in her place so that he could get back to doing all this Important Man Business without silly little me getting in his way.

Part 2: DARVO, gaslighting, and abuser tactics

The fedi-admin Discord I'm in is a big group of mods and admins from servers whose principles align with .art, and we use the space for discussing blocks, getting feedback on community things, moderation issues, tech issues, keeping an eye on potentially problematic behaviour, and just generally communicating and supporting each other. It's a room full of predominantly marginalised voices, and as such communities go, many of us have faced some form of abuse and/or persecution to varying degrees because of who we are.

Seeing the situation with Stux and Byron unfolding, we moved discussion of it into its own thread, to keep our main channels easier to navigate. Over the past month, that thread pretty literally turned into a support group as many of us started identifying behaviour that made us feel uncomfortable, and triggered, and we'd have to check in with the other people there for validation.

It became clear to us pretty quickly that Byron was displaying abuser tactics in his conversations with people, and a bunch of us watching it were reminded of previous abusive relationships or scenarios we'd been in, recognising patterns of behaviour that were used to manipulate us and control the narrative while turning others against us.

This includes me. I've been stalked, and I've been in (non-physically) abusive relationships. I am unfortunately familiar with these techniques, as I have had them used against me.

DARVO is an acronym for “deny, attack, and reverse victim and offender” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DARVO). It's a common tactic used by abusers, that includes gaslighting (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaslighting , 'an individual's perception of reality is repeatedly undermined or questioned by another person) .

DARVO can take the form of calling into question the other victim's credibility while asserting your own credibility over theirs, accusing the victim of lying while stating that you're telling the truth, denying the things you were accused of while blaming the victim for things, calling the victim the offender while taking on the role of victim, and attacking the victim.

https://archive.ph/uWgtQ

This thread is rife with DARVO and gaslighting;

Accusing me of lying: “I'm disappointed / I'm extremely disappointed”, “used in a [...] intentionally deceitful context”

Lies/abusing power: “Their style of moderation is control”

Lies: “People on .art have 0 agency and it creates an environment of fear”

Playing the victim while gaslighting (.art is the one creating safe spaces while many see Byron's actions as creating unsafe spaces): “What kind of people do that to other admins who are openly trying to make things better and talking with admins in a “Safe space” to do so?”

Accusing .art of perpetuating fear: “and why would artists flock to a site that perpetuates such fear? “

RVO: “Can you not see how shitty their behavior is?”

Accusing me of lying: “not writing some bs blog of half truths they cherry picked to fit their own agenda”

Lying about me: “they blocked the entire admin community”

RVO, gaslighting: “ i felt it was about time to call abuse when i see it”

Lying about me: “They took advantage of the mastodon branding, got listed on joinmastodon during twitter waves – then took offense and mocked everything about mastodon and the developers and have gone on a defederation tirade built on lies “

Putting me in my place: “and not let them get away with their shenanigans “

Saying he's telling the truth: “I can't do anything but clarify my position and speak the truth. I spoke it.”

https://ghostarchive.org/archive/nN92o?wr=false

Attack: “this beef that mastodon.art wages is not normal. It's not healthy and it existed long before universeodon did”

RVO: “It was .art that made a blog and broke the connections of consenting folks for no reasons other than personal attacks against me based on heresy.”

Lies, RVO: “the entire instance is moderated to control what is on local and that means every post you make when you think you're talking to your audience is limited/controlled and has to follow the rules of their iron fist moderation of local.”

RVO: 'People are afraid. I just won’t speak for them. Admins are “afraid” – it’s why i’m speaking up.”

RVO: “I’d never open an account there knowing how untrustworthy and disrespectful they are.”

RVO, putting me in my place: “For too long people let them scream and abuse other admins for fear of rocking the boat – they have been able to frustrate and shame people and mock admins for lies for too long.”

Putting me in my place: “i’m just done beating around the bush and calling bullshit when i see it.”

RVO (also double standards, doesn't apply this to Stux) “what would you do if some asshole admin decided to sever all your relationships?”

“It’s probably why they want to ban me because i see all their bullshit”

Double standard, he's allowed to do this but not me: “I have enough dignity for myself and respect for others that I let people have their own opinions or defend them themselves.”

Superior to me: “I find it all absurd and childish”

https://archive.ph/3VA1z

Credibility: “They have no clue what they're talking about.”

Holding a man to a different standard: “i'm just respecting that we have different views and outlooks and that you can hold yours and i can hold mine and we'll both still be who we are.”

~

This all happened in Byron's first response thread to the .art defed. It continued from there. Byron would insert himself into conversations that didn't tag him, presumably by using Universeodon's full text search feature to find people talking about him, and use it as an opportunity to DARVO and gaslight.

This was still going on weeks later. While expressing sentiments like wishing it would all be over, he'd bring it up again himself, blame me for harassment he was receiving while (despite being asked many times by many people) never showing evidence of his continued harassment. Often, the moment someone asked for receipts so that they could do their due diligence as admins, he would either stop responding to the conversation, or block them.

Many, many admins tried to engage with him from a position of good faith and open-ness to either figure out what he wanted so that he'd back down, or to see receipts so that I could properly be held accountable for any harm I was doing or so that I could moderate any harm coming from the .art community. This was always, without fail, met with Byron skirting the subject, DARVO-ing, gaslighting, more lying, shifting the focus, reframing the questions, and never answering anything directly, eventually either stopping responding, or blocking.

See https://archive.ph/y1446 for a perfect example of this, where he is asked with an abundance of kindness and compassion to please share the receipts, and he constantly tries shifting the subject and changing the focus of the discussion, until he just stops responding at all.

I also recommend reading the footnote #9 at https://privacy.thenexus.today/should-the-fediverse-welcome-surveillance-capitalism/#fn9 which has loads of receipts.

Eventually, one of the white guys in our admin group tried to reason with Byron in DM, meet him on his privilege level. What he wanted (and he had brought this up before) was for .art to remove 'the blog post' (the dotART defederation announcement, that listed a few direct links to Byron's posts and explained that their content made us feel unsafe federating with Universeodon; it was very simple, straightforward, 'we're defederating, here's a list of reasons' post) because it was 'responsible for his continued harassment' and 'all his problems started with that blog post'.

Byron's problems actually started many days before that blog post, when he posted asking for contacts at Meta, then posted about reaching out to Meta, and then posted that he was attending a meeting with Meta (see https://writer.oliphant.social/oliphant/defederating-universeodon, Article 4, Gaslighting).

Asking me to take the blog post down – a blog post that does not, in any way, incite violence and is simply an announcement for our users and for Universeodon users to be aware of our actions – is 'the woman needs to know her place' and is tantamount to abusers holding power.

Conclusion

The fediverse – a network of social media platforms without one big tech company or a board room of white guys in suits or a dickhead egotistical billionaire controlling everything – by its very nature challenges the status quo. White guys who are used to being in control, who are used to waving their privilege dicks around and everyone else getting the fuck out of the way while they indulge in their incessant and continuous mutual ego-stroking, are running into people who don't give a shit about them or their supposed Place In Society, but now instead of having to 'like it or lump it', we're able to do something; we're able to opt out and continue our lives without them in the conversation.

That must sting something fierce. Imagine having gotten your way, having everything laid out for you, having a free pass to coast friction-free along whichever path you chose, for your whole life and suddenly that grinds to a halt and you're told 'No.' by some dinky 5'1 girl from a tiny village nobody's heard of in whatever-the-fuck that little sticky out bit of land next to England is, and she's standing there in front of you with her hands on her hips emanating 'You Shall Not Pass' vibes, and you realise in a moment of abject confusion that you're the Balrog?

This has been a month rife with your shitty misogyny and your shitty gaslighting and your shitty DARVO not just to me but to all the people, my friends, who tried to call you out on it, tried to get you to stop, tried to get you to stop behaving so damned petulantly, to stop victim blaming , to stop sealioning, who put themselves in harms way to try to show you what you were doing, how you were being, how you were abusing, to stop triggering all of us with your gross slimy abuser tactics, and it never happened.

Your narrative, your approach, through all of it, was to stand on your soapbox going 'Look at her! Look at the woman, the nasty woman! Look at how shameful she's being! How irrational! Look at how she manipulates, how she deceives! Woe is me! Woe is me, for she tries to dishonour me with her sinful ways! Do you not see? The nasty woman!'.

While the people who recognised your abuse were trying to call you out and make you stop, far too many of the other white guys in the house were standing up, applauding, jeering at me from the sidelines, buying into and feeding your narrative, coddling your poor hurt cashmere-wrapped feelings instead of growing backbones and calling you out for your blatant misogyny and harassment.

It was a shit time, full of migraines and anxiety, of breaking out in a heart-pounding sweat whenever someone linked me to one of your posts, of being reminded of past things I wanted to forget, of fucking Men being Men being Men being Men wanting to subjugate and dominate and being despicable in their means of dismissing me, of lying, of twisting the narrative like a knife in my ribs at every fucking opportunity, for four long-ass weeks, all because you couldn't deal with a woman telling you, No.

 
Read more...

from Darmani

CW: underage, teacher-student, dub-con, porny-scifi, inaccurate/forced transition discussion

I could use some help for this. Ala some of the GSS greats I am doing a gender swap version of a subplot of this story in Chapters 9, 12, 14 of student teacher affair in a world being filled and altered by Body Shifters – cum needy shapeshifters who seduce men by deed and then chemical and psychological domination and deceit – changed into an MLM version of the storythread with a fuckboy student who ends up seducing and corrupting his human-turned-shifter teacher.

My issue is either the student needs to be into men and so she turns he to fulfill him and get his seed (simplest) OR the teacher is already a dude but just undercover, as the female version, about her transformation into a cum feeding lust blolb and then shapeshifting to accommodate a gay boy in a world where het-sex fantasy caterers are ten to a penny.

One big thing is in the 1st instance, the inciting incident that triggers the spiral of an affair by revealing herself to her student, is the student smelling the lady teacher's perfume while in her old body, this arouses him, which she senses, and thus unconsciously but flagrantly shifts to entice him. He notices and so starts takes the lead, dominating her, knowing her shifter instincts and nature will make her override any objections or other concerns to feed on his cum and be used by her. This will not work if the boy into .. well dudes and she is in female form. If the teacher is already a dude it might work but that needs more thought into the change of the story, narrative, and characterization. Either way a change in name.

A key part is the dramatic guilt and growing desire for the boy and loathing of herself and her infidelity and perfidy

I have some parts/adjusts already written out in a very rough and incomplete edit/adjustment

Not sure if should keep the “Caterill/a” (singular/plural) change to “Shifter” but felt like an idea to free things up or at least mark where gone over changes. Was simple to do...

If care to, read and reply and advise

CHAPTER 9: Sarah's difficult student.

* * *

Sarah chose to have a quiet afternoon in class, by having the students read a chapter from the book while she marked their homework.

“Question fourteen, the answer is D, Robert Owen in 1817,” she thought to herself as she marked a student down, before realizingrealising that she hadn't opened her teacher's edition onto the correct page yet.

Instead of looking it up, she reached over and opened the book to page 103 and found the official answer.

  1. (D) Robert Owen, 1817.

“How did she know that?” she wondered as she looked back at the student's homework, looking for a clue. she then looked away, closed my eyes for a second and quietly said to myself: “Twenty-three, My Dark Rosaleen by James Clarence Mangan, answer is... A?”

She looked back at the teacher's edition, turned the page and read the official answer.

  1. (A) My Dark Rosaleen, James Mangan (1803 – 1849).

“How the fuck did I know that?”

She played this game a few more times with random sections of the book before concluding that as a Caterilla, she now has a phenomenal memory. She was able to recall, in an instant, every line of every page.

In fact, as she sat there glancing over the homework, and she could instantly recall what answers each student had given for their homework since the start of term! Thinking it over for another second a hidden correlation the class came into focus.

There. Billy, male, arrogant, and young enough to have reached puberty after the arrival of Caterilla kind. A man that grew up in a world full of sperm-chasing Caterilla, never having known rejection or insecurity, and brought up to see women as nothing more than objects that would do his bidding.

Most memorable because, in a fit of hormone driven anger, she'd throw a textbook at him earlier in the academic year.

He deserved it.

Ah but in the other corner was Sally. Thin, quite tall, and athletic. In Sarah's school days she would be the campus social life sought and followed and selecting. But now, here, today, there was a point nine-seven probability that she was the source of Billy's written work.

How had this perversity happen to her? Ah, that much was easy to understand: Sex. He'd hung the promise of actual attention and loving over her virgin shoulders. Like she was the sick craven troll he could demand service as his birthright.

“Should I tell her parents?”

She considered. No, they probably already knew (or were even helping). Grandchildren needed motivation for anyone nowadays.

She wanted to tackle the perpetrator, legitimately.

Make him stay.

Later she could go off at him. In private

This time she would break his smugness.

* * *

I closed the classroom door after the last student had left. I'd heard the corridor outside start to clear of people as the halls echoed then quieted. No interference. I turned and looked at Billy. His smirk, baseball cap, and high school sports jacket hung loosely over a middling tall, slender, teenage buck.

“So what can I do for you?” he said ending with a grin as he leaned back on his chair.

I took the offensive, picked up sheetand adjusted my wire-frames on my nose, remembering to squint then blink before I chose put him on the spot: “Who was your last homework essay about?”

He slinked up soles to the floor narrowed his eyes as lips flattened and brow furrowed, “That guy, Scottish, Burns.” My ears caught the swallowing after his statement.

The smile on my own face put the fawn's prior to shame, “Wasn't that the topic from the week before?”

Billy temples reddened as creases dampened. I had no intention of letting him cheat me, my class. He sat rigid, nostrils increasing in aperture. He was calculating what he was about to get and what, if anything, he could do about it.

I stood in front of him, close, arms folded, eye-teeth glinting at my catch of the worm. Looking down over him, he was quivering in form, especially the neck even as tried to tighten cheeks into a jaw. He knew I would make him suffer for his bratty arrogance.

Billy looked up at me, I wondered if he was about to attempt an appeal, when an important mistake was made. I'd gotten close enough that he could smell my perfume.

* * *

Step backwards some

You have to understand, that admitting you're a Caterill in the workplace is the same as asking for a pay cut. Or, if like me you're only hanging on to your job with your fingernails, I could be fired on the spot.

It had helped that I hadn't been one for more than 2 years and moved in with the recent staffing crisis.

I was wearing my “old” body to class, like work uniform I kept around just to make dresscode. I still looked like the same middle aged, slightly round English teacher that everybody had come to expect since I started working here.

I looked maybe a little trimmer than my old human self, but had to minimise my Caterill nature at work. But its your whole body. Not just in your head. My enhanced memory and panic interacted to make me recollect when I'd learned. How I'd come to this infidel route.

“Are you absolutely sure this is your wife?” asked the thirty something female doctor, looking across her dark mahogany desk

“We've been down this road before!” he held my hand tightly, “this is definitely My Sarah.”

“You're sure of that? Our tests show that she has Shifter cells!”

“We have a system,” the voice I've know as my better half for 6 years answered defiantly. He was angry at the dismissal or his mind. I was stuck between rage, horror, and despair.

The doctor took a moment to consider the situation, leaning back on the dark leather of the office chair, took another inquisitive look at us.

“Very well then. Your. . . wife- Sarah – seems to have contracted the metamorphic ability of the Caterilla.”

I demanded an explanation, somehow. I needed his arm so so badly then.

“How much do you know about their physiology?”

“Just what is on TV” one of us replied.

The doctor smiled. I shook and began to hum-whine as my legs scraped each other and shoes the floor.

“Despite all this time, the complete process and breath behind their shape shifting is still being research,” the doctor explained. “But we do know that it happens on the cellular level and involves cell machinery and behavior quite different from our own. . ” the professional continued and those exceptional unlike muscle or brain but both and neither absorbed. I didn't know that then, only later would they be using what they learned, taught me, shared and weaved into my stream of thought now.

They-We have the ability to select particular gene sequences, and implement them any time they like.

“Like a computer choosing to run different programs” my spouse's voice hadn't sounded that sure. His biological knowledge could be put on notecard and leave more room than started.

While in fixed state Caterpilla have the organs; respiratory, nervous, digestive, reproductive systems, a lifeform would need for the shape in their intelligence is not located inside their human brains, but that part of vestigal or possibly invisible, some speculated quantum entangling one, spread out throughout their bodies. Any part of our bodies can develop to want, think, need. But to not become metastasized we link within a form. Like a band

A symphony of me. Each member with need, specific pitch, want, tempo, and so.

In cooperation like a hive or colony this or these minds are perfectly adapting. Capable in any environment and situation.

An almost intelligent design if you will, except for our one true flaw.”

The doctor's voice came to my current attention, “unlike our own, lack the ability to repair and maintain DNA as it decays naturally over time. Instead they must rely on other creatures to provide this vital material, and have to form a symbiotic relationship with another species simply to survive. Specifically, they need the pre-Meiosis DNA found in reproductive material.”

No. I'd worked so hard. Been so good. I couldn't.. I wouldn't let this happen. I wouldn't metamorphise to fulfill HIM of all things.

“You've had close contact with Shifters. Close… physical contact. Exchanged the richest body fluids, yes?” the doctors voice was curious but not questioning. The Shifter cells abilities getting the better of her, ME.

I was now the one under pressure as I sensed him getting aroused at this close contact. I should back away, I knew, but even as I moved, my grey sweater gave me away by unbuttoning itself and revealing a shadow of … pec?

I sensed the energy of Billy's reaction flow over me, which in turn started a chain reaction of exposure and resculpting flesh.

Billy smiled at my sudden yet pleasing transformation, before looking over my catering form and then staring intently into his eyes. MY eyes. Perfect. Trembling. Eyes

“You're pretty smart...” Billy started, as he leant forward. My lips whispered as my brain fought my minds, arms handing, 'clothing' spilling down and off into shapes his body heat, heartbeat, smell and.. aura responded more and more to.

My mind fighting fearful. My traitorous body opening, baring. Excited.

“You know what I tell smart, baggy, bitchy women to do,” he outdid my predatory smile with an open sharp mouth, enjoying the moment. “...I make them my perfect cockwhote.”

I stood there. Wanting him told off.

“Tell him that he shouldn't treat people like that.”

He shouldn't seduce a teacher with his intense boundless he-energy. Not to women. Especially not to me.

I couldn't stand against it.

I landed on my hands, face down on my knees, surprised as much as anyone that I was now face to face with his brown felt shoes.. But at ease when my mind relaxed, just alittle to accept the loss of not having to struggle physically just against the feelings, the thoughts to keep in place of the tide and undertow. My tongue extended out from past my lips tickles before elongating and lapping at his Lugz. It felt so natural to reach gently shine out his fuzzy footwear hard and hold my hands as the small of my back.

I/Shifter Me was enthralled eager to show him all the stuff I'd learnt from Sam and practiced on my spouse. I touche the tip up under his pant cuff past smooth men's silken sock to calf-skinopened my perfect mouth and let my long pink tongue stretch out and gently circle against the narrow but turgid end of his leg, tasting another man for the first time since my re-birth..

Playfully I followed through by stretching out up against the other leg, eyes wide more, as I coiled my wet slimy tongue up along his shaft all up along the way to his inner thighs, rough thick fingers with short nails tickled from middle seat of his pants beneath the taint to the balls at his crotch. My nostrils tickles as the burning on my skin added weight that drowned the objecting figment of my married wife self under the turmbulent squalling cockwhore sea of desire.

Once I felt him secure in my embrace, I had the irresistible urge to hook his waistband from underneath pull back and down with my outstretched tongue and smoothly pants him before snapping my mouth shut. Enjoying the feeling of the thrill and surprise along with surge in aggression as the remaining indepent length worked his pants down to his ankles to a spill to join twining the other while now digging down to under his sock to his soul

That final act had subsumed her entirely to HIM. Not even stung. They could each taste his feet still.

A mere distraction to the flood of their nostrils. Billy's pubic scent and the sight even behind speckled tightly worn pair off panties. Sarah was so overthrown she couldn't even make HIS whiskered mouth smirk. But both's heart, seized at one at the sight and anticipation of the feast.fingers grasped and dug about atop the youth's knees. Nosing deeply snorting like boar for feed. Even as the finely heavy full bristles tickled and drew, parted and cut at the undercloth the play had worked.

Billy didn't notice the telltale red raises spots on his skin or understand the rush of liquid excitement to where HE licked and mouthed and tore cloth and soon suckled was more than just man's blood rising his member.

“That's the last time you give me a hard time in class b-buh biiiiitch,” he declared as palm out brow fingers bent to dig into the dark highlighted auburn hair of his once teacher not servant. His vision sharpened along with the absolute NEED to drive into this bitch.

“Uhhhh,” HE thrummed, rumbling his throat and lower jaw as length and scrotum held and massaged them.

“I told her . . . I'd fuck her . . uh...at uh – prom,” he panted. Who? No need. Serve. Excited. FEED.

All else largely forgotten in a sperm induced haze.

* * *

I sat there alone, barely blinking. Trying hopelessly to reconcile my love for my husband with my new found lusts and body. I cursed the closeted teen. Speculation on what about queers had been bubbling, not on the primetime news. No too disturbing in this man fantasy on earth. Now I had found out, personally witnessed. I was a regular Lara Croft.

But even as I thought about it I realised how stupid the idea was. It wasn't him; it was me, this body. The taste of his sperm affected this Caterilla body in ways I was now only beginning to understand.

It's so hard to control it, now that Gary is refusing me. Resisting my milk. I he'd caught me on the fourth attempt to sneak into his drinks. It was torture.

“We can't be sure how much is TOO much exposure. Suffice to say you'll need to...limit contact, until we know how to mitigate the...replacement rate and hope not spread.”

Sex was the key. I needed sex. With him. Then I could reshape to his ideal, my newer curvery, toned, beefy, hot self. ARGH

There was no way it could work. CockWhore was within. I wanted both Husband and my master. No, stop, I mean my student. NO I don't want my student.

I

His words ran through my mind, clear as day in my impeccable memory.

“I told her . . . I'd fuck her. . . at ... prom,” he that gasping harsh throaty rushing sound of his voice. Made me hard. UGH Nips.. hurt. Good god too.. much.

My mind even without Cockwhore in full control wasn't in mine. It drew and ran and perculated. All along the lines of what drew out and heard and saw with senses shaper and deeper than any woman's or mans. My thoughts tried to go to lazy Sundays, cleaning schedules, days of comfort after diagnosis. But the arms at my shoulders weren't old but not unfamiliar. Imaginarily pinning a phantom down over a classroom desk. Billy's rough hands groping heavy at the hard nipples. A hollow rapturous cry.

I shuddered looking at the thin slightly colored discharge on my desk. I leaned in, blinking, cones and rods readjusting focusing, optic nerves rewiring. Whatever came out of from the length between my fingers it had not sperm. I knew that as much as I knew were my knee was or I was no longer female. Human

The discharge seems to spread, diffuse and then sink ,soon though could see microscopic sratches and grain and mites...not the watery emission. My chest heaved.

I stood up and looked at my reflection in the dark classroom glass, and saw me. I think I could draw some concept of where from. The Paper Towel mascot, the older one before the Caterpilla made society not even try to not promote females as models and mascots. Well things that *looked* female.

I blushed reddened cheeks visible under my brown russet highlted full beard. I had a sturdy solid body but hair that seemed more perfect than could be possible without hours of treatments. It was bristly and smooth up the jawline connecting through my sideburns, I had SIDEBURNS, to my hair. It even performed a slight change in tone, attractive in the right light but in common acceptable, not directly drawing attention.

The face smiled, frowned, furrowed, and went through the gamut but never looked much softer. I glanced to my arms, no rough parts or stretch marks. Solid, no flab, carveds I seemed to pump or deepen my cut with each move. I focused, invisible line over my skin became light then heavy red brown hair. Then fur. Woman, I was wondering if man or ape. The idead of being so primal. Beast moistened my mouth and made my guts churn. My nails were strong and thick but even.

A glitter at the side made me look to my shadowed reflection and turn my head. I had tiny green bead piercings in each lobe but a small but thick gauge hoop on one ear. The back of my head wasn't a mullet but some decorative style at the ends to a bare enough neck, no fat and lips, just strong muscle, skin and peppering of hairs that seems to form a pattern that I felt my eyes shifting to catch right. I wasn't sure if below my collar it was growing or moving. And a human likely couldn't hope to without being caught.

I was dreading this. For my Mesomorphic build and rectangular frame I was bigger in one comparison to the “work outfit”

“Damn, gay are straight why like them so...big”

They were fat, solid and extended out but how fitted in the open clutching sides of my sprung open flannel through the easily unconcealing white tee where muscle tits of Cockwhore. They were more turgid but felt simulataneously hard stopping me but pressing outward. And the nipples. I didn't lean aagainst the window to not leave a hairline.

I could bounce, suck them in widen them, they liked, felt happier flat but didn't dislike puffing out. And with a pinch I found could still squeeze out my magic milk through my shirt into my hand and...oh

I rubbed it then brought to my sharp narrow nose. Then I peered as the 'milk' faded, leaving my hands no wetter than lotion or oil. It was most like the fluid I'd ejaculated just now. My throat drew up and down.

Looking over to Billy's desk I spotted a half empty bottle of mineral water, sitting upright and discarded.

I realised why Billy had been so .. overt, forceful, unguarded. I'd been dousing him with...IT. I didn't know know. My human brain wasn't equiped. But the Caterpill flesh, the attuned, adaptive, catering glands, and sniffers and thinking cells. They'd been faithful to their mission. Their directive. To help get me a supplier. One that would FORCE his sperm into me. While I forced my milk, venom, or musk into him. OR anything I could. Tainting them. Turning them. Slowly stripping them of the wrapping about the maniac beast within all mankind.

Its why he kept babbling, kept going. And to the end his eyes been. FULL of something besides consciousness. Or lust. Or desire. Something primal and alien at the same time. Soaking into his cerebral fluids. Rushing through his blood, saturating his fat cooking loose then broiling hard the bones and muscle.

Sarah was once again in her classroom, writing the headline of today's study topic on the whiteboard. To keep her identity as a Body Caterilla a secret, Sarah had changed back to her old human form. But these days she walked with a spring in her step and a happy contented smile on her face.

There was a snigger from the back. One of the boys must have whispered something silly. Perhaps it was Billy joking again about his latest conquest.

Sarah turned around to look at the class and was surprised to see worried faces on two of the girls up front. They were staring past her at the whiteboard, looking worried by what they saw.

“It's not that hard,” Sarah muttered to herself as she turned around and looked for herself.

“Fuck Me Senseless!” was written on the board in Sarah's own handwriting.

That was my “oh crap” moment.

A quick wipe with the eraser, and I was writing the title again. “Just keep calm, Sarah” I said quietly to myself, wondering if I was going crazy or if my Caterilla body was rebelling again.

“H... e... mm... i... n... g... way,” I spelled on the board, mouthing every vocal to make sure that my traitorous hand wrote it properly.

I looked back at the class as if nothing had happened, only to see one of the shocked girls shake her head and point at the whiteboard in horror.

So I looked back. “I want to taste your CUM,” the board demanded, again in my careful scrawl.

“Oh shit,” I mouthed much louder this time, as I cleaned the board with another flick of my eraser. But it was too late. I could feel my dress tightening up around my slimming legs, while the cotton in my shirt was gradually transforming itself into silky lingerie.

Slowly I turned around, my folded arms covering my growing and partially exposed bosom, my face questioning how I could brush over this now very public infraction.

But to my surprise almost all of my students were suddenly gone, and all that remained was Billy, sitting alone in the centre of the room surrounded by now empty chairs.

I heard the door to the classroom close itself quietly on a spring. Departing student footsteps could be heard down the hallway.

“Still thinking of me?” Billy asked rhetorically, drawing my attention back towards him, as he looked me over.

“Let's not do this,” I suggested plainly, raising both my eyebrows and slowly shaking my head. My folded arms were slowly being prised apart by the weight of my expanding breasts.

Billy stood up and smiled. “How are my grades doing?”

I backed away at his advance, my withdrawal suddenly blocked by the profanity stained whiteboard to my back.

“How many more 'A' grades do you want?” I pleaded, as I felt his aura of arousal envelop me. “You've stopped turning in your homework, I've started writing your essays for you.” By this point I was talking quickly and pretty much begging him to stop.

My shoes by this point had for the most part turned themselves into leather stiletto boots. Smooth black points slowly extended from my heels, forcing my curvaceous ass to slide upwards along the cold white plastic board.

He was close enough now I could feel his muscles grow. I noticed he was better dressed than before. That ugly sports cap he used to wear was gone, and now I saw a head full of hair, full of body, his face one of alpha masculinity.

I studied his jaw line, his lips, that way he looked into my eyes.

“None of that matters because I own you,” he explained, his hand running over my ear and down along my blond curly hair.

“No I...” I stammered, as my nipples hardened through silky lingerie, reaching out and touching his waiting hand.

“What are you?” he asked with a devious smile as he pinched the top of my ultra sensitive nipple.

“I'm your teacher,” I squeaked, my body shivering in anticipated pleasure.

“What are you really?” he whispered directly into my ear, as my hand brushed its way upwards along the inside of his leg.

“I'm your slave,” I corrected myself. My fingers having found his hardened member, pressed tightly against his trousers.

“What does my slave want?”

“I want you to take me,” I acknowledged. “To pin me up against this wall and fill me up with your sweet precious cum.”

“Good, let's keep it that way” he smiled, suddenly backing away and turning towards his desk.

I was in heat. My enlarged breasts roaring with anticipation, and he was turning his back on me? My mouth was wide open in shock, as Billy walked to his desk to grab his rucksack.

I was nothing to this man, not even a polite fuck. I was to be kept on a leash, to do his bidding, to serve him like many others.

I felt a dark anger grow inside of me. What arrogance, I was worth more than this. If I was a slave to his cock, then he would be a slave to my needs. My dark thoughts were matched by darker drops that appeared on my white lingerie, like black ink poured on pure white paper.

My leather stiletto boots grew dark and shiny, like an evil second latex skin that flowed upwards over my knees. My right hand pointed downwards, fingers grouping together, growing longer, shinier and gaining flexibility. Forming a long black slimy rope, that reached the floor and trailed behind me as I walked.

“I didn't say you could go,” I insisted firmly as he paused on the way to the classroom door.

He turned around in surprise, either at my new attire or attitude.

“You can't leave until I'm satisfied,” I insisted, as I twirled my whip and expertly cracked it against his left buttock.

“What the fuck slave that hurt!” he squealed as he recoiled in pain, his hand instinctively covering the point of impact.

I extended my whip in length, and with one quick motion swung it forwards and coiled it around his legs. A single forceful pull knocked him over and dragged him back over to me.

The slimy whip coiled upwards around his knees, as I stepped over him with my sharp stiletto heels. He pulled his hand back from the floor at the last moment, to avoid having it impaled on my heel.

“Perhaps you were mistaken,” I suggested forcefully, staring down at him as he got a view of my black plastic dress actively splitting open in the middle. “My clit is hungry, and you're going to please me.”

“You can't do this to me,” he insisted as my slimy black rope whip moved up around his torso, immobilizing both his arms completely.

“You are now my cum-slave,” I insisted as my ropes tightened, causing him intentional discomfort and emphasizing my domination over him. “You will please me, or I'm going to squeeze every last drop of sperm out of your good-for-nothing-else-cock.”

He squirmed helplessly, as I fell to my knees and lowered my wet vagina over his face. Instinctively my body released a cloud of powerful pheromones, which he was forced to inhale.

He turned his head away, still resisting my erotic onslaught.

I playfully ran my fingers through his hair, as my slimy clit engorged itself ready for his attention. But I was impatient, so I followed up by grabbing his head and forcing it inside of me.

I shuddered as he squirmed between my legs. A moment later I allowed him to emerge and gasp for air. His face now covered in my sweet sticky fluid, tasting me for the first time, his body quickly adsorbing my aphrodisiac ladened lubricant.

His eyes rolled backwards for a moment, as my magic took effect.

In a few moments I leaned forwards and relaxed into him and felt his willing tongue touch my wet insides. My body shivered in expectation.

* * *

It was dark. Samantha squirmed from somewhere between my legs. Her distinctive and so familiar purr slowly brought me back to my senses.

I was somewhere else, confused. I allowed my eyes to grow larger so I could see the long black hair moving between my legs and the downstairs living room furniture spread around me in the dark.

I could still feel Billy's tongue sliding around deep inside me, expertly caressing my insides. No that was Samantha's tongue. Had I been dreaming? Sleepwalking again?

“Who is Billy?” Samantha asked, innocently, after carefully withdrawing her tongue.

I blinked back at her in the dark with my oversized eyes. This was compromising. Nobody was allowed to know about my affair with my student.

“You were saying his name when you were whipping me,” Samantha whispered, with a slight sensual moan. “Don't worry, I won't tell” she continued, keen to show her loyalty.

I was angry. I love my husband but Billy was driving me crazy, corrupting me, and haunting my dreams. My Caterilla Body was falling for his poison, and I needed to get it out.

It was then that I knew what I had to do to make it stop.

CHAPTER 14: The Sarah Split

* * *

I ran the projector on the last lesson of the day. I had my students lower the classroom blinds to avoid fading out the image. I asked Billy to stay late so I could talk to him about his pattern of missed homework. Exactly two minutes after the other students had left I checked the hallway for stragglers and silently locked the door.

I'd gotten good at this.

I walked past the classroom of empty chairs, turned on the spot and leant against my desk. I looked over Billy, my one remaining student. He was still sitting, ignorant of my plans, looking down at his phone and occasionally swiping left.

Time passed.

Billy noticed the silence, looked up, then around, then back at me.

I grinned when I saw his startled face. Taking pleasure at the sight of him realizing he was now locked in a room with his Body Caterilla teacher. The one he'd forced to pleasure him, in this very classroom, not more than two months ago.

I'd considered tying him to that chair with a whip, or perhaps growing big muscles, dragging him into the supply room and tearing off his clothes.

That would have been fun, but in the end, I decided that it was best to simply relax and let my Body Caterilla takeover. It knew what he wanted. It knew what to do, and it was going to be so easy.

He watched as my body fat moved north, engorging my chest. My jumper thinned and receded into a thin white bikini that emphasized my rapidly growing legs and barely held up my football sized breasts.

I felt the warm glow of his dick hardening, and confirmed it by glancing between his legs.

He'd clearly gotten the message, stood up, and took the opportunity to run his hand along my now perfectly muscled abs. Without warning he spun me around, pushed me over my desk, reached around and plunged his fingers into my moist vagina.

A moment later I was moaning and begging him to get inside me, which he quickly obliged.

He pumped, I moaned, and contracted my insides around him tightly until he was compelled to pump me with his hot cum.

But if he was expecting me to orgasm, then he was disappointed. I lay silent and motionless on my oversized breasts. Billy, now quite confused tried to pump me a bit more, and then tried rubbing my boobs for a bit, before giving up.

Then came the awkward pause.

“Leave” I commanded, from underneath him, with whatever authority I could muster while my insides were full of his cum.

Billy grunted in acknowledgement, withdrew, fumbled with his trousers, unlocked the classroom door and walked out.

* * *

I was now alone.

The only thing I had to do now was get my overly sexualized body behind the desk to where there was no possibility that I could be seen from outside.

But first I had to convince my body.

I was holding my womb together, holding the warm juicy sperm inwards, willing it not to be absorbed by my hungry shapeshifter body. It resisted me. Made my breasts grow larger. Hair change color. Fingernails lengthen. I felt my legs stretch, and then go numb as I tried to stand until my knees gave way and I fell to the floor.

In my last act of defiance, I used my elongated arms to drag my shape shifting body under and past the desk and roll myself onto my back.

All was quiet. I smiled knowing I was now safe.

I opened my legs and felt a drop of hot cum roll down my ass cheek. Adsorbing it felt amazing. It didn't matter anymore. I extended two elongated fingers inside me and allowed myself to feel the pleasure.

Silencing my moans with my left hand, I circled around my sensitive parts, oh how they were sensitive, and rubbed in the cum, feeling it fizz, sending waves of pleasure around my now oh so willing body.

Then it happened. Something changed. I can't pretend to have thought too much about it at the time, but the orgasms got stronger, longer, overwhelming.

I looked down to see my belly turn to chrome, as slithers of silver started running up my body.

To be honest, I'd seen a couple of Caterilla split videos online, but never in person, and I definitely never considered that it could happen to me. Not until a few months ago at least.

I smiled a silver smile, as I watched my arms become enveloped in chrome. Drops of me began to fall from my fingers onto my breasts as I felt myself become free.

My thoughts became liquid. It was the most relaxing feeling ever as the difference between my head, my legs, even my hair became irrelevant. I was all one being as I gave myself fully, once and for all, to my Body Caterilla consciousness.

* * *

I felt crowded. Instinctively I rolled over and started crawling towards something.

The more I moved the more the chrome slid off me, or into me.

The chrome was fading but my vision remained blurry. I was driven by my sense of smell, which became sharper as I moved.

I could smell a man. Billy. His name came to my lips. It was his chair, and with my desperate hunger I crawled over to it. On my knees I embraced it, and longed for his cum.

Shit, it didn't work. My infatuation with this student was worse than before. I felt my plan to split, to remove his poison, was a fail.

“He's all yours,” said a familiar voice from across the room.

I blinked, my vision quickly returning. I turned to my left and saw for the first time a familiar figure standing behind my desk.

She wore the same shirt and dress I was teaching in less than an hour ago. She had my hair; she had my purse… or was it her purse?

I was scared for a moment. Was she going to challenge me for Billy?

“What do you want?” I demanded, gripping the chair tighter.

“All I want is the love of my husband,” said Sarah with a contented grin, before dropping some cash on the desk for me and leaving.

As she left I became aware that the chrome was fading from my rapidly darkening skin. I stood up, found my reflection, and saw my unfamiliar face for the first time.

Body Caterilla: Sarah's Transformation

CHAPTER 13: Hypnotizing old flames

* * *

Cathy was having a good day.

Her ass, now thick and delightfully rounded, bobbled up and down on Gary's hard cock, each movement pressing him down further onto the soft fabric of his plush office couch.

In theory he was taking her from behind, but she was so far on top of him, and he was so flat on the sofa, that all he could do was reach around her waist or hold her ample behind.

Her eyes were closed, her smile deep and contented, humming a popular tune to herself. Her overstretched Atari T-shirt barely holding back the bouncy movements of her ample cleavage, as her well lubricated pussy massaged his shaft in ways only a shape Caterilla could.

Gary grunted from under her, and Cathy followed by breathing out a soft moan of pleasure as she felt the first drops of Gary's sperm touch her willing womanhood.

Then came another grunt, and he began to cum, for real this time. The first spurt woke her up from her happy trance with a shock. Cathy's eyes blinked wide open, her mouth aghast, as at first pain, followed by immense soul filling pleasure flowed its way up through her body.

Her eyes rolled up in pleasure, her head fell back and suddenly Gary's face was covered by her long jet black hair.

While his hand struggled to free his face, Cathy's womanhood instinctively tightened itself around his cock and started sucking every last drop of his cum.

“I'm sure you should have split by now?” Gary asked, reflecting on his promise to pump her with sperm until she could reproduce and now suspicious at how much of a good time Cathy was having and/or the feeling of being milked.

“Who's suddenly an expert at Body Caterilla physiology?” Cathy asked in a mocking way, looking down at him and holding his dick tighter in her vagina to prove a point.

Gary winced a little at this show of strength.

“For your information, it takes longer, as I started off behind,” she explained, somewhat mischievously, as if talking to a child.

All Gary could do was grunt in passive agreement, as she satisfied herself that she had the last of him and let go, standing up and freeing his manhood with a small pop.

“Perhaps if we did this more often?” Cathy suggested with a small shrug, her shapely legs gaining a darker fabric texture as she reformed her jeans. “But I have to get back to work. You're the one who's got me working on this project 24/7; perhaps you're the one demanding too much?”

Not waiting for a response, Cathy placed a tic-tac in her mouth and left Gary's office with a perky smile on her face.

CHAPTER 10: Target Audience

“Doctor!” shouted the blond paramedic as she raced the stretcher down the white hospital corridor. The female casualty moaning in pain from under a thick thermal blanket.

The hansom male doctor turned around, revealing his dark curly hair and square masculine jaw. He lifted the blanket, to find the injured woman shivering underneath.

She reached out, her slender hand still blue with cold. “Is little Ann going to be OK?” she asked, weakly.

“She'll be fine,” insisted the female paramedic. “You saved her from drowning in that icy lake.” “You're a hero,” she said, comforting comfort the woman before looking back at the doctor with worry.

“No talking, or we're going to lose her,” insisted the doctor, his voice one of concerned professionalism. “Over a quarter of her mass has been frozen. She going to go critical.”

“What do we do?” squeeled the paramedic.

“There's only one thing we can do,” he insisted as he unzipped his flies and pulled out his large member, rubbing it solidly with his large hands.

“Of course,” she realised weakly before unzipping her thick high visibility jacket to reveal her pert C cup breasts underneath.

Eager to help, she began rubbing his member between her supple breasts, making him harder and quickly bringing him to orgasm.

He turned and started spraying strong jets of semen over the patients exposed body, before forcing the last of his spurt into her open mouth.

She almost choaked, weak as she was, at the sudden intrusion into her airways. But then, slowly at first, she started to suckle on the life giving juices.

The patients skin began to bubble and fizz under the layers of sticky white liquid, as her body started adsorbing it, bringing new life.

“It's working!” the paramedic exclaimed, her milky white teeth gleaming with joy.

* * *

TV had gotten strange as of late, Gary considered as he watched yet another apparently sensible program decend into multiple pornagraphic plot lines.

He'd lost interest in the show after a nurse walked in and was offended by her lesbian lover sexing the good doctor, before being convinced to join in herself. Moments later the patient herself was apparently healthy enough to execute a four way.

It wasn't the sex that made Gary uneasy, it was the camera work. How even though there were multiple beauty's in the scene, it was only the doctor that stayed in focus. A character who'd been working hard to remain credible in a woman dominated profession, now being milked in pure fan service.

Gary wanted to change channel, to see how his football team were doing, but Sarah was captivated. Watching the show intently from her position on his lap under his right arm.

Samantha, their live-in Caterilla maid, walked into the living room carrying a fully ladened tray of snacks with two hands. In another hand were some glasses filled with Cola, and another held a freshly baked pizza on a large plate.

Gary had long ago given up trying to keep track of what she does with all those arms of hers.

After carefully placing everything onto the coffee table, Samantha covered a nacho with guacamole and took her place beside him on the soft leather sofa.

The TV switched to a commercial break, causing Sarah to turn her attention to the pizza. She licked her soft red lips, picked up a slice with her soft feminine hands, and started feeding it carefully to her husband.

Gary didn't know why she'd started doing this lately. When asked, Sarah always insisted that it just felt like the natural thing to do, that it brought them closer together.

By now Samantha had grown bored of the natcho. It's spicy flavour not registering well on her Caterilla pallet, instead tasting bland and hollow.

As an alternative, she smoothly ran a hand inside of Gary's trouser band and gently wrapped her long feminine fingers around his cock.

“Do you mind?” she asked suggestivly, as his member grew quickly in her soft grasp.

Gary mumbled something in reply, his mouth full of hot food as it was, as Samantha carefully removed his hardened member from its now inadequate confines.

It stood to attention, impressive in size, resilience and most of all output. The product of regular exercise, a vitamin enriched diet and the secret infusions of that mysterious Caterilla milk, added daily to his diet without his knowledge.

Samantha quickly inserted the proud member into her mouth, and expertly massaged his manhood with her lips and tounge. Once satisfied at his level of arousal, she began forcing herself all the way down his rod until his tip became snugly embedded into her deep wet throat.

“Splunkaid” announced the TV commercial. “That refreshing semen taste, for that special lady.”

“Doesn't actually contain any sperm,” insisted Sarah in disgust, as she took a sip on the Cola anyway.

Gary on the other hand immediatly spat out the Cola he'd been drinking, only now recognising the source of that unfamiliar taste in his own mouth.

Looking back at the ad, it became apparent that he wasn't the target audience for this product.

At this moment in time 98% of the population were made up of Caterilla

CHAPTER 12: Turning To the Dark Side

* * *

The family had just been to the zoo.

Their little boy was happy but exhausted, sleeping peacefully in his pushchair as the group walked through the strip mall to their car. It was late enough on a Sunday for all the shops to be closed, but that didn't discourage the girls.

“We haven't gone shopping in ages,” smiled his girlfriend/live in maid Samantha as she skipped out ahead to take a look through the window of a fashion store. Her beautiful Caterilla eyes staring intently through the clear glass at the no expenses spared mannequins, frozen in time, adorned with the latest fashions.

Samantha stepped back, looking somewhat pleased with herself as she began a perfect ballerina twirl, with a long red dress materializing around her.

“What do you think?” she asked, winking one eye while revealing a leg in a most erotic manner.

“Red really is your color,” complemented Gary with a big smile on his face. Appreciating how she looked amazing, but pretty much how she always looked amazing.

Taking his eyes off the beauty for a moment, Gary turned to see his wife Sarah staring into the thick reinforced security glass of a fancy looking jewelry store.

She looked absolutely engrossed by the diamond encrusted gold ring that took centre stage on the display. Gary didn't know anything about jewelry, but he could see the size of the rock and all those zeros on the price tag.

Those pretty eyes of hers were transfixed, as she moved her head along the window so she could get a good look at the goods from any angle she could. She stood on her tiptoes for a moment, eager as she was to see how the light reflected off its golden form, and through the geometry of the expertly cut diamond crystal.

Once satisfied, she stood back from the window, looked down and carefully cupped her hands together. After a moment's concentration, her hands parted, revealing the golden diamond ring on her finger.

“It's beautiful Gary, thank you,” she said gratefully as she kissed him playfully on the cheek.

Gary smiled then suddenly felt nervous, looking back at the security cameras outside the jewelry store. Feeling that they had somehow stolen the ring, he felt the need to push onwards and take them all back to his waiting car.

When he walked, he had a gorgeous girl on each arm.

Sarah was once again in her classroom, writing the headline of today's study topic on the whiteboard. To keep her identity as a Body Caterilla a secret, Sarah had changed back to her old human form. But these days she walked with a spring in her step and a happy contented smile on her face.

There was a snigger from the back. One of the boys must have whispered something silly. Perhaps it was Billy joking again about his latest conquest.

Sarah turned around to look at the class and was surprised to see worried faces on two of the girls up front. They were staring past her at the whiteboard, looking worried by what they saw.

“It's not that hard,” Sarah muttered to herself as she turned around and looked for herself.

“Fuck Me Senseless!” was written on the board in Sarah's own handwriting.

That was my “oh crap” moment.

A quick wipe with the eraser, and I was writing the title again. “Just keep calm, Sarah” I said quietly to myself, wondering if I was going crazy or if my Caterilla body was rebelling again.

“H... e... mm... i... n... g... way,” I spelled on the board, mouthing every vocal to make sure that my traitorous hand wrote it properly.

I looked back at the class as if nothing had happened, only to see one of the shocked girls shake her head and point at the whiteboard in horror.

So I looked back. “I want to taste your CUM,” the board demanded, again in my careful scrawl.

“Oh shit,” I mouthed much louder this time, as I cleaned the board with another flick of my eraser. But it was too late. I could feel my dress tightening up around my slimming legs, while the cotton in my shirt was gradually transforming itself into silky lingerie.

Slowly I turned around, my folded arms covering my growing and partially exposed bosom, my face questioning how I could brush over this now very public infraction.

But to my surprise almost all of my students were suddenly gone, and all that remained was Billy, sitting alone in the centre of the room surrounded by now empty chairs.

I heard the door to the classroom close itself quietly on a spring. Departing student footsteps could be heard down the hallway.

“Still thinking of me?” Billy asked rhetorically, drawing my attention back towards him, as he looked me over.

“Let's not do this,” I suggested plainly, raising both my eyebrows and slowly shaking my head. My folded arms were slowly being prised apart by the weight of my expanding breasts.

Billy stood up and smiled. “How are my grades doing?”

I backed away at his advance, my withdrawal suddenly blocked by the profanity stained whiteboard to my back.

“How many more 'A' grades do you want?” I pleaded, as I felt his aura of arousal envelop me. “You've stopped turning in your homework, I've started writing your essays for you.” By this point I was talking quickly and pretty much begging him to stop.

My shoes by this point had for the most part turned themselves into leather stiletto boots. Smooth black points slowly extended from my heels, forcing my curvaceous ass to slide upwards along the cold white plastic board.

He was close enough now I could feel his muscles grow. I noticed he was better dressed than before. That ugly sports cap he used to wear was gone, and now I saw a head full of hair, full of body, his face one of alpha masculinity.

I studied his jaw line, his lips, that way he looked into my eyes.

“None of that matters because I own you,” he explained, his hand running over my ear and down along my blond curly hair.

“No I...” I stammered, as my nipples hardened through silky lingerie, reaching out and touching his waiting hand.

“What are you?” he asked with a devious smile as he pinched the top of my ultra sensitive nipple.

“I'm your teacher,” I squeaked, my body shivering in anticipated pleasure.

“What are you really?” he whispered directly into my ear, as my hand brushed its way upwards along the inside of his leg.

“I'm your slave,” I corrected myself. My fingers having found his hardened member, pressed tightly against his trousers.

“What does my slave want?”

“I want you to take me,” I acknowledged. “To pin me up against this wall and fill me up with your sweet precious cum.”

“Good, let's keep it that way” he smiled, suddenly backing away and turning towards his desk.

I was in heat. My enlarged breasts roaring with anticipation, and he was turning his back on me? My mouth was wide open in shock, as Billy walked to his desk to grab his rucksack.

I was nothing to this man, not even a polite fuck. I was to be kept on a leash, to do his bidding, to serve him like many others.

I felt a dark anger grow inside of me. What arrogance, I was worth more than this. If I was a slave to his cock, then he would be a slave to my needs. My dark thoughts were matched by darker drops that appeared on my white lingerie, like black ink poured on pure white paper.

My leather stiletto boots grew dark and shiny, like an evil second latex skin that flowed upwards over my knees. My right hand pointed downwards, fingers grouping together, growing longer, shinier and gaining flexibility. Forming a long black slimy rope, that reached the floor and trailed behind me as I walked.

“I didn't say you could go,” I insisted firmly as he paused on the way to the classroom door.

He turned around in surprise, either at my new attire or attitude.

“You can't leave until I'm satisfied,” I insisted, as I twirled my whip and expertly cracked it against his left buttock.

“What the fuck slave that hurt!” he squealed as he recoiled in pain, his hand instinctively covering the point of impact.

I extended my whip in length, and with one quick motion swung it forwards and coiled it around his legs. A single forceful pull knocked him over and dragged him back over to me.

The slimy whip coiled upwards around his knees, as I stepped over him with my sharp stiletto heels. He pulled his hand back from the floor at the last moment, to avoid having it impaled on my heel.

“Perhaps you were mistaken,” I suggested forcefully, staring down at him as he got a view of my black plastic dress actively splitting open in the middle. “My clit is hungry, and you're going to please me.”

“You can't do this to me,” he insisted as my slimy black rope whip moved up around his torso, immobilizing both his arms completely.

“You are now my cum-slave,” I insisted as my ropes tightened, causing him intentional discomfort and emphasizing my domination over him. “You will please me, or I'm going to squeeze every last drop of sperm out of your good-for-nothing-else-cock.”

He squirmed helplessly, as I fell to my knees and lowered my wet vagina over his face. Instinctively my body released a cloud of powerful pheromones, which he was forced to inhale.

He turned his head away, still resisting my erotic onslaught.

I playfully ran my fingers through his hair, as my slimy clit engorged itself ready for his attention. But I was impatient, so I followed up by grabbing his head and forcing it inside of me.

I shuddered as he squirmed between my legs. A moment later I allowed him to emerge and gasp for air. His face now covered in my sweet sticky fluid, tasting me for the first time, his body quickly adsorbing my aphrodisiac ladened lubricant.

His eyes rolled backwards for a moment, as my magic took effect.

In a few moments I leaned forwards and relaxed into him and felt his willing tongue touch my wet insides. My body shivered in expectation.

* * *

It was dark. Samantha squirmed from somewhere between my legs. Her distinctive and so familiar purr slowly brought me back to my senses.

I was somewhere else, confused. I allowed my eyes to grow larger so I could see the long black hair moving between my legs and the downstairs living room furniture spread around me in the dark.

I could still feel Billy's tongue sliding around deep inside me, expertly caressing my insides. No that was Samantha's tongue. Had I been dreaming? Sleepwalking again?

“Who is Billy?” Samantha asked, innocently, after carefully withdrawing her tongue.

I blinked back at her in the dark with my oversized eyes. This was compromising. Nobody was allowed to know about my affair with my student.

“You were saying his name when you were whipping me,” Samantha whispered, with a slight sensual moan. “Don't worry, I won't tell” she continued, keen to show her loyalty.

I was angry. I love my husband but Billy was driving me crazy, corrupting me, and haunting my dreams. My Caterilla Body was falling for his poison, and I needed to get it out.

It was then that I knew what I had to do to make it stop.

 
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from Darmani

CW: kidnapping, brain-washing, death, enslavement/brainwashing

Series: Jumpchain Darmani

“Primary site this story has been published on: Gay Spiral Stories”

Copyright © 2022 Darmani. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

Some Sogampros are simple in result but still a story to keep and gain. And more direct courtship can happen.

Maximum the Ryo => Gushing Kitario, Balladeer Kawakita

Appearance

He varies between thick early 00s rocker form and his more tight MMA fitness. His tattoos removed, only one mark permanently remains on his body, at the small of his back his Heart Crest mixed with . He may redecorate his canvas with a fine nonstaining self-maintaining cloth with an additional Mending style effect where wipes ( keeps tied to his instrument or hung out back of waist). He could add body jewelry, even fine ‘engravings’ of silver or lines through his skin, even occasionally has Madaraki-Suture face. But reverts to a ‘clean’ look if sense dislike from Jumper for look. If his shapely fit form he favors short hair, sleek early 21st century athletic gear if in public gym, or fetish gear and styles of same if within Jumper facilities.
He can become his more well fed form in a matter of weeks, aided by candies or trainers and effects. His clothing as this is always torn or perforated. And his waist is never in more than ragged daisy dukes. If not take knife to make new apparel fit his style, he’ll wear it and act to get his battle damage authentically.
His dreads would be his actual hair which he dyes in dark colors, browns, contrasting reds, golds, and/or oranges.

Personality

Humility oo
Extraversion ooooo
Conscientiousness oo
Agreeableness oo
Openness oo
Wild in performance his face ready to break in expressions. He is the storm lasso’ed by Jumper and proud of it.

Power

Now with how he feeds off the cheer and adoration of his audience his music is medium for action and influence on all touches and echoes through. His voice is a sound studio to itself.
Whether fattened by Sal, or trimmed and re-buffed by Law, he is brimming with energy and enthusiasm. He is a true balladeer, taking the sense of a place and history, with his song and flushing it into the mind and ensorcelling the vision of his audience. He can tap into outer views and thoughts of those watching echoes of his performances, but he is enthusiastic and burning with live crowds. He prefers to increase what is there, but can bring his own storm of emotions and ecstatic revelry if he pushes himself.
Though capable of composing all sorts of strumming music, he is more likely to act, to PERFORM than any other Sogampros in rock, heavy, and revelry music styles.

Origin

Tragedy struck when a 46 hour manhunt for the kidnapper of Ryo Kawakita (川北 亮, Kawakita Ryō, born December 13, 1978), also known as Maximum the Ryo (マキシマムザ亮君 Makishimamu Za Ryō-kun), the guitarist and vocalist of MAXIMUM THE HORMONE. The mad black foreigner, alleged American had been seen crossing all boundaries to the bands concerts, in spite of security. Letters more insistent and intense unable to be stopped to the celebrity musician, age 25. He was tracked to an abandoned highrise, with his kidnapper who was spotted on a whirlwind of sightings not just through all the 47 prefectures of Japan. Evidence of assault and even drugging was speculated in every investigated holding area found by police on the scene.
Bandmates and fans struck when need for sniper came and SDF rated marksman Aohige Nanaki shot the kidnapper but also got the musician in the chest. The multi-story fall has made the bodies unidentifiable and
click
And so your high stress life as corpo-band frontman is ended. But don’t worry. drip drip I will make certain your love of music, performance, and attitude get all the expression in your new life lick lick not even a stolen corpse, just shaped meat and bone. Bit annoyed had to bring in hairy blueberry. But really. I just not likely get another opportunity. Don’t worry, you won’t…forget yourself. Just be so much else can’t be that person anymore. And I’ve got clothing and new identity when you leave.

Yes, I knew you’d return. Please only 1 month. And you didn’t just feel lost. Had some fun. So, that’s just what I can grant you. Come along and mightier gains await from cosmic entities. You can be anyone. Anytime. So long as you stay my hot asian burning heart.

Yes, I know, don’t worry, so long your love not truly fade this won’t. Yes. Good. Yes, Another poke going in lower, VERY soon…

Yeah that was your future, well training with us is a little excessive for your needs. Just want to do some K-pro or octagon fightin’ right? Heh, well okay could use someone with some sport focus. A coach. I got the guy.

Candy tells me you’re sulking. I like you all thick and chunky or tight and fiery. Like a rooster. Here, a diet and exercise plan. Trust me, stick to these for how want to look.

Good, you’re making quite the name for yourself. But be careful, outside they might not be able to…quench your thirsts

Its alright, its alright he’s okay now. Home safe and sound. And recalls a difficult ordeal want to avoid you and this life for and nothing else. I know first time out of the octagon or ring. I think… well you need a special league. Still same challengers. Well better caliber. But entertainment who can keep up and competitors not compelled to deny the … costs of defeat are acceptable.
Its alright. I ADORE you. I consider making the Seraglio exhibition a fine addition to the recreations available. Its okay. The lights here will dim their recollection as they leave. Its a subtle enchantment. You could weave it too, it emerges with your little private concerts.
Yes I know.
Goodness sakes, it was weeks before your afterpartygoers didn’t leave running into lakes, lamps, and walls. I had to ease them up. But you do so good now have to base this work off you. Now go, break his ass on the mat. And don’t forget, one week after to trust Sal with your cooking. Tours start in two months.

 
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from Darmani

Sogamprós: meaning son-in-law or bridegroom that joins or, offensively, not leaving or laying about, the house of the patriarch. Used as possible designation for members of The Seraglio meant to be especially active in agenda and alterations of Seraglio and agenda of it’s Lord

Pupau Chrisalice Brimford “Lucky” Deaibes

Appearance
An atmosphere of grandpa, older man, or dad energy and warmth in surprisingly well kept skin, firm body, gorgeous hair, arresting look, thick iconic mustache, and his eyes.…
Add in the beloved charm effect, akin to the sun across the plains or sea, it is only his relatively unassuming conduct, while those around him reflect his psychokinetic ardor, that make him so suited to sweep forth, a breeze in the air that is never barred merely turned about to goal.
Personality
He is obedient to the Master as Specialist to Client, a well treated, regarded specialist. And takes as a given He is as King or Royalty. Chris develops disdain for those who would disparage or inconvenience his patron, while being rather live and let live regarding himself, if dispassionately retributive by social means, if it is easy and with no long-term commitment. Though if Brimford sees a serious willful injustice or offense will take it as cause to act, though now makes sure to send message to Gryphon if not The Seraglio or The Jumper/Master, whoever most available in his mind, when moved or sees such.
Powers
You, as all, believe in his heart and charm. And he sounds so…nice. The glowing radiance of sensual loving charm, that spreads by:
Gaze, his on you or yours on him.
His voice, even if unheard if tickles your skin,

If cups you anywhere your hormones dance to his humming or subtle expressions.
A field as wide and intense as his body odor surrounds him. Always smelling elder but assuring and… strong. When in its area of effect, feelings and actions you are both in agreement with are supported, only reined by a grindstone mind that can work in parallel as converses or acts otherwise.

He is exceptionally aware due to this Stoking Aura. If touch the field he can smell, hear, see, and touch you. He even induces shadows of those sensations on a person or object in range. Even rain and water no help as when shares run-off has as many phantom limbs, fingers, tongues, and more where his effluvium graces bodies or permeates shared fluid (a shared drink, or ice cream, or serving plate). So too his heart commands your being as it does his own. Moreover he feels and can see whoever sees him, and hear all the sounds, even their arteries, who listen in on him.
While able to flip from pacifying assurance, to terrific awe with a look or a yell, his emphatic influence is always arousing, intensifying. Its not so much he reduces inhibitions, as drunkenness, so much galvanizes energy, feelings, and thoughts he observes in someone or wishes magnify at a guess.
A wet kiss lets him peek into your thoughts, sharing one that effect lasts for as little as two to many as six hours. Lovemaking peels you open and, even before he issues, can plant seeds of desire, wants, dreams, and hungers. Eight hours of continued contact and your skin is but a wrapping to the feelings and body he forms out of you like raw materials for a tire, or ingredients for a chef.
While favors insect colonies as models for his converts’ arrangements and traits, not limited to them or solely familiar with them. Raw temptation, arguably a fourth type of Love God in addition to LG, Jumper, and Thompson due to the Jumper’s augmentation and experiments. All love him and rasp in reverence, at least a little, when he doesn’t take medicine to help reduce is Appeal Field.

Origin
After obscene amounts of money spent Wilford Brimley answered a summons to put in an appearance at a birthday party. All attendees seemed enthusiastic just to have his company, hear him speak, and hold hands. He was fed custom food, his health a public matter, but felt mildly unnerved by the eager smiling toothy grins and shining eyes.

The sight of them would haunt his dreams for weeks later.

Soon he disappears from his wife as they sleep, not remembering leaving. When out of bed, drawn to a door that appears just out of the way: in an alley, at stores’ back, in his of visited basement, his agent’s office, or studio lot.
After their 20th encounter he enters.

He’d feel gone for a lifetime, then returns never lost more than an afternoon to others. At first fears suffering dementia, the dreams and door experiences are like his movies, only not quite. He isn’t on set, but IN the films, living in the world, passing along as a ghost.
At first.
Later it is reliving the characters’ lives, over and over and over again even parts never played out, with people not cast.
Then things alter.
Versions not even scripted, let alone filmed, akin to porn parodies, or fantastical remakes but with same casting and no lack of skill or production, effects visible as in post.

And soon things he’s never been in. Things he ‘dreams’ about before seeing great grandchildren share. And often the Birthday Man there, sharing that smile.

As ages he finds he grows. Stronger, hearing more, seeing more, feeling more, while his skin deadens to inexpressive leather, a shell.
He is flushed with virility and vigor the character and vastness of prairie and savanna and mountains.
As the years draw on frequently he wakes up intertwined in groups made of folks from passerby, in entertainment clubs, at swinger parties, corn-hole razing, and more. Though not a dream, he’d run home on foot, he’s never caught.
It was surreal.
Then, years later after he and his wife add another, and another, and another lover. Knowing it is impossible their problems this minimal and he this able. He is approached in the flesh by the man whose party he’d graced.
He walks into his home, door welcoming as the furniture parts. The home makes the way until at his couch, paramours languishing, wife over bare lap, his bliss blessing hands stroking from her cheek to small of back, voice hard to use but sonorous as a jazz horn and wide as San Andreas.
Wilford knows why the man there. What He, with soles inches over his third oldest’s negligee covered side, invites him to by offering a dangling candy bright marble on hook and fine chain.

He knew the object. He’s been thinking of it continuously for five months, ‘dreaming’ of it for many times that.
“Would you like to follow me across the cosmos? To place this in your ear. To close your eyes in this life, and open them forever in my chain. To become our dream?”
Unable to restrain his trembling hand, reaching out like in the grips of binge to a heavy tumbler of liquor, he, almost blindly, in thoughtless need, pierced his own ear.

and

His pupa-flesh burst open into dandelion clouds of light that flowed like a river in the speed and shape of a comet.
He blazed into a space outside all others to find a long liminal warehouse hall, piled with shelves and objects.
Not searching the swarm spill-poured into a book on a shelf

Inside, a limitless rolling hill-plain with finely shone skipping stone the width of a compound. Inside that a labyrinth. Streaming without diversion or halting down a path to a housed a laboratory. Within, a chamber machine that flares to plasma orb and Tesla coil life to disappear him.
To be taken to a building of opulence to shame Villa Paradiso that throbbed with vein-circuits of gold, flexed by tendon-vines of purple. He was taken to conversation pit centered in a room with walls like the Dolmabahçe Palace but decor like a 70s parlor room and saw

Himself.
All his roles.
All his dreams.
Stunt doubles
Look-a-likes, and actual musked throbbing WALRUS were in still and in place.
The men’s eyes closed, heads bowed, left ears mated with the earring that’d transfigured him to make it here.
The creature, a fertility god, came writhing to life from mid-air statue stillness. His bark alerting the men. They only responded by a seizing or change in posture. Their eyes stayed closed, faces downcast. The geriatric cowboy actor Korean war veteran as cloud of lights, will, and passions puffed up and returned the pinniped’s calls and exceeded them with a bellow that shook the walls.
As a quivering mass the creature fell to the center and the swarm remains of the man showered the room turning the air to conflagration
And thus the recruitment was done and he was reborn as part of the Menagerie of The Jumper. He plugs himself into the pit to alter his mind and heart, to become more. To consume more. To grow more.
Virility, passion, vigor, experience, and just More.
Until too bloated with it all to sit still, or when summoned by his Client. He has his own entire wing in continuous renovating fulfillment, populated with his lovers, his children and friends visit. Every convenience made, or recreation provided.
His mind always instructed how to enact his desires as his body act them out. Constructing, learning. The more primal and basic, the better.
As with his chambers his aura interlaces with all visitors in perpetual rapturous unity.

 
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from Bride

I HOPE HER BONES ARE FIRM

STARING.

The Doctor sat across from her at the table looking at her intently. It had been two months since that first day in the pool and she no longer needed the wheelchair to get from room to room. An hour a day in the pool had made her body strong and tight. Her eyes were still sensitive, and she still needed to cover them in the bright hall. A white silk blindfold with an elastic band that fit snugly around her head had been provided for her.

She was still unable to speak. At least with her voice. She had attempted many times to have conversations with The Doctor regarding her predicament but gave vague, nonspecific answers. Most of what he told her she knew already. She had been through a horrific ordeal (the nature of which hadn't been explained to her) and The Doctor and his sketchy assistant had brought her back from the brink of death. When she asked where her family was, The Doctor said that she had no family. She was an only child whose parents were dead. She had no husband or boyfriend. This was one of the many “facts” he had relayed to her that she was relatively sure was a blatant lie.

Most of what he told her she believed to be a lie. The problem was that she had no concept of what the truth might be. She understood that people have families and that it wasn't unreasonable to believe that she had one somewhere, but she had no memory of them. She had no memory of parents or a spouse or brothers or sisters. No aunts or uncles or cousins. All she had was this damned hospital that seemed to only be staffed by two strange men. It's hard to argue that someone is lying when you have no idea what the truth might be.

When she weighed out the facts of her situation, she understood that she was being held against her will. That much was clear. Even though she was no longer restrained physically, she had said (signed) multiple times that she wished to leave, and had been told that she wasn't healthy enough to leave. The Doctor had told her that it was impossible for her to go with her eyes the way they were and with her voice the way it was. He explained that she had nowhere to go and no one to take care of her. She had no home and no income. They couldn't allow her to wander the streets, blind and mute.

Again, that was hard to argue. Especially when she only had a basic grasp of sign language. But the fact of the matter was that it was HER choice whether she wanted to take that risk, not theirs. They had taken that choice from her, and that was holding her against her will. She resented it. If she had been given a choice, she may have well decided to stay and eat for free and have a place to sleep and safety (if you counted being occasionally molested at night by a twisted lab assistant as safe, though that had all but stopped) but she resented not being asked.

The Doctor was still awkwardly staring at her and The Other Man (whose name she had learned but didn't associate with him) was standing against the wall, filming them. She barely gave him a glance. His sad eyes and twisted body didn't move her. They only left her feeling exposed and annoyed. She was fed up. Looking at The Doctor, she held her hands up and shook her head in a “What?” motion. The Doctor leaned forward.

“I haven't been completely honest with you.” He said plainly, tenting his fingers under his chin. She nodded with as much sarcasm as she could muster without a voice. “I'm going to tell you some of what's happening and what your part in this is, and I need you to sit there and listen. I'll answer your questions if I can when I'm finished, but you need to just listen for a few minutes. Can you do that?”

She nodded slowly, eyes narrow. She very badly wanted to hear this, but she had a hard time hiding her contempt for The Doctor, and her suspicion that whatever he was going to say would just be more bullshit. He stood and began pacing next to the table as he said his piece.

“I know you think there's a family out there looking for you. I also know that you think you have a life outside of this facility. The fact of the matter is that you don't. You can believe me or not, but you are a very unique kind of person. I would say one of a kind, but there is one other very much like you. He's not quite as... sophisticated... as you, but he is cut from the same cloth. You'll meet him before too long. He is your family. And I am your family. WE are your family,” he said, indicating The Other Man.

None of this made sense. She shook her head softly and closed her eyes. He continued, ignoring her. “You see, there was no ordeal. That was, indeed, a falsehood. No accident. No recovery. No previous life.” He stopped pacing and put his hands on the table, looking at her again with those crazy blue eyes. “You need to understand. I made you. I built you. You have no previous life because there was no previous before I crafted you. Not for you. Your life started three months ago, here in my laboratory. Before that, there was no you.

I've tried to treat you with respect. To treat you as a person. Not an equal necessarily, but at least a person. But you aren't a person. You are a thing. You're an object. A wondrous, amazing feat of science, but still an object. You were built to serve a purpose, and that's it. I understand that you have something like feelings and that you have a sense of self, and please believe that I take no pleasure in making you upset. It's just that if we're going to go forward into this next phase, you really need to understand your place in the world. Do you follow me?”

She was dumbfounded, her jaw hung loosely, her eyes were blank. It was absolute insanity.

“Think back. What do you remember from before you woke up here? What memories do you have of a life outside of these walls?” He asked, smiling, not unkindly.

She tried to think and couldn't pull anything specific. She was sure that she'd had memories of events. Of people and places. But when she tried to think of something specific, she couldn't bring it up. The more she tried, the more frustrated she got. Tears of anger slipped down her face and her breathing became quick and shallow as she fought crying.

“I built you with a very basic, nonspecific knowledge. What a tree looks like, what the beach smells like, how to walk and talk and swim. The sort of knowledge the average person takes for granted. You have all of that because I gave it to you. I gave you enough to function in the limited capacity of your duty. But you have no memories of your own, outside of what you've built here.”

She ran her finger across her lips; the sign for “lie”, her jaw shaking she was so angry. The Doctor shook his head. She pointed to herself and then tapped her shoulders and hips with two fingers. “I'm human!' The Doctor smiled and sat down. He held his hand out and she refused it.

“Yes, you are. Sort of. Human beings are machines. My body,” he pointed at her “your body, is a machine. It has a central processor. It has thousands of wires that carry electrical signals to pumps and pistons and levers that make you walk and breathe and live. Most of us were born. You were built. And you were built with very specific functions and with a very unique purpose.”

She laughed silently, her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Frustrated, she threw her hands up in the air. “What is that?” she seemed to ask.

“Companionship,” The Doctor said, seriously. This struck her, and she looked up at him, her brow furrowed. She moved her index finger around her mouth in a circle. “Who?”

The Doctor smiled and looked at The Other Man, then back at her.

“You were built to be a partner for my son. You'll meet him soon enough.”

DARKNESS.

She was back in her room. The rest of that conversation was a blur. At a certain point, her brain simply refused to take anymore. It was too much. Too much madness. She tuned out and eventually, The Doctor gave up. He'd done enough damage for the day. They helped her to her feet, slipped on her blindfold, and walked her back to her room. That was eight hours ago, and she had barely moved since, except to slip out of her gown and climb under the covers.

Laying on the bed, staring at the wall, she wracked her brain for memories. Of all the absolutely insane talk about her having been built and not being a real person, the one thing that stuck out in her mind was his assertion that she had no memories of a life prior to waking up in the laboratory. That struck her as false. She'd spent the last eight hours desperately trying to come up with something, anything, she could call a specific memory.

Sure, she had tons of vague images and scents and textures. She could recall the taste of vanilla ice cream and orange soda. She could remember what it felt like to slide down a water slide and drive a car. She could remember what fresh laundry smelled like and the feeling of tying a child's shoe. But she couldn't pinpoint a specific child or a specific car. Just these loose sensations. How could he have put those in her head? WHY would he put those in her head? She could understand giving her the ability to walk and understand spoken English, but why give her the memory of what it's like to fly a kite in a park or to rub a dog's belly? What purpose could those memories possibly serve?

He had tried to explain the process of implanting these memories in her head, but she'd already checked out by that point. She didn't want to hear it. Still, of all of it, that was the thing she was most cynical about. It just didn't make sense. The rest of it, as unbelievable and ridiculous as it sounded, she could at least understand the motivation behind it. If she were to suspend disbelief and accept that she had, in fact, been “built” by this insane doctor and that she had been built for the express purpose of keeping another “built” human being company, that she could understand. It was lunacy, but she could understand the rationale behind it. These vague memories though... they came from somewhere. If he indeed installed them in her mind, what purpose could they possibly serve?

It was a question she wanted to ask at the time, but she was too overwhelmed, and she couldn't work out how to ask it with her limited ability to sign. That would have likely been one of the many questions he skirted.

Frustrated, she sighed and rolled over, staring into the darkness. The sound of keys rattling outside of the door made her sit up and pull her blanket up to her chin. The door opened slowly, and she covered her eyes to block out the light from the hallway. The Other Man pushed her wheelchair into the room and closed the door. She watched as he waddled toward her and switched on the bedside lamp, filling the room with soft, warm light.

Surprisingly, he positioned the chair next to her bed and sat in it. He looked at her for a long time, his eyes big and moist and sad.

“I know this is a lot to take. I would be pretty upset if I were you too,” he said through his twisted jaw. She didn't respond. He nodded.

“I don't know a lot about the science behind it, but I know more than you do. I thought maybe I could help you understand some of this. He can be a little over the top and intense.”

After a long moment, she put her index finger to her mouth and moved it away from her face in an arc, pointing toward him. “Truth?”

“Yes,” he said, looking sullen. She put her finger to her brow and pulled it away into a fist. “Memories.” He shook his head, not sure what she meant. It was so frustrating! She repeated the sign, adding another, putting her fingertips to her forehead and pulling them away, extending her thumb and pinky. “Why memories?” When he still didn't understand, she pointed at her head and then at his, frustrated.

“Why give you memories?” He asked. She nodded emphatically. He smiled, proud of himself for figuring it out.

“I think it was kind of a package deal. He didn't choose all the memories to put in there. They all came in the same... package.”

He stopped talking, as though he'd said too much. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him hard. Carefully, she held her fist out in front of her chest and cupped her other hand under it and moved them in a circle. “Package?”

When he didn't respond, she climbed off the bed and stepped toward him. He began to stand, and she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back into the chair. He was stronger than she was, but she had leverage and a straight back. She pointed her finger at his face and touched his mouth. “Talk.”

He talked.

KISSING.

The Other Man was kissing her neck. He was sitting next to her on the bed, kissing and licking her on the neck. She had been crying moments earlier and he moved to the bed to comfort her. His comfort lasted for all of two or three minutes before he was kissing her. She let him. She didn't care anymore. He told her everything. It made sense. It was insane, but it made sense. The Doctor had misled her when he said that he had built her. He had indeed built her, but not in the way he had implied. The way he explained it suggested that he'd created her from whole cloth. No. He built her like someone rebuilds a car. From pieces of other cars. He built her from dead women. At least four different women, from what The Other Man had said. Her legs and arms had come from a thirty-year-old mother of two who had been killed by a drunk driver. Her torso came from a nineteen-year-old model and occasional prostitute who died of a heroin overdose. Her head and spinal column came from a twenty-six-year-old professional cyclist who slipped in the shower and fell through the glass door.

Various organs had come from donor banks. The package, as The Other Man had so delicately called it, had come from a twenty-seven-year-old wife and mother who had attempted suicide in her bathtub. She was in a coma for weeks before being taken off life-support. Her body was harvested for organs. The Doctor got her brain. He had been the coroner and was able to take it almost immediately.

It made sense and it was true. She knew it was true. That meant that all of it was true. She was indeed built by this psychotic doctor, and she was built to serve. When that realization hit her, the fire that had been building in her for the last few weeks was extinguished. What could she do? They weren't keeping her away from her life. This WAS her life. She wasn't a prisoner, she was an appliance.

Staring off into the darkness, she closed her eyes and lay back on the bed. The Other Man stretched out beside her, his hand on her breast. Her dead breast. She didn’t cry. She only lay there, staring, as he fondled her. She heard the clatter of his belt buckle as he undid his pants and kicked them to the floor. She could feel his erection pressing against her leg.

Realization settled in her mind as she felt her body respond to this. She wasn't just built to be a companion, she was built for sex. She understood that, and somehow it made sense. The fact that she could lay there, during an emotional breakdown, while this grotesque man rubbed himself on her and become aroused said it all. She shouldn't respond this way. She shouldn't be getting wet and her nipples shouldn't be crying out to be sucked. She should be screaming and kicking and fighting. Not just because she didn't want this, but because she didn't want ANY of it. She never asked to be a companion, whatever that meant. She never asked to be locked in a room by herself for hours. She never asked to be engineered for sex like some sort of farm animal. She never asked to be molested by this twisted, sad little man.

Her breath quickened as he dropped his hand between her legs. Those long, hard fingers were clumsy, but they had a certain eagerness that sent shivers through her body. She pulled his hand up and took his fingers into her mouth. They were slick and warm and salty. She sucked her wetness from them and shoved his hand back down between her legs. As he slipped his fingers in and out of her she reached down and gripped his cock. It was firm and pulsated in her hand. He gasped as she rolled over and took him into her mouth, taking his hand from between her legs and resting it on the back of her head. He seemed to not quite know what was expected of him. She had surprised him, and he didn't know how far this was going to go.

As she ran her tongue along his shaft, she was filled with a sense of purpose. Like her understanding of how to walk and swim, she felt herself accessing some inherent knowledge of how to fuck. Somehow, she knew that not only did she have the ability to do it, but that she was good at it. If she was built for sex, she may as well be as good at it as she could be.

Pushing The Other Man back, she climbed on top of him. He gripped her ass as she slid down onto his cock. She found herself in control of muscles she didn't know she had. She squeezed him as she rose and fell. Looking down at his dopey, smiling face, she had the overwhelming urge to bring her fists down on him and pound and pound. The urge welled up inside of her, forcing her to bury her face in his chest, her hands on his shoulders. She funneled that anger into her hips as she fucked him harder. A deep, primal groan came out of him as he came inside her, his hips thrusting up to meet her, his fingers biting into her ass cheeks. She gripped him by the hair and fought the impulse to tear out his throat with her teeth. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heavy, uneven breathing. She could feel the straps from his back brace and hear his heart thundering in his chest. She wondered if he were to listen to her chest if he'd hear a heartbeat at all.

BEAUTIFUL.

She was beautiful.

Once they'd recovered, The Other Man climbed down from the bed and pulled his pants back on. He stood there for a moment, looking at her on the bed, naked and sweaty, her hair a tangled mess, and said “Thank you.” just like he had the first night. That put a pin in her little experiment. It was an experiment she realized, though perhaps not a premeditated one. She was built for a certain kind of service, and she'd done that service well, and he'd thanked her for it. Like you might thank a waitress or a maid or a masseuse. Or a whore she thought. She was particularly interested in her own emotional state after that. Before, she'd felt used and even embarrassed for enjoying what he'd done to her. His lusty, fumbling violations. But that night she'd experienced a feeling of accomplishment. A sense of pride even. She was indeed good at it.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked as he stood behind the wheelchair. She thought about it for a moment, then held her hand up next to her face and twisted it back and forth like a royal wave. Mirror. He nodded and rubbed his chin.

“Okay. Let's get you dressed.”

She jumped down from the bed and walked across the room to where her gown was pooled on the floor. There was a certain air of confidence, even cockiness, about her. When she turned around at looked at him, there was something dark in her eyes that caught him off guard. As though she understood him far better than he understood her.

“Do you want the chair?” He asked in his sloppy voice. She shook her head No and walked to the door. He waddled past her and held out the blindfold. She took it from him and put it on herself.

He took her to the pool and led her into the change room. She hadn't been in there before (she'd always just changed beside the pool, next to the two men) and was surprised at how big it was. A row of lockers lined one wall, and three shower stalls were situated on the opposite side of the room. Beside the lockers was a long, full-length mirror mounted on the wall.

Seeing herself for the first time was startling and uncomfortable. He had turned off all but one of the banks of lights. It was dark, but she could see well enough. She stood there for a long time, staring into her own eyes. Eyes she didn't recognize. Eyes she had never seen before. They were green and large, with thick lashes below sharp, thin eyebrows. Her lips were curvy and full, her chin and jaw angular with a little dimple in the center. Her hair was a tousled auburn mess piled on top of her head.

She was beautiful. Letting her gown slip to the floor, she stepped forward and looked at her body. She could see the fine lines of scars. The scars that ran around her armpits and over her shoulders. Along the lines of her hips and abdomen. Across her throat and along her jawline. She could see the subtle way the skin tone of her legs didn't quite match the tone of her belly. How her shoulders were just slightly out of sync with her arms. She could see how her legs seemed just a little too long for her body. She saw all of this and understood that she had been told the truth.

Turning sideways, she lifted her breasts and looked closely at the faint scar running beneath one. Perhaps if you're building a body from pieces of dead women, you don't need silicone to sculpt perfect breasts. Perhaps you can pick and choose the tits you want and fine-tune them to your specifications. She let them fall and admired the way they bounced. Perky.

The Other Man was watching, his hand over his mouth. She turned and looked at him. He smiled, and she nodded. It was as much as she could give him right then. She picked up her gown from the floor and strode across the room to the exit. He followed her.

They walked back to her room. She hadn't bothered putting her gown back on. She wasn't embarrassed. With the blindfold on, she still needed him to guide her, but only barely. She walked tall and with a confidence she'd never felt before.

Once they were in her room again, her blindfold off, she turned to The Other Man and signed a question. When can I have my voice?

He looked sad.

“I don't know. That's up to him.”

She pointed to her eyes and shrugged. He shook his head.

“I'm sorry, I don't know.” She nodded and climbed into bed, facing the wall. After a long moment, The Other Man turned and pushed the wheelchair out of the room and locked the door.

TIGHT.

The skirt was tight and a little uncomfortable after spending so much time in the loose hospital gown. It was leather and black and stopped midway up her thighs. She sat on the bed and pulled a stocking up her leg and attached it to the garter belt that hung beneath the hem. Once the second stocking was on she stood and examined herself in the mirror The Other Man had installed in her room. She laughed and shook her head.

The pile of clothes on her bed was daunting. This was one of many outfits she'd experimented with. So far, she had tried on a dozen or so looks and nothing seemed to satisfy her. This atrocious outfit she was wearing was one of the worst. She looked like a cartoon prostitute in the short skirt and red tube top. But it was something she'd asked for and they'd brought it, along with what had to be thousands of dollars worth of clothes. All were chosen by her out of a series of catalogs.

She stripped out of the absurd hooker outfit and carefully folded the items in a second pile. The first pile of unworn clothes was still larger than the second pile of discards. She picked up the next item up and examined it. A pale-yellow sundress with thin, spaghetti straps. Pulling the dress over her head she walked over to the mirror and looked at herself.

This one was nice. She twisted her hips, letting the dress bounce around her legs in a airy way that was pleasant and whimsical. She liked the dress and felt a moment of sadness as she realized that she wouldn't get to wear it outside.

The last few weeks had been a mixture of sorrowful acceptance and enthusiastic anticipation. Her moods swung drastically, seemingly at random. Without warning she could jump from a deep, crippling depression to an insatiable lust that typically ended in a frantic, often intensely emotional masturbation session, which would often lead her back into depression. Sometimes she felt eager, even proud, of her upcoming meeting with this mysterious man she was meant to partner with. Sometimes she just resented it and fantasized about ways she could kill herself. Not out of depression or self-loathing, but out of spite.

That evening, with her pile of new clothes, she was back to wanting to succeed in her role. She wanted to be sexy for this guy, whoever he was. Which was a difficult desire to maintain, considering that she knew almost nothing about him. The facts she had about him could be counted on one hand. She knew that he was “built” the same way she was “built”. She knew that The Doctor thought of him as a son. She knew that he was kept somewhere in this facility, the same way she was. That was about it. That was a scary proposition. She hoped he wasn't grotesque or difficult to look at. The Doctor said that he wasn't “as sophisticated” as she was, and that concerned her. What could he have meant? Was he mentally disabled? Was he deformed? Even though she herself was built in the same way, she worried that the cobbled-together nature of his body wasn't too obvious. She found the idea of that disturbing.

She forced herself not to think about these questions. She would, hopefully, have the answers soon enough. The Doctor kept insisting that they would meet soon, but she'd learned to take most of what he said with a fist full of salt. She did hope it would be soon, for quite a few reasons. The anticipation was torture. She was eager to move on to the next phase of her life. The monotony of her room and routine was dreary and she longed for change. Then there was the meeting itself. Not only would she be expected to meet this strange, mysterious oddity, but she was also expected to have sex with him. She was nervous about that and scared of disappointing him. When you have one explicit purpose in life, the idea of failing at that is debilitating.

Most of all, she was just desperate for another person in her life. It is a desperately lonely life. Neither The Doctor nor The Other Man was good company, and the idea that there was another person in this building going through much the same struggles as herself was exhilarating. She was built to be a companion, but at the same time, she herself was in need of companionship. She longed to have a partner in this strange life and often fantasized about the two of them breaking out of their hospital world and running away together. She had no idea where they would go, but her fantasies didn't need to extend that far.

Another reason she was eager to meet this man was that she was in a near-constant state of arousal. She understood it was part of her engineering, but her libido seemed to be increasing as time went on, to the point that it was becoming uncomfortable. Three, four, even five times a day she would have to stop what she was doing (which was rarely anything interesting) and finger herself into oblivion while The Doctor and The Other Man waited in the next room. It would have been embarrassing if it wasn't understood between the three of them that this was one of her primary functions.

The Doctor had explained a few things to her. He told her that he specifically adjusted her chemistry and hormones for optimal sexual function. He also explained that she was unable to get pregnant. She also no longer menstruated, though this led to a few minor problems. In crafting the chemistry of her brain, there was a certain level of maintenance and monitoring that needed to be done to keep her balanced. Over the weeks she'd been through a barrage of medications designed to boost and decrease various chemicals in her brain. Serotonin and melatonin and dopamine and norepinephrine and god knows what else. This was at least partially responsible for her drastic mood swings over the last month or so. It was also, according to The Doctor, one of the reasons she had yet to meet her mysterious betrothed. He claimed that he wanted to get her moods stabilized, as he (The Doctor's manufactured son) was prone to heavy mood swings himself. The Doctor also claimed that he was incredibly eager to meet her. “I should hope so,” she croaked in her damaged voice.

That was another thing that had changed over the last month. The Doctor had finally agreed to fix her voice. Or, at least, try to. It had been a week since she'd come out of surgery and it still hurt to speak. She could dribble out raspy, barely audible whispers and croaks. The Doctor said that her voice would heal over time and would, hopefully, eventually, sound somewhat normal. He couldn't promise that her voice wasn't permanently damaged to some degree, but at the very least she'd be able to speak, which was better than she had before.

So, while she kept it to a minimum, being able to speak greatly improved her quality of life. Most of the things she requested were granted. Specific foods, a television (with a DVD player and movies, but no cable), clothes, access to gym equipment, an iPod full of music, and sunglasses that she could wear when traveling between rooms instead of the blindfold.

Her vision, unfortunately, was still compromised. The Doctor told her, one sad afternoon, that he didn't think it was fixable. After a series of exams and tests, he'd decided that the risk wasn't worth the reward. So that meant that she would be essentially blind to anything beyond five or six feet and that she would never be able to tolerate normal lighting without some sort of eye protection. The sunglasses helped but weren't a very practical solution. The result is that the lights in all of the rooms she occupied were set on dimmers, and she could easily adjust to her comfort level.

Another thing she'd been able to request was a modest collection of sex toys. It was a subject that was broached in a very matter-of-fact way. On one of the afternoons when she needed to excuse herself from an eye exam, The Doctor asked her if she'd like a catalog from an adult gift shop. When she understood his meaning, she said that she would very much like that. When it arrived the next day, she picked out a couple of vibrators, a few various-sized silicone dildos, and a few odds and ends that she was curious about trying out.

The extra equipment made her masturbatory sessions quite a bit quicker when they were inconveniently timed, and they made the more relaxed experiences that much more interesting. She enjoyed being able to experiment with what she did and didn't like. As it turns out, she liked pretty much everything she tried.

Later that week, she went through the catalog and requested a dozen or so more toys. Different sizes and shapes, clamps and clips, plugs and beads, lubrication, and sensitizers. Altogether, she spent at least a couple hours a day taking care of herself in that way. The fervor of her appetite was near constant. It seemed like the more she masturbated, the more she needed it.

She wondered if whatever The Doctor had done to her worked too well. There were times when she found herself going at it with such intensity that she hurt herself in the process and had to make the uncomfortable choice of either stopping or hurting herself more. Usually, she stopped, but not always. The bulk of her fantasies centered around this mysterious partner she was meant to be with. She had no idea what he looked like and hadn't been given a straight answer from The Doctor or The Other Man, so she had to make it up. She assumed he was built in much the same way she had been. Picking and choosing the best parts to make the most physically appealing package. She imagined him tall, but not too tall. Striking eyes (like hers) and soft, kissable lips. Firm hands and a lean body. She imagined that he went through the same sort of diet and exercise routine that she did. Perhaps more weight training than cardio and swimming.

Sometimes she thought about herself. Imagined watching herself on video, how she would look to someone else, her legs spread and pulled back, her feet against the wall, her head tilted back and to the side as she frantically worked whatever toy she had grabbed in and out of herself. Her eyes squeezed tightly, shut. She usually put the clamps on her nipples as well. There was something about the little hint of pain mixed in with the pleasure that made it that much more intense. Often, she didn't think about anything at all. She just let the physical stimulation carry her along. That was usually when she used the big massager-style vibrator. That one pushed her to climax so quickly that she didn't need to fantasize. She liked the big vibrator but only used it when she was really eager. It could be a little too much at once.

She slipped out of the yellow dress and put it on a hanger in the closet. That one was a keeper. The Other Man had unlocked the closet door and she was pleased to find that on one side there was a shelf full of clean bed linen, extra pillows, and blankets, and on the other side was a rod with twenty or so wooden hangers. She admired the dress as it hung in the closet. There was something heartwarming about having a place for her stuff. It was nice to have stuff at all. She felt like she finally had some definition and an identity. That dress was hers because she had chosen it for herself, based on her taste and preference. It was her dress. She put it in her closet in her room. Looking around the space, she thought that next, she might ask for some artwork for the walls.

Moving on to the next outfit, she picked up a silvery silk nightie and pulled it over her head. It was semi-transparent and felt cool against her skin. Looking in the mirror, she could just make out her nipples through the material, and the line where her legs came together and formed the Y shape at her crotch. She tugged gently at the straps, hiking the nightie up another two inches, so that it fell just below her pussy. When she did, the silk dragged across her nipples, which sent shivers through her body. That felt nice. She jiggled the material again, letting it rub against her breasts, and again it sent shivers. Turning around, she looked over her shoulder at the back of the outfit, admiring how the hem let the bottom of her ass peek out. Again, she dragged the material across her nipples and shuddered. Letting out a sigh, she crawled up onto the bed, next to the two piles of clothes, and went to work. Reaching blindly into the drawer in the nightstand, she pulled a cute little baby blue vibrator out and tucked it between her legs. With her left hand, she squeezed her breast through the silk. It felt soft and slick and amazing. The little vibrator buzzed discretely as she ran it in tight circles around her clit. This was one of those times she just wanted to get it over with, so she could get back to what she was doing. One of the interesting aspects of getting her voice back was that she found that she had to restrain herself from making too much noise when she was taking care of her needs in this way. Not because she was self-conscious about anyone hearing (there were only two other people that could hear her, and she didn't think they hung around that part of the facility when they weren't dealing with her) but because her voice was still recovering, the noises she did make were strange and guttural. They came out less like passionate moans and more like the grunts of an animal. It took her out of the moment, so she tried to keep her noise level to as low as possible. Also, it hurt her to speak, so she did it as seldom as possible. This was not one of those times. Her orgasm was approaching with an astonishing speed and she didn't care about how she sounded. As the bubble of pleasure built inside her, she let out a long, low groan that made her throat burn. The groan built to almost a yell as she came, her legs clamping together on her hand. She let go of her breast and wasn't surprised to find that it ached from how hard she was squeezing it.

She lay there breathing in deep, shaky gulps and almost didn't hear the rattle of keys in the door. The Other Man always knocked first, but The Doctor had an annoying habit of knocking as he opened the door, assuming she'd welcomed him in. As the door swung open, she quickly pulled her blanket up over her body. Not because she was embarrassed of being seen in her nightie, but because it was painfully obvious what she'd been doing. She was sure he would have heard the noise she was making, and that bothered her because he came in anyway. He could have given her a minute to finish.

“Hello there,” he said, smiling, as he entered. She nodded at him, moving aside a clump of sweaty hair that was stuck to her face.

“I just wanted to let you know that the big day is soon. Tomorrow in fact. So, we'll need to get you prepared for it, as much as we can prepare for that sort of thing anyway,” he said, looking around the room. Her clothes were still piled up at the foot of the bed. She was glad to see that her blanket covered the blue vibrator. She allowed herself just a little bit of modesty.

A wave of dizziness overcame her. With all her anticipation and longing, she never expected to feel so anxious about it when the time actually came. Tomorrow? That was too soon. She needed to finish picking her outfits. She needed make-up and perfume. She needed to shave and have a bath. She had a million questions and found herself getting angry at The Doctor for being so vague about him. She fantasized about him as this perfect specimen of masculinity, but she was also afraid of what else he could be. She worried that he was going to be grotesque and twisted. She imagined a sloppily clumped-together mess of dead body parts. Even though she knew that The Doctor was capable of amazing things, just based on herself as an example. Still, her mind conjured up images of rotting corpses and drooling brain-dead monstrosities fumbling around and bearing down on her.

It was perhaps silly, and certainly unproductive to picture all of these horrific scenarios, but she had an active imagination and a lot of free time on her hands. Or, she did. Now she had very little free time. She had a lot to do before her meeting the following day.

HOT.

The water was nearly unbearable as she lowered herself slowly into the tub. The Doctor sat in his chair (he'd long since stopped bathing her, once she became mobile enough to do it herself) reading from a tablet computer. Once she was all the way in the tub, she leaned back and closed her eyes, a washcloth in her hand. Slowly, she twisted the cloth and squeezed the water out, and folded it over her eyes. The bath was doing wonders for her tension. Since The Doctor dropped the bomb that she was meeting her new partner the next day, she was a ball of nerves and tension.

Stretched out in the tub, she could almost fall asleep. She allowed herself five long, quiet minutes to soak in the heat and let her muscles and bones loosen. Her hands floated at her sides and the occasional flash of memory would skitter across her mind. Laying in the tube, paralyzed and confused, unable to move or even breathe. She took in a deep breath and reminded herself of the relative safety of her surroundings. Taking the cloth from her eyes, she sat up and soaped her body. She never really got dirty, but it felt good to wash off the sweat and stress. The shaving cream and a fresh safety razor sat in the little caddy by the tub and she started the task of shaving. Usually, she found it tedious, but now she was consciously trying to do as good a job as possible. She wanted to be perfect for her introduction. She stood and put her foot on the edge of the tub to run the razor between her legs, carefully navigating the delicate terrain.

Once she was satisfied with the shaving, she pulled the curtain into the tub and turned on the shower to wash her hair. In a moment of brief madness, she twisted the dial all the way to cold and sucked in air as the frigid water poured over her. It made her a little dizzy, but also shocked her back to alertness. She was going to meet her partner in less than two hours and the hot bath had made her feel sleepy and stupid. The cold water shoved her back into reality and was refreshing.

With her hair washed and her body rinsed, she turned off the water and dried herself. The air in the room was cold and she immediately regretted the frigid shower. When she was dry, she walked over to the sink and mirror. One of the many provisions she had requested was a hair dryer. She blow-dried her hair and ran her brush through it. Holding the brush, she remembered that first night out of the leather bindings and felt a twinge between her legs. She tried to suppress the urge. She just got out of the bath and her masturbation sessions usually left her sweaty and sticky. She breathed through it and managed to get her hair styled how she wanted it. Brushed and tucked to one side with a cute little white and yellow flower-shaped hair-clip. Over the few months she'd been alive, her hair had grown quite a bit and hung between her shoulder blades. It took a while to dry and brush out, but The Doctor didn't seem to mind waiting. He sat there, disinterested and reading his tablet.

The yellow sundress was hanging from a hook in the wall. She took it down and slipped it on, adjusting the straps and settling her boobs into place. Glancing in the mirror, she was quite pleased with how it came together. She looked cute. Approachable and naive, in a precious sort of way. Leaning forward to examine her face in the mirror, what she wanted to do for her makeup. She smiled at herself and turned to The Doctor.

He looked up at her and smiled.

“You look very nice,” he said, and it made her feel good. Even though she distrusted The Doctor and, at times, downright hated him, there was also a part of her that wanted to please him. Some inherent need for approval. She supposed it came from the knowledge that she had basically one job in her life, and she needed to know that she was doing it well. Being told that she looked nice, when she had picked her own clothes, and styled her own hair, was rewarding.

“Thank you,” she said, turning back to the mirror. Pulling from the modest make-up kit she selected from one of the many catalogs, she put on a simple but delicate face. Turning around, she noticed that The Other Man was in the room now and videotaping her again. She smiled and tilted her head to the camera in a friendly nod, then spun around once, letting the dress twirl along with her. The Doctor let out a genuine laugh and, for perhaps the first time, she recognized that he was proud of her.

NERVOUS.

The three of them walked down the long hallway that led to the pool and beyond. The Doctor was in front and The Other Man hobbled along behind her. Her nerves were shaky all day, but as they approached the big green double doors at the end of the hall that took them beyond the pool and out of range of anywhere she'd ever been, she was downright wrecked. Her breathing came in short, deliberately paced bursts through her nose.

The Doctor did what he could to prepare her for the meeting, but it only served to make her more nervous. Earlier, They’d gone to her room and he sat down on the bed. He patted the mattress next to him and she sat down. After a long, awkward moment, he spoke.

“I fear that I haven't properly prepared you for what might happen. Unfortunately, I don't entirely know what to expect myself. I know him, and I feel as though I have a pretty good handle on his personality, but he can be unpredictable. One thing I'm relatively certain about is that he won't hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” She asked, surprised. That idea hadn't even occurred to her. She never considered that what she was about to do could be dangerous.

“He was my first successful attempt at... well, you know. By the time I made you, I had worked out most of the kinks,” he said gently.

“What kinks?” She asked, her face now tense. The Doctor waggled his head slightly, and smiled a crooked, unattractive smile.

“He can be very... moody, at times. Intimidating in the wrong context. I'm not telling you any of this to scare you. Please don't take it that way. I'm just trying to put your expectations in the right place.” “He knows I'm coming, right?” She asked.

“Yes, I believe so. He's stopped talking to me. He's stopped talking period. It's been months,” he stopped for a long moment, staring off into space. She almost spoke, but he started talking again before she could say anything.

“My concern is that you may be too good for him. The technology we developed to bring the two of you to life advanced considerably between when I built him and when I built you. I learned a lot from my mistakes and, frankly, you are far beyond what I ever thought was possible.”

For a moment she forgot her nerves and simply enjoyed the new feeling of pride in herself. It was unexpected and felt nice.

“It's a concern, but I don't believe it's very likely. He's lonely. Desperately lonely. I think when he meets you, whatever resentment or rebellion he may be feeling will be outweighed by the prospect of having a friend.” he patted her on the leg in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it did little to calm her building fear. “I’m sure you can relate to that.”

“I don't want to disappoint him.” She said, nearly crying. She hadn't realized until then just how much she was invested in the need to please this manufactured man she had never met.

“There's no way you can disappoint him. If he's disappointed at all, it will be in me, not you. You are nearly perfect. If only for those eyes,” he said, giving her a sympathetic look.

In the hallway, The Doctor stopped at the double green doors and took his keychain out of his lab coat pocket, and unlocked the door. Her heart was thumping in her throat. The doors parted, and they walked into another long hallway, and then a turn and another corridor. At the end of that hall was a heavy metal door like a bank vault, a wheel situated in the center instead of a doorknob. The Doctor unlocked this door and pulled it open. Beyond this door was another short hallway. Rather than the tile and white walls that made the rest of the facility look like a hospital, this hall was polished steel with a metal grate floor. Bright fluorescent lights were embedded in the ceiling. She put her hand against her forehead, trying to block some of the light from her eyes. At the end of the hall, they reached another door. The Doctor turned and took her hand.

“I have to go into the next room to unlock this door.”

He pointed at a metal door, flush with the wall that she hadn't even noticed. “I'm not going to go in with you, but I will be watching from the next room. There are cameras and microphones in there. If by some strange chance, things get out of hand, we'll come in at once.”

He made an attempt at a reassuring smile that was neither reassuring or even a smile. Not for the first time, the idea that he was completely mad crossed her mind. His hand was cold and slimy with sweat when he patted her on the shoulder. She fought the urge to recoil in disgust. Staring at the polished metal door, her stomach flip-flopped, and she had the sudden feeling that she might throw up or faint. When she turned to tell The Doctor that she wanted to give it another couple of days or weeks, she saw that he was already standing inside the doorway. He nodded to her and the door slid shut, leaving her alone in the metal hallway.

RED.

The fluorescent lights went out, startling her. They were replaced by an ominous pulsating red glow. After a moment of silence, she removed her sunglasses and could see relatively easily. The massive steel door loomed over her, round and daunting. She waited for something to happen, staring at the wheel in the center of the door. She screamed when jets of warm air blasted at her from every direction, blowing her dress and hair around her in a chaotic tornado. The jets stopped as abruptly as they started, and claustrophobia welled up inside her. The red lights made the metal corridor feel like a submarine or a bomb shelter. She stomped up to the door the Doctor had disappeared into and banged on it with her fist.

“I've changed my mind! I'm not ready!” She yelled up at the little port window in the door, just high enough that she couldn't see through it, even standing on her tip-toes.

“Can you hear me? Let me out! I want out now!” She screamed, banging on the door. It hurt her hand, but adrenaline had taken over as panic swirled inside her. From all around her the mechanically filtered voice of The Doctor boomed. He was speaking to her through an intercom.

“Calm down dear. It's going to be fine. Just hang tight a moment longer.”

“No! Please! No! I don't want to!”

She was crying now. Only recently, she was confident and even excited for this, but the memory of being paralyzed in the tube reared up in her head and made being in the hallway the closest thing she had to a waking nightmare.

The sound of massive cogs and gears spinning and clanking echoed through the walls. She turned around to look at the door and was blinded. The door rolled into the wall on a track and the light from inside the room was far too bright for her sensitive eyes. Nearly hyperventilating she fumbled the sunglasses onto her face. She walked backward down the hallway until her sweaty back pressed against the door they'd entered from. Turning around, she found that it, of course, was locked. The metal was cold against her forehead. The hair she'd spent hours brushing was a mess, hanging down over her face, sweaty and clumped.

The clicking sound of fluorescent lights switching off prompted her to turn around. The white, painful light from the other side of the door was gone, replaced by the soft glow of what appeared to be incandescent bulbs. She couldn't see far enough into the room to distinguish shapes, but she could tell that the tone of the light matched the low-wattage bulb of her bedside lamp rather than the harsh greenish burn of the fluorescent lights that seemed to be everywhere else in the building.

“Go to him,” The Doctor said over the intercom, almost whispering. She stepped forward, her feet unsteady, as though she were walking up a steep, uneven hill. A sense of vertigo forced her to slide her hand along the wall for support as she made her way down the hall.

CONCRETE.

She was terrified, unable to look up. She only stood, staring at the floor, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the light. After a long, painfully quiet moment, she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The floor was poured concrete, like the swimming pool. Somehow this comforted her and seemed like a more stable option than the metal grating of the hallway.

“Take your shoes off.”

The voice was deep and even and resonated in the room, even though he had barely spoken. She gasped and fell against the wall, looking around, startled into searching for the source of the sound. With the ceiling lights off, the sunglasses worked against her and she pulled them off. As she caught her balance against the wall, the heavy door rolled shut behind her and clanked into place. She was locked in. “Where are you? I can't see,” she managed to sputter out. Her mouth was dry, and she found it hard to gather her words. Looking around the room she could only make out vague shapes. The room itself was round, perhaps thirty feet across. On one side was a desk or table of some sort. The soft yellow glow of a lamp came from this area. Following along the wall she could see lumps that could have been furniture on the far side of the room, but from the doorway, it was too far away to tell. To her right, she could make out a plastic curtain hanging from a U-shaped rail protruding from the wall. She assumed this was some sort of shower or bathing area. It reminded her of the tub she bathed in and the familiarity gave her a moment of comfort.

A light popped on directly across the room from her. It was still too far to see details, but she could just make out the shape of a full-sized bed and end tables. There was a lamp on one of the tables. He was sitting on the bed. Her heart sped, and she stopped breathing when she saw him. In the dim light and through the fog of her over-dilated eyes she could just make out the shape of a man perched on the bed. She stood there for a long moment, trying to force her eyes to do the job they were built to do. Reluctantly, she stepped forward, fear gripping her heart but curiosity and an overwhelming sense of purpose pushing her toward him.

“Take your shoes off,” the voice said again, in the same even and measured tone. The shape of the room bounced the sound of his voice, making it seem to come from everywhere at once. Shaking, she reached down and slipped the sandals she had so carefully selected off her feet and stepped barefoot onto the floor. The hard concrete seemed to suck all the warmth from her body. She took another step toward him and he became a little clearer.

He was sitting against the headboard. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could feel him watching her. “Stop,” he said. This confused her. She did as she was told and waited for a terrified minute. That's when he stepped to the floor and faced her. He was a giant. At least seven feet tall. His arms hung like telephone poles at his side. They seemed to be out of proportion to the rest of his body. As he walked toward her, striding casually but covering so much ground with his tree-trunk legs that she nearly fell over, startled, at how quickly he crossed the room.

Her eyes fought valiantly to process the abruptly changing imagery. She watched him appear in the brief seconds it took him to traverse the room. He was pale, nearly white, and shirtless. He wore tattered hospital pants that were far too short for him. It would have been comical if it didn't look so primitive. The threadbare fabric stopped halfway down his calves, bouncing above his bare feet. A head of shaggy blond hair fell over his face. She tried to focus and take in what she was seeing but by the time she got a handle on it, he was too close. She backed up instinctively and stumbled over her sandals and nearly fell. An arm shot out, faster than it should have been to look at its size, and took hold of the front of her dress, holding her up. She kicked briefly and retained her footing, but he held onto her dress, staring down at her. She forced her gaze up to meet his and when she saw his eyes her mouth dropped open and began to shake, her breath coming out in quick, uneven jags. His eyes were two different colors, one pale blue and one brown. The blue eye seemed to look past her, unseeing. The other eye, brown with flecks of green and gold, appeared to burn with life. Awful, angry life. Not hateful, but devastated. This eye met hers and she had to look away. She couldn't take it. It hurt too much.

He leaned forward, pulling her closer to him by the front of her dress. She felt it rip at one shoulder and the threshold of her panic stressed under the weight a little more, but didn't quite break. She felt his breath in her hair and was suddenly sure he was smelling her. He pressed his nose against her forehead and she felt his breath huff out of his nostrils and down her face in thick, quick bursts. She closed her eyes as a flash of memory flitted through her mind. A farm and a horse and the grunting, sloppy sounds it made as it nuzzled her face.

When she opened her eyes, she realized she had absentmindedly leaned toward his chest, which was inches from her face. He had the narrow, lanky body of a swimmer. Muscled, but not sculpted. He pulled back and looked down at her. She could feel his gaze and felt obligated to meet it, but couldn't bring herself to do it. The thought of feeling that one eye looking into her was more than she could handle. Instead, she stared at the odd shape of lumpy scar tissue that ran up the center of his torso and split at his sternum toward his shoulders. Unlike the meticulous, nearly invisible scars on her own body, what she was seeing sprawled across his body was a ragged mess.

He released her, and she stood in front of him. She was scared, but the overwhelming amount of information she was processing gave her a moment to get a hold of herself. He didn't seem to want to hurt her, even though he had ripped her dress when he caught her. He sniffed her, like some kind of animal, but then he released her and appeared to be waiting for her to come around to him rather than pushing her. He had only spoken enough to ask her to take off her shoes, which seemed like a docile request.

She was still trying to put together all the information when he reached up with a gentle, oversized hand and tilted her face to look at him, his finger under her chin. Those eyes. As soon their eyes met again something clicked in her head. The scar on his torso. The Doctor, crazy as a loon but a skilled surgeon, hadn't made that horrible scar. That wasn't his handy work. That was an autopsy scar. That was a scar made by a coroner with large stainless-steel sheers and a bone saw, right before he removed and weighed this man's organs. This dead man's organs. Looking into his eyes, one blue, dead and sightless, the other wild and inhuman, the dam inside her broke and she began to scream.

As soon as she started, she knew she would never stop. She screamed in his face. It was in that moment that she realized he was smiling under that mop of blond hair. She seemed to watch everything happen from outside of her body, now a slave to panic and sheer terror. His smile faded as she screamed and fell away from him to the floor. He stepped back and stood taller, staring down at her with his one good eye wide, his mouth hanging open. She scrambled away from him across the cold concrete floor. All she could see was that jagged Y-shaped scar. She forgot everything she knew about herself, about why she was there and how she had come to be. She forgot everything other than the fact that there was a seven-foot-tall dead man looming over her, looking down at her with an expression of confused anger.

“NO!” He bellowed. He looked from her to the wall behind her, and she knew there was a window there where The Doctor was watching all this.

“NO! STOP IT!” He yelled again, gritting his teeth and balling his fist at his forehead. She wanted desperately to stop screaming but couldn't find the right switches to flip inside her head. She bumped against the wall and realized that she'd scooted herself all the way across the room and had nowhere else to go. Her voice shook and broke as her screaming collapsed into sobbing. She couldn't make it stop. It was flowing out of her like an electrical current. Everything was coming out. Everything locked away inside her. The sweep of headlights and the sudden impact of the car. The shattered shower door. The sad feeling of realizing that she'd shot too much junk into her thigh and knowing it was too late to do anything about it. The bathtub and the razor. Every death she'd experienced and forgotten came crashing through her and she couldn't make it stop. Every life wasted and regretted. She sobbed and shook on the floor, her hands gripped tight in her hair, pulling. Her forehead pressed against the concrete, and she screamed and cried into the floor.

Suddenly she was in the air. For a moment she thought she had fainted, but then she was looking at him again. He had lifted her from the ground and was holding her against the wall. Unlike the first time, this was not gentle or kind. He pressed his face against hers and yelled, loud enough to hurt her ears.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” His hands were around her throat, shaking violently, and he squeezed. Immediately her throat constricted, and she was forced silent. Her eyes bulged, wide and terrified. Blood vessels in her cheeks burst. She could feel her tongue being pushed up in her mouth as he squeezed tighter and she suddenly understood that she was about to die. Again.

As black flowers bloomed in her vision, she remembered the bathtub and watching the water turn red around her naked body, and she was okay. She didn't mind so much. It wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be there in that strange laboratory. She wasn't meant to be a thing. A living thing. She was dead, and she should be dead. This... monster... that was strangling her would be dead soon as well, she was confident in that. That was for the best. The Doctor was crazy and had done something really wrong and at least part of it was being corrected as she fell deeper into blackness.

WHITE LIGHT.

The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She couldn't see but she was used to that. She could hear though, and smell and taste. She heard The Monster roaring in his deep timber. She could hear the sound of The Other Man yelling indecipherable, angry taunts and a sound like particularly noisy hair clippers being switched on and off. With each sound, The Monster yelled again. The smell of ozone told her that they were shocking him. A taser or a cattle prod of some sort. She was on the ground, propped against the wall. Her mouth felt like it was full of blood and when she opened it to speak she found her tongue was too big and flopped around uselessly. When she tried to command her arms and legs to move, they refused, and she decided that she wasn't quite conscious yet. The overhead lights in the room were on now, which was why she couldn't see. It was too bright. Occasionally someone would step in front of her field of vision and she would get a momentary sense of what was happening, but it did her little good. What little will she had mustered drained away, and her head lolled to the side and she slumped over again, pitching forward into the black.

ROLLING.

She was on a gurney. She recognized the strangely familiar warble of its uneven wheels as she rolled through the hallway, a cloth lay draped unceremoniously across her eyes, her sunglasses apparently gone. The light fell across her face and bled under the bottom edge of the cloth flickered on and off, filling her with waves of nausea.

Fragments of seemingly random memories flooded her mind, disconnected and dizzying. Pieces of lives she didn't remember living machine gun fired through her consciousness. She felt all of it and could hold onto nothing. Memories bounced in and out of her like a deck of cards, shuffled and shuffled again, faster and faster until nothing made any sense at all.

The gurney slammed through a pair of swinging double doors and into a darker room. The cloth was removed and for a moment she saw the Doctor, his hair sweaty and hanging in his face, stuck to his glasses. He took a small flashlight from his shirt pocket and flicked it across her vision. She tried to cry out but only managed a hoarse, gurgling cough. The Other Man appeared before her and pushed something hard and cold into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but it was too big and seemed to be wedged into her jaw. The taste of hard rubber brought a memory that wasn't her own, yet she experienced it just the same. A baby toy, covered in spit. A teething ring perhaps.

Just as she began to consider why they might have stuffed a rubber baby toy in her mouth, she felt the unusual sensation of fingers rubbing something wet and cold on her temples. As she tried to tilt her head back to see The Doctor and what he was doing, she felt him press two spongy pieces of latex foam against her temples and then every muscle in her body spasmed and seized at once. Then nothing.

 
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from Siete fragmentos

[16/04/2021] Marta se cayó a un pozo

Este relato surge de un encuentro con mi club de escritura de Granada después de muchos meses sin vernos. Decidimos volver a organizar quedadas (por videoconferencia) y compartir de nuevo lo que escribíamos, para escuchar lo que escribía el resto y, a la vez, para motivarnos a escribir más. A mi pesar, propusieron escribir sobre el confinamiento. Era algo de lo que no tenía ningunas ganas de escribir. Así que busqué una pequeña treta para no hacerlo.

No me gusta escribir sobre mi vida. No me gusta nada escribir sobre mí o sobre cosas que me hayan pasado. Supongo que me parece aburrido, al ser todo algo que ya he vivido. Sí que me gusta llevar un diario, pero eso es más para gestionar mis pensamientos y emociones. No tiene casi nada que ver con la escritura. Así que para la tarea decidí cumplir, pero solo a medias. Escribí sobre algo que podría considerarse el confinamiento. O podría ser muchas otras cosas. Junté sensaciones y pensamientos que podrían haber surgido del confinamiento. O podrían haber surgido de otras situaciones. Creo que son un poco universales. O quizás solo es que me da algo de tranquilidad pensar que hay mucha otra gente compartiendo cosas similares. No sé. De cualquier modo, aquí podéis leer un relato que trata del confinamiento pero en verdad no. Espero que lo disfrutes <3


Marta se cayó a un pozo.

Era lo último que planeaba hacer ese día. De hecho, se había levantado temprano porque había quedado. Ella y sus amigos iban a ir a un lago precioso a pasar el día. Marta iba a llevar empanadillas rellenas. Estuvo casi dos horas cortando verduras, sofriendo, moldeando masa y horneando mientras miraba a través de la puerta de cristal asegurándose de que no se quemaban. Al terminar se vió obligada a probar una para asegurarse de que le habían salido bien. El hojaldre todavía caliente estaba crujiente y sedoso. Se deshacía en su boca mezclándose con el pisto sabroso y casi dulce. Se le saltaron un par de lágrimas. Habían quedado riquísimas. Mejor que ningunas otras que hubiera cocinado antes. Marta estaba impaciente por que el resto las probaran. Especialmente Lucía. Siempre se burlaba de que ninguno de sus recetas estaban a la altura de sus alitas de pollo al horno. Pero su reinado terminaba hoy. No había plato que pudiera combatir con estas milagrosas empanadillas. Las metió cuidadosamente en una fiambrera; cogió el bikini, la toalla y todo lo demás y se fue corriendo. Había salido con tiempo de sobra, así que tomó el camino que pasaba por las granjas de apicultores y sus prados de flores multicolores. El sol apenas estaba despuntando por el horizonte, una brisa cálida acariciaba sus cabellos. No podía dejar de sonreír. Las ganas que tenía de reencontrarse con sus amigas después de meses de ausencia se convertían en mariposas en su estómago. Desgraciadamente, Marta no pudo llegar al lago. No pudo besar y abrazar a sus amigas y amigos después de tanto tiempo. Porque Marta se cayó a un pozo.

No supo muy bien como fue, parece ser que tropezó con algo o que resbaló. Una cosa llevó a la otra y el caso es que Marta se levantó de suelo en mitad de la penumbra del fondo de un pozo. No se había hecho mucho daño. Se había raspado un poco las rodillas y tenía algunos arañazos en la cara. Pero poca cosa. Después de sacudirse el polvo pudo ver a su alrededor las paredes húmedas y estrechas del pozo. Piedra basta, grisácea, cubierta de moho verde. Un fondo de tierra apisonada. Mojada y lodosa. Finos regueros de agua surgían de grietas en las paredes de forma caprichosa y formaban un charco en un rincón del pozo. En seguida pudo notar el frescor que había en esa habitación umbría. El sol apenas se intuía a la lejanía. En las alturas, un círculo de azul intenso y brillante parecía llamarla, burlándose.

Marta trató de escalar las pareces. Apretando los dientes intentó agarrarse a cada mínima grieta que pudo encontrar. Se aferró a la basta roca, pegándose todo lo que podía a la pared. Poco a poco, logró arrebatarle un palmo al pozo. Y después otro. Pero sus fuerzas empezaron a agotarse. Sus dedos temblaban y sus manos gritaban. Al final tuvo que desistir. No hubo manera. Solo se había ganado unas manos aun mas magulladas, calambres en sus músculos y pintar ligeramente de granate las paredes.

También intentó gritar. Intentó llamar afuera. Pero nadie respondía. Podía oír su voz retumbando contra las rocas. No se oía ningún otro sonido, más que el ocasional goteo del agua o la brisa paseándose por la boca del pozo. Intentando aguzar el oído para descubrir a alguien que la llamara a Marta le pareció escuchar algo. Se oían murmullos. Creyó que era el viento haciendo de las suyas. Pero no estaba segura. Y es que parecían venir de las paredes. Del suelo. Del mismo pozo. Efectivamente, parecía que algo la llamaba. Al rato esa sensación se difuminó. Marta se encontraba irremediablemente sola en el fondo del pozo. Y aunque no quería admitirlo, sabía que le quedaba mucho tiempo por delante.

No le quedó más remedio que acurrucarse en el fondo y ponerse cómoda. No tenía opción. Más le valía mentalizarse. Tuvo que aceptarlo. Era eso o abandonarse a la desesperanza. No iba a ganar nada destrozándose las manos contra las paredes ni quedándose afónica pidiendo ayuda.

Marta se hizo un hueco en el lado opuesto al charco, donde un lecho de musgo hacía tolerable estar sentada en el suelo. Para comer, pues tenía las empanadillas. Le dejaban un regusto amargo, porque se las tuvo que comer sola, y ninguna de sus amigas pudo probarlas al final. Para quitarse ese mal sabor bebía del agua que se escurría de las paredes. Los vasos de cartón que llevaba para la comida en el lago le vinieron de lujo. El agua sabía amarga. Le dejaba la garganta rasposa. Pero prefería ese amargor a que el sabor de las empanadillas le recordara el mundo que había en el exterior y del que ahora era una exiliada. Al menos sabía que el agua no le iba a faltar. Tuvo suerte, y en una de las paredes de del pozo había un pequeño hueco que descendía a las profundidades y que se transformó en un baño improvisado. Nunca se preguntó hacia donde llevaba ese agujero. Y prefirió no averiguarlo.

Cuando menos lo esperaba, los murmullos volvían y con ellos esa vaga sensación de peligro inminente. Ese algo la hacía volverse intranquila. Sentía que algo la observaba. Se sorprendía girándose rápidamente para intentar sorprender a alguna criatura detrás suya. Se le erizaba el vello y un escalofría recorría su espalda y su cuello. Su pulso y su respiración se aceleraban. Algo se acercaba. Lo sabía. No podía perder tiempo. Si no hacía algo ahora mismo se quedaría atrapada allí para siempre. Lo sabía. Marta se acurrucaba en el suelo y pegaba su espalda a la pared, en un intento por sentirse más segura. Cerraba los ojos y contaba el paso del tiempo. Al final las voces siempre cesaban. El pozo se tranquilizaba y aflojaba sus tenazas. Y con ello Marta podía volver a su aburrida rutina.

Por la noche se encogía en su lecho de musgo y miraba hacia arriba. Hacia el charquito de estrellas que se veía en la lejanía. Algunas noches la luna se pasaba a saludar. Otras veces se pasaba la lluvia, y se veía obligada a apretujarse en un recodo del fondo del pozo para no quedarse empapada. Un día incluso se puso a granizar. El pozo parecía una sala de conciertos improvisada para una banda de xilófonos. Habría sido bastante bello si no tuvieran la mala costumbre de golpearle en la cabeza al final de cada compás.

Marta intentaba ser positiva. Se lo tomaba como una experiencia. ¿Cuantas personas habían vivido en el fondo de un pozo? Tenía su encanto. Era como las cuevas que se habían habitado en multitud de ocasiones a lo largo de la historia. Solo que el pozo era más pequeño que una cueva. Y más húmedo. Y sin la posibilidad de salir. Y encima en contra de su voluntad. Cuanto más lo pensaba menos romántico le parecía. Más que la aventura de vivir en una cueva era la condena de verse encarcelada.

Veía a veces los pájaros posarse en la boca del pozo. La saludaban. A veces tenían conversaciones. Les preguntaba por sus viajes. Les pedía que le trajeran cosas. Se convirtieron en su única conexión con el mundo exterior. Las empanadillas al final se acabaron. Y no se sintió con el valor o la desesperación suficiente como para probar si las setas que crecían ahí abajo eran comestibles. Por suerte los pájaros le dejaban nueces. A veces trozos de pan. Una maravillosa tarde le dejaron una magdalena, un poco pasada. Pero considerando lo que había estado comiendo, era un auténtico lujo. A veces se preguntaba si los pájaros la ayudaban por buena voluntad, o más bien porque les divertía acertarle en la cabeza con lo que le tiraban. Fuera lo que fuera, se callaba los insultos cuando una almendra la despertaba por las mañanas y se alegraba de no tener que alimentarse de musgo y lodo. “¿Y de qué se alimentan los pozos?” se preguntó un día Marta. ¿Del agua que rescataban? ¿De los seres que caían a su interior? Marta siempre había pensado que los pozos no se tenían que alimentar de nada. Los pozos no viven. No sienten. Son solo algo que crean las personas. O algo que aparece por sí solo. Pero le resultaba más difícil seguir pensando lo mismo. Marta estaba casi segura de que ella no se había caído allí sola. Fue el pozo quien la atrapó. Y lo había oído hablar. De un modo extraño, pero le hablaba. Y si algo habla, tiene que pensar. Y si algo piensa tiene que estar vivo. Y por supuesto, también tiene que comer. Marta esperaba poder salir de allí antes de convertirse en la comida de aquel pozo. Aunque se hacía difícil, porque las paredes parecían crecer día a día.

Con el tiempo se acostumbró a pensar en voz alta. El eco de su propia voz la hacía sentirse acompañada. Además, el silencio parecía atraer a los murmullos. Y el ruido además alejaba a la soledad. Para Marta lo peor de estar en el fondo del pozo no era la incomodidad, la estrechez o el no poder salir al exterior. Lo peor era tener que pasar por todo eso y hacerlo alejada de toda su gente. No era solo que se hubiera perdido aquella comida del lago. ¿Cuántas comidas en cuantos lagos podrían haber organizado en todo el tiempo que estuvo en el fondo de ese pozo? Ahora que lo pensaba, parecía llevar vidas enteras allí abajo. Cuando se perdía en esos pensamientos los murmullos parecían volver irremediablemente. Acurrucada en su rincón en el suelo intentaba escucharlos. Intentaba buscarle sentido. Pero nunca sacaba nada en claro. Podía pasarse horas muertas intentando encontrar una respuesta que nunca llegaba. Y al final solo eran horas que se perdían.

Había días que pasaba tumbada. Negándose a hacer nada más que intentar dormir y que el tiempo pasara más deprisa. Viajando a un futuro en el que podría salir de ese pozo. Y así Marta alimentaba al pozo. Con su tiempo. Días y días eran devorados por esa boca hambrienta. Y los murmullos parecían animarse y acallarse a la vez. Así que Marta lo alimentaba una y otra vez. Con tal de que se callara y la dejara tranquila.

Al final el pozo escupió a Marta. Su cuerpo, engarrotado por el aprisionamiento, se encontraba retorcido. Marta se había acostumbrado a la estrechez del fondo del pozo, y los espacios abiertos ahora la agobiaban. Se sorprendía a veces recordando con nostalgia la noches acostadas en el húmedo musgo con añoranza. Aquel pequeño trozo de cielo que podía distinguir en la lejanía. La soledad. La monotonía. La ausencia de todo. La nada. El estar ella sola sin que nada más importara.

El pozo la llamaba. Los murmullos volvían. Marta no sabía cuanto podría acallar el impulso de volver. Ni siquiera si querría hacerlo. Le daba miedo pensar que si regresaba, el pozo no volvería a soltarla jamás. ¿Pero era miedo o era deseo? Marta empezó a dudar de si misma más y más. Claro que no quería volver. Habían sido los peores momentos de su vida. Y sin embargo la tentaban. La intranquilidad crecía en Marta. Empezó a tener miedo de sí misma. Con horror se descubría haciendo planes para volver, pensando en pasar por casualidad por el borde del pozo a ver si todo se repetía de nuevo. Con toda la fortaleza de mente que podía reunir borraba esas ideas de su cabeza. Pero no sabía cuando iba a poder aguantar. Así que una noche decidió ponerle fin. En un principio pensó en una cuerda. Siendo lo bastante gruesa no debería haber problema. Pero se lo pensó de nuevo. Una cuerda se puede cortar, se puede desgastar. Tenía que ser algo definitivo. Una cadena sería lo mejor. Pasaría mucho tiempo hasta que el metal se oxidara o se rompiera. Puso un rollo de gruesas cadenas en la mochila que hace tanto tiempo había llevado empanadillas y un bikini. Emprendió camino al pozo, atravesando de nuevo los campos de flores multicolores. Esta vez las abejas no zumbaban. Al final del camino vio la silueta del pozo delineada por una luna menguante. Marta se quedo parada un par de minutos. Quizás fueran horas. Los dedos se le pusieron blancos de apretar las manos. No le extrañaría que las uñas le hubieran abierto pequeños surcos en las palmas. Con los brazos temblorosos abrió la mochila y sacó la tintineante cadena. Arrastrándola se acercó al pozo. Aseguró la cadena con un grueso candado y lanzó la llave al fondo. Y tras ella lanzó la cadena. La banda de xilófonos dio un último recital y de nuevo cayó el silencio. Miró a boca oscura del pozo con desafío. Esta vez era ella la que se burlaba.

Si alguna vez volvía a caer al fondo, ahora sabía que había un camino de vuelta. Quisiera o no usarla había una salida. El pozo aun podía morderla, podía asustarla, podía matarla. Pero ahora Marta sabía que lo había domesticado y tenía las herramientas para hacerle obedecer.


#maquinadeltiempo #minirelato #terror

 
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from Siete fragmentos

[01/03/2020] Érase una vez

Este texto no tiene mucha historia detrás, así que voy a cortarme con la introducción, que las anteriores eran casi más largas que el texto en sí.

Me encantan las fábulas, los cuentos y toda la simbología que se ha creado con ellos. Adoro la simbología en sí. Elementos que han cobrado significado por su aparición en historias y relatos, les dan una vida que va más allá de lo que pueden representar en sí. Muchos de esa simbología está muy integrada en nuestra cultura, por lo a la mayoría de la gente le suelen evocar sensaciones similares, y eso da mucho potencial a la hora de crear. Usando esos elementos bastante universales (siempre dentro de la misma cultura en la que fueron concebidos) puedes predecir bastante bien que tipo de sentimientos puedes despertar en las personas que vayan a consumir lo que creas.

Esto que he escrito nace esencialmente de querer plasmar en un texto multitud de esos elementos de cuento, y ver un poco hacia donde me llevaban. De lo que se esconde detrás no comentaré nada, ya que prefiero que cada persona se quede con lo que ella ha sentido. Espero que lo disfrutes.


Una ciudad sin murallas, Laberinto de cristal, Una playa de papel, Mil palabras olvidadas.

Un susurro arrepentido, Una lágrima viajera; Mil disculpas que prendieron Un corazón de madera. Una marioneta errante Que hilos dorados manejan, Bailando al son de una música Que nunca el silencio aleja.

Una cristalera rota, Cien años de mala suerte; Un sendero que recorro De la mano de la muerte.

Elogios que son mentira, Mentiras que dan la vida, Una mueca, una sonrisa. Anhelar una caricia.

Una laguna sangrienta. Un hada que desespera. Una espada sin destino, Existencia sin sentido, Desear cualquier manera De llenar ese vacío.

Una princesa y un príncipe Atados forzosamente. Muriéndose poco a poco, Dos almas que se enloquecen. Fuego y hielo, corta y prende; Se destruyen mutuamente. El tapiz que se desgarra, Su juramento se pierde Alaridos que proclaman Una injustica demente. Una profecía maldita. Una mente envenenada. Venas desiertas y frías Que se disfrazan de bellas, Representan un papel Que el público vitorea, Mientras su interior, podrido, Se deshace por la pena.

Un dragón encarcelado. Un caballero tirano. La pasión que es ahogada En un pozo de deseos. Todo buenas intenciones, Historias para inspirar. El infierno que te aguarda Nada más al despertar. Pesadillas, sueños rotos. Imaginación viajera. Relatos negros y blancos Condenados a la hoguera.

Familias grises y rotas. Súplicas que no germinan. Semillas que te fulminan Cuando eclosionan y vuelas. El cielo, azul y limpio, Te promete luz y gloria, Infinidad de tesoros, Un mapa con sangre escrito. Cuervos guardando el camino. Hambre o pureza, el dilema. Un tribunal, siete ojos. Una moraleja impía Que no importa, yo la escojo.

¿Para qué quieres verdad Pudiendo beber mentiras? Esperanza que es de paja Igual espanta los miedos, También perdices al vuelo. Soy infantil, y esto un juego. Cautivado el albedrío, Igual da la libertad. Solo escucho las historias, No necesito memoria: Dame ficción y felicidad.


#cutrepoesia #fantasia #maquinadeltiempo

 
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from Siete fragmentos

[19/02/2020] Son multitud, soy multitud

Hace nada encontré un grupo de gente que se reúne cada mes para poner en común cosas que han estado escribiendo. En cada reunión dan un concepto sobre el que se puede escribir durante el mes, y quien quiera puede compartirlo en la siguiente reunión. Aparte, también se puede compartir otra composición de tema libre. Esto yo lo conocía como micrófono abierto, y es una de las cosas que más he echado de menos desde que me mudé. Y me alegro un montón de poder volver a formar parte de uno. Nunca había llegado a participar activamente, pero siempre que podía iba a escuchar. Me encanta oír lo que escribe otra gente. Me sirve para buscar inspiración, y además me motiva mucho. Me recuerda las cosas que podría conseguir si me esforzara lo suficiente. Algo así pasó con la creación de esta plataforma, que de no ser porque vi otra gente creándose blogs quizás seguiría en el limbo.

Me encanta leer y escuchar cosas de estilos cuanto más diferentes mejor, y los micrófonos abiertos me parece que son perfectos para eso. Te encuentras gente de muy diferente estilo y nivel. Aunque tengo mis estilos predilectos, me parece que picotear un poco de cada uno me hace más bien que mal. Y eso intento. Aunque es cierto que el relato corto en el que parece que me he apalancado favorece bastante más cierto tipo de textos. O, al menos, a mi cabeza le resulta más fácil pensar de ese modo. A veces me fuerzo a escribir textos de otro tipo que no me resultan tan naturales. Pero como mi principal razón para escribir es disfrutar con ello, no suele pasar demasiado.

El concepto que se propuso en el micrófono literario para el mes siguiente era “Red”. Se suelen poner cosas muy abiertas para que cada cual le busque la interpretación que más le guste y salgan textos variados con temáticas interesantes. Mi propuesta es la siguiente, espero que la disfrutes.


No hay nadie más a la vista. Solo yo, el mar y la arena bajo mis pies. ¡Ah! ¡Y el viento! Casi me olvido del viento.

Las olas se acercan a mí tímidamente, ofreciéndome un trozo de océano que no puedo más que aceptar.

Bajo mis manos, diminutos granos de arena se agolpan, sosteniéndolas y queriendo enterrarse en mi piel. Todos y cada uno de ellos me hacen el más minúsculo corte, tomando de mí una infinitésima gota de sangre. La beben con mesura y la hacen suya. A cambio, dejan su marca en mi cuerpo. Cortes que van sumándose, formando un complicado rompecabezas en mi carne. “No me olvides”, parece decir. “Jamás podría”, responden mis entrañas. La arena va fluyendo, algunos granos se van y otros nuevos ocupan su lugar. A mucha de esa arena no la volveré a ver. Mucha ya ha caído, se ha perdido. Y, sin embargo, la recuerdo. Mi sangre viaja en su compañía. Me hicieron partícipe de las corrientes por las que se arrastraron. Me mezclé con otros cuerpos a los que visitaron. Ahora soy parte de arena.

Las olas no me olvidan, y sus caricias hacen que yo no me pueda olvidar de ellas. Una miríada de gotas besan mis dedos, besan mi piel. Me arrastran junto a la marea. Yo bebo de ellas, y ellas beben de mí. Su sal quema en mis heridas, y a veces nuevas gotas asoman por mis ojos cuando el dolor es grande. Me acunan suavemente, conduciéndome por lugares remotos. Con ellas descubro maravillas. Bebo de su sabiduría y crezco a su lado. Lavan mis dudas, cristalizan mi voluntad, se funden conmigo. Ahora soy parte del mar.

Y el viento resuena. Ecos de mi llanto lejano que ya apenas recuerdo. Me abandono a sus brazos. En las caídas me levanta de nuevo, su aliento me acompaña. Susurros, en ocasiones bellos. Otras veces me hablan con furia. Palabras que hieren y que me acaban curtiendo. De sus voces aprendo, con sus voces cambio. Me dan alas para huir, y también para volver. Y gracias al lazo que nos une me hacen libre. La ventisca se hace mía.

Y, cuando llegue el momento, mi cuerpo desaparecerá, y pasará a formar parte de esa playa. Bandada, enjambre y manada. Me uniré a la arena que soportará otros pies y otras manos. Me fundiré con la corriente que acariciará nuevas pieles. Y mi voz se unirá a la melodía que canta en la costa. Y seguiremos aguardando a quienes visiten la playa. Algunas personas quizás sean amigas. Otras no lo serán tanto. Pero de cualquier modo nos ofreceremos a ellas, unidas por el dolor y la necesidad. Y nos haremos inseparables. Vidas entretejidas construyendo un gran manto. Para encontrarlo solo has de seguir la madeja. La brisa, la sal. Solo necesitas un granito de arena.


#ejercicio #maquinadeltiempo #minirelato

 
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from Siete fragmentos

[01/02/2020] Sin mirar atrás

Este relato en verdad no tiene mucha historia detrás. Lo hice para el curso de escritura allá por 2018. Pero no había ninguna premisa especial, que yo recuerde. Aunque sí que tenía un par de cosas en mente mientras lo hacía.

Algo en lo que suelo poner bastante énfasis en mis textos son sensaciones. Para intentar transmitir qué sienten mis personajes intento hacerlo a través de lo que captan sus sentidos en cada momento. Lo he visto utilizado por otras personas y me parece que es una herramienta bastante poderosa, y que suele servir para ayudar a quien está leyendo a conectar con un relato. Creo que además aporta intensidad al texto. Y aunque a veces eso puede no ser bueno, sobre todo en grandes dosis, en este caso en particular creo que le venía bien.

La segunda cosa que quería plasmar en este relato, es el concepto del horror invisible. De una presencia que se encuentra fuera de escena, pero que es capaz de amenazar y de influir negativamente a las personas que la experimentan. Era un concepto que descubrí en un podcast sobre escritura y que me apetecía poner en práctica. Algo así es lo que aparece en este relato. Espero que lo disfrutes.


El viento sopla a sus espaldas. La lluvia torrencial lo acompaña, empapando sus abrigos ya chorreantes. Sus pies intentan abrirse camino en un océano lodoso. Hundiéndose a cada paso hasta la pantorrilla, sus botas se inundan cada vez más y luchan por continuar en movimiento.

Los pasos de ella, más veloces, intentan imponer su ritmo. Los de él, renqueantes, se esfuerzan en seguirla. A veces ella vuelve la vista atrás, intentando penetrar con la mirada las sombras de un bosque oscurecido por la tempestad y el crepúsculo. A veces él se lleva la mano al costado, intentando frenar el reguero carmesí que están dejando a su espalda. A veces ambos se estremecen. Quizás sea por el soplo helados del vendaval en sus empapadas ropas. Quizás sea porque sus músculos empiezan a desfallecer. Quizás sea por los alaridos desgarradores que parece arrastrar el viento.

Él intenta seguir adelante, con toda la voluntad que le queda. Pero su costado está ardiendo, mientras que por sus venas se deslizan cristales de hielo. Solo se mantiene en movimiento gracias al brazo que apoya sobre ella. La constante cadencia de sus pasos parece haberse grabado a fuego en su delirante consciencia.

Ella siete como el peso de su compañero parece aumentar a cada paso. Su piel quema al tacto, aun bajo la gélida tormenta. Finalmente su corazón se parte cuando él se desploma. Con lágrimas invisibles ella intenta desesperadamente levantarlo. Le da palabras de ánimo y fuerza que ambos saben son totalmente falsas e inútiles. Se miran. La mirada de él le suplica. Ella odia a este condenado mundo, porque sabe que él tiene razón. Sus rostros, marcados de barro, lluvia y lágrimas se encuentran. Se funden en un desesperado abrazo. Sería imposible distinguir donde acaban los sollozos y empiezan los temblores de fiebre, terror y abatimiento.

Ella saca un revolver de su mochila y lo coloca en sus manos. Los ojos de él reflejan primero confusión, luego pánico, y finalmente determinación. Los de ella se cierran, llenos de furia y lágrimas. Incapaz de mirarlo besa sus dedos temblorosos, besa sus labios cubiertos de llagas, y por último su frente ardiente. Los pasos de ella se alejan, uno tras otro. Y mientras lo hace, ruega con todas sus fuerzas para que encuentre el valor necesario antes de que ellos lo encuentren a él.


#maquinadeltiempo #minirelato #terror

 
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from Siete fragmentos

[11/01/2020] Plumas de colores

Ya he mencionado antes que no he practicado mucho la poesía. Me gusta bastante leerla, aunque no de forma habitual. Normalmente lo que disfruto más cuando leo un texto son las historias que cuentan, los mundos que presentan, las personas que aparecen en ellos y que evolucionan y experimentan esas maravillas. Y por lo general la poesía no suele trabajar ese tipo de cosas. Suele ser breve, directa. No da mucho tiempo a presentar lugares desconocidos, ni a dar mucho recorrido a los personajes. De ahí la escasa relación que he tenido con ella en el pasado. Eso cambió con el primer club de escritura al que asistí y algún micrófono abierto en el que estuve de oyente.

Mi profesora escribe un tipo de estilo que me llamó muchísimo la atención, que es prosa poética. Además lo hacía maravillosamente bien. Me dio curiosidad e hice algún intento. No me fue mal del todo. Aunque tampoco es un estilo que pueda usarse para textos muy largos, me pareció que le daba belleza a los escritos. Una cosa que no me gusta demasiado de muchas obras de literatura fantástica, es que por lo general no dan importancia a la belleza o estilo del texto. Se centran más en esos aspectos que a mí más me atraían: historia, mundo y personajes. Sin embargo, cuando las lees, casi nunca puedes decir que el estilo sea bello. Salvo contadas excepciones. Una de ellas es la de mi autora favorita: Ursula K. Le Guin.

Los mundos que Ursula crea son maravillosos, con personajes muy particulares y llenos de complejidad; y, aunque es cierto que las historias no suele ser lo más importante en sus obras, el texto es pura belleza. Además, tiene una gran naturalidad, con lo que no parece sobrecargado en absoluto (como si pasa en otras obras de naturaleza más poética). Ella representa el 80% de lo que me gustaría alcanzar en la escritura. Y una de las habilidades que necesitaría adquirir para alcanzar esa meta imposible sería desarrollar una escritura con un estilo mejor, más bello, que no se limite solo a contar una historia, si no que lo haga de un modo bonito, a la vez que natural.

Como hay que andar antes de correr, empecé ciertas incursiones en el terreno de la poesía. Este de aquí creo que fue el primer intento que hice de una “poesía”. No sé si tiene derecho a llamarse así, ni siquiera entre comillas. No tiene ningún tipo de rima o métrica típica. De cualquier forma la etiqueta que se le ponga me importa bien poco. A mí solo me preocupaba el estilo, que la verdad me gustó como quedó. Espero que lo disfrutes.


Siete plumas fueron arrastradas por la tormenta.

Roja fue la marca sobre la mejilla. Más rojas fueron las palabras que la siguieron. Lazos que estallan y avivan una llama implacable Quemando carne y alma por igual.

Amarillo es el pan duro sobre la mesa. Amarillos, los ojos codiciosos que vigilan una cancela dorada. Amarilla es ciertamente la llave, casualmente extraviada. Excusa frente a una horda de manos suplicantes.

Sombras azules bajo ojos cerrados Conjuran el peso del mundo sobre unos hombros exhaustos. Y un rayo de luz que entre almohadones Convierte al olvido en deseable.

Cristales rosas guían la mirada y llenan de certeza. De los labios de su amor solo salen elogios y de sus manos caricias, Su única compañía en una mansión de terciopelo. Jamás renunciará a ellos. Son elogios y caricias. Sólo elogios y caricias.

Verde es el reflejo marchito que aparenta grandeza. Marchitan y marchitándose los que tratan de alcanzarlo. Promesas y sueños rotos se intuyen tras un telón esmeralda donde actores y público, se conducen de la mano hacia el abismo.

De ropajes naranjas cubría su cuerpo entre la multitud con ansia de reconocer y no ser reconocido. La verdad secuestrada por manos anaranjadas, el naranja manejado por mentes iluminadas.

El elixir violeta que lo cambia todo, sutura cicatrices con manos púrpuras, su única exigencia tu devoción. Nunca más sentir debilidad, soledad o incertidumbre. Nunca más sentir, nunca más necesitar. Nada más, nunca más.

Y de sus cenizas nacen las siete más oscuras, Heraldos de miedo y lágrimas, lo consumen todo. Del arcoíris nacido al final de la tempestad hacen su víctima, pero las contamina. Y heridas caen al suelo, donde esperarán a que el viento se levante de nuevo.


#cutrepoesia #maquinadeltiempo

 
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from Billthoo

Untitled

I

Remember, dear Hope, Of peace, plenty, joy and love? ‘Fore it ever came

When steel meant a plough? When Kings were bedtime stories? World was small and sane.

The whisper of crops? Days of a lingering sun? The peace of plenty.

Children loved, not scorned, Barefoot running in green fields? Our village had wealth.

*

Warm night, fiddles screech, Knees up, laughter, and beer talk. Eyes tangle, lives change.

I stammered and blushed You danced with me anyway. The world fell away.

I polish your name It glitters when I say it. You granted me Hope.

Berry smears on chins, Juice, and cream, and tastes of you. A season of joy.

*

Coat of harvest dust, Your fathers stone hands and face. A rare smile, embrace.

Blessings by Brown Wen, The wise old knot of a crone. A long stare, then grins.

Vows swapped like diamonds, Grains thrown like dragons toss pearls. My life joined with Hope’s.

The bridesmaids giggle, And then blush, and then leave us. Fingers and limbs twine.

 
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from Pixie's Pad

Fields of grey under a washed out, pallid sky.

A flat breeze carrying soporofic piano melodies that crackle on occasion with the degrading connection to the mainframe that seeds out thousands and thousands of connections all playing from speaker to microphone to speaker to microphone to -

A silver sedan with faux leather seats takes you from the pick up point into the city. They put you up in a box of a room, deep in a maze of endless grey towers of uniform height and uniform width and uniform spacing that draw on and on to an insipid horizon. Indoors the air still smells of oil. The carpet, cheap and tacky, is printed with dollar signs. The linen is clean but the threadcount is as low as your expectations.

You wake startled some time in the middle of the night when a haunting voice blares YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US, PLEASE RATE YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH OUR SERVICE so loudly that the windows rattle in their steel frames. You finger a gap in the blinds and peer out into the street but the rows and rows of carbon copy windows remain dark. You don't sleep after that, and the voice manifests two more times before the sun begins its weary struggle to pierce the decumbent clouds.

They see you at 9:20am. You are escorted into a room where several men stand laughing stiffly, coffee in identical plain white mugs held at 45 degree angles from their bodies, knuckles white. They turn to you as you enter the corner office with its floor to ceiling windows, laughter stilling in unison, their eyes trying to flatten you with condemnation in the heavy silence.

“Please state your concern.” One of them says, something brittle at the edges of his voice.

“Criticism is valuable and will be addressed.” Another slowly lowers his mug to the desk.

You look at all of them, one after the other, into their seething eyes. You straighten your back.

“You're the ones that called me here.”

“We should talk this through, like adults- “There's no need for hostility- “We can resolve this to the benefit of everyone involved, if you'll just-

“Just what? Do things your way?”

“Our experience in these matters is- “Collectively, we represent- “We only have your best interests-

“Nah. I didn't come here to debate.”

You nod to the window, and in unison, they turn.

A rainbow arcs brilliantly across the sky in the distance, a break in the clouds drowning a small corner of the city in warm, inviting sunshine. The buildings it touches manifest colours, pink, blue, purple. The windows that catch the sunlight glitter in an effusion of brilliance.

The endless piano tune crackles and stops playing for three entire seconds before beginning again, weaker.

A coffee mug falls to the floor. The handle breaks off and spins away to vanish under a filing cabinet.

- Thanks to FrostPoem and SecretSloth for the inspiration and banter :D

 
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from Gerty's Thinky Thunksblog

Random Thinky Thunk:

I've often been told by surprised people that I speak just like I write.

I've known many who wrote very differently to how they spoke, and that always confuses me because whyever would they?

I haz a super strong feeling that people who write differently to how they speak do it to conceal critical truths.

In my experience the bigger the difference between someone's speech and writing, the more they are concealing.

This is something I consider from time to time.

End Thinky Thunk.

=========

Further Random Thinky Thunk:

I support anyone's right to delete their own posts.

I also support my own right to judge frequent bulk post deleters as

• valuing their own words near/at Zero — too poorly to keep

• posting words too carelessly to stand by long term, valuing future views for reference near/at Zero

And since many ActivityPub platforms include anti-datamining protections (eg search & scrape blocking), the bulk post deletion anti-datamine defense accuracy rating also scores near-Zero.

 
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from rinseLacerate

Fourteen

It seems I’ve been sitting here, alone, by this dark window for a long time. I remember people. Voices, conversations, interaction. I think there was someone here with me for a while, but I can’t quite remember. Looking around the deserted car, I suddenly feel anxious. Am I the only one left?

Just then, a door opens in the distance and before it closes, the unmistakable sound of subdued laughter and smooth jazz comes drifting towards me. Why was I not invited? I get up and make my way towards the party: I'll be damned if I miss this.

When I arrive, everyone’s already there: the doctor is ordering a tray of jello-o shots for his already intoxicated sidekick, the head cleric – stoic as ever – accepts a virgin mai tai from the butler, while the woman from the 36th floor is challenging the janitor to a tequila slammer race. Even the golden-haired elevator boy, thin to the point of emaciated, is here, huddled up next to the jukebox drinking diet coke straight from the can.

I make my way towards the bar, eager to down an iced daiquiri or two under the auspices of my old friend the barman, when someone blocks my way. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence – how delightful!” The housekeeper is here: big, smiling, unyielding. “We’ve opened our vintage champagne, dusty port and cloudy ale for you. I personally oversaw the slaughtering of a calf and a handful of ducks for some quick finger food. Even as we speak, they are polishing the fine dinnerware. Let it be known no expenses were spared.” She makes a little pirouette and says in confidence: “Once we're done here, there's Mongolian vodka and vat-grown oysters in the VIP room. Not to mention the quick pickled calf meat and duck tartar. After that... Well the night is young, isn't it. I shan't play all my cards just yet.” She giggles and claps her hands once, hard. From out of nowhere, a faceless servant appears with a tray of glasses. I grab one, but as I lift it to my mouth, something feels off. Is there a foul smell beneath that heady bouquet? Are the bubbles just a little too lively? I'm not sure. What I do know is

that I open my hand and let go of the glass that the sound of it breaking against the marble floor is surprisingly loud that everything falls silent around me

“I think that you are going to find that that was very ill-advised.” The housekeeper is too close, her breath sour and raw. Her voice low and distorted, she pronounces every word very carefully, as if to make sure I remember every syllable.

She takes a step back, watches me in disbelief, then clicks her tongue: “Try to play the part next time, would you? You silly little man.”

And with that she’s gone. I remember seeing her later, playing rock, paper, scissors with the janitor and the elevator boy, but I don’t think we ever spoke again.

 
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from Words and Lines

Landmark

by Tris Kerslake

Just there, beyond my ordinary sight, behind those hills, across grave fields of rumpled soil, lies the centre of the world.

Without a sign, distaining temporary things like words, there is a shouting out of place that thumps the pulse and ferries countless memories into a harbour I had not even known was bare.

At once invisible and of the stuff that mountains cross, it does not need my mark to be but all the same, indulges recognition through postcards in the tourist shop.

It does not meet the infidel’s request of gold or visionary scenes, but offers quiet temples cast in stone and air where converts come in hope, like me, of faith renewed.

And here I am. With almost music and with grass beneath my feet, I know this place. Mother, father, heart, I am a child of here.

 
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from Chloe Gilbert Artist

I saw that Apple had put out a set of VR googles “Apple Vision Pro” that cost $3500. I’m slightly shocked at the cost and how awful they look. Toys for rich people.

It’s all terribly gauche.

I was working at my day job yesterday and didnt have time for painting, but in spare moments was thinking about what to paint for the future, and I’m pretty conflicted about that. I had an amazing idea two days ago about making something that was architectural and rococo but with Sci-if and fantasy elements. That ran out of steam about half a day later. Then I had some ideas about sticking with the knife painting and doubling down on the work that I had started way back in lockdown, to capture skies and light. And this is the crux of the matter. I am overrunning with ideas, but don’t have the time or the energy to attempt them all. Or the studio space. or a studio to have space in. This is a problem that will need a solution at some point.

Working out what to paint next is becoming a bigger and bigger issue for me though. If you have reference photos that you don’t mind me using to make a painting from please let me know. And if you have ideas for paintings that I should do also don’t hesitate to share that with me.

 
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