Put the Poet on Mute
“You are riding Route
173. The next stop is Kerrangee and State. Dear passengers! The Transit
Authority reminds you to remember to take your belongings with you when leaving
the bus. If you find any abandoned items, please do not touch them and inform
your driver or call…”
There was a blinding,
split-second flash. Thunder ripped through the sky somewhere too close for
comfort; it drowned both the number to call and the angry signaling right
outside the window. Countless cars jammed the opposite side of the road, among
them a few trailers lined up one after another; the leading one bore a massive
decal depicting the American flag painted across a blue-sky backdrop.
The sky on the decal
looked nice, Rolf thought. Blue. It's been what, a week since he'd last seen
blue like that? The weather has been atrocious: non-stop rain with occasional
bouts of fine hail, piercing northern winds; sometimes – a thick, frozen, dirty
fog in the morning. The storm seemed a culmination, Mother Nature's final word
for the moment: she's scolded the city, she's punished it, she didn't think it
beneath herself to break some trees and rip some power lines. Witness her
anger! The lightning strikes are the sparks thrown by her metal whip; the dark
clouds overhead are her furrowed brows; the angry sea out west is nothing but…
water, perhaps… water swirling in her cup… or, maybe, roiling in her teapot?
Cheap banalities, all
that. These weren't the words Rolf was looking for. No spark in those, for
sure; only dull, beat-up cliches and barely formed ideas. It wasn't even a real
storm: just a bit of thunder with occasional gusts of wind. He pressed his face
tight against the window of the bus, squinting, trying to see something that
would scare him, kick him into high gear, force him to think, to speak, to get the words out from where – he knew, or, at this point, he might have
just hoped – they lay dormant within
him.
“Maybe I should be out
there,” he thought, staring at the water droplets drawing wet paths down the
glass. “Maybe I need to get soaked, stand under a tree…”
That sort of thing
never worked for him in the past. But he was out of options. Abigail had been
calling every day; at first he didn't pick up because he was ashamed to admit
he didn't have anything ready, later – because he was scared of her. Abigail could
be way more terrifying than Mother Nature. Abigail could tell him they weren’t
going to renew with him. In his imagination, she'd make a show of it – she'd
rip the contract right next to the mic, she'd crumple what remained and throw
it into the nearest bin… and – just like that! – so much more would go poof.
He'd stop riding the 173, for one. Nothing left for him at the end of that
line.
Rolf sighed. Self-pity
was addictive. It was a dark and deep well, he knew, and he'd long learned
there were no words to be found at the bottom.
***
There'd been five more
stops after Kerrangee and State before it was time to disembark. Lightning
didn't strike again. The sky was only getting darker, though, the clouds
swelling with lead.
(Another cliche.
Was there something better than lead? Clouds filling with iron? Pig iron, for
something vaguely occult-themed? Clouds swelling with gold, if he'd ever wanted
to pull up the myth of Midas, reshaped into something new? Clouds swelling with
– no, looking like – that gray foam that he sometimes saw construction workers
use… or maybe he could just use cement, yes, that would work too, and there's a
parallel with acid rain – isn't cement caustic?)
There was something to
it, he thought. Something to latch onto and pull until he got an entire line
out, maybe a whole verse. The cement, surely. The cement, caustic and dense and
ugly, and so drab and gray. Cement clouds lining the ceiling in a giant subway
station. Cement clouds as a contradiction: cement ruins everything nice about
clouds, takes away every aspect of cloudness. Cement clouds spraying acid rain
on people who'd never left that station…
The bus came to a
halt. The doors opened into a wall of rain. He stepped out, immediately pulling
his head into his shoulders and opening up his umbrella – a foldable, flimsy
little thing. It creaked. He was hoping it would at least protect his sweater.
Then he cursed again.
No, no, it didn't work. Cement was alkaline.
He could not remember who told him that, but… not acidic. Someone would call it
out if it ever made it to print.
Stupid.
(Does alkaline rain
work? Caustic rain? Lye rain?)
He awkwardly ran, his
thoughts swiftly shifting from word-hunting to what he would do the moment he
stepped into his apartment. The umbrella held; it was only his pant legs that
got wet. He would change. Shower – a very quick one, sure, but he had to,
sometimes the words came to him there. A snack. Then – hunt. Hunt more, hunt
relentlessly, because they are out there. He'd made it big one time, he could
do it again, Abigail knew it and she'd never made mistakes. (Before, an unwanted little voice
remarked. She'd never made mistakes
before.)
He should have just
told her before they finalized the timeline. Should have admitted he was in a
bit of a rut. Just didn't have it in him. Abigail was so good at writing out
her calendar for months to come, so efficient, so prudent. Telling her “I think
I can't” would have spoiled it all.
Rolf turned from the
sidewalk onto the dirt road leading to his house. He ran up to the porch,
stomped up the steps, pulled out his key, fumbled it – the rain was still
getting to him, thrown around by gusts of wind, leaking through the shabby roof
over the porch. The lock felt scratchier than usual; the way it clicked wasn't
right, either, it was way too loud, and Rolf briefly wondered if he should call
the police over a suspected break-in. But he was in one of his nothing matters moods, and so he figured
that if someone did break in, they
would be long gone, having realized there's nothing to take.
Another gust of wind,
another portion of rain hitting his buttocks. Cursing again, Rolf opened the
door and pushed it inside, leaning into it with his shoulder. The door swung
open.
There was a soft
crackle. He barely managed to catch sight of the wrongness before he fell, his ears immediately filling with static.
***
Rolf fell.
He caught a snapshot
of what was below him: a flat, polished surface in a rectangular pattern,
nothing like the old, scuffed tiles by his own front door. He didn't get a
better look, because he closed his eyes. He was in freefall. He was so surprised he didn't even make a sound until he
hit the floor; at least he had the presence of mind to wrap his arms around his
head. And even then, all he could muster was a shocked, drawn-out “wha-a-a-t?”
His eyes and body
disagreed on the scale; the former estimated he'd fallen a few stories, the
latter insisted it was no worse than tumbling off a bicycle. Peculiar.
He cautiously opened
his eyes. His mind was trying to make some sense of what had just happened: was
he so distraught he walked up to the wrong house? Did he stumble? Did someone
push him? All nonsense: he knew it was his
residence, he didn't hear anyone walking up, and he distinctly remembered
using his own key without anything looking to be out of order. A minute ago. And yet…
No, this wasn't his
house; in fact, this could not be a house at all. The polished hardwood floor
he fell on had the widest grain he'd ever seen and the largest slabs of wood to
boot. Warm sunlight flooded the room through immense windows built into formidable
beige walls; they stretched so far up that the place felt a little like a
cathedral. A cool draft blew over him; his teeth clattered, and he suddenly
felt angry at the fact that since this decidedly was not his house, he could not take his wet pants off. They clung
unpleasantly to his shins.
There was more – there
was a dresser, and an overloaded shoe rack, and a few framed pictures on the
walls, and a shiny mirror with a thin golden rim, and a few coat hangers, and a
neat doormat just behind him – except all of it was way too big to be of any
use. It felt a little like a movie set. Surely, he'd know if his house was
converted into a movie set. Was this a prank?
But this was
impossible, he realized, as he stared, confused, at the oversized foyer. This
straight up would not fit. None of it would, his house had two stories above
ground, it just would not work.
“Creepy,” he thought.
If this ended up being his house, then this was some real-life House of
Leaves crap. There'd been days in his life when he'd be intrigued by such a
mystery, but today was not one of those days. He had to sit down and work.
Churn out poetry. Hunt those words down.
He coughed – he really
felt cold now – and looked down at the floor. That massive grain again. He
squinted at it, crouched, and ran his fingers across the lacquered surface. It
felt real. Felt the way it should.
And how the hell did
they cut out planks in this size? Each one was as long as he was tall. What
lumber is this?
He scratched the back
of his head. It was then that he heard a distant explosion of laughter. He
almost jumped, shivers running down his spine. “This is a dream,” he decided as
he slowly started walking deeper into the house; he heard more then, muffled voices,
a bit more laughter. Feminine, he thought. Rolf couldn't remember the last time
he'd had a woman in his house, all the more proof to the dream hypothesis. “I
am conscious in a dream,” he repeated to himself.
Unfortunately, his
bruised elbow disagreed. It hurt. For real.
Alternatives, though,
were all far more fantastic than the whole thing being a dream. Nothing else
held up to scrutiny. Nothing else made any sense, no matter how much he could
try to rationalize it. Nothing else…
(Glasses clinking;
someone laughs again; her laughter is the contagious kind, sharp, catchy,
childishly pure. The kind you want to laugh along with, even if you're cold,
wet, and really confused).
The foyer turned into
a wide corridor; the abundance of paintings and little trophy shelves told him
that the owner – if there was an owner – was a loaded show-off. He kept close
to a wall, and so couldn't see the trophies on those shelves that were right
above his head, but he could
make out a few on the opposite side. One was shaped like crossed swords wrapped
together with a ribbon; another one – like a stylized, sharp-winged dragonfly.
He couldn't read the inscriptions; some were too far, at least one was in a
language he was not familiar with, abundant with the letters s and z.
The corridor had
doors. The first one was closed, and he had no hope of reaching the handle; he
didn’t notice any other mechanism to open it.
(Maybe there wasn't
one for him to use. Maybe he should have accepted the obvious; that he was
simply shrunk in a foreign home,
magically transported there through his own door. That seemed the most logical
explanation of the reality he observed; trouble is, at that point you might as
well accept that this is just a ridiculous dreamscape).
He tried to peek under
the door but didn’t’ see anything of note. The voices were louder now, but he'd
have to get closer if he wanted to make anything out. So he did; in another
twenty steps there was a second door, this one slightly ajar, yet the room
behind it was empty, seemingly a storage room or a closet repurposed for the
storage of household cleaning products. There was a sharp, chemical odor there;
something wasn't closed tight.
It was the next door;
he could tell now. Each step brought him closer. He could eavesdrop, now,
except that he wanted to meet the people there and introduce himself; after
all, if this was all real, he would need help, and if it was not, he could do anything he pleased. So
he ran; helped him to warm up a little, too.
“...so what's that one
meant to be, Pani Bartosz?” An excited, giddy, obviously drunk voice.
“It's a clitsucker,”
someone said authoritatively. Lower, more confident, with a snappy quality to
it. Rolf had to do a double take: did he hear that correctly? “See, it works
like this…”
“What the fuck,” Rolf
wondered. He got a little closer. He still wanted to come in and introduce
himself, but that one line from “Pani
Bartosz” made it a lot more awkward. It wasn't even crazy enough to chalk
it up to the dream scenario; it was just weird.
He had an idea. “Hey!”
he exclaimed, trying to sound a lot more confident than he was feeling. “Excuse
me! Is anyone there?”
It didn't seem like
anyone heard him. Ms. Contagious Laughter was laughing again; it was silvery,
he thought, light and silvery, like the tinkling of an elegant chain necklace.
“So how good is it,”
he overheard the first woman again.
“Bella, it's a
specialized product. It's always going to outdo a jack of all trades, unless
that jack is well-trained in the one important trade,” Pani Bartosz replied.
Something clicked for Rolf; it was pani, not Pani, it was a title, or
just a weird address thing. Something Eastern-European. Polish? Lithuanian? He
wasn't aware of any families from that area in his neighborhood.
Which, perhaps, wasn't
relevant anymore.
“Oh! So you like it?”
“Girl…” Click of the
tongue.
Rolf made the corner.
They were there. He
wasn't sure what he expected; he’d been clinging to the hope that the whole
thing was masterfully engineered, method and purpose equally insane. That
wasn't the case.
The room around the
corner was just as giant as the rest of the house: there was a towering coffee
table, its glass top littered with items he couldn't immediately discern and
those he could, like a few elegant wine glasses, candy wrappers, phones, purses.
A low leather couch flanked the table; a little further, there was a beanbag
the size of a hot air balloon; finally, someone moved a chair to stand opposite
the couch, in front of the TV screen, dark at that moment. Three options for
seating arrangements; three women. He could barely see anything of the one lying
on the couch: only her dark hair strewn out across a headrest. The girl in the
beanbag was a bit lighter, her hair shorter; a heart-shaped face framed by a
sharp, angular pixie-cut, a wine glass in her hand, her eyes focused on the
third woman. This third one – the one who clicked her tongue, he could tell,
she was now playfully dangling her slipper – had a very fair complexion, her
hair the color of dry hay. There was a vague sense of threat in how she sat on
that chair. The way she raised her shoulders a bit, the way her muscle tone was
visible… she was like a taut spring, Rolf thought, ready to shoot out any
moment. (Or, perhaps, she was like a wild cat, a large cat, a puma; he
couldn’t decide which cliché is worse). As a cherry on top, her nose had
obviously been broken before. “Wish I could see the other guy,” he thought.
“...I do. It is
remarkable.” Her rolled r's were giving her away: she must have been that pani Bartosz.
“Do they… come in
different sizes?”
“Not the ones I have
here,” she said, glancing down. Rolf froze, thinking she was about to notice
him; he was, after all, the height of a chihuahua, hardly difficult to spot.
But she missed him. There was a rectangular plastic storage crate next to a table
leg; it was full of dark objects, but the plastic wasn't nearly transparent
enough for him to get a good look. “Different brands, though. Try one!”
The wine-drinking
woman laughed, raising a palm to her mouth. Her laugh was unpleasant, shrill
and repetitive; a second later, the lady on the couch joined in, and now he
could definitively assign that silvery, musical giggle he'd heard before.
It struck Rolf that it
was probably time to make his entrance. He didn't want to perv on women who
were obviously engaged in the exact kind of conversation men aren't supposed to
be privy to. Still, he lingered at the door, pressing himself against the doorframe.
Rolf couldn't forget the jolt of panic that shot through him when Bartosz
glanced sideways. He needed help – and yet he was afraid of being discovered.
They would have good
reason to be angry at him, he thought. He trespassed – even if he had no idea
how he'd got here. He eavesdropped – without having any choice, but he did. And
he was tiny. Fantastically so. Half a foot tall, at best. That wouldn't be a
cause for anger, but it brought a sense of insecurity he couldn't easily
overcome. The women were giant. Massive.
His self-preservation instinct screamed at him to get away from them until he could
figure out a good way to explain his presence. Right now, he didn't even know
how to ask for help. Sure, at least they all spoke the same language – but what
would he say? Take me to the doctor? To Abigail? To mom?
“Get your shit
together,” he whispered to himself. No, standing here was still stupid.
Incredibly so. What was he going to do, wait it out? He needed help. Doesn't
matter they are giant, doesn't matter that it's awkward to interrupt them…
Gulping, Rolf pushed
off the doorframe and advanced into the room. Ahead, miss Bartosz pulled
another item out of the plastic box; it was a massive, black dildo, so
excessively humongous and textured that Rolf instantly regretted seeing it. The
woman waved in the air – back and forth, back and forth – which elicited
another little explosion of giggles from both of her friends.
The girl on the couch
finally said something.
“Have you ever played
Cyberpunk two thousand seventy seven?”
“Huh?” The blonde
stopped, cocking her head. Rolf stubbornly walked forward, expecting them to
notice him at any moment. They didn't.
“There's a unique
weapon,” the girl on the couch said. “I forget the name. It's a dildo.”
“What the fuck are you
talking about, Lorelei.”
“No, I am serious.
It's a bludgeoning club, I think. You can get it if you screw the Militech
woman… Bella, do you know what I am talking about?”
A resounding – albeit
somewhat slurred – “Absolutely not!” came from the direction of the bean bag.
“So enlighten us,”
Bartosz said.
“It's Sir John… ugh,”
Lorelei said. Rolf has walked far enough in that he could see the woman now.
She was wearing an oversized white hoodie and dark jeggings. Shorter than the
other two, she fit on the couch with her legs stretched out. Her round face bore
a very thoughtful expression. A shiny earring glistened in the one ear he could
see; a many-faced stone in a casing of polished brass. “It's on the tip of my
tongue, I swear.”
Bartosz snickered.
“What was it again? Cyberpunk?”
“Excuse me,” Rolf
said. No one looked at him.
“Fuck you, Maria,”
Lorelei said. “It's a weapon in the game. Indulge me, o greatest of fencers, if
you had to fight with this thing, how would you do it?”
“Excuse me!” Rolf
repeated, raising his voice.
This time, Lorelei
noticed him. She squinted, then went wide-eyed in disbelief. Bartosz, though,
was oblivious, and so was Bella.
“Sure thing,” the
Slavic woman agreed, her voice a playful low roar. “Bella, stand up, I am going
to whip you with a phallus.”
“Am I allowed a
shield,” Bella inquired.
“Pick up a pillow.”
Lorelei pushed a couch
pillow off the edge with her foot. She wasn't taking her eyes off Rolf. He
quizzically stared back. She winked.
Bartosz went around
the table. Bella stood up, rocking back and forth; she clutched the pillow in
her hands. Bartosz slapped the dildo into the palm of her other hand; she
grunted approvingly. “This is really a club,” she noted. “No fencing skills
required. You just hit. Although,” she paused, “I guess there's an argument to
try and poke, too. I’m gonna poke you, Bella. Slap you around a little. En
garde.”
Bella lost it. Her
hysterical laughter was interrupted by Bartosz gracefully lunged forward and
drove the tip of the dildo into the pillow. Bella was forced back; she could
barely hold onto her “shield”.
Rolf licked his lips,
still feeling very extra. He cast a pleading gaze at Lorelei. “Please,” he
mouthed. “I am lost, and tiny, I don't know how this all happened I really need
help…”
She rolled off the
couch and got closer to him on all fours; Rolf yelped and jumped back but she
turned out to be faster – she reached out, her hand grabbing him across the
torso. She squeezed. In an instant, his lungs were emptied of air. He placed
his arms against her fingers and pushed, but her digits didn't even budge;
Lorelei smirked at him, then pulled him in and stuffed him into the front
pocket of her hoodie. She had to bend his legs to get it to work; to him, her
hands felt unrelenting, merciless mechanisms capable of bending him into any
shape rather than human appendages. His sense of danger was on high alert; this
was not what he expected, not what he wanted at all! Rolf's chest still hurt,
yet he tried to get a few words out – “please, don't, I just need help” – but
Lorelei forced him into that cave of fabric, then pat down on top of it,
forcefully flattening him against her belly; he could feel the warmth coming off.
If Rolf were a few
inches shorter, she'd easily subdue him right there and then. But he was big
enough to resist – and, in truth, he barely fit in there. He fought, trying to
crawl out. The light was close, tantalizingly so. He would get back out and ask
the other two for help; or, at the very least, convince her that she'd better…
The world moved. He
felt his stomach sink back when she'd just picked him up, but this was worse,
because the floor and ceiling changed positions in a second's time. Lorelei
flipped herself, he realized, and…
…and she was on the
couch again, except she was laying on her stomach, and Rolf ended up trapped in
that pocket between her belly and the couch. He groaned, suddenly immobilized,
trapped, smothered; sounds barely reached him at that point and no light came
through. There was a faint odor to her hoodie; it was just a little stale,
right at that point where it needed a good wash. Air was scarce.
“Sir John
Phallustiff”, Lorelei mused. “That's what it was. Maria, you should take this
thing to your next tournament, or whatever it is you do.”
“Can't, pretty sure it
would count as excessive violence. I would be disqualified.”
“And tempted to finish
your opponents off with proper assfucking?”
“That's what I meant. Bella,
stop that, will you?”
“You've bruised my
finger!”
“Tough luck. Anyhow,
as you can see, this thing doubles as a weapon. I will be honest, I like their
X3 series more, it's a little less, uhh, unyielding. I like a little yield.”
“I yield, pani
Bartosz!”
“I am not even doing
anything anymore. Get back to your beanbag. There you go…”
“You know, Maria,”
Lorelei mused, “all of this crap is fit for a grandma.”
“Excuse me?”
“I like a little
yield,” Lorelei teased. “Girl, these days they make things that feel real. One thing you never realize until
you pay attention is that actual cock, actual guys go back and forth during
sex, sometimes harder, sometimes softer, it's, like, oscillating back and
forth. A modern sex-toy can replicate
this stuff, and you can pre-program it to your preferences, you can even launch
a learning function, synthetic reward systems associated with reaching orgasm…
It all feels so much better.”
“This your “cyberpunk”
crap again,” Bartosz inquired. She had that manner of asking questions in a
deadpan, affirmative intonation. “Lorelei, you should go outside a little more
often.”
“No, I am serious. And
have you seen the androids?”
“What?”
Lorelei moved. Rolf
cried as she lifted herself onto her side and fished him out of the hoodie
pocket. He felt weak, tired; like her weight had flattened him some and he
needed time to recover. Rolf didn't even fight it when she triumphantly hoisted
him up in the air, her fingers once again tightly curled around his torso. She
wore a natural polish, he noticed. “There, Maria. Look. Seen these?”
These? he wondered. There's more like
me?
But that wasn't what
she meant.
“Ho-holy shit I've
seen these,” Bella said from the beanbag. She was slurping wine out of her
glass again. “They-they creep me out, like what if he bites, did he ever bite
you?”
“No.”
“What is that,” Maria
said.
“You really don't
know?”
“Sorry. I don't have
time to read LatestTechieJunk during
all the winning I am doing.”
“Point taken,” Lorelei
nodded, her voice suddenly sweet. “This is a toy, obviously.”
“No!” Rolf managed to
get out.
“As you can see,”
Lorelei continued, “it's perfectly sized, and it's far more capable than a vibrator.”
“But it's shaped like
a guy,” Maria pointed out. “Isn't that weird?”
“It's amazing,”
Lorelei said. “You won't believe what it can do. And the feeling!..”
“I am not a toy!” Rolf
cried out. “My name is…” But she squeezed her fingers, inching them a little
higher this time, and his voice choked out as air was squeezed out of his lungs
again.
Maria Bartosz bit her
lip.
“It's making sounds,”
she said. “Doesn't sound too happy.”
“Because it's more fun
that way,” Lorelei said. She brought Rolf around to her face, suddenly looming
in front and a little above him. There was no contempt in her expression; just
a tiny, mad, drunken glint in her eye.
“So yeah,” Lorelei let
out and giggled in that same silvery, tinkling laugh that he was so enamored
with earlier. He thought it devilish now. “It's quite interesting to, you know,
push it in. There's always a struggle, but you're gonna win, obviously, and
then…” She clicked her tongue.
“P-please…”
“Silence,” she said,
casually giving him a shake. “The women are talking, toy.”
“I am a hu-”
She brought her other
hand and gave him a light flick to the face.
“You're quite mean to
that thing,” Maria said. “So it's an android?”
“Yep. That's the current day tech. The cutting
edge, so to speak.” Lorelei enthusiastically nodded a few times, as if agreeing
with herself. Bella followed suit, though it wasn't clear she still realized
where she was. “Pretty cool, is it not?”
“Please, I-”
Another flick.
“You're gonna smash
its face,” Maria said.
“I might bust a lip or
break a nose,” Lorelei replied. “It bleeds very naturally. It's quite hot.”
By then, Rolf's hopes
were largely crossed out. He didn't speak again, just hanging in her hand and
hoping that Bartosz would do something. Surely, she could just go on the
internet and figure out tiny sex toy androids were not a thing?
(unless this was a parallel reality, and
they were)
“Did you just say
that's hot,” came from the direction of the beanbag.
Lorelei licked her
lips. “Kinda,” she said. “Come on, don't look at me like that.”
“I mean, that's weird.
Right, pani Bartosz?”
Maria was silent. She
was thoughtfully rubbing her chin. Then, she reached towards the table and
poured herself a glass of wine. Most of that was promptly sent into her mouth.
“There's gotta be a
reason you've brought this here,” she finally said.
“Sure is,” Lorelei
said. “I hear about all the bank you're making swinging medieval weaponry
around. Thought this might interest you. A treat.”
“Why wouldn't I get a
new one, then.”
“Go look up the
prices, I'll wait,” Lorelei said smugly.
“But this is… used stock, is it not?”
“You want to take a
look?”
Rolf's head was thrown
back so hard he thought his neck would break. He struggled again, more so for
the sake of showing resistance than out of any hope of breaking free. Lorelei's
fingers uncurled; Maria Bartosz's hands were there to catch him. They were
different, he felt instantly. Stronger. Colder. There were calluses at the base
of her fingers; not bad ones, she clearly looked after them, but noticeable.
Her nails were well-cared for but trimmed short. There was a ring on her index finger,
a dark gunmetal band. She accidentally brushed it against the side of his cheek,
and he recoiled; the ring felt cold.
She examined him like
one inspects a new kitchen tool; he could just as well be a can opener or a
pair of tongs. She pulled his limbs apart, pinched at his thighs and shoulders,
lightly squeezed his belly.
“Can it undress,” she
wondered.
“Tell it to,” Lorelei
suggested. “It might be a little reluctant, but that's the setting.”
“Can you change the
setting?”
Lorelei glanced at
him; her gaze was like a hot knife. Rolf – humiliated, hyperventilating, aching
from Maria's unceremonious handling of him – decided to keep quiet until he
could at least get out of Lorelei's sight.
“Not on this one,”
Lorelei said. “That's part of why it was in the bargain bin. But if you don't
like the reluctance…”
Maria smirked.
“Undress, then,” she
said, giving him a tap on his head. “Don't make me rip all that off. I've got
nothing to replace it with.”
“Please…”
“Lorelei, can it be
put on mute for the moment?”
“Improvise, Maria!” A
silvery giggle. Lorelei’s fingers aligned for another flick.
He felt tears coming
to his eyes as he – hands shaking, jaw trembling, heart pounding – started to
pull off his sweater. He tried to fold it and put it right next to him, but
Bartosz flicked her finger, and it floated down to the floor. Out of the corner
of his eye, Rolf noticed Bella in the background; the half-drunk woman was
leaning out of her beanbag at an impossible angle, her eyes fixated on what was
happening.
“Isn't that too
freaky?” she said. “It looks too real. I wish they made it a little less human.
Maybe make it blue, like an alien. R-right out of that cyberpunk Lorelei
likes.”
“There isn't… Ah,
whatever.”
“I disagree,” Maria
said, looking at Rolf as he was pulling off his pants. “I think I prefer it
this way. How human is it on the inside?”
“Like you wouldn't
believe,” Lorelei said. “If you gore it, you can study anatomy.”
“I would not.”
“It's happened before.
By accident, you know. People break them sometimes.”
“And what do I do
then?”
“No warranty,” Lorelei
said.
“Bargain bin. Right.
This is a scrawny model.”
“They come in all
shapes and sizes,” Lorelei said. “I prefer the bulkier ones, but, Maria, I
remembered your twig of a boyfriend…”
“How observant. Jesus,
it’s slow.”
The hands he was held
in were suddenly in motion again; pinching, pulling, ripping away. His
undershirt, his underwear, shoes – all went to the floor, strewn around like
random trash. Rolf tried to curl up and shield his privates, but Bartosz forced
him to lie flat across her palm, his legs hanging off the edge. She put two
fingers on his thighs and spread them, taking a look.
“I don't know why you
care,” Lorelei said. “You use the whole thing.”
“I was wondering about
the details,” Bartosz replied. “Does that actually work?”
She prodded at his
balls.
“The way this one's
programmed,” Lorelei laughed, “you're not going to see much.”
In her own way, she
was entirely correct. Rolf could hardly imagine a less arousing scenario, despite
being naked and in the company of two attractive women. He felt like he'd just
taken an ice bath. He closed his eyes, suddenly wishing to be back at the door
to his house; in that exact instance when he'd known that something was wrong.
He should have turned around, trusting his premonitions. He tried to curl up in
shame again, and this time Bartosz didn't stop him – he pulled his knees to his
chest and put his arms around them, trying desperately to keep himself from
crying, gritting his teeth, quivering…
The world rolled
again. His stomach sank as Maria's fingers clasped onto his form, now holding
him like a misshapen, flesh-colored ball. She dropped her arm to hang along her
side; Rolf was but a few feet away from the floor, and he could not look away from
it. Maria's hand felt deceivingly relaxed; it felt like he could drop any
moment. He gasped loudly multiple times in a row.
“How much,” Maria
asked above.
Lorelei named a price.
He wasn't familiar with either the unit or the currency, but at that point that
didn't seem to matter.
“Are you really gonna
take that,” Bella whined. “Can we get back to the normal toys? Like anal beads
and dragon cocks? Do you really want anything squirming in there, pani
Bartosz?”
“I want to try it out.
What do you care?”
“No returns,” Lorelei
interjected promptly.
“I'll try it out,”
Maria repeated. “If I can't orgasm, I will put this thing to work. It can work,
right? Labor?”
“Doing what,” Bella asked skeptically.
“I don't know.
Cleaning my oven?”
There was a moment of
silence.
“What? It's hard to
reach in the corners inside.”
Throughout that
exchange, her grip was getting tighter and tighter. And it shifted. Her fingers
rubbed up and down his body in a possessive way. She didn't have to say
anything to him; he felt the anticipation and curiosity in her touch – and,
more than anything, the desire to own.
***
And own she would.
The friendly gathering
ended in about an hour. Maria eventually sat down, but she didn't let go of
Rolf; she let Bella rummage through her box of toys while absent-mindedly
mashing her newest acquisition in her hands. He didn't try to talk to her;
instead, he worked on a plan. He knew he would probably get just one shot at
talking to her, and for that one shot he needed words. Not the sort of words he usually looked for. These would
have to be concise. To-the-point. Convincing. “I am not a toy. I am a human. I
don't know how I got here, nor where here
is, but I really, really need your help. Please, just listen for a moment.”
It didn't feel like
that would work. Perhaps he needed to up the drama a little. “Please, listen to
me, it's a matter of life-and-death. Please, for the love of God, listen to
what I have to say!”
Or even something
absurd, something an android would never say. “Before you rape me” – oh,
yeah, rape was a good word, a strong
one, it was bound to stop a woman to think for a second – “before you rape me,
can I have a shot of vodka?”
He even contemplated
insulting her – “aren't you one ugly bitch” – but that carried the risk
of getting punched with a dishwasher-sized fist. Still, it could have an
effect. All he needed was a pause; a thoughtful wrinkle between her eyebrows, a
break in her thoughts, a mental space to wedge into. He wasn't a toy. He needed
help. He was a human, just like her…
But then the time to
think was over. Lorelei helped Bella to the door. Maria patiently waited for
her wasted friend to pull her shoes on; then the duo stomped out, the door
locking behind them with a painfully familiar click. Rolf, dangling from
Maria's hand, tried to get a peek outside; he caught a flash of a modern
neighborhood with townhouses and sleek cars. Not his place, then.
I am not a toy. I am a real man who's fallen
into a wrinkle in reality. Don't rape me.
The moment her friends
were out, Maria turned on her heels and marched down the corridor – past the
living room and onto a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. There was
a carpet here; she kicked her slippers off at the top, her steps now silent.
Her bedroom was a blur; he could tell it was messy, with a few drawers hanging
wide open, a pile of dirty laundry in a corner, a dusty TV screen… then she let
go of him, and, with a yelp, Rolf flew a few feet through the air to fall onto
her bed.
He sat up. Maria was
standing at the foot of the bed, furiously typing at her phone. Texting. Her
face lit up; she smiled, and it was a gentle smile, the kind that one reserves
for the loved ones. Then the smile disappeared. Her finger flicked at the
screen dismissively.
Maria got out of her
pants and climbed onto the bed, now wearing nothing but her panties and
loose-fitting t-shirt. Her phone was in her hand. For a moment, her toned body
arched over him. He caught a glimpse of her well-defined abs; marveled for a
second at the wiry muscles moving under the skin of her limbs. Shivers ran down
his spine again; her motions were far too determined. She had a plan.
She turned around and
settled in her bed, stretching her legs out towards the corners; her free hand
came at him, picked him up. Rolf squirmed this time; fiercely so. He squeezed a
few words out:
“Please, listen to
me!”
There was a glance
from her.
“P-please,” he
repeated. “M-maria, don't rape me.”
That was quiet. It was
so quiet he'd barely heard himself.
“What?” she inquired.
Her eyes looked dull, low on emotion, full of thirst. The eyes of an addict, he
thought. She felt lustful, felt in the mood for some high-quality porn; there
was no place between those eyes for him or his words, whether the concise ones
or the poetry.
“Maria,” he repeated.
“Please. I am a man not a toy. My name is Rolf I am-”
She flicked her wrist.
There was a professional quality to that movement. A sense of control. She parried, he realized. His neck ached;
he’d been thrashed around way too much today.
“No talking,” she
said. “Not interested. Turn that off.”
“Maria, please
listen-”
Another parrying
flick.
“Sh-h-h,” she said.
“Please!”
She dropped him back
onto the bed, then slammed her hand on top of him, pressing his face into the
fabric of the comforter. He tried to address her again, but he could only
produce unintelligible, muffled sounds. She forcefully pressed on the back of
his head, then removed her hand – but before he could lift it, lift himself,
she moved her thigh to rest on top of him. He heard an ominous sound: a
low-pitched click-clacking of the digital keys on her smartphone.
A minute passed.
Then another one.
Then he heard more
sounds. A wet slap. A series of moans. An exaggerated, intense, sultry sigh.
All distorted by the mass of Maria's flesh resting on him, yet all perfectly
recognizable. Porn, of course. The woman was watching porn.
It dawned on him that
it was really happening. He was trapped in a parallel mad world, where he was
half a foot tall, and no one listened to him. No one even recognized him as a
human being; he still wasn't sure how much Lorelei believed when she pawned him
off to Bartosz. Maybe runaway human-shaped sex toys were normal here. He was
mistaken for one, he was gonna get used as one, and she had no intention of
listening. Afterwards, maybe? During that serendipitous moment of perfect
clarity, when the world appears as if through the surface of a pure, still
pond; when thoughts calm down; when one feels the exhilaration of the most
primal instincts getting sated; when the excitement for the wildest dreams is
replaced by a hint of shame, with guilty pleasure thoroughly enjoyed, the
craving, lustful beast within returning to its slumber…
Words.
He cursed to himself.
He whimpered. Then the thigh moved; convulsed on top of him.
Maria relented just
enough to pull him out; her fingers felt sweaty. She brought him over to the
dark triangle of her panties, then awkwardly pulled them down with him still in
her hand, Rolf’s head brushing against the bottom of her tummy. He got a clear
view of her clean-shaven crotch. What little light fell into the room was
enough to give away the glistening wetness, just a little streak, like the
trail of a teardrop. Or a moonlit path across the sea at night.
Fear paralyzed his body
but shocked his brain into action. Thoughts raced madly; he wished he could get
lost in them. There was no escape from his reality; the woman was going to use
him just the way she'd planned. Mad. The wildest thing he'd ever gotten around
to before was going down on a girl, and that was only for a minute, and he
didn't even like doing it very much. Now…
Another parry-flick.
Far ahead, she dropped her phone; it rested awkwardly on her belly – and she
reached for him with her other hand. Wordlessly – but in a hungry, hurrying
manner – she pressed his legs together, pulled his arms up to his head; he
didn't dare fight it, and he could only force out another meek, unheard
“please”. Her hand dove towards her pussy to part her lips. She brought him
down there, manipulated him, mashed his face into her clitoris – it seemed too
large even given his diminutive size – and rubbed it around there for a second;
the musky smell assaulting his nostrils, her dampness already soaking into his
hair. Then, without warning, Maria rammed him in headfirst. Rolf went in with
one last yelp.
It felt tight.
Claustrophobic. Hot. The moist, muscular walls contracted around him, his skin
immediately coated with the juices; some of it got into his eyes, and he tried
to wipe them clean, but couldn't. She pulled him back out – the air of the room
suddenly cold on his skin – then pushed him back in, now another inch deeper;
she changed her grip to hold him by the thighs now. Maria repeated the thrust a
couple more times, and each time her vagina swallowed a little more of him,
until his head hit a wall – and he heard her let out an excited “o-oh”.
“Move!” she added
then. She pulled him a bit out, pushed him in again. He screamed into the
darkness, which was a mistake, because his mouth got flooded instantly; he
inhaled, choked, convulsed. With his arms, he tried to push against the
muscular, slick walls surrounding him; but he could barely move, so tightly she
clamped on him. All around him, Maria clenched, the dark tunnel changing shape
ever so slightly as she changed posture, pulling up her legs, moving, grinding,
one hand on his legs (push-pull, push-pull, push! grind! press!) – and the
other, he had no doubt, fiercely rubbing her clit.
She went at it.
It took a while.
***
When she pulled him
out – all the way out – his senses were still on fire. His heart felt heavy,
aching; his lungs burned. He hungrily swallowed air. He tried to wipe his eyes,
but, before he could do that, Maria jumped off the bed, turning his world into
a messy blur once again. He thought he'd vomit, but, miraculously, he held it
back. Didn't piss himself, either. A bleak point of pride for a man so crudely
used.
She walked over to the
bathroom and stuck him under the tap. The base of the tap was clean, shiny
chrome; he saw his reflection, battered, bruised, red-eyed. Then Bartosz turned
the water on. It was cold; he wriggled weakly in her grip as she forcefully spread
him out to rinse him clean. She picked up a bar of soap, too, slathered her
hands in it and slathered him too, giving him a proper, but utterly uncaring
scrub.
“Pretty good,” she
said. “They've done well, huh.”
“I'm real,” he
whimpered. “Am. Real. Rolf. My name is Rolf.”
“Sure thing, Real
Rolf,” Bartosz said and winked. “Real good. Fuck, that's brilliant. Let's go.”
She walked back into
her room and looked around, with him once again dangling from her hand. Then,
with an “a-ha” sound, she knelt next to one of her drawers and pulled it out.
Inside, he saw a few toys; painfully familiar shapes. The things he was meant
to replace. Because he was a new favorite.
“There,” she said. “I
gotta go get the rest of that stuff…”
She dropped him in and
shut the drawer, leaving him in darkness. He heard her steps as she walked
away: quiet, soft thuds. Then she was gone.
“A man turned
function,” Rolf thought. “An object of her desire. No. An object for her desire. Transformed in her eye
via the power of lie, misshapen through delusion. Such was his fate. No escape.
She doesn't hear the words. The words are meaningless. I am no more.”
Later, she came back
and dumped the rest of that plastic box into the same drawer. He didn’t try to
talk to her.
***
Maria Bartosz kicked
the drawer shut. She put on a bath robe, went out of her bedroom and down
towards the kitchen. On her way, she glanced at the mess in the living room,
scoffed at the amount of cleaning she’d have to do – but left it for later.
Once in the kitchen, she made herself a coffee and sat down by the window.
She pulled out her
phone and did a few naïve web searches.
Lorelei’s thing was spectacular,
she thought. Her pussy still throbbed a little, in a pleasant, slightly pulling
way. She could definitely go again. Maybe she would, she mused. But later. It’s
like a good song. Don’t just put it on repeat, you’ll get tired of it. Extend
the pleasure. Everything gets old at some point.
Even if it’s hard to
imagine this thing getting old. The way it squirmed! The way it fought,
not strong enough to hurt her or escape, but so pleasantly resistant – until a
certain point, when it could not resist anymore! It was an amazing pattern, she
thought, and if Lorelei was to be believed, then the whatever-learning
algorithms would make this thing perform even better after a few times.
She was curious about
care, of course. The basics. Just how human-like is the thing? Browsing, she
realized she should’ve asked Lorelei what brand this was. Because there were a
lot of options. Some were bigger, some were smaller, some were more
specialized. Charming!
Maria closed the tab.
She was still a little buzzed from the wine earlier. She knew herself well
enough to know not to browse tempting online storefronts when buzzed.
Still. The sensations!
She closed her eyes as she drank her coffee. Yeah, maybe she could go again.
Would have to wash up for the second time, but that’s no biggie. She’s got the
entire evening to herself. Efram won’t be back for another week. Plenty of time
to explore.
She opened her phone
again, went to incognito mode and went back to the video she’d stopped. “Maybe
if I can find another good one,” she decided, licking her lips.