Saturday, January 27, 2007

I'm 21, old enough to own my own cybergirl, so I went to the emporium to acquaint myself with the Spring collection. They stood arrayed, those electronic marvels, on polyester pedestals. Each one was full of attitude, posturing herself to potential customers, as if to say to each "Of course you want to buy me, but who says I want you?" I walked back and forth, standing once before each of them to bask in the electronic fields that emanated from high voltage hearts - I'm a sucker for cyber auras.

Zera X was the one who tingled best. I admired her shiny white limbs and imagined the surfaces hidden beneath the designer coverings. She wanted me, too. I could tell. Those hybrid machines had a way of planting subliminal attraction in the customer, if he was the one they wanted. And I knew that I was the one.

"So, you've bonded with one of our models," the salesman ventured enthusiastically. His inviting smile caused all misgivings or doubts about man-machine morality to evaporate, like an electrostatic discharge vanishes into nothing.

"Yes, with Zera. Zera X," I answered, as self-confidently as a guy might say "I do" before the justice of the peace.

"Then she's yours," he told me, "I'll just have to work out the final price." His agile fingers pushed a long series of buttons on the store register, a little more than made me comfortable, but then he looked up and named the amount, "Fifteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine credits. Do you have it?"

"Yes, I do," I said, though not with complete enthusiasm. It would take my entire savings. Somehow these purchases always did.

The salesman noticed my unease and reassured me, "It may seem like much now, but remember, you're acquiring a companion for life. For eternity, if you will. Think of her as an investment!"

The static tingling that originated from Zera and ended in a pleasurable center of my brain continued. There was really no need for the reassurance. I knew what I wanted. I wanted Zera.

"Done!" I said.

After that, my "march down the aisle" went very fast. Two muscled delivery clerks came to us from behind the backroom curtains where they usually waited unobserved for the event of a sale. They strolled over, zapped me with what looked like a cattle prod, resulting in my complete and total paralysis. Then they picked me up, carried my rigid form over to Zera, and finally, as gently as the ring slides onto a bride's finger, they balanced me onto the pedestal right by her side.

Story #387

Sorry for such a late post! Thanks everyone of you who took the time to contribute. That goes double for multiple personalities!

Thanks to everyone who contributed stories last time: My muse, Doug, Mushroom, Al who is at a disadvantage in this list because his name is very short and hard to click, Cheesemaster, multi-lingual Frances Bo Bances, Lammy, Mrs. Weirsdo, and Tom & Icy.

Cooper, Jamie and {illyria} did not write stories, but made my day with their comments.

Feb. 3rd: Damn! I'm having trouble keeping up with everything these days. My story will be posted soon - just can't say when.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

"Tell me again, the story of how you seduced me," she said.

"I will try. Yes, I will try - it is all so vivid to me..."

'What are you thinking,' you asked, watching me closely.

'I'm undressing you with my eyes,' I told you, deciding not to mask the truth.

'Oh?' you responded, suppressing a slight smile that clashed with the unerring gaze.

'Now I'm sweeping you off your feet and laying you onto the bed,' I continued, describing what I saw looking past the reality of our vis-à-vis in the smoky room.

And you said, quite eagerly, I recall: 'That's some imagination you have. I mean, here we sit in this cozy cafe, only a round table between us small enough to kiss over. But I like it. Don't stop.'

So, of course, I did not.

'You lie before me, passive. You stretch. Your blouse slips from the clasp of your pants and inches upwards. I see the flesh that is always most tender. I push away the fabric, in my other hand the marker, and begin to write on you, the novella, the account of your seduction, the opening epithet hovering by the navel. But I stop.'

'And what happens next?' you inquired, lifting your glass of wine.

'I pause and watch your breathing relax, like the sea's waves suddenly calming in the idle wind of the summer. I take your wrist. The loose sleeve slips to the shoulder. I begin at the base of your hand, winding words around your arm, sweet words, like the temptations of a serpent as it draws you to the apple. You watch the marker, you look away, you watch again. You have to see every word as it streams out and onto your skin. But you sense the writing with closed eyes, so you close your eyes to feel what is implied.'

I stopped talking and looked at you. You wanted to hear more. But I waited - until you spoke again: 'I can feel the phrases appearing on my body even as you speak them to me. And now I am hanging, hanging by a word yet unwritten.'

I did not answer immediately, but tasted a slight sip of the wine we shared.

Then I continued: 'We are still there, on the bed, the marker in my hand. I release your arm, and it falls in controlled motion to your side. The words still tingle - as I see in your passionate expression. I grip the blouse that is disarrayed in the aftermath of writing, and pull it upwards with one fist, until your arms raise with it, over your head, and with a quick twist the article is in my hand, to toss into an oblivion that doesn't concern us. I am ready to write more. I lower you now with that hand, flat upon the bed. I turn you. You lie, face down, and I begin the next small chapter. It streams in eloquence quicker than one could speak, as words upon your back. Soon both shoulders are covered, and the well between. The writing descends like a tide sweeping down the form of your back, yet your torso remains still, frozen by sheer will - though a hint of the passion shows in the trembling of your limbs. I wait again.'

And then you sipped from the wine. And it was my turn to catch my breath after the imagined writing that whirled through my thoughts. But the story wasn't over, and there was more flesh to fill with the imagined tale. All stories must have a climax, and then a denouement, perhaps even a continuation. And so it is with the story of every seduction, and especially of yours.

I went on, 'My writing becomes more intense, as the space to fill grows less. Jeans slip away, no fabric left touching your body. Now I write haphazardly, across a breast, on a sole, on a thigh. Before I can say how, your body is filled. There is no room left for the materializing thoughts, though the climax of the story is nearly in grasp. I inscribe in words indelible and small, in the slightest spaces I find. These too begin to elude. But the final words are in my thoughts, and I poise my hand to bring them to life. Then I see one unwritten island on your scrawled-over form. I will end the story there, by the navel, where all stories, including this one, begin.'

And then I paused again, to observe the affect of my narrative on you. You waited, and I allowed you to wait. But something was preventing me from the final culmination of ideas.

'Go on,' you said with a tremor revealing the fear that I might not. 'Go on!' you said again in a raised voice, directing all faces in the cafe towards us.

'I cannot continue reading,' I told you, 'I am scanning you from toe to breast, and it seems that I have lost my place.'

"And that is the story's end, the story of how I seduced you. It ends here and fades into the shadows, just as my narrative to you now, and just as I am to do..."

"I see," she said, disappointed, turning away from the mirror, letting fall the marker with which she had written those final words.

Story #386

My muse has contributed a story:

Look here, do you think it is enough? I mean, you said one has to suffer for art, right? Do you think I'm a real poet now? I sufferd a lot, really, the tatoo costed me a hundred bucks - I could've get a new purse or new shoes for that.

That is some suffering you got there, baby, but it would help, if you'd wrote the poem yourself too.

Damn, what now. All this effort for nothing?

You could pass as an intellectual belly dancer.

Why is it so hard for a girl to get a cultural job these days?


Two other stories contributed by my muse: #63 and #286


And now, it's your turn:

Look into the navel, you are getting sleepy, sleepy, your eyes are heavy, you cannot hold them open, you close your eyes, you click the comment link, you write a story to the photo, you publish your comment. When you see the message saying comment has been sent you wake up and remember nothing...