e story jonathan pov -bed, mind, wall, love, playman

Jonathan:

1.0 You are Jonathan Thomas, JT you call yourself most times. You are a typical male seducer vainly leching your way through life trying to recapture the lost feeling of your very first conquest, although you wont admit it to yourself. Take now; you sit up on-elbow admiring Samantha, nubile, young, your latest conquest asleep beside you in her bed. You look around the room, walls adorned with worn teenage idol pictures, worn, just like you but you wont admit it to yourself. You trace along her back with your index finger, remember the night before.

Undressing her was easy but you did it slow, deliberately, it always aroused them, the teasing enhancing the wanting. Her soft, firm nubile muscles, especially on her neck, made her quiver with excitement when bitten. Then like a volcano, she erupted when taken, suppressed desire, unknown territory for her, familiar, oh too familiar for you. Then it came, “I love you Jonathan”, and it always came at the coital height, always.

You return to now, turn, and look out of the open window of her first-floor apartment, across to the other side of the street, at the row of terraced houses opposite. It’s spring and sounds of nature abound, you can hear a milkman delivering milk. You feel good; another arrow has been shot from your bow, another notch on your staff of life.

One of the doors opposite opens; a man comes out pushing a bicycle, followed by his wife. He kisses her on the cheek, gets on the bike, pedals off, she waves goodbye then furtively looks in the other direction, smiles, goes back inside leaving the front door ajar. The milkman arrives, looks around then enters the house, closing the front door behind him.

You grin, turn to Samantha, mentalise that the scene across the road would be repeated in the future with her, if you let her get to you. You poke her in the ribs, gently, she says “No more, no more, Jonathan, I’m too tired”, you grin, get up and go to the shower. Dressed and clean you take Samantha in some breakfast, she’s still asleep, you smile, you did a good one last night, for a philanderer.

You go downstairs, to your ute, get in, close the door and wind down the window. As you drive off you see Samantha leaning out the window, nude, she’s shouting something. You pause but can only catch, “…I’m just your recycled toy, aint I”, you smile, wave to her and accelerate away.

It’s 7:25 in the morning.

You see an absolutely gorgeous hump standing on the kerb just down the road waiting to cross. You stop; wave her across, leching all the way. She drops her handbag just as she passes in front, bends down to pick it up. Her long legs are exposed right up to her panties, black panties, outlining the place you always aim for. You bite your lip, cross your legs to stop the autonomous reaction happening. She walks on and you notice she’s left her purse on the ground. Out you get, pick it up and call to her. She stops. You take the purse to her. She’s grateful, thanks you. You date her for tonight. As you drive into the main road you cannot take your eyes off her, to your left, you’re already imagining what her nipples are like within your mouth. You hear a squeal of brakes, turn to your right, make out a huge radiator with the word “Kenworth” on it about a metre away, hear yourself utter, “Shit!”

Blackness.

On the morning of April 25th. At 7:30 a.m., year 2001, You, Jonathan Thomas or JT as you liked to call yourself, died.

2.0 It’s black. Blacker than black. You surface from deep unconsciousness wondering what happened. Think to yourself. The Kenworth – Shit! I crashed! You sit up in panic; you’re naked as this day, the day you were born and moan with the effort. Everything hurts. As hurtful as just being born you think. You can’t see except the blackness. You feel around. You seem to be in some kind of bed from the rectangular shape your hands trace around you. Strange, you think, there seems to be no base to the thing just some sort of energy field supporting your weight. You slip, fall sideways, downward, landing on a soft floor. Shaken a bit you feel so cold. You stand, your legs wobbly like they’ve never been used before. They bend with your weight cannoning you into a wall, hard. You mentally scream to yourself “Light – where’s the bloody LIGHT!” The room lights. With soft, dim pervading light that hurts your eyes, like it’s the first light they’ve seen. You hold your head in your hands and slowly the reality dawns – you are bald! Panic! You run your hands over your bald head, your face -- it’s NOT your face! Panic! Again. In sheer terror you explore your body. There’s no hair anywhere. Then there’s the sensation, it seems to start in your head entering directly into your synapse, flowing through and downward, seemingly exiting through your rock-hard ‘old fella’. Oh my God! You internally scream, then loudly with your voice -- you clap your hands over your mouth after the first uttered syllable, it’s not YOUR voice! You stumble in fear and disbelief, lean on a wall, crying, sobbing, the alien voice emanating making things worse. You notice red scars all over the parts of the body you can see, as if random bits have been joined together in some Frankenstein manner. You fall on your back sobbing, yet no tears emanate, you try to rationalise. You still have an enormous hard erection that attracts your selfish attention. It comforts you. You know not why. Slowly you come to accept things. You must have had an accident and been so severely injured in the accident you’ve had a body transplant, that must be it!

Calming, you begin to explore your ‘hospital’ room, you must be in hospital to allow recuperation after such a momentous occurrence as a body transplant. Then the whole place looks so sterile and unimaginative as hospitals always do to you. You look around the sterile place and see a bed. You wander over to it. Female panties, short skirt and blouse arrayed on it taking your attention, your legs somewhat stronger as the new blood pumps through new arteries. You pick up the diaphanous blouse and its touch enhances your groin area. “Oh Jeez” you think as the pain of extra blood flowing through centimeters of coiled tube tries to make it even harder, “What’s up with me, I’m permanently hard”. You drop the blouse on the high stiletto heels that lie on the floor; stagger across to the bed where you recently lay, lean on it, one hand on its rearmost wall to stabilise yourself, gasping and feeling like your groin will explode. “Must think of something to stop this”, your mind tells you. You start to explore the wall behind the bed with your other hand, “I was thinking of light when the room lit” you mentalise, “Wonder if I thought of ‘Open’…” As the thought surfaces the rear wall above the ‘bed’ transmutes, reshapes to become a computer monitor, the rear of the area in which you awakened now full of a white mist which attracts your attention. “Jeez, a computer”, you think and wave your hand into the white mist, exploring. It touches something. Something cold. You grasp and pull it through the white mist. As it breaks through the white mist a pair of human eyes look at you still connected by their brain stems. You gasp, drop them and as you faint you see them squirming on the floor.

The floor comes up to meet you before the blackness comes for a second time.

3.0 Light. Soft light greets you as consciousness returns. Weird music plays. A peculiar beat that tightens your scrotum and you notice your erection is trying to get into the Guinness Book of records. You are not alone you sense. Someone has dressed you in a simple pair of cotton pajamas you notice. And there’s that feeling again. Starting in your head making your hard-on even harder. Casting a glance sideways you see a woman dressed in the garb that was on the bed. Wow! “Strewth”, your mind says, “What a gorgeous hump” it adds as you lecherously perve at her. Your eyes look and your mind eats her. From her long blond hair, her sensuous mouth, her flawless skin, her breasts and perfect nipples showing through the blouse, her magic waist, soft firm backside and strong, shapely legs enhanced by the very high stiletto heels. Her makeup, bizarre, sensuous, designed to titillate is subconsciously acting as intended. Your mind digests the spectacle and engorges your penis until your voice utters a tortured whimper of necessary want.

The woman turns at the whimper, comes up to your bed, as you’ve named the thing. “Are you awake 256?” She says. The sound culminates your desires; her voice is like a trigger to your internal leching wanton desire. You curl up as if in pain, groaning with desire unknowingly enforced. She leans over attempting to lift you to a sobbing, sitting position, her long hair seemingly enveloping you. Her touch makes things worse. Drives you down to a jelly-like state, drooling spittle runs out of your mouth. “Bite your lip,” your mind says when your mouth tries to bite one of her nipples as she pulls you to a sitting position. You imagine her firm breast pushing into your mouth, you sucking, rotating things, choking on it until blood engorges the nipple, your mouth ends up making sucking noises in an unanswered imaginative act. “Now, 256 calm down. Nothing is going to hurt you”, she dictates as she steps back from you. “What does she call me? 256?” you think. She takes your hands in hers, “These don’t hurt do they?” she asks. You can only bite your lip until it bleeds, her touch completes the circle for your tortured state, “Come over here,” she adds, leading you towards her bed. You follow like a calf to slaughter but what a slaughter it would be if you are let loose.

She sits you on the bed, sits beside you, still holding your hands. “Why do you call me 256 when my name is Jonathan Thomas?” You hear your alien voice utter. She squeals with delight, rotates and throws herself face downwards on the bed apparently talking to herself, “Begin recording, voice mode. I think I’ve at last done it. 256 does have creative thought. It has even given itself a name, ‘Jonathan Thomas”. You are oblivious to the rest, only noticing her legs close by. You begin drooling, spittle running from your slobbering mouth. You unconsciously trace her lovely shape with your index finger, from her ankle, upwards through her thigh area to rearwards of that dormitory of dormitories. Your pajamas grow larger in that area needing much relief. Your hand reaches her backside and you slide your fingers between the lower parts of her gorgeous rear towards that holy of holies. She turns, sits up, “What are you doing, 256?” she verbalises grabbing your hand. You whimper, close your legs trying in vain to suppress things.

She stands facing you, looking down on you. “You will call me ‘Magda’. You are my playman number 256 and we have a lot to learn tonight. Most important is I must teach you to lovemake, to please my every wish”. You cannot believe your ears. Your mind-dictionary only heard one word. You open your legs letting the thing you’ve been trying to suppress take larger form. You reach up; grab her trying to pull her down on you. She pushes you back, “No, 256, wait there.” She turns and walks towards the wall that transmutes into an opening letting her through and closes becoming the wall again. You cannot believe your luck. You strip off and get into her bed under the single sheet.

4.0 She returns clothed in a simple, long cotton nightdress. The bizarre makeup gone. She walks to your bed, the computer appears as she touches the wall and she makes some adjustments. She comes to her bed. You watch, wanting, yearning for her. She lies beside you, talks to herself again; you look downwards smiling at the mountainous phallic outline under the sheets soon to be spent. You catch the last few words she utters, “I will now teach 256 to lovemake.” You think, ‘Lovemake?’ but no more as she enthusiastically leaps across your thighs outside the bed sheet and begins to pelvic thrust just like a dog does on a leg. You cannot believe it! What’s more it hurts in your state! You attempt to grab her, pull her down to kiss her as she pumps back and forth on the thing you want to hide inside her. “No”, she utters between pumps, “256, … just lie there,…… That’s what a playman, ………is, ………supposed, to do”, She screams in delight, rolls off you and drops, dead fishlike beside you. “Oh, 256, that was nice”, she gasps. You hear the alien voice that is now you utter, “It’s finished?” “Of course”, the satiated woman replies, turning over, her back to you. “But what about me?” The voice whimpers. She turns to face you, “You? Why, what about you?” “Shouldn’t I get something out of lovemake?” the voice that is now yours replies. She is puzzled. “You? Why, no. Playmen are for our enjoyment, not the other way around”. She turns away from you again. Your mind lectures, “I look like a poofta and she’s a bloody butch dyke! How can I get some? Think, JT, think. What is her name? Magda.” In your past names meant nothing to erectile tissue. Here you mentalise it’s necessary, especially in your state. “Magda, I hurt”, you utter mentalising the game required. She sits up concerned, turns to you, her nipples showing through her nighty. “What is it, 256?” “I need to kiss you to make the hurt stop”, your voice utters. “Kiss? What is that?” she replies. “May I show you?” your voice utters. She looks puzzled, “Why, yes, if it stops your hurt, please show me.”

5.0 You slowly sit up; reach out to pull her close. Her face overpowers you yet you concentrate on that which you were created to do. Your lips touch hers, tingle like never before and the lifetime experience that is your destiny comes into play as your silent tongue parts her lips and entry is gained.

She is penetrated. Lost. She tries to pull back but you flick your tongue in and out like some universal hypnotic command, she subsides, becomes compliant, subservient to what ensues. A woman. You remove her nightdress, slowly kissing, nurturing, softly caressing every inch of her beautiful body with your lips, teeth and tongue. Always driving lower. Her breasts, each one getting attention, her midriff, navel, then onto the forbidden area, depths unimaginable until she’s prostrate before you. Demanding. Wanting, a now participating complement of mutual lust. The penetration of your hard, erect organ seemingly hurts her but you’ve deflorated many, many times before so become gentle.

She thrusts her hips and you moan feeling the androgen-rich fire leave your erectness, time and time and time again. She bites, screams, kicks, squeezes and moans in delight just like a virgin you surmise and wonder at the thought.

You make mad, passionate lust with her until the early hours of the morning.

6.0 A soft chiming noise wakens you. It seems it’s in your head, not aural. You subconsciously, mentally mute the sound. Puzzled, you wonder how you knew this was the way to mute the sound. You look at your new body. The red weals have gone to be replaced by perfect skin. You wonder at the marvel. You only hurt around your ‘old fella’, strange, for someone with your history you mentalise. A whimper distracts you and you turn over seeing and remembering the source of your hurt but marvelous hurt! Magda! Sleeping. Dreaming. Last night comes rushing back to you. Your mind observes, “Boy, if all the humps here are like this, well!!” You grin, look down at your hairless, effeminate-looking body and add, “Shit, you may look like a poofta but you’re ten times better at making love than my old one!”

Feeling joyful you rise, put on the garment you dropped on the floor last night and wander out to the eating area. When you get there you are perplexed how you knew where to go and how you knew it was the eating area. You seem to be watching this new body as it sits down on a bench-like thing alongside a table. You think, ‘food’, and foodstuff appears on the table emanating from the blue light that transiently appears. You stop thinking. You’re ravenous. You grab the nearest thing and stuff it in your mouth. “Yuk!” you think, spitting it out, “It tastes like shit!” you mentally add.

“And what do you think you’re doing, 256”, disturbs you. You turn. Magda stands there before you. You smile; commence washing her gorgeous, perfect shape within your mind. A shape now hidden within the cotton nightdress she wears, but not hidden from your remembered sensual night before. She sits opposite you, takes things from the table and slowly commences eating. “I said what are you doing, 256?” She reiterates. You smile again, say nothing. She gets agitated. “256, what did you do to me last night?” Your smile turns to puzzlement, “Last night? I made love to you.” She replies. “No you did not. I showed you how to lovemake and then you went and spoiled it.” You smile, again, defiantly, “Why, didn’t you like it?” “Yes, I mean no, playmen are not supposed to act in that way”. She replies. You shrug, sort amongst the foodstuff for something that is edible. She eats in silence casting awed glances at you. You can find nothing edible to eat. Everything tastes like crap.

The eating over she rises and hesitantly tells you to clear things away before you go to work and leaves the eating area. “Work?” Your mind says. The next thing you remember is being dressed in some garish garb and walking towards Magda standing in some form of hallway. She touches the wall and it transmutes into a doorway, she hands you a plastic-looking card and you exit into the silence of the exterior not knowing why, how or where you are going, looking at the plastic card and wondering.

You look around. No sounds of nature. The sun weak and pale. Small terraced houses all identical and sterile looking. You join the hundreds of other identical looking pallid playmen filing past, going to work. All identical to you excepting the clothes they wear, you mentalise.

The booth you all enter seems like a culling booth but you still enter it not knowing why. A flash of blue light envelops you. It brings terror to your mind as you are torn apart, molecule by molecule to be recycled back to living, breathing solidity at the workplace.

Then you are walking down a metal corridor.

The next woman you meet also leaves an imprint on your crutch that is just subsiding as you relax into the comfortable chair she sat you in. As you walked with her down the corridor she incessantly rubbed herself against you making things worse.

You look around the tiny sterile room wondering what will happen next. You stare at the small wall in front of you not knowing why but knowing, somehow, it’s your work. The scene in your mind throbs, scintillates with transient images as if the small wall is displaying them but you don’t notice. Breasts appear and vanish, not yet solid. The ‘thousand monkeys’ within your head have a holiday. But your mind always returns to Magda. ‘She’s a tart,’ your mind suggests. “No she’s not!” Your voice emphatically utters. A beautiful nightdress appears within your mind. “Must feel its sensuousness, softness, smell and touch”, your mind asserts. You drift off into reverie. You had a really hard, long night, last night.

Returning home you fall into your bed and in the blink of an eye fall asleep.

7.0 Dreams come and go. All weird. All culminating in Magda. “And what do we do now, 256?” Breaks your reverie. Magda stands looking down at you. Hands on hips, very angry. You smile, sit up, and rub sleep from your eyes. “What’s up?” your voice meekly replies. She stamps her foot grabs your hand, drags you from the bed and leads you into the eating area.

Everything you made at work this day lies on the table overflowing onto the floor. You giggle. It’s really funny. Magda is not amused, “We’ll have nothing to eat for a long time”, she angrily accuses picking up a half-formed breast that crumbles to dust in her hands. Reality dawns on you and you giggle again which doesn’t help. Very angry she grabs your hand and drags you back to your bed. She touches the wall of the bed and the computer appears. “If you continue to disobey me I will re-cycle you”, she malevolently states, You giggle again, “Re-cycle?” You ask. Magda calms, looks confused, “Why, all playmen know that. You will be taken apart, organ by organ and the organs will be re-cycled so that we can make better playmen.” She shakes her head in disbelief at your ignorance. Your mind giggles, “Funny kink this bird’s got”, it tells you, “First pretends never having sex before then tries to frighten me with this crap”.

Your eyes gleam. An idea forms in your mind. You run back to the eating area. You return with armfuls of the stuff from the table, pile it onto your bed. “What are you doing, 256”, Magda asks querulous. “Go-on then”, you say, daringly, “Recycle that lot then and we can make some proper stuff.” Magda’s eyes light at your ingenuity, she touches the wall behind where you sleep and your bed area glows. Blue light emanates from nowhere illuminating the rubbish stuff that starts to disappear.

The noise terrifies you and hurts your mind as you finally realise that could be you illuminated by the blue light and go cold. You hold your ears trying to shut out the screaming of recycled things as they are torn apart, molecule-by-molecule for recycling.

8.0 You shrug, a fleeting thought, ‘she wouldn’t, couldn’t’, so you run back to the eating area, gather more stuff to add to your bed. Magda stands back in admiration of what you have done. ‘Her’ creation. She spies the nightdress amongst the items lying on your bed, picks it up and commences quivering. “What is this?” she asks, her voice excited. “It’s called a nightdress, I made it for you,” you reply still looking at your bed, not totally sure.

She strips before you, putting the nightdress on. All the time she emits gasps of pleasure at its touch. She stands caressing the nightdress. It makes her even lovelier. You commence going hard. She runs to sit on her bed. She sits there oblivious to your presence fondling the nightdress in an obscene manner, cooing and bubbling with its feel. You sit on the edge of your bed, now empty of stuff, fascinated by the spectacle. “Magda”, you say, many times and are ignored.

You fall back into your bed, roll over and think, “She’s having orgasms just from the touch of a bloody nightdress!” Your mind says. Then, as sleep overcomes you it adds, “Now what did you do when you made it? Yes, I felt it’s texture, loved it’s texture, yeah! No wonder she orgasms over it….”

You awaken to find you are trying to copulate with the wall of your bed and to Magda’s voice, gentle and sweet. “…And with a mi-nute amount of tuition 256 made an absolutely fabulous night garment for me, ‘nightdress’ it called it.” Magda again talks to herself. “And it really thinks it has the name, Jonathan Thomas,” she adds.

You look over to her supine form lying on the bed. Her bottom invites you. You want to take her from that position. Yet, somehow, it’s not like before, brutal, selfish, merely to please your ego. You want to become one penetrating effect that pleasures her.

Involuntarily you ask, “Magda, what do I do?” She turns, breaking your thoughts, “Why, nothing 256, go to sleep.” She turns back only raising your desire more. “Do we lovemake tonight, Magda?” You hopefully ask. “Go to sleep 256, I will tell you when”, she aggressively retorts. “All I have to do is lie here thinking?” You spontaneously reply. Magda gets excited, jumps off the bed, runs to your bed, “And what do you think of, 256?” she excitedly asks. Looking up at this blond haired nymphette you cross your legs. “All this”, you reply, “What happened to me. Who you are?” You add. “I have already told you, 256”, she replies, looking down at you.

“Her nipples, look at her nipples!” your mind instructs as they softly outline beneath the diaphanous nightdress.

“I don’t really know who you are, why you’re so beautiful”, you add. She prances. “I am Magda. I am eighty-five years of age” She replies, taken with your comment. “Eighty-five?” Your mind queries – yeah!” “I had my first bust transplant at thirty”, she adds, pruning the things you’d dearly like to get in your mouth, “and my total body skin was replaced at sixty”, she adds.

Your mind gets confused. “But what about babies”, you ask. She stops in mid-prance. “Babies? What are they?” She shrugs, continues prancing and informing you of her lonely life. You look at what prances before you and get lost in your mind’s wanton desire for what you see. It makes you deaf as she prattles on about some stuff about ‘re-cycle’ things. You sit up, grab this prancing thing you desire too much, hold her close, tackle it in the only way you know how. “Your breasts are so firm”, you tantalise. She seems puzzled. “Like the breasts of an eighteen-year old”. She slaps your face. Goes back to her bed. Your mind asks you what happened. It always ‘worked’ before, one hundred or more times before. You roll over and think.

9.0 “Magda?” You whine. “Sleep”, she retorts. “But Magda, I hurt”, you reply. She looks. Concernedly. “I hurt. SO much” You add. She rushes to the cubicle, Very concerned. “It’s not your genitalia, is it 256? I have wondered why it always sticks out,” She adds. She reaches over you, towards the back of your bed, “I will take it off and replace it. It will not hurt.”

You think, puzzled but catching on fast, ‘Genitalia?’ and verbalise, “Yes, that’s it, I can show you how to make it go away.” She stops short, looks down at you, “Please show me how, 256”. You grin, “I must serve you. Will you let me? If I cannot serve you I must recycle myself”. Magda gasps, “256, I wish you to serve me but only I must recycle you, Oh! 256!” She leaps astride you within your bed screaming “Re-cycle, Oh, 256. -- Re-cycle, Oh, 256” and her hand brushes the bed wall.

The blue light commences to bathe the both of you as she strides you with pelvic lovemake movements ignorant of what is happening. You struggle knowing what impends.

The noise, that hateful noise of one thousand dismemberings commences.

You almost emit brown stuff from your rear small orifice in fear.

10.0 Sheer panic makes you push her out of your bed onto the floor. You quickly get out and help her up, her hips still thrusting at your thighs in the only lovemake way she knows. “Re-cycle. Oh, 256,” she again whimpers lost in some arcane sensuality.

The recycle noise and blue light cease.

You reach out, stop the impotent thrusting movement. Slowly, tantalizingly, you slip your tongue into her pliant, waiting lovely mouth. After an eternity it seems you remove your tongue from its depths and say, “I will show you my lovemake,” as you slowly remove the nightdress and slide downwards on her beautiful, eighty-five year-old recycled body stopping to caress each mound appearing with your mouth, titillated by your tongue until she falls to the floor in ecstasy giving your tongue access to the mound of a thousand delights.

You penetrate, yet worship what you penetrate, you titillate but in a manner as yet not understood, giver and taker are fused into an indescribable sense of one, a mutual orgasm that permeates your longing, your being, through to the core yet brings despair to you in an unknown manner. A coital union nearing complete love, unknowingly.

The chime wakes you. You lean, on-elbow and kiss Magda on her cheek. She sleepily reacts. You rise. The growth in your loins has turned to real worship. You will go to work eagerly today and make such stuff as dreams are made of. Make them for you both. Make such stuff as is unheard of in this insane, evil world.

11.0 Returning home you enter the room and change into your pajamas, so tired, all your energy spent making stuff. You’re completely worn out. As you dreamily lie in your bed your mind relives the days events. Throughout the shift you have concentrated making stuff. Making lovely things to make Magda happy. Then you hear the sound. Distant. Repetitive like. It breaks your dimming consciousness as it gets nearer. Then you recognise it as the sound of stiletto heels on the steel walkway floor, which runs behind every playman workroom. Louder, louder, stopping outside your workroom and you sense someone behind your chair. The feeling commences in your synapse, begins it’s normal downward journey. “Oi – oi!” You mentalise. “There’s that feeling again, starting in my head but a bit different this time.”

Your wonder at what causes it is broken by Catrina’s lovely face appearing over your left shoulder. Sternness changing to a smile. “I should have guessed it was you, 256. “She sensuously utters, “Who else but you would be using too much energy.” She adds as she steps close to your side leaning down and sensuously rubbing her right breast on your left shoulder. You glance sideways; see her nipple through the diaphanous lovemake blouse start to harden as the friction takes effect.

Before you can act Catrina stands, hands you a plastic ‘ident’, “Take this, 256” she softly adds, “My playmen do not understand me.” She licks her lips and leaves. You sit holding the ident, her closeness leaving you in a state of jelly-like anticipative disappointment, sleep descending on you like a curtain.

“No, No! You know I cannot take the stimulator anymore!” Screams, from your right alert you to full wakefulness. The sound of stiletto heels on steel disappearing into silence only broken by sobbing apparently coming from the next workroom to your right. You rise and step cautiously into the corridor and enter the workroom.

A playman sits there, sobbing his heart out. In your mind you see the number, ‘26’. “Wot’s up 26” you ask. Playman 26 turns, absolutely terrified, cringingly terrified. “You are 256.” He whines. “I am to be re-cycled if I do not make such things as you”, he says as he collapses into a blubbering mass. You grin, lift him out of his chair. He offers no resistance. He stands fearfully beside you as you sit in his chair.

You look and smile at 26, “Let’s give her some ‘things’ then, shall we? A cowpat forms in your mind, steaming putrescently before solidifying into a thin crust-looking pizza. Then another and another, on and on mountainous quantities of yucky rubbish run through your mind while playman 26 stands beside you in awe.

You stand when finished seemingly hours having passed. Playman 26 looks fearfully about. Extracts an ident from within his tunic, hands it to you. “Thank you 256, take this ident but only use it when you are going to be re-cycled. It will help. Thank you for all the lovely nourishment for my Catrina. I will not have to be re-cycled now.” He turns and leaves before you can utter one word of warning about the shit-stuff you made for his ‘Catrina’.

Blackness enfolds you, you are in deep sleep.

12.0 Slowly you waken. Magda stands before you sensuously dressed, “It is time to lovemake, 256,” she demands. “I’m too tired, Magda, love” you reply, turning over. “256, I order you to lovemake or I will stimulate you to do so” Magda sternly replies as she bends beneath the bed. You turn over using what little energy is left in your spent body, “Stimulate me as you will but it’ll get you nowhere, I’m really too tired”.

You see Magda stamp her foot in anger, point some weird-looking gun-thing at you and it emits blue light surrounding you.

The pain comes quietly, softly as it creeps down your spine from your head until every spent muscle in your body contracts and expands at the same time. You try to scream but nothing comes out of a mouth whose muscles are undecided whether they should be contracting and expanding at the same moment. You cannot even pass-out from the pain, the absolute, terrifying, and never experienced before pain now flowing through your rigid, loose form. Through the pain you see Magda shrug and walk into the eating area, gun-thing in-hand. Slowly the pain subsides leaving you unable to move. Every part of your raped form feels watery. It seems to your mind that everything is a dream.

13.0 You become aware Magda holds you, cradling you in her arms, stroking your bald head, and kissing your paralysed face all over. In between kisses you hear her lovely mouth utter words of forgiveness, meaningless sentences to your quivering, paralysed, stimulated mind. “I am sorry, 256. I should have realised you would be exhausted after making all that marvelous food for me. I forgot the stimulator was still set for 255. It had gotten used to it so I had to increase power. Please forgive me, 256”.

Such apologies washing over your numbed mind mean nothing to your consciousness now. You drift off into sleep not noticing the wetness now flowing from Magda’s beautiful eyes, flowing down on your caressed face, like a baby being baptised.

14.0 You slowly waken; become aware of Magda’s beautiful, tear-stained face some few centimeters from yours. Sense her breasts, firm, soft, pushing into your chest. She still holds you as a child, like a mother cradling your previous nights hurt. You lean and softly kiss her sensuous lips. She slowly wakens and you feel things getting hard, softly hard.

She smiles, pushes your face gently away. Sits up. “No, 256, you are too weak to lovemake. You must rest this day. I will make excuse at work for you.” She gets up as you roll onto your back, look at the ceiling trying to make some sense of the night before.

Then Magda is leaning over you kissing your forehead affectionately before she leaves. You don’t move; merely let her treat you like your mother must have done in the dim, distant past. The pangs of hunger slowly rise making you get up, wander into the eating area.

The table has Magda’s breakfast on it. She’s eaten the bacon, didn’t know what to do with the sausages, egg-yolk is lick-smeared all over the table and the bread has bite-marks on it. You smile to yourself, all the things you made at work lie around you. You tuck into the bacon remnants hungrily. It tastes very good, as do the eggs, fried and bread with butter. As you become gorged you wonder what sort of technology can make cooked bacon from nothing. Your mind reminds you of the thing you saw behind or in or through your bed wall, a computer of sorts.

You get up go to your bed; touch the rear wall, apprehensively. “Open” you, think. The rear wall transmutes into what you expected. Now you’re only interested in the computer screen looking thing. You carefully touch it. It ripples with a myriad of colour and a voice in your head requests, “Yes, Magda?” “Oh Shit!” You mentalise, it doesn’t sound like ‘HAL’!

“Magda, a Tintel Millennium cannot defecate, do you wish some kind of output?” The voice in your head requests. You laugh, think, “It’s a bloody big, marvelous computer that thinks by itself!” The voice in your head replies, “Why, thank you Magda, you have not complimented me before. By ‘bloody’ do you wish some extra liquid for your playman, 256?”

You see the screen colour appear to have some sort of correlation to the words you hear but have only one intention, “I wish to disable the stimulator” you mentalise. The mental reply of “But Magda, if you disable the stimulator you will not be able to enjoy your playmen”, stirs you further. “Playman 256 is a success. He doesn’t need stimulation”. The subsequent quiet in your head worries you. Then the mental reply, “I am pleased for you Magda. Stimulator is disabled. Why do you refer to playman 256 as ‘Him’? Is this another of your experiments?” Your lips purse, breath inhaled as you quickly mentally reply, “Yes”. You pause, think, decide.

The rest of the day you spend exploring the depths of the computer and the insane world that is now yours until you die or are recycled.

15.0 You learn that the computer is called Tintel. You have an implant in your head. It stimulates your sex-drive whenever a woman gets close or if the stimulator is used. This worries you, worries you immensely but you dare not explore further in case Tintel realises who you are. Your bed is termed the re-cycler. This worries you even more.

You rape Tintel’s enormous memory. Babies, love, marriage and all the things in your world have no meaning here. No cataclysm, no aliens and many more questions Tintel cannot or refuses to provide data on. You come to realise that whatever happened in this insane world seems to have no heritage. The process of continual sharing of recycled bits producing a totally sterile culture. ‘Hairless, bald and pallid,’ your mind amusingly interjects. It’s late so you shut Tintel down. You’ve just finished your evening meal, roast pork a-la ‘I made it’ thought amuses you. You wonder why Magda is so late. Then a noise. From your recycler area.

You creep slowly into the other room to see Magda standing in front of your re-cycler, the rear wall open and Tintel’s screen pulsing with complex mathematical figures. She must have come in while you ate you think. You creep up behind her, slide your hands under her blouse to gently hold her warm, firm, breasts gently pushing in their nipples as you sink your teeth into the flesh of her exposed neck softly, gently sucking. She whimpers in delight, turns and your mouths meet. As your eyes commence closing you notice Tintel’s screen, ‘Playman 257 Specifications…’ before it blinks off.

Magda’s hand silently, sensuously slides down the front of your pants, between your legs and you don’t care any more. You are lost, electrified by her magical velvet touch. Floating on a sea of love, both of you, as yet not knowing, lost in desirous revelry in compliant consummation.

You both fall to the floor and make love, real love, to each other, all night long.

16.0 You rise, make breakfast and carry it into Magda still asleep.

The pure gold ornate tray you made at work is heavy by itself ignoring the fresh orange juice, sausages and steak, toast, steaming brewed coffee and the ornate, small coffee cup and complementing saucer on it.

Magda sits up at your entry. You place the tray before her on her thighs. You can remember how they feel wrapped around you even when hidden beneath the bed sheet. You lean over, gently kiss her mouth, lingering a while. She returns the kiss. “I have to go, Magda,” you say. She smiles, commences eating as you leave.

At work you are intent on making a real live seed and dung in which to grow it in, for this insane, sterile world when the stiletto sound distracts you. Distant, like before, louder up to your workroom. You tense, waiting for the inevitable. Then the sound precesses, back to where it emanated. Inquisitive, you rise look into the next workroom. Playman 26 is there, making small things. “How d’it go mate?” you ask. Playman 26 turns coldly looking at you. “I am disallowed from talking with you 256.” He coldly says, returning to his task. Puzzled you notice the number ‘27’ within your mind. “Oh, no” your mind mentalises as you slip back into your seat a deep cold coming over you as you verbalise to yourself, “That bloody bitch Catrina recycled playman 26!”

The mental picture of what you saw yesterday on Tintel grows and won’t leave your mind, ‘Playman 257 Specifications…’

17.0 You sit at the ornate oak table swilling Drambuie from a golden goblet, poured from a cut-glass decanter, surveying your domain. It’s been months now; she always, always leaves you at home, playman, while she’s off gallivanting around with her cronies. Leaving you to do the housework, wash the clothes, mend them, make all sorts of things for her pleasure. You look around at the things you’ve made to make the abode less sterile. The ornate four-poster bed, black silk sheets, mirror above it.

The table you now sit at, the velvet curtains hiding your bed, now not slept in for months. You look down at the expensive suit you wear, the silk shirt, tie, all made in vain, you think. You mute the sound, using the remote control, emanating from the enormous hi-fi system you made. Hatefully you throw the goblet at the wall, take out a black leather pouch, empty a pile of plastic idents onto the table and pick one up at random.

As you mentalise it transmutes into a small video screen the face of Catrina appearing within it. She wears the bizarre lovemake makeup, “Hello, 256, I had almost given you up. Do you want to come over now?” She verbalises, adding, “We can have a threesome, look”. The view slowly pans back to expose the form of playman 27 lying on a bed in the dim background. You drop the ident in disgust. It flickers to off as you mentalise disgust not realising why.

You pick up the goblet, pour another drink and walk to the ornate mirror, another ‘made to please’ item. You stroke the short blond hair now growing on your head. Stubble on your face needs a shave; you need to shave daily now. The flesh of your recycled white body has turned a soft natural pink, as has Magdas, due to the food made at work. ‘Hah, bloody Tintel can only make nourishing food from human input,’ you cynically mentalise.

The front wall transmutes into the street doorway, for an instant, as Magda passes through it. Jubilant she runs up to you. “And where have you been?” you hear your voice utter while your senses commence to be overpowered by her physical form. She wears a 16th century type of flowing dress with a large neck ruffle you made for her and has paid attention to your instructions on how to make up. Nothing bizarre, just gentle colour enhancing her face making it overpowering to any male, worse than Methuselah you once thought. She smiles, kisses you gently on the cheek, steps back and pirouettes about the room. “Everyone envies me, Jonathan. Even Catrina wants to borrow you. And it’s all your doing, all these lovely things you make for us.” She dances off into the eating area.

You stand there, hopeless; anger subsiding, gone by one touch from your beloved. As you follow her the rear wall inside the re-cycler transmutes, turns into Tintel. It lies behind the curtain seemingly waiting, listening. As voices emanate from the eating area Tintel vibrates in synchronism, as if recording each sound. “But you never take me out, Magda”. “Out, why should I, Jonathan. You would not like all the attention you’d get.” “I don’t mind attention, Magda, it’s better than being lonely here. “Jonathan, if you promise to behave I’ll take you to the club. It may grow on you.”

The sound of a soft, sensuous kiss sends Tintel into a frenzy of colour. “I have something else growing here, Magda”. The sound of a trousers-zip undoing sends a jagged trace across Tintel’s screen. The following sensuous female giggle generates another. Tintel transmutes back into the re-cycler rear wall as Magda runs into the bedroom area. You follow her your expensive suit in interfered disarray. She drops the 16th century garment to the floor. She has one of your silk shirts on underneath, nothing else. You mentally laugh at her misunderstanding of nearly everything you do but as she stands there, only your shirt between you and nirvana you cannot get your clothes off fast enough. You brutally rip your shirt from her body as you take her in your arms.

Slowly, very slowly you make love, not as lustful wanton things but as beings one becoming the other.

Each orgasm she has spurs you to the next until you seem to be floating on a sea of sensation never experienced before. You become one in passion, movement, complementing each other as nature intended until you are drained of fluid and must wait to rejuvenate.

Then, for you, the best part. She lovingly fondles your hair, glows with satisfaction you have given her. “What was that dung stuff you put outside?” She asks, followed by, “You don’t really believe the ‘seed’ things will grow in it do you?” You laugh. She gets serious, “This hair growing on your head also worries me Jonathan,“ she says. And the hair you are growing in other parts must all be due to some modifications I was experimenting with,“ she adds as you smother subsequent sounds with your mouth.

For the very first time in your life you are deeply in love. In love with this young, old magnificent creature but you dare not tell her.

You now realise how all your playgirls must have felt in your previous life.

18.0 You stand before Magda feeling foolish. “Do I really have to wear this stupid garb?” You ask. She smiles, nods. You look down at the small ballet skirt girthing your waist, the gaily-coloured tights, and the turned-up toes clown shoes. The singlet itches but, worst of all, the huge, gaily painted codpiece protruding from your genital area makes your real genitalia twice as large as it’s normally large size. “Don’t worry, Jonathan, I’ll be the envy of all those bitches when they see you. After all, you did want me to take you out, didn’t you?”

You nod, reluctantly but cannot come to terms with the real bikini this beautiful, oh so beautiful woman now wears. Not the sort of thing one normally wears to a nightclub you mentalise, but then, not a normal sort of existence your mind adds.

19.0 You sit nervously at the nightclub table. Playmen frolic about abundantly in a sterile attempt to titillate the women there. When you arrived the place stopped it seemed for an eternity. Every female in the place had eyes only for you.

When you accidentally removed your sheltering hands from your codpiece the room erupted with silent wanton sighs of delight. Magda was and is overjoyed at the effect you are having. A playman performs center-stage, stripping, stupidly to you, sensuously it appears to the women who catcall, jeer and make lewd remarks at him while he mechanically takes off another garment. Woman after woman comes to your table, they sit talking to Magda, congratulating her on you, each one leaving a different feeling within your mind, which descends from the implant inside your head seemingly exiting from the thing now trying to escape from your large codpiece.

You enter a dreamlike unreal state from this mental mix only overshadowed by the pleasure your presence appears to be giving Magda.

And then it happens. Catrina sits beside you, commences talking to Magda while her hand gropes at your codpiece in selfish exploration. You stand, scream at her, “Leave my bloody dick alone, you, … you…” and cannot finish as you fall back to your seat sobbing.

The nightclub takes on a deathly hush. Magda rises, steps to the side and punches Catrina full in the face knocking her senseless to the floor. Magda takes hold of you. “All of you, Jonathan is mine, do you hear, mine!” She loudly tells the onlookers. You stand, tearfully sobbing.

She places an arm around you, concern and realisation written all over her face, she leads the whimpering you from the club.

20.0 You lie beside your only true love.

This night she took you. You didn’t mind as it pleased her. You couldn’t help cry out that you loved her. It just came, at the precise instant you did, she did. Maybe she didn’t hear you say it you think. Maybe she doesn’t love you comes to mind, fear rising behind the thought, pushing it out of your mind.

You glance at her face, her eyes shut, satiated, softly beautiful and whisper, “I love you, Magda.” She opens her eyes in puzzlement, “Love? What is that?” She innocently asks. You turn your back on her, pouting. Angry. “Jonathan, I asked what is love?” She insists.

You get up, fuming, go to the re-cycler for the first time in a very long time, get in pulling the velvet curtains closed. Magda, confused turns over. You fester, selfish want building.

You remember every girl spurned, every playgirl you made love to, how they always said they loved you. Samantha comes to mind. She’s in bed, coitally at the peak, “I do love you, Fred”, you hear her say. They say it to anyone your mind tells you, yet, for you, Magda is your true love. You whimper, silently, curl up foetal-like.

You hear Magda, “Jonathan, what is wrong?” and ignore her. Again, “256, if you do not obey me and tell me what is wrong I will re-cycle you!” Again, you ignore her. You fall into a dreamless sleep hiding from the truth.

From the depths of slumber you hear Magda calling “Jonathan, Jonathan…”

21.0 You waken slowly as reality dawns – you are swathed in the blue light and the screaming of dismemberment commences in your ears. You struggle against the magnetic forces sucking at you, preparing to dissect your very existence, grab hold of the wall, push hard. Your legs feel like they are being ripped off but you persist as the adrenalin within a really nourished body comes to your rescue. You fall gasping to the bedroom floor. You stand looking into the re-cycler just as the blue light extinguishes.

“Jonathan, Oh Jonathan…” you hear. You slowly turn, walk to stand beside your sleeping Magda, still whimpering in sleep.

You hear Samantha’s voice, “I’m only your recycled toy.”

Tears come to your eyes as you look down on Magda’s beautiful face, the face you love. “Bloody bitch! She did it!” You malevolently think.

You shake your head, mentalise; you love her, so much, so very, very, much.

You turn, walk past the re-cycler and sense it somehow waiting. You cannot resist the temptation. You peer into the re-cycler to see a white cadaver, playman 257, somehow coming into view. Bloodless, dead with the crotch area white and empty waiting for new genitalia.

You mentally scream, run through the front door that somehow opens without command. Into the street. Dawn just breaking. To anywhere away from this evil place.

As you disappear into the distance no one sees your small flower break through the dung. Slowly, in the warming dawn sunlight. It strengthens, erects, the bud at the top trying to open.

A lone birth in an insane world.

It is the first morning of the rest of your life.

END ----------- GOTO Magda