In celebration of the re-release of my cyberpunk BDSM erotica novel, Painted Doll, here's an except...
...
Qui Dan Road to the High Street, a stumble of crisp British in a city
of fish sauce and MSG. The change didn’t alter her steps, modify her
movements.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a
question. The splendor of a rose, the loveliness of an orchid. The
kimono is flawless, as is the china white of her immaculately applied
artificial complexion. As she walks, hearts stop then race. As she
walks, heads twist, eyes widen. As she walks, breaths are hissed in,
sighed out.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a
question. But she is a knife-edged rose, a razor sharp orchid. Her
stride is mechanically perfect, as is her perfectly vertical posture.
Their hearts might race, their heads may twist, their eyes certainly
widen, their breaths absolutely hiss in and hiss out, but as she steps
nearer they instead step back. As she walks, they avert their eyes. As
she walks, they pull themselves in.
The woman walking
down the High Street feels them watching her, their glances furtive
tickles, their quick stares barely felt hooks out of the corners of her
always forward facing eyes. Passing a bookseller – tight fans of rough
tan paper with lurid Cantonese chops on their glistening plastic covers
hung in sagging arcs of cord – a reflection was revealed to her, a
caught sight of what they were seeing.
But not what
they were thinking. But she knew, nevertheless: each of them lost in
illusions and fantasies as carefully crafted as her rouge, as flawlessly
presented as the mae migoro and ushiro migoro of her kimono, as
immaculately assembled as her performance:
She’s a
dragon, some might think: the cruelty of a reptile, the flawlessness of a
myth. You may approach her, with bravery beyond that of any
battlefield, speaking with a stammer and a twitch, and if you were
fortunate beyond your worth she’d slow, pause, turn with prudently
measured grace, deeming your presence not completely disgusting. With
that look, at that glance, would be a flickering forked tongue of cruel
invitation, a scintillating promise of peaked breasts topped with
fist-tight nipples, a belly steel plate flat and firm, a behind curving
out in twin clenches of muscular intensity, thighs sculpted by rigid
posture, and between them a scented valley of ruby silk.
But
first, a miniscule task. But first, an all but insignificant request:
to firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity; to fetch a inestimable
gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry;
to perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of
desperate worth; or a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit; or
become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against
some heinous offense.
A minuscule task. An
insignificant request. Accepted without doubt or hesitation, the reward a
slow curl at the corner of her cold stone face, a bow of gratitude, and
a bright flash of serpentine green eyes. Totally entranced by her,
completely captured by her, the dragon would then reveal the
metaphorical points of venomous teeth, sinking the illusion of her love
deep into the shaft of your encouraged penis by showing you the true
face of her cruelty.
The prize was yours but the tasks
were actually anything but miniscule, not at all insignificant: firmly
stand guard for her honor and dignity – for a year; fetch a inestimable
gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry –
from a thousand miles away; perform for her a melody of praise, or a
stammering litany of desperate worth – perfectly, without the tiniest
flaw; a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit – unattainable by
even the greatest athlete; or become for her an avenging knight, a
battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense – in combat
against a killing machine.
And so the dragon passes by,
a smile on her cold-blooded face. No one approaches her, no one is
willing to come near. And so they live, by letting her just walk by.
She’s
a doll, some might think: a porcelain figure, an ivory representation.
Beneath the silks and satins would be a body as perfect as only a master
artisan could create. Breasts both delicate and womanly, nipples as
delicate as rosebuds, a belly with an ideal swell, hands with the grace
of ten Noh performers, calves a perfect taper, thighs an entrancing
form, back a clean surface of alabaster, neck a musical curve, feet
delicate and precious, a behind highlighted with sacral dimples, and a
female cleft that was a pale oyster and a tiny pink pearl.
Like
a doll, she would belong to whoever buys her. Cash, credit, merchandise
– the right amount and the woman would instead walk behind, following
her owner towards palace or hovel, both with the same unmoving mask of
her face.
Palace or hovel, she would walk in the door,
standing still and quiet with an item’s posture. Maybe she’d look better
in the living room window, where the afternoon would bathe her in
golden light? Or perhaps she’d be better exhibited in the bedroom, where
her kimono could be removed like one from a real woman.
Yes,
the bedroom. That was where she would be best displayed. Moving past,
it was clear in their eyes, the allure of her perfect submission. A
thing. An object. A piece of feminine sculpture. Unable to disagree,
unable to refuse, bendable in all kinds of imaginative ways. From
behind, cock sliding between her cool ivory cheeks. Face to face, marble
breasts for unimpeded kiss, licks, and sucks. On top, her tight thighs
spread apart and welcoming upward thrusts. Anything you wanted, anytime
you wanted.
Desire was a rippling wave behind her, a
heat distortion in the warm city air. It was obvious in their eyes that
there, in her, was a world without ‘no,’ a land without complaint, a
woman without a soul.
Then they stopped, that wave of
erections and licked dry lips chilled with a slap of frigid revelation.
Stepping back with the rest of the crowd, these men retreated from the
precise rhythm of her steps, with whimpering fear in their wide eyes,
their shaking heads.
Ivory arms, marble legs, alabaster
body: inflexible, unfeeling, stiff, unbending, unyielding, and -- worst
of all -- cold. With her you’d never hear ‘no,’ never be refused, never
be denied, but you’d also never hear the beat of her heart, the music
of her voice, the chimes of her laughter, the moans and screams of her
pleasure. You’d perform with her your deepest, darkest, most
subterranean – and all she would do would be to look at you with
inscrutably glass eyes.
She’s a tiger, some might
think: a beast with the stripes of a traditional Japanese dress. Hidden
beneath her Asian camouflage was a woman’s body, exercised into an
extension of her erotic drive. Where other women had euphemisms and
poetic alliterations, she had simple, direct, and powerful words to
describe herself. Where other women had bosoms, she had tits of ideal
jiggle and sway, covered in thrilling smooth skin. Where other women had
nipples, she had a pair of dark brown direct connections to her clit.
Where other women had posteriors, she had two plush muscular globes that
clenched and released with the beating heat of her clit. Where other
women had sexes, she had a demanding, insistent cunt.
To
see and handle these differences would be more fortune than seduction.
You did not take the tiger to dinner and slip hot words between dessert
and coffee. You did not lay flowers at the feet of this hot blooded
woman within the cool disguise of a geisha. You did not whisper poetry
into the shell-like ear of this elegantly robed bitch.
There
was no way to make her do anything, no way to slyly allure or simply
trick her into a private room, no way to seduce her. The only thing
anyone could do was to stand within the range of that sweeping predatory
glance and hope that her eyes would positively estimate your worth as a
device for her pleasure. Then, and only then, would her red-painted
lips open ever-so, more than a whisper but less than full voice, and
speak the one word you’d prayed to hear: “Come.”
Behind
her, pulled along by her insatiable need, you would follow. It wouldn’t
be a long journey, for her cunt has a very short attention span. Cheap
hotel on the next street, expensive one even closer by, or just the
nearest fetid and slimy alley – whatever was within range.
Patience
was for ladies. Hesitation was for women. Tigers – even ones hidden
within silks and satins – had no need for foreplay, patience, or
hesitation. They wanted, so they took.
And if you were
lucky, she would take you. Hands down to your cock, a squeezing judgment
for size and firmness. Lips to yours, a tongue penetrating your mouth,
am attacking kiss wanting nothing of you but to be kindling to her
roaring heat.
On her knees, she would take you. But
only because that was what she wanted. Your come was not expected or
important. A flesh device to penetrate an orifice, you would be used
until she was bored and ready to move onto other penetrations of other
orifices.
Or perhaps she’d require something else.
Falling back, satin fabric pulled roughly aside, she might bare an
insistent slickness, the gleaming lips and fast-beating clit, and demand
your service. Failure to accept or in performance too terrible to
contemplate.
At the end, your cock would be needed:
hard, strong, and fast -- nothing else important to her. Burning hot,
insanely wet, you’d enter and execute the task she’d ordered, working
until her screams tore at your ears and her nails scratched along your
back.
Then that would be it. Humiliating? Being reduced
to only a device for someone’s pleasure usually is. But the blistering
heat of her, the ferocious need of her cunt would put – and keep – a
smile on your sweaty face.
But – and again men standing
step back, retreat in shivering dread when she walks back – one does
not ever tame a tiger, even after it is fed. Who knows what she might
hunger for after? Meat, blood, flesh, dignity, any number of horrible
violations – any of them within her grasp, and you too exhausted to
resist.
Tigers are wild things, after all: enjoyable to watch in zoos, penned behind restraining bars, but far too bloodthirsty in bed.
She’s
a machine, some might think: isn’t it wonderful what they’re doing with
shape memory alloys, mnemetic plastics, optical fibers, and conductive
polymers? Absolutely wonderful things coming out of Japan, India, the
Wilding, and the young turks of the École Polytechnique, these days.
Look up and there are dragonfliers pausing for location fixes before
darting off at near-invisible speeds, packages clutched under their
iridescent fuselages. Look down and there are myriad scurrying
mechanisms trailing polished tracks of perfumed cleanliness through the
city’s persistent grime. Look around and there are cinematics lazily
scrolling across a lady’s fluttering fan, posters for the newest
Malasian blockbuster cycling through tantalizing glimpses of furious
martial arts and stiffly chaste duets, the hushed commuting fuel-cell
and ethanol traffic, and the softly creaking carbon fibers of a
prosthetic hand on a crumble-faced veteran of the Chinese genocide as he
lays down a mah-jongg tile.
Look at her and you might
see a device as carefully machined as a German car, a Swiss watch, a
Japanese entertainment center, Indian software, or an African running
shoe: breasts as ideal and resilient as silicone, skin of perfectly
cured plastic, muscles as precise and strong as actuators, a
genital-pleasuring interface between her thighs, a mouth with the same
technology.
It was a safe bet that without her
protective kimono covering, the pseudo-body of hers was as superlative
as a supermodel, as sensuous as a Playmate of whatever month, as adept
as an amalgamation of every courtesan who’d ever lived, as refined and
machined as her manufacturers could make her.
Movement
like the architecture in fine software, presence as authoritative as
graceful as a jet fighter, skin as smooth as the polish on a
fresh-from-the-factory-floor Ferrari, she passed by – and with her
passing the tracking of lust and greed in the eyes of the male crowd,
and sour envy on the faces of everyone else.
Here was
the best of both of a man’s world: the twin allures of a clever device
together with a well-articulated woman – or, to be more specific, as
those men revealed so obviously, ‘coupled’ together, a mating between
flesh and sex and advanced technology and power. Purchasing this – or
simply leasing with an option to do the same – and putting it in the
garage or the bedroom, would mean not just a product but also a woman of
every dream, not just a sex partner but also a sophisticated piece of
fine engineering.
But that wasn’t all. Look at them
watching her move by. Lust was there, both for machine as well as woman,
but there was also the dawning realization that there could be even
more there: things that squeezed, buzzed, vibrated, hummed, heated,
cooled, swirled, oscillated, tingled, and more, more, more so much more.
But
then they pulled away, out of her way, out of her traffic, their
fantasies dropping behind to be passed by the rushing acceleration of a
nightmare, the barreling truck of a terrifying understanding.
Engineering,
went their minds as they retreated, is fine and good, stimulating and
thrilling. Sex, they thought as they ran away from her, is fantastic and
wonderful. But to fuck a machine, to be intimate with gears and cogs,
synthetics and electricity, hydraulics and radiators, could be good, but
also could be like thrusting into a meshing, tearing, burning,
shocking, scalding, blistering industrial accident.
