Gutted

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Your heart pounds as you are thrown into the white, padded room. You land with a crash on its soft, sterile floor. Through tear-filled eyes, you look across the room, your gaze barely lifted from the floor, and watch as the doctor – your doctor, the one who constructed you from fragments of an broken, wrecked body – steps into the room. The door slams shut behind her. A lock clicks into place. Terror floods through you as easily as blood through your veins, coolant through your pipes, signals through arrays that are half built on neurons and the other half on integrated circuitry.

“You stupid, horny little slut,” the woman says. Her voice is cold, unflinching, as sharp and biting as a knife to bare skin. You wince as it lands on your ears. “I have been so gracious to accept you into my care, to knit your little body back together, to put the pieces of your mind together from tattered scraps, and you repay me with that display of lewdness?”

Your lips tremble. You wanted to apologize but your voice felt small and cracked. It simply had been so long since you’d touched yourself, and your body felt so alien and so fascinating to you now – glossy metal hardpoints and color like the moon with a coat of polish to your synthetic skin, the underlying layers packed with sensors recording data in far more dimensions than your mangled flesh once had. You opened your mouth to speak, only to hear yourself scream in broken, halting tones that crack with distortion as she pulls you from the floor by your hair.

“Nasty, disgusting little thing,” the woman – blonde hair shorn short, her eyes narrow and angry behind black-rimmed glasses. Her own body from the neck down is as artificial as yours, but better tended, regally adorned with lights that pulse with her mood. Synthetic fibers weave around and over mechanical bones, their patterns as complex and organic as roots where once had been oaken brown skin. Fiber filaments blended with her hair, their color and pulse matching the rest of her body. As it was, it glowed vibrantly, illuminating her raven-black hair in cyan and indigo and ultraviolet wavelengths that both yours and her eyes could register. Silver wires ran beneath her cheeks, the machine at the back of her spine blending seamlessly around her neck and into her jaw. “Shameful little pervert.” She spits the words at you and smirks.

Your tears fly through the air as her fingers strike your cheek like wet reeds, snapping your head around. Servo motors in your shoulders scream as they struggle to keep up with momentum; tension mounts in your neck before you slam back into the floor and roll onto your back. You barely have time to recover your breath – you could still breathe, still needed it, somehow – before she pulls you up once more on solid but weakened feet and smacks your face in the opposite direction. Again, you crash to the padded floor.

Blood – no, not blood, coolant most likely, your body needs coolant more than blood now – leaks from your nostrils.

“You want to be a little whore?” The woman was crouched down in front of you; looking up, you had to stare past the biomachinery of her body beneath her open lab coat, to meet her gaze. “Fine. Let me show you how useful you can actually be when put to such carnal use.”

Her fingers reached out, touching the artificial skin at the back of your shoulder blades. Tension disappeared instantly, and your arms went limp at your sides. Your breath accelerated as you lost feeling, your eyes opening wide as she took your now-severed arms and examined them.

“To think,” she says, looking them over, her gaze now contemplative as she studies their architecture. Dark green hydraulic fluid dribbles out of openings on the connection ports where the limbs were attached to your shoulders. “I spent all this time crafting you the perfect body, and you use these beautiful, exquisite hands to stroke your pathetic little dick.”

You scream – not in pain, but in horror – as she presses the limb down against the top of her thigh. Fractal patterns of blue and green, purple and black, flower out across your synthetic skin. The colors deepen, spread, until cracks appear, spreading like veins over the once pristine surface. Until finally, the skin splits, the fragile carbon filaments underneath fragmenting into small, black shards.

You feel like your ribs can barely contain your lungs and heart as she proceeds to do the same with the other arm, tossing the wreckage of your ruined limb aside. “So much effort, only for you to waste it. All because you couldn’t wait to touch yourself. Disgusting.” Her hands squeeze, twist, pull and jerk at the skin-coating until it ripples, folds, creases and cracks on itself. Coolant drips out through the seams, landing on the floor in front of you.

She however, doesn’t break this one. She smiles at you, standing finally, holding your damaged arm down at her side.

“It’d be a pity to completely waste all of my work like this.”

Her foot – clad in a polished boot that rose to mid-shin – presses against the back of your rib cage, against your spine. Weight drives down onto your reinforced bones, testing them before she rolls you onto your back. You stare up, looking at her as though she was some horrifying goddess – and, considering she resurrected you from a dying body, she might as well be. Her fingers curl around the still bleeding, robotic limb, limp fingers swaying loosely in the air. She steps over you, stands above you, legs to either side of your chest. You want to kick away with your feet, but you know better. The punishment would only be worse if you dare to escape.

A sharp cry bursts from your mouth, along with more dark coolant, as your own hand slams into your face. Again and again, the front and back of your own palm meet your skin. Sharp knuckles dig into your mouth and cheeks, cutting them, spreading coolant and what was left of your own blood in spotted bursts down your face and neck and the mingle of skin and machine still winding around your chest and breasts and hips and groin, dribbling as well onto the otherwise white floor. Tears pour from your eyes, your breath chokes in your throat. Your lips sputter for words, only to have them snatched away each time by another blow to your face.

Finally, blessedly, the beating stops and you collapse to the floor on your back. Your cheek lays against the cool, plush floor. Small puddles of blood and coolant sparkle, iridescent in the bright, fluorescent lighting.

The doctor steps back as tosses your ruined arm aside. She crouches down once more as she stands over your knees. “You won’t need these either,” she said, resting her hands on your thighs – gentle pressure, so stark by comparison – her thumbs reaching up into the joint between your groin and legs. Bolts slide loose inside your hips, and your legs drop away from your body and roll onto their outermost sides as the connection between you and them severs.

This is you: a limbless torso, bare electronics exposed at your hips and shoulders. Vision flickering, cracking, breaking, you stare up at the doctor as she walks alongside you. She strides forward, a malignant grin on her face. “You want to feel pleasure, you stupid doll? Then I will simply overload your brain with it.”

Her hand reaches down, grabs your hair again, and drags you by a thick rope of deep blue strands across the floor. You whimper, what remains of heart and lungs and a stomach twist as your torso drags from cushion to cushion. Each bump between cushions feels like another punch. Through the haze in your eyes, you could see a keypad on the wall the doctor pulled you towards. The woman’s fingers danced over it, sending a panel of padded wall dropping down into the floor. Behind it, fixed into endless, almost organic piping and structural framing, are a set of plastic and metal mounting points that jut out from panels of cold, hard steel.

Her limbs move your limp body as easily as a child would a doll. Your head lolls to one side, shoulders falling behind you, your ribs and belly so entirely fragile in her grip. The mounting points behind you grab ports in your back that open by reflex as she positions you. The click and hydraulic hiss of powerful locks render you little more than a fixture in the room. Her hands grip your bruised face by the chin, while her other drops to your hips, angling them until your spread ass aligns with her groin. Laughing, she stands back, machinery between her legs reconfiguring themselves, fabricating a synthetic phallus before your eyes.

Her groin pressed to yours, her erection thrumming with electricity and living technology assembling itself in real-time alongside your own, tender, fragile, organic cock. Her fingers reach down and push, stretch, sink deep into the hole between your cheeks. Your voice breaks into halting, gasping static; more of her fingers enter, pulling your entrance wider. More blood, more coolant, dribbles from your lips. She smiles, leaned forward, and licks the dark liquids from your skin.

Suddenly, her fingers withdraw and leave you vacant. Before you can process the emptiness, she fills you this time with her self-generated cock that only grows more as it plunges into you. A resonant moan pushes out of your throat; you choke and sputter, your esophagus and larynx dry and strained even while warm liquid from your interior drips from your chin. Her thrusts rattle your every component, your every cell; her cock like a piston pumping deep inside you, her hips beating against yours. And as that, you are one machine, one engine; you are a component she can fit into, a function that serves her needs. Fingers rake down your sides; sharp nails tear at patches of artificial skin, slicing long tears through the thin material.

You scream.

You cry.

You are helpless, nothing but a mounted toy for her satisfaction.

Her come – whatever it really was, whatever it would do, whatever more it would change now that it was inside you – felt hot as it pours into you, spills out as she withdraws with a growl, the thick liquid flowing over the round curve of your ass and down onto the floor. She breathes deep. You gasp for the first breath you can remember before this began. Her hand meets your chin again; this time, however, her touch was more tender, cradling your bruised and battered jaw and cheek

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Words fail you. You nod and smile instead through the aching, bruised mottled mess of your face. Blue hair stuck in strange directions, visual noise between your face and hers. She brushes it aside delicately and presses a kiss to your bloodied mouth.

“Your new, better limbs will be ready in a day or two. And once they’re worn out… we’ll try this game again if you’d like.”

You simply couldn’t wait.