DOCUMAN FIVE

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 17, 2019

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Submitted: August 17, 2019

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DOCUMAN-FIVE

A tense silence accompanies Documan Five’s strenuous pumping of his member into his partner bent over on the cold, plastic floor panels before arching his back involuntarily, filling his taut rectum. He even squints his eyes as the muscles tighten around the shaft of his penis but through it all he never breathes, huffs, speaks, or even sweats, as if he were less man than machine.

The thought alone sends a chill down his spinal chord.

Thump, thump, thump, thump. His erection has begun to retreat back into the folds of his pale, porcelain foreskin but until it does, he continues to hump the stranger on the floor. The muscles in his eye sockets make him stare into the back of his skull and he comes again; once, twice; even a third time he manages to orgasm before he no longer feels the flesh between the ass cheeks of the man before him.

Now, it is his turn.

The stranger flips Five’s body over like a rag doll, pulling his legs apart and over his shoulders, pulling him close; making full, unbroken eye contact as he pumps his cock in and out for only a minute and twenty six seconds before exploding synthetic semen all over both of their chests and legs.

But for Five, a mere minute and twenty six seconds can seem to last a lifetime of deep thought; Why are we here? Who are we? What time is it? How did it come to this?

Where are we?

As the man mounts him a second time, Five looks around at the people quietly shuffling here and there with no destination in mind, and he wonders- Why?!

Why is it, that in a place so full of people, sex, and endless games of rock, paper, scissors that I feel so isolated? So alone?

Even as his body trembles under the assaultive penetration of his anus, and it looks as though the world is shaking every time his body quivers in euphoria, he can see the smiles in the eyes of those around him as they also hug, fuck, play and frolic, leaving behind a bitter taste in that strange cavity beneath his nose. He even surprises himself when he lightly slaps the forearm of the stranger while still having sex, urging him to either hurry up and finish or simply pull out now, a request politely denied by a fourth mounting, pinning him on the floor and continuing his assault until further notice.

 When Five finally ends the session, he wanders among a large crowd engaging in a fighting tournament of some kind in which a certain number of injuries resulted in loss, some of them even thrown to the side as fresh corpses. He suffers stray kicks and punches but otherwise leaves unharmed and looks around at the scattered loners, stretching out into the horizon like a dying cornfield. He almost passes through here uninterested as well, but a woman peaks his attention.

A large piece of this may be the scarcity of females of any attractiveness here, but it is also that she is stunningly beautiful, as well as her current attempt at suicide.

She lies mostly prone, and apart from repeatedly ramming the side of her head on the floor with slowly decreasing momentum each time it makes impact with the swirly gray-and-white puddle beneath it.

Her frizzy head of hair and black, entwined wire is wrapped around her throat like a noose but with no breathing to bring an end to such efforts are nullified, and when she notices Five, it almost seems more that she has feigned unconsciousness than simply having passed out.

He unwraps the hair from her neck carefully; a single strand slashes open the palm of his hand. And somewhere within a complex maze of plastic, rubbery flesh, circuit boards and wrinkled, droopy organs his heart begins to beat just a little bit faster.

What does her pussy feel like? How does her hair feel? Or her skin, or nails? Is she dead or asleep?

His spindly fingers probe her body here and there like a rover exploring some distant planet, feeling every contour and injury, and moving every joint and finger, secretly hoping she awakens with the fury of a thousand rabid chihuahuas.

She stirs, so he drops her to the floor, watching in amazement as she arches her back, much like he does when on the verge of an orgasm. Is she enjoying this?

Eventually he takes her up in his arms once more, now scooping her up and carrying her around like a dead kitten, groping her smooth, nipple-less  breasts hungrily as he runs away from the crowd of lonely people, a trail of jism leaking from his anus as he runs.

It doesn’t take long for more those he passes to take notice, and before long, he has gained something of a cult following. Rumors may not spread, but the attempts still take root between broken sign language and symbolic hand shadows cast upon the floor; and before long, the man who fucked his ass learns of him, and his general direction.

When Documan Five strolls, jogs, and falls asleep caressing the half-dead woman after a long session of making love, the Stranger sprints with full force. When Documan Five is relaxing, playing, and frolicking with this unrequited lover, the stranger fights exhaustion by continuing his crazed journey by bounding onwards on all fours like an animal.

The stranger works, and the lover plays.

By now, a year has passed, and as Five forces his care upon her, she slowly begins to recover, though the hair on her head has all long fallen out and been replaced entirely with the sharp wires, warding off Five’s attempts at amateur surgery so to keep him from fully bringing back her broken mind. Her milky white and grey eyes are vacant and empty, staring into him with the beauty of a shattered toilet bowl; like the fractured egg shell of some extinct bird, and he loves her all the more because of it.

At times she bares an expression of rage, or perhaps even hatred but he knows better than to assume that she is angry with him; surely she would fight back. No; even if they die, this love will last forever, because after all, from what Five has inferred, he has likely died already at least once.

Perhaps this is some sort of hell, or purgatory, or twilight zone but as of now it is heaven. But thirty-seven earth-years later, his little house of cards has begun to tumble down.

A neck is snapped with a gut twisting, clammy schgleeepthhhptpht and a pointy, long spine of intertwined circuit boards and cartilage like pulling a chord out from underneath a pile of trash. Surprisingly enough, Five is unawakened by the commotion, but the crowd around them have no way of screaming, let alone even knowing what screaming is. He drags her body away from the head and he, with the same quiet scuttle on the cold, oil-stained floor he had arrived by using, weaving through the crowd of onlookers sideways like a startled crab.

When Five’s eyes finally open, he first notices that the crowd of people who have been following him for so long through the empty, endless plain are gone, and secondly that some sort of blurry, clear, watery substance is obscuring his vision of his surroundings, and the strange object lying on the floor at his feet where he has slept.

Shaped like a fleshy balloon on one end, and spindling out with an elaborate, long, spiraling piece of fused flesh-and-scrap covered in milky white-and-gray oil, he at first is unsure what it is, but it is as he wipes these weird ‘tears’ from his eyes that he realizes his girl is missing.

Something in the back of his mind, something buried in the deepest verges of his instincts insist that he screams at the top of his lungs, kneel down, and weep, but when no mouth is opened such bizarre thoughts are locked away again as he pounds the hard, soggy floor with white-knuckled fists and tears strips of skin from his arms, chest, legs and neck in a fit of distraught and unbridled anger. Who? Who fucking did this?!

He scans for just one of his original followers, eventually finding a petite couple playing rounds of rock, paper, scissors with their legs crossed in a squat across from each other.

WHY?! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HER FROM DYING?! His thoughts go nowhere and the couple simply stare him over in confusion. WHY?! WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?!

He drags the head around with the spine like a legless dog on a leash for weeks, leaving behind an oily trail and luring in a whole new flock of followers; some the same, and others new; some simply following their leader who has begun to follow Documan Five.

As each member of the growing sect theorizes the story behind the strange man who drags around a dead woman’s head, he is waited on by hand and foot; they are willing to anything to please the stranger with a commanding presence, offering their bodies and possessions as sacrifices to his mysterious cause. At first Five refuses, even attempting at times to shoo them away, but once the offerings begin he sees it as a great advantage.

He peels thin layers of skin from their backs as paper, and binds it thicker, callous flaps to create a book bound in android flesh, slowly but surely filling it with followers’ encouragements and even notes of his own, using a finger bone and a skull-bowl of oil to write.  Most of the time, he can not even read what it says either from sloppy penmanship or words being written in unfamiliar languages but all in all, it becomes a symbolic treasure to them all.

“? ????? ????, ???????”

?????????”

“Prenez votre vengeance!”

“?????, ???? ?? ????? ?????”

“Bless your endeavors”

Slowly but surely despite the androids’ constant distractions and inner shenanigans, he follows the trail of oil, catching up with the stranger who ruined his life.

When the stranger strolls, jogs, and falls asleep caressing the dead woman after a long session of making love, Five sprints with full force. When the stranger is relaxing, playing, and frolicking with this unrequited lover, Documan Five fights exhaustion, continuing his crazed journey by bounding onwards on all fours like an animal.

The stranger plays, and the wounded lover works.

When Five finally finds the stranger, is lies asleep on the floor with the headless corpse, sleeping peacefully while surrounded by a crowd of his own who simply watch as he picks him up by the throat, wraps five crusty, worn fingers around the top of his head and twists a full three sixty degrees; taking a minute to realize that when he did so, he was already dead.

Goosebumps rise on the back of his head as the headless body of the dead woman slowly stirs from its place on the floor, back facing him, and stands up on two feet and stretching arms, as if waking up from a deep sleep.

He collapses to the floor in a mixture of fear, shock, and joy and stares at the floor as she slowly turns around and takes her head and spine from his arms, holding it up like a sword. Starting from her neck and running down the bottom of her stomach is a massive, intentional tear into her body’s outer layer, exposing veins, neon chords, and dozens, if not hundreds of tiny cameras and monitors staring into Five’s eyes with the fury of a thousand rabid chihuahuas, her fingertips carefully whittled down and carved into dangerously sharp claws of the same shape and thickness as the wounds he notices on the stranger’s limp body.

A single claw skims his chest in a flawless circle; about one inch thick, severing bone, machinery and loose tissue before her hand reaches deep inside of him, penetrating and gently ripping through the flappy, wet folds of an artificial heart and slowly severing veins and arteries before making the final retrieval and taking a long, juicy bite with the now reattached severed head.

At first he fought back, but once her hand was inside it was as simple as taking candy from a baby. No; even if they die, this love will last forever, because after all, from what Five has inferred, he has likely died already at least once.

 


© Copyright 2020 Zach Reynoldson. All rights reserved.

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