the Processor before exiting.
“Papers, please.”
My Keeper hands him a thick folder and the Processor scans the pages within, shooting glances at me as he reads.
“Looks good,” he says, closing the folder. He eyes me again. “Okay, let’s code her. She one for the cages? We offer transport help if you need it.”
“No. She’s gonna be a Subjected. My cages are full enough already.”
My heart leaps and untwines at the sound of the word, “Subjected.” My future has been classified. I can walk this path, I think. I hope he is not too cruel in his needs. Even if he is, I must endure. I am a Subjected now.
The Processor lifts the hair over my left ear and snaps open the disc that lies flat against my skin. He punches the scanner’s keyboard and aims the scanner at the exposed disc. There is a high-pitched tone and then a hot flash of pain in my skull like a scab has been ripped off of my brain. Before I can muster a scream, it is gone.
The Processor looks at my Keeper, now officially, “She’s all yours.”
I trail him through hallways connected with heavy doors until we arrive in the transport hub. He puts me in the back of his vehicle and begins to secure me. I slip my legs into the slots and when he smooths my skirt against the curve of my thighs, I tremble. As he pulls and tightens the straps I can smell his strength; the musky stench of it lies thick against my skin. I put my hands into fists and hold them together above my head before he even has to tell me. He clips the metal around my wrists stopping just short of pinching my skin, but then, as if suddenly discovering his reign, pushes the cuffs once more, causing the metal to bite into my flesh. I use my jaw to tame my mouth. I breathe.
He releases the cuffs and studies my face and then asks how I am feeling. When I tell him it does not matter (Canon 7) he nods, grins, and shuts the door.
My Keeper drives the transport into the out of doors where the world is blazing with daylight. I surrender my eyes to the sun, holding my breath as the burning blindness reaches its peak then retreats. I am proud. I have beaten the sun.
For Her
I turn over the book and locate her name. I press my finger on the letters. I stroke her name, back and forth. I want her to feel me doing this somehow. I want her to know I care so much that feeling her name on a book which is just really flat paper that feels like nothing was something I felt compelled to do. I stroke her name and write her this letter in my head. It begins, “If you only knew…”
When it finally happens I hope she will be forgiving for my hands and my mouth will be as hungry and fumbling as that of a teenage boy’s. I hope for this. I dream of my face falling slack in front of her as she releases her bra to the floor. I dream of all of that soft secret roundness, being there, being given only to me, all for me. I see myself forgetting her eyes now as mine wrap around this new flesh, rude and hungry. I will reach for them grabby and earnest, burying my face into them eating them, everywhere with my lips no longer virgin to their taste. She will moan and say yes and run her fingers through my hair as I lick and suck and smother myself wet.
The Honking Was Deafening
The Chinese figure skater fell and it was sad. She looked like a little girl dancing for her father. She looked like a little girl in a new dress, spinning for her father. Look, daddy! Am I pretty, daddy? Daddy, am I pretty? And the falling part is when her daddy says, Leave me the fuck alone, I’m trying to read the paper.
She just lay there in her bubblegum pink, silver sparkle leotard. Her hair, pulled tight into a band of puffy feathers, hands splayed, the blades of her skates now mated with the air.
I watched her lie there. Everyone watched. When I saw that she was not making any attempt to get up, I put my coffee down and walked over to her. I knelt beside her and
“Papers, please.”
My Keeper hands him a thick folder and the Processor scans the pages within, shooting glances at me as he reads.
“Looks good,” he says, closing the folder. He eyes me again. “Okay, let’s code her. She one for the cages? We offer transport help if you need it.”
“No. She’s gonna be a Subjected. My cages are full enough already.”
My heart leaps and untwines at the sound of the word, “Subjected.” My future has been classified. I can walk this path, I think. I hope he is not too cruel in his needs. Even if he is, I must endure. I am a Subjected now.
The Processor lifts the hair over my left ear and snaps open the disc that lies flat against my skin. He punches the scanner’s keyboard and aims the scanner at the exposed disc. There is a high-pitched tone and then a hot flash of pain in my skull like a scab has been ripped off of my brain. Before I can muster a scream, it is gone.
The Processor looks at my Keeper, now officially, “She’s all yours.”
I trail him through hallways connected with heavy doors until we arrive in the transport hub. He puts me in the back of his vehicle and begins to secure me. I slip my legs into the slots and when he smooths my skirt against the curve of my thighs, I tremble. As he pulls and tightens the straps I can smell his strength; the musky stench of it lies thick against my skin. I put my hands into fists and hold them together above my head before he even has to tell me. He clips the metal around my wrists stopping just short of pinching my skin, but then, as if suddenly discovering his reign, pushes the cuffs once more, causing the metal to bite into my flesh. I use my jaw to tame my mouth. I breathe.
He releases the cuffs and studies my face and then asks how I am feeling. When I tell him it does not matter (Canon 7) he nods, grins, and shuts the door.
My Keeper drives the transport into the out of doors where the world is blazing with daylight. I surrender my eyes to the sun, holding my breath as the burning blindness reaches its peak then retreats. I am proud. I have beaten the sun.
For Her
I turn over the book and locate her name. I press my finger on the letters. I stroke her name, back and forth. I want her to feel me doing this somehow. I want her to know I care so much that feeling her name on a book which is just really flat paper that feels like nothing was something I felt compelled to do. I stroke her name and write her this letter in my head. It begins, “If you only knew…”
When it finally happens I hope she will be forgiving for my hands and my mouth will be as hungry and fumbling as that of a teenage boy’s. I hope for this. I dream of my face falling slack in front of her as she releases her bra to the floor. I dream of all of that soft secret roundness, being there, being given only to me, all for me. I see myself forgetting her eyes now as mine wrap around this new flesh, rude and hungry. I will reach for them grabby and earnest, burying my face into them eating them, everywhere with my lips no longer virgin to their taste. She will moan and say yes and run her fingers through my hair as I lick and suck and smother myself wet.
The Honking Was Deafening
The Chinese figure skater fell and it was sad. She looked like a little girl dancing for her father. She looked like a little girl in a new dress, spinning for her father. Look, daddy! Am I pretty, daddy? Daddy, am I pretty? And the falling part is when her daddy says, Leave me the fuck alone, I’m trying to read the paper.
She just lay there in her bubblegum pink, silver sparkle leotard. Her hair, pulled tight into a band of puffy feathers, hands splayed, the blades of her skates now mated with the air.
I watched her lie there. Everyone watched. When I saw that she was not making any attempt to get up, I put my coffee down and walked over to her. I knelt beside her and
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