Edwin and His Lady
"My lady," he muttered good-naturedly to himself, "Is a sorely desperate sort. She rots to mere gummatous fibrin without my loving."
He crossed unperturbed above the lanes and lanes of self-directing chariots below, each one the host of a lonely and insulated individual.
Edwin was different from them, for his purpose was granted divinity through brutality and ritual. He reached the pedway's end and sank through the yellow hatch to the pavement below. There he grinned at an unassuming gate and was swiftly granted entry to her dominion.
Vibrant and teeming as it was with simulated phosphorescence and the rapidly blooming-then-decaying phalaenopsis, she seemed a tame sight in her comfortable outerwear. What was underneath could inspire either feeble longing or resentment, though, for the uncomplicated state-mandated features the bourgeois could access for their progeny.
"I was musing," she began, "That you could do to me what the fascists did to my mother." Her mother had refuted the unborn their right to live, ten or twenty times. There was a distinctly horrible punishment for that type of thing.
"None so urgent. I'm afraid my aching cunt has left me little choice this evening." This was overt manipulation; she projected her own desires upon her cunt, and in so doing shirked responsibility for them. This was fine with Edwin; he considered himself a sworn servant of cunt, and besides its owner's lines had all been scripted weeks before by an intelligence they had both fed with their own tortured neurons.
Edwin nodded and stripped his host, forcing her then into a series of restraints, each one actually an intricately saw-toothed blade gloved by a rubber sheath. They wrapped her form mechanically against the wall, and yet he could attribute real malice to the movements of the inky black appendages.
Above the restraints hung a revolving circular filament of quartz, emitting a faint scattered glow. It was there so that all the violence of the night could be robbed of any consequence. As prophylactics and abortive procedure had been available to the country's inheritors for over a century, reinterpreting the complexion of sex for those lucky few, so too for the last decade had such devices redefined the ramifications of harrowing sadism for their owners.
Edwin batted at his old lady's face with a curled fist, imitating a boxing drill. His hand bruised quickly though, and it became too much before even the first of her teeth could fling loose. She smiled sympathetically through swollen lip and bleeding eyelid- he was no fascist, nor even a man, and could not do to her what only those vicious opportunists could. He had to rely on machines- and so made a cuckold of himself through operation of man's inventions.
Edwin truly wasn't a man, not by any understanding except an immediate perfunctory one. He had the sex organs, body structure, face and chromosomes of a woman. He had the social status of one too- he chaired several groups for women's aid and suffrage. He had even given birth, though the wretched thing had been terminated shortly thereafter for reasons he attributed to institutional transphobia. He had been a man at some point, at another place and time. He might have even started life in a male body, though he couldn't remember as a past him had wiped all such memory and even wiped the reason for the wipe.
Once a week Edwin grew a cock and sloughed off his tits, stomping their fatty tissue down the shower drain like so much regurgitated pudding. This he did to assuage his lady's needs, so enamored was he. The rest of the week they could fill with as much lesbian fare as time permitted; lounging among seas of cats, consuming feminist theory, dropping acid and dropping leagues below the sea. As long as he assumed this guise, alien and discomfiting to wear yet oddly compelling, once a week then she was his. He was hers and even what he wasn't was hers too, which was exactly what he was now.
Edwin activated the machine and it whirred. Alternating appendages lifted off her body, shedding their black skin and then returning lightly to graze her suppleness. Their brothers did the same and so did she come to find herself entrapped in a cage of pure glistening metal, sharp in deadly readiness. She let out a little "yip!" before the blades began lacerating her every square centimetre. When all the steel was in her and pulling back her flesh to scoop out her viscera she screamed as much as she could. The machine expertly left her cords undamaged, as it did her brain, eyes, throat, heart, lungs, cunt, and digestive system. They formed a neat line of human function embanked by two panels of peeled skin bolstered with layers of slid fat, nerve, and muscle. Everything now pinned to the domicile's wall by the thin skinless blades was painted red.
What remained of his lady convulsed in its attempts at respiration. He was always surprised by the wherewithal she claimed to have in its state, and so made a show of brandishing his ridiculous member, rubbing it against her lungs and stomach before dropping its length parallel to her cunt, itself shuddering in a death throe she might later call ecstasy.
He watched his fake prop cock, a party favor of a novelty-sized dildo but composed of real skin that was Edwin's, penetrate the entirety of the muscular canal and emerge out the other end. The lacerating machine had performed a hasty hysterectomy and left the vagina unsealed. This he fucked repeatedly, musing all the while; was this camp? Was this drag? They could push their play as far as they liked, it couldn't grow to contain the cloying evil of real murder. And Edwin was essentially sure of his womanhood, rocked as it may be by its metamorphoses and by his capacities for destruction.
Once the quartz filament had finished revolving, the descending particles done their trick, and the surgical limbs of the machine retreated back into their gloves, Edwin's lady kissed and embraced him, rosy and glowing as a woman reborn.
"Oh, won't you stay the night?" she pleaded.
As much as he longed for her reciprocal touch, Edwin needed more desperately to shed his cock, to wash off the blood and perhaps to vacate his stomach of its contents. The affair had left him slightly perturbed toward the end, accustomed though he was to his lady's innards. He bade her farewell and promised to return the next afternoon. He'd return for his share of her love, as much as his heart could hold, until he'd return to dole out his next portion of evil. As much as he could stomach.