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All rights reserved © 2003 Carlton Mellick III

Carlton Mellick III

This book is for me. 
I wrote it. 
It’s mine.

My Life as Multi-Sexed Fuck Merchandise

            Lime-flavored tattoo on the back of her neck as she tells me, "You’re going to give me a baby."

            The metal of her eyes click, goo-white film over black orbs, old dog eyes, her smile a cluster of purple poison thorns.  And arms slender locust-like when she pulls me out of my home, my coffin/drawer on the side of a sky-caressed building, a red-womb where I’ve lived in half conscious dreams of multi-lives for the past six years, being fed through meaty tubes controlled by women workers within.

            The rubbery female attaches me to chains and walks me out of the wet-wasteland of city, hands around the sandy hip, tiny body overpowering my body.

            "You’re much thinner than the others," the woman says to me, a wheel-squeak voice.  "I like them weak and more feminine like you."

            I’m not all feminine, I argue with my eyebrows.

            A raspy giggle, "I love girly fuck toys."

            "We must hurry through," the woman pierce-whispers to me, rubbing a metal hook-like fingernail against a breast and penis head.  "The rapists will be out soon.  The wastelands are infested with them."

            Rapists? my nipples ask.

            "Barbaric and sex-crazed, corrupted by a nymphomaniac disease.  They mutilate and fuck every living and non-living thing they come across."

            My bare feet go crunchy through the crab-textured landscape, howls around me, intense nerves under my skin.

            "Don’t worry, we’ll be there sooner than you think," she tells me.  "Just don’t slow down.  The rapists could be right behind us."

            She strings me from the ceiling of her living room and removes all my fresh plastic wrapping.

            "Here is your new home," she tells me, smiling and licking her face with a sticky dragon tongue, rattle-stepping into the next room to remove her metal clothing and limb attachments, stripping the clank-materials away until only cobweb strings remain, too tight around her flesh to remove.  And she arrives to me to expose her cute sickly skin, shriveled slightly and white from wearing her heavy clothes too regularly, thick metal, chains, leather clothes, her skin rarely exposed to the gray sun.  Ropes and plastics sewn through her leg and arm meat, the latest fashion styles.

            The woman circles in her stringy nakedness, cutting into me with sharp eyeballs.

            "I promise not to kill you first," she says.  "I normally wear my hook-nails when mating and get fast-fast excited, I just can’t stop cutting."  Her head cocks.  "They just don’t survive long enough to ..."  Her eyes click.  "I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen with you.  I am mature enough now to know how to mate for pregnancy instead of pure pleasure purposes."

            I’m too weak for you right now, I tell her with my fingernails, body swaying in the nerve-openness.

            "You’re not used to being disconnected from your container."

            I should eat first.

            "I’m impatient," the woman responds, dipping her poison tongue.  "After I plug you in, you should forget about hunger and weakness."

            My teeth whimper, I hope I am satisfactory.

            "Yes, yes," replies the woman, jiggling an enthusiastic breast.  "I want you to last for a second child."

            Is that possible?

            "It happens," the woman circles to my back and shuffles mechanical trinkets in a box, and I shiver uncomfortable. 

            You are very beautiful, shaky-telling the woman, but she only answers with more shuffling.  The other females who considered purchasing me were not as high quality as you are.

            "Don’t call me high quality," she says.  "I am above merchandise."  Then plugs a cold metallic rod into my excretion shaft and flips the power on.  It drives a claw of electrical waves into my body, up my ass, erecting my two members to full extent, the skin ready to pop and peel, hardening my nipples, my vagina hairs standing up into needles, spiky and tickling.

            It’s not that bad, my voice now panic-harsh and gyrating, gasping lungs.

            "What is?" asks the woman.

            Being merchandise.

            "Maybe for you it is satisfactory, you are part male," she comes to me, eyes twisting under pasty film in circles, "But a woman is too free-spirited to be controlled.  There is nothing that can hold us."

            What controls a man? I ask.

            The woman begins to rub her faded nipples into erection.  "His penis, of course," grabbing one of my solid members.  "They lived, they loved, for sex.  Slave to cunts.  That’s why they run extinct.  Only women and flesh-creations such as yourself can live in today’s society."

            When I was in the testing period, I enjoyed drawing, I say.  It is what made my artistic rating so high.  If I were not a manufactured product for women, I would have lived for art rather than sex.

            "As long as you have a penis and testicles attached to your body, you will live for sex."

            No, sex is not that important to me.  Sex is just a game to play.  A game adults can have fun with.

            "You are a fuck toy, created for sexual purposes," says the woman.  "If sex is so unimportant to you then let me cut off your sexual organs," drawing a blade razor from a flesh pocket in her wrist, bringing it underneath me.  "If I can cut them off I will allow you to live in my home freely for the rest of your natural life, free to draw and paint.  You can become like a woman."

            Are you sincere? I ask, gentle-green.

            "Yes," clicking her eyelids, "I am sincere."

            You don’t care that you will lose money on me?

            "I am sincere."

            I stare at my penis and testicles, and then my other penis and other testicles, they are painfully stimulated, cringe-crawling.  The vagina and breasts would be so lonely without them. 

            I say, But don’t you want children from me?

            "Of course I do," she responds.

            Don’t you want to mate with me?

            "I’ve purchased you for this purpose."

            Then why would you do such a thing?  Why would you abandon me?

            "I’m giving you a choice between freedom and sex."

            But I thought you wanted to mate with me!  I thought you wanted me to be your fuck toy!

            She calms me by rubbing my upper penis.  "So you’d rather not be free?"

            No, it’s not that ... I would rather not disappoint you.  You are so beautiful that I’d do anything to please you.  You deserve a child, not a sister.

            The woman smiles hook teeth at me, her man-like product, and pulls shiny objects from a box, shaking her head in a slave to cunts crude way.

            Are you happy? I ask.

            "I am happy," replies the woman.

            The woman attaches cords to her nipples, plugging herself into the wall to saturate in electric-sting juice, vibrations deep underneath her, between flaps of skin, and attaches herself to my body.  Tube tendons like snakes of meat creep from her arms and ribs, sliding into my chest, into veins, ripping open flesh and suctioning into place.

            The woman contorts herself, turns her legs into ropes to wrap around me as she mates.

            My strength dissipating.  Tubes emerging from her stomach absorb the nutrients from my body, sucking them into her, into her egg.  My nerves raw-shivering with the electricity, nerve-jerking through.  Her pulsating breaks whines from my mouth as her sucking tubes dissolve/eat some of my flesh.  Her eyes swallowing me, opening her mouth wide to stretch her jaw as she comes, over-over again -- the electricity forcing us into climax with every motion and it feels so painfully sparkling, licking my teeth at the thought of my body being eaten to feed her future baby.

            She continues contort-curling around my torso, wrapping our bodies squeeze-together, forming a meat ball, hanging from the ceiling, gyrating, oozing puddles onto the floor, sweat puddles that reflect our shivering mass back up to us, swinging in slurpy echoes . . .

            Awaking with only sick flesh remaining on my body.  The woman staring coldly at me as I prickle-groan, staring through a mirror from across the room, admiring her colorless naked reflection.

            She cut me down to sleep on the rug, my skin extra sensitive to the wicker-wool fabric.

            "I’ll order a meal for you before your trip to the recycling machine," says the woman.

            My eyes dazing across the carpet landscape, I thought you were going to save me for a second child?

            She applies metal hook-jewelry to her face and leaves the room, her belly swollen with all my nutrients.

            A spider crawls across my face and nestles into my nostril for warmth.  Too weak to wipe it away, but strong enough to crack a smile as it scratches an itch deep down inside of my nose. 

            Above the table there is a lamp:

            It is a fleshy globe radiating dim light, pulse-shifting, breathing awkwardly as it spins like a tiny planet or moon, pump-moaning at me.  From inside, hands press outward against the globe’s skin, twisting fingernails trying to break free, a mouth kissing against it to make an outline of teeth and tongue, reaching out to me to grab hold, give a kiss, hand over a cock and maybe a nipple or two. 

            Exposing naked breasts over plates of food, sitting at the table below, I am discovering two lovers are trapped within the lamp, the dangling skin balloon, stuck together with nothing to do but fuck their energy away, the insides surely pooled with thick juices for them to soak in, a soup of nutrients and chemicals designed to keep them healthy and fierce. Sex as lighting for the room.

            My owner clicks into view, the carpet cringing underneath her feet, squishing through, nude moon-skin with metal sweat.  The light-lovers within the glowing/shifting ball emanate brilliance onto her shiny/sweaty skin.

            "You’re not eating," says the woman, demon eyes curling around my neck.

            I don’t understand food, I tell her, a finger pressed into a mound of mush.

            The woman cocks her head.  "Yes, you’re used to being fed by machines."

            I glance down at my plate:  an assortment of greasy structures, lumpy tubes and strings of muscle tissue thin as hairs, perhaps made from discarded sex merchandise like myself, processed in the recycling machine to feed women.

            My penis becomes a rising tower, poking into the splintery wood of the table, at the thought of becoming food for the women, to be chewed, soaked in their saliva, rolled between cheek and tongue, lips hugging me, sucked on for flavor, imagining the slide down a female throat to become a bulge in their pale-fleshed bellies.  Dissolve, melt inside of them, my meat being absorbed into their warm muscle, rushing through their bloodstreams to taste every quiver of their bodies.

            The woman sees my penis rubbing against the wooden table and grabs hold of the head, squeezes it hard and red, her eyes staring demon-black and her mouth open wide enough to swallow me, moaning excitedly as I cringe as if my pain pleasures her.  She squeezes powerful, grinds my penis head against the splintery wood, my lungs shifting to scream but pause in sick-tasting, extreme to the point of senselessness.  But I push my head harder into the wood, and the woman scrapes it back and forth, tick-shocks of burn, blood deciding to dribble out of the hole.

            I jerk, whip the penis away while holding back the other, showing her the drops of blood issuing out of the hole. 

            "You don’t have the right to resist me," says the woman, reclaiming the penis from me.  And she grabs an intestine from my plate of food, wrapping my wrist against the chair’s lead arm, tying the slime-rope tight against the dust-cold metal.  She groans out of her nipples, cuts me with her hook-nail fingers in a caress, takes a new intestine-cord from the plate and wraps it around my chest, stretching the meat-rope to the back of the chair and curling around my ankles, stealing the balance from me, awkward-sitting helpless.  And the woman goes on the tabletop, squatting position, leaning over to me, her skin’s metal shining my eyes blank. 

"I’ll feed you," says the woman, crawling her fingers through the plate of meats, sponging her digits deep inside, the warm flesh of a recycled sex toy, possibly one that she owned before I took his/her place.  She finds a long slab and strokes it with the soft side of her palm, grips firmly, lifts it to her neck, creamy chest, perking her nipples like knives that point at me, stabbing the air to get to me, and she takes the meat to her mouth and licks it from butt to tip, closes her tricky lips around one end.  Then push-slides it deep inside her mouth cavern, lifts her chin and begins to swallow it whole like a snake, a large bulge in her neck as it is forced down to her stomach sack.  And when she finishes, her tongue sighs a lengthy lick, eyes falling to me as if I’m next.

            "Your next," she says to me. 

            I can’t swallow like that.

            "I’ll have to feed you like a baby then."

            A handful of stringy meat, she squishes and fills her vagina, stuffs it deep and dangling from the sides.  And she sits her spine against the corner of the table, wrapping spider legs around my neck.  Arches her back to rise her flesh-bowl to my purple lips.

            "Eat it from me.  I’ll keep it warm and moist."

            Then she squeezes her thighs, cramming my face into her cunt, squirting some of the meat into me, fat grease oozing from her to paint my throat and breasts.  The taste startling strong, meat probing under my tongue, stimulating virgin tastebuds, so sensitive it overwhelms me with flavor. 

            And slowly, I scoop into her with my black-goo tongue, licking the food out of her to eat and the woman wiggles, tiny whines growling out of her, vibrating as I dig for nourishment to replenish my brittle structure, begin sucking to draw it all out, and the woman twitches at me.  She grabs hold of my skull and digs her razor-nails into my scalp to put me deeper between her legs, grinding me into her crotch, attempting to swallow my face whole like she did the slab of meat.

            Soon, my tongue can’t move because she’s squeezing against my face so rough, can hardly breathe, and she fucks my face.  Grinding into my upper lip bloody, my teeth scraping against a tangy switch, until her whole body quivers and my penis explodes bloody cum into the splintery table, flowing agony onto my thigh, into my vagina crack. 

            The woman is lying in the scatterings of my food, slowing her breaths, grease still flowing down her icy thighs, running down my chin.

            She eventually separates us and leaves the room to bathe.

            "I’ll keep you a little longer," she mumbles in the distance, not too concerned that her words are hardly audible.