Flesh and Blood

short stories collection - a compilation of my short stories.


Like many people, I was programmed to like my job, least I grow bored or suicidal. But this was the future! The biologist were supposed to engineer out man's desires and policy makers slowly outlaw this barbaric practice. But it is hardly surprising that didn't happen.

A story about the future of prostitution.

Like many people, I was programmed to like my job, least I grow bored or suicidal. But this was the future! The biologists were supposed to engineer out man’s desires and policy makers slowly outlaw this barbaric practice. But it is hardly surprising that didn’t happen.

“You ready women? Two minutes. TWO MINUTES. You hear me? Why aren’t already sanitary, think a customer wants to see you like that? Hot messes ain’t useful to me…”

I stared up at my boss. He was rather pudgy and wore a pressed Armani suite; he thought himself a legitimate businessman. It was a bit pathetic. Sometimes I would snap back, but he’d beat me. First couple times it didn’t hurt, but he’d gotten wise and started tasering me. Left bruises and I would sit for several hours in the corner, twitching. I made a sorry sight, my tongue hanging out, tears rolling down my eyes like a little girl. That made me all the more angry, but more at myself than him. Would often take the pencil from the draw near my bed, where I kept all my beautifiers, and drive it into my leg. As if that would make me forget the pain.

“Bitch, hey BITCH! He’s here. Pleasure him!” he shouted and a young man, naught thirty, strolled in. I looked him in the eyes and just stared, waiting for him to turn away. Weak men did that sometimes, those embarrassed by what they were doing. It gave me a bit of power over them, allowed me to wear them down and make the night go easier—on me. But there were other men, like this one, who didn’t avert their gaze, but responded in kind. And some had fire in their eyes…those were the ones that scared me most. He had that fire.

“Get on the bed, I have a meeting in an hour,” was all he said as he went about his business. No foreplay, no love, no talk. I lay in the corner a half-hour later and drove the pencil into my leg once more. It would soon heal, and I was good with creams, no one would notice. I fell asleep.

I awoke several hours later and felt oddly calm. The rage was gone and the wound had begun to patch itself up. Getting up, I immediately fell back down, the world spinning. I panicked a bit, this had only happened once before and they had sent me back to the facilities were they found women like me. I hated that place, it was all white and everyone poked, prodded and took notes while another went about his business carving me up to see what was wrong. They never put you under, cheap bastards. Some snickered and said we’d lost the ability to feel anyways. But this was different. I tried once more and got far enough to slump on the bed nearby. The door flew open.

“Ah, I see the sedatives are working! Didn’t startle you, did I? Government mandate. All you vapid whores were acting up!” I looked at him, a bit confused at what he was talking about. I couldn’t quite think straight, it was very strange and rarely happened, even when a customer was climaxing in me. But then I started to realize. “Haha, think you were all alone in this room at night? We watch, you’re expensive. Can’t let my own property destroy itself!”

And that’s when it began. They sedates us. All of us. But that was years back and I try to forget the intermediate period. They eventually lifted the mandate and I started to feel again. This pleased the customers. Most used to complain when we would stare blankly at them as they filled us. Others expressed anger. One used to hit me, screaming “Stupid cunt! I’m better than that, I’ve pleasured all sorts of women. Don’t act bored with me!”

A couple customers responded too strongly to this sudden expression of emotions by their pleasurers. There was one, who fell in love with more than my body. He wasn’t the most handsome man, but he was rich. Never really loved riches, I had no use for money. If I won the lottery and became a millionaire, it wouldn’t free me. I couldn’t buy my way out of this hell. Legally, I was bound to this place, never to leave except for a check-up by the company that had sold me. But he would come often, both in and to see me. I didn’t much mind his company, it helped fill the boredom and loneliness—hours could pass in the room between appointments and I wasn’t allowed to leave. Trying to daydream only worked for so long. He talked about his wife and how, oddly enough, she approved of his visits with me. Apparently she viewed me as no threat, the inhuman thing that I was. I almost slapped him for even mentioning that, but I had learned to control the flare-ups. With the sedatives no longer coursing through my body I had to be careful. They’d warned that they’ve be reapplied if we did anything…rash. He started talking about the new speedjet he planned on buying, but I’d grown bored with talk and auto-piloted the rest of the conversation.

Everything was going well until some Romanian monkey-whore ruined everything. Taking us off sedatives brought in mountains of cash (people like emotions in their play-things), but there were risks. Apparently reversing the mandate also lifted other bans. And some countries newly lax laws about how they breed us came back to haunt them. In place of sedatives, we were supplied serums. Some places spiked it with a little dopamine and nitrous oxide, to give us the kick needed to keep going and to smile the entire time. Others added a little estrogen mixed with acetylcholine. It was an orgasmic mix and that is what they intended. Some would have controlled release; they implanted probes into our hypothalamus and could detect when we were about to reach that…high. However, some Romanian company pushed this too far. One day an owner walked into a room that had been occupied all night…against regulations. Also, it was losing him money since he operated a fixed-rate enterprise. Retard. They say he kicked open the door in full rage and jumped back several feet. A man’s head rolled toward him, all blood drained away. His lifeless body still occupied the bed, his penis erect. The girl sat in the corner, motionless. When he called out her name, she didn’t respond. Barring the door, he ran and called the facilities. The company sent over their operatives and they shut her down for good.

But this didn’t quell people’s paranoia. They feared us now, for we were everywhere and suddenly a threat. In a flurry of passion, several laws were passed that stripped us of our rights; after-all, we were just whores–no one would defend us. Some said we were inhuman creatures that should be destroyed. Ridiculous, if we were train operators would they say as much? They put us back on sedatives and this destroyed business. My boss would come in and taser me often. And he’d taken away the pencil. The tasering made my head hurt even more now that the sedatives were back on. I hated it. On the weekends, when I might go a day without anyone visiting me, I would often lay there. We weren’t fed; apparently we could survive on the nutrient mix in the sedative.

On the weeks when I brought in more customers, he would taser me less. And so I made myself more likable, so clients would return time and again. They even started to pay more and I had a hint that some had come to like me. This made the boss happy and the tasering subsided even more.

The talker, the one whose wife was okay with this barbaric practice, had returned. He’d been away the last couple years on business, but they had relocated him back to the city. And his lust for me hadn’t subsided during those years away. He was like an animal this time and I repeatedly shoved him away during our ‘reunion’ as he called it. I wasn’t made for this level of intensity. But my lame attempts didn’t stop him and only spurred him on; he had grown to like a little resistance. He finally pinned me down on the bed and as he thrust himself into me, I opened up, as I was programmed to do. He ran his hands through my hair, tugging at it a bit then bent over to kiss my face. Right in his moment of climax. His hand spasmed a bit and he yanked down on my hair. Hard. A bit harder than I’ve been prepared for. He suddenly stopped, withdrawing and a look of horror crossed his face. In his hand he held bits of my hair and scalp. Several small tubes leaked red fluid.

“You’re a robot!?”

bahanonu [at] alum.mit.edu

additional articles to journey through:

setting the record straight
02 june 2012 | short story

The sun beat down and I raised my hand to cover my eyes. It had been days, weeks, maybe even years. Who knew? I surely didn’t. T[...]he dry sands whipped our faces, blurring our vision and making us believe we saw things. Water, chief among them. Haha, it’s funny how that most abundant always seems to be the end of us. You either drown in it or die from not having it. No one wins. Someone told me that they’d managed to survive a month without water. I don’t believe it, but guess I’m about to find out. We’d seen other things. Silver buildings that rose into the sky, it blinded us and as we got close, a sandstorm would appear and when it was gone, so was the house. It is incredible what you imagine when under stress…

A return to writing short stories, this one focuses on the surreal memories of two hapless 'heroes'...

week 1 | go time
12 june 2012 | singapore

Wow, what a week. Ran around Hong Kong, learned a couple new things in the lab, meet a bunch of awesome MIT/SUTD students, went clubbing tw[...]ice, ate a different type (Indian, Indonesian, Muslim, etc.) of food each meal, wandered around Singapore several of the nights and so much more. To top it all off, I was able to learn a ton about Singapore's culture. This place is awesome.

archive everything!
01 october 2012 | notes

Archived everything in my inbox. It's awesome. Continues my general trend of simplifying. Logging off websites, only checking the news for [...]brief periods, and focusing on a core set of hobbies. Eliminating distractions and reducing information overload are doing wonders to fight off stress and keep me humming along.

2016 presidential election campaign posters
28 august 2016 | politics

A series of posters about the 2016 presidential election. They will focus on the candidates themselves along with how the public reacts to,[...] and is manipulated by, the election as a whole.

©2006-2018 | biafra ahanonu | updated 31 january 2018
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