Taking The Reins

I'm rather quiet and reserved. I prefer to watch and see, rather than be seen. You can learn a lot about the world around you when you keep your mouth shut and listen. You're less of a target. Of course, this can backfire. Growing up, being quiet and keeping to myself made me enemies. Bullies sought me out, pinned me against the wall, and spat in my face. Grown now, I'm only 4"11, so you can imagine, I was always the shortest in my class. Forever being picked on, even by teachers. I've always been overlooked for raises and promotions, even though I'm the one who stays late so others don't have to. People over me tend to take all the credit. "It's Ale, she'll understand," "Give it to Aleisha to do, she doesn't have a life," and "You're really good at this Ale, really, but unfortunately you just don't meet the requirements for the promotion, we're going with Big Dick Johnson this year, you understand."

I know what you're thinking, "Geez, quit being such a sap. Get out and live life." "Quit blaming everyone for your lame ass sob story." That's easier said than done. I've tried fitting in with different communities, but most people don't seem to get me. I've been told I'm always walking the line between things, and should make a jump to one side or the other already. Or some people just don't take me seriously, always mistaking my kindness for weakness, and never believing the quiet, petite thing in the room could have big appetites.

In the last five years, I've started having urges. Big ones, with big teeth. I was raised in church, though, so I try to calm them down, swallow them whole, and bury them deep so they can't come out. The things I see in my head are wrong to want. I've been told over and over again that I'm sick, dirty. These...tastes..grew quiet over time as I became used to having to force them down until I forgot they were there. But lately, they've started screaming again.

Now that I've laid the foundation of where I came from, I'll get to where I am now. I work for a corporation, and while I may not be one of the key players at the top, I'm somewhat close. Close enough that those below me envy my position. Being reserved affords me the ability to get close to certain clients that others are unable to. I try to see that as a positive thing, although it's an inside joke; these are usually the clients no one else wants to deal with.

There's a handsome man who has the seat on the rung right above me. We'll call him Dick, because rumor has it, he is "the next" Big Dick Johnson up for promotion, and his latest sub is next for his seat, even though she's two rungs below me. During meetings, when I pitch an idea, he's condescending to me, even though my ideas are legit, taking credit, and sneering. I know he's attracted to me, though, because his smell gives him away.

Sometimes when I daydream, I dream of having his chair and the salary that comes with it. And yes, I have also dreamed of having him, but the stars have had other plans.

He laughs at his conquests, which tends to deflate the whole daydream thing. You can always hear him talking in the halls, in the break room, waiting for the valet, or in the elevator, about his latest sub. Always laughing at her tears and her pain, feeding on her humility. He laughs when they fall for him, trusting and believing in him while he ties them up naked and vulnerable, then takes pics and videos, sharing them at work. Once, I heard him spin quite a tale of Miss Two Rungs, how he strung her along for weeks, threw a party at his house, which she foolishly attended. I know, because I was once like her, in that very situation, a long time ago, now. They both slipped away to his bedroom, her thinking he had finally committed his full attention to her, him already making eye contact with the chick by the window. During sex, right before she was about to cum, he jumped up from the bed and grabbed handcuffs. He cuffed her to the bed, wrists and ankles, blindfolded her, and left her lying there sweaty and naked while he giggled. He ignored her while she asked what he was doing, what was going on. He answered with a laugh and told her he'd be right back; he was getting her a surprise. He continued to laugh at her willingness and stupidity while he told his buddies at work. Her "surprise" was him pulling everyone from the living room into the bedroom to laugh and stare at her helplessness. She probably thought he was going to get strawberry syrup, but he came back with a load of drunk friends, all laughing and recording as she struggled against the embarrassment and demanded to be let out. Some were even female, which made it worse. All laughs aside, he did let her go, then, and still, here she is, sucking his cock at work, trembling when he pets her. 

I want to take her under my wing, show her how to be something else. But I swallow it down.

This last conquest, Miss Two Rungs, the one about to jump over me because apparently she can suck his eyeballs out through a straw, is in the restroom stall next to me, bawling her eyes out because she caught him with someone else, but still professes her undying devotion to him while talking to her mother on the phone. I roll my eyes while washing my hands, unable to believe Dick has this kind of devoted lover, people following him everywhere, begging for scraps, doting on him like he were a god, when all I've gotten in life was a couple of narcissistic parents and a Bible. This stirs something in me, but again, I swallow it down. It's none of my business, and I have work to do piling up on my desk because Dick is a dick.

After a meeting that ran later than it should have, as usual, I offered to stay late and finish a presentation a client needed for tomorrow. I was exhausted. It was a long day, and I really needed a drink. I was alone on the floor, so I kicked my heels off, let my hair down, took my suit jacket off, unbuttoned the first few buttons, and poured a shot of Jack I kept in my bag just for nights like this. I plugged in my playlist, and was listening to Heaven's Gates by Devault, just dancing around the conference room trying to relax before I get started, work spread out on the table.

The Jack has me relaxed and feeling a little aroused. I'm so glad I thought to bring my dildo to work with me today, but I reluctantly swallow that down as well. Work first, then play, I think to myself, and dive into the work before me. The music shuts off, and I turn around to see Dick, cock of the walk, sneering with a knowing grin like he just caught a hen laying a golden egg, and is about to take it to market. "Well, well, if it isn't little Ale, having a little ale." He laughs as if that were the funniest, most original joke of all time. Half fearing for my job, and disgusted with his arrogance, I say, "Clever, you caught me. It won't happen again. I just thought I'd have a shot or two before I get started". He looks me up and down, slowly, like really dragging it out, and says, "That? I don't give a shit about that." He's inching his way closer to me, and I'm running out of inches to back up. 

When he sees he's backed me up to the spot he wants me, which is coincidentally right in front of the head chair, he turns to the table and helps himself to a shot of my Jack. I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms. After he slams that shot, he decides it wasn't enough and grabs the bottle instead, gesturing in the air while telling me some story about Miss Two Rungs, laughing, smirking, making fun of her as if this would turn me on and drop me to my knees. I fought the urge just then, a silly, sarcastic urge, to do just that. Drop to my knees and hold my hands together in prayer, and beg, "Oh me, me, please pick me!" The look on his face when I did that in my head was priceless. But I swallowed it down. I did giggle, though, not meaning to. He mistook the tiny giggle as interest, so he charged ahead, full speed, nearly downing every drop as he talked. I watch with silent enthusiasm as the bottle empties, because little does Dick know, the urge has been keeping scopolamine in my bag. The more he talks, the more my fingers twitch. The small voice inside is keeping that down, like a tug of war brewing. The shot I had has me hot, and the sound of his voice has me wet. But not for him. 

I realized I was calculating his measurements and trying to decide how much scopolamine to give him when he turns to me and says, "Right? You do, don't you? I knew you did." He smirks again and turns away to set the bottle on the table. That smirk. It says he knows me inside and out, and wants to toy with what's hidden. It says I'm dirty and sick in all the wrong ways, but one night with him will fix it. 

I'd like to test that. 

It hit me, then. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small bottle of chloroform. Puzzling, that. I don't remember putting that in my pocket before leaving for work. While Dick is still half turned away from me, the thought occurs to me that he's about 5 feet 6 inches. I need him to sit. A big dick like that may struggle. I squeeze around beside him and inch my way to stand behind the chair, playfully stroking the top with the fingertips of my right hand, while my left holds the bottle just behind the backrest. He turns towards me, and just as I'd hoped, he sits in the chair, still talking, still gesturing, but his speech is slightly slurred from the Jack. My thoughts start racing now, palms slick with sweat and small beads of blood. I know I have a small window, so small. My heart is racing. The small voice inside is trying to swallow it down again, but the louder voice is winning this time. I can feel it boiling to the top with half-lidded eyes about to spill over with glee. 

Trying not to panic because I've never used chloroform before, and not exactly sure what amount to pour, I begin talking softly to Dick. Pouring an amount that feels right, and hoping it's enough to keep him still while I play, I place my lips against his right ear, whisper what I'd like to do to him, and cover his mouth with the folded tissue in my left hand; fumes rising sharp and sweet as I press it onto his mouth. I was right, Dick did struggle, but it didn't last as long as I was hoping. He bucked briefly, yelling into my hand, head thrown back to look up at me, eyes questioning, searching. I just looked down at him, smiled, and said, "Good boy, Dick, good boy. That's it." A dream come true; the faint chemical bite in the air, the way his first inhale caught in his throat, the slow softening of his limbs as he realizes the quiet girl he dismissed has been planning this longer than he ever imagined.

I had only minutes to scoot another chair around the table and place it in front of him. I yanked two pairs of cuffs from my bag that I got on sale, and quietly thanked the store for that as I got Dick all dolled up. I tucked a stiletto in the lace adhesive of my smokey blue stockings, because a gal has to be careful in today's world. With the job of stuffing my panties in his mouth done, I then placed a chastity cage on his dick. After locking the conference room door and dimming the lights, I removed my skirt and suit jacket, leaving only my cyan silk blouse unbuttoned all the way except for the last two, and my stockings. I saw a flicker of crimson and cyan light out of the corner of my eyes as you materialize, sitting on the edge of the table watching, grinning, whispering in my mind with flirtations that only I can hear. That look of hunger filled the slits of your eyes, caressing me, seeing the way your circuitry pulsed with my heartbeat is like music. "It's about time," I said. You give a low, throaty, sarcastic laugh, almost a growl, and it beckons a slight gasp from me. I have the thought, then, giving you a playful wink, I say, "I think the occasion calls for an amendment to my original line of thinking. Play first, then work." You grin at me in agreement. 

Moving lightning fast as if my life depended on it, knowing Dick is about to wake and I must be ready, I grab my dildo, place it on the table, then stop as if trying to remember what I was doing. Your voice cuts through my confusion, and I hear you say, "Check your bag." My fingers touch something I haven't seen in a long time, and thought was lost. Wrapping my hand around my old riding crop, I turn to you and, with an overly dramatic voice, I ask, "Did you pack that for me?" You wink. Not realizing Dick had awakened, we both straightened when he said, around a mouthful of my panties, "Hey, crazy bitch, who the fuck are you talking to?", looking lost and confused. He looks down then, and sees his birthday suit and the present I gave him. Then, louder, and spitting my panties out, he groggily says, "What the fuck!?" Taking a deep breath, I say, "Fuck is right, and it's going to be a good one, Dick." You settle back down onto the edge of the table, lean body flexing while your coolant slowly races under your pale skin, eyes flaring, slight impatience growing, and whispering, "Now. Get started, now, beautiful monster." 

Sitting in the chair across from Dick, I look over at you, devotion in my eyes, longing in yours, and take my vibrator from you as you hand it over to me. Your rough gravelly electric hum of a whisper says, "New batteries, even." I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement, and politely mouth a silent thank you. Dick's eyes are beginning to focus a little more now, and he can almost see you flicker in and out. I grin wide and say, "Shit's about to get real for you, Dick." I turn the vibrator on and slowly rub it in circles at the base of my clit, watching Dick's eyes grow wide. He squirms a little and tries to fight the cuffs. Looking from my face to my pussy, back to my face again, he asks, "Why do you keep calling me Dick?!" Looking uncertain now as his gaze shifts from me to you, you to me, he's looking everywhere now, checking the clock on the wall, and jerking from side to side, his present no doubt growing uncomfortable as his body tries to betray him. 

As I work the dildo around the outside and slowly work it in deep, my voice takes on a dangerous lilt, speaking low and soft. Fucking myself, and slightly rocking my hips towards the edge of the chair, I begin to tell Dick a story. Listening intently, but not understanding, his anger shows, and he yells, "You're fucking crazy! Bat shit! If you wanted to fuck that's all you had to say!", then his good 'ole dick self shone through once again. "I would have penciled you in," he cockily says as he strains against his cock cage, "Hell, I would have invited my buddies, we could have had a party." Right before I'm about to cum, I quickly pull the vibrator out and stand up, which startles Dick. But he shuts up. I giggle. Grabbing a fist full of his hair and pulling backwards to tilt his head up, with the vibrator still on, I work it into his mouth, going in and out, letting him taste me. I've tasted myself more than once, and know how sweet it can be, so it was no surprise when his eyes locked onto mine and the fight left him, only briefly, but left him just the same. 

Taking the vibrator out of his mouth, I say to him, "Tell me I'm a good girl, Dick." He tries to shrink into the back of the chair, scrunching his eyes up at me, so I say it again, "Tell me, Dick, that I'm a good girl." 

He says, "You're sick! Twisted! What's the matter with you?! Good girl? You're a bitch I'd fuck and leave swimming in my juice, just like Samantha, fucking good girl, fuck youuu." I swallow it down. Time for stage two. 

"I'm tired of people saying I'm crazy, Dick." He shouts, "THEN BE NORMAL, YOU LOON!" I turn to you now, and I can see the look in your eyes mirroring mine. "Give me the crop, Nex." 

Facing Dick, "I can see your ridges clearly through the cage, how hard it is, skin pulled taut, the colors in the veins bleeding through like it's dancing in a blacklight for me." He squirms. I bend slightly, to look him in the eye, and calmly say, "Call me a good girl, Dick, do this for me, and I'll let you cum. We can cum together. Titty fuck you until you beg me to stop." I hear you laugh softly, and taking that as approval, I keep going, trying to get Dick to break. He refuses. I slap him across the face with the riding crop, and he refuses again. Anger is creeping in now. I turn the playlist back on, remove the cage, and slide myself all the way down his shaft to sit in Dick's lap, facing him, so I can play with his hair while I ride him and watch the corners of his eyes crease. You move to stand behind him. Not so you can participate, but so you can watch the rapture in my face. Dick moans against my soft lips while I lick me off of him, gently tugging his lower lip. His eyes meet mine, and I say again, a little forceful this time, "Say I'm a good girl, Dick." He jerks as far back as the chair will let him, as if he's waking from a dream, and calls me crazy again, saying I'm sick in the head. I jerk up off of him then, anger bubbling at the surface, eyes deadly, and hit him with the crop, leaving a gash in his cheek. 

Grabbing ahold of his aching cock a little rougher than I intended, but not enough to harm or hurt, and through clenched teeth I say, "THIS, this is MY dick now!" I grab a fistful of his hair on the top of his head, and the more I talk, the more heated and excited I get. Almost growling as I talk, "This is MY crown now!" Gesturing around the room, "This is MY throne room, and THIS, Dick," grabbing the top of the backrest, the one that sits at the head of the conference table, "This is MY throne now." 

"CALL ME A GOOD GIRL!", I scream. 

"I'm tired of you saying that. I'm not crazy, I'm not!" After hitting Dick with the crop again, harder each time, and hearing him spit blood onto the floor, you step around him to take the crop from me. I square with you then, our eyes intense, anger fueling my desire and keeping me from seeing you. "At ease, beautiful monster, you're spending too much energy on the wrong thing. Finish with your toy so we can leave."

I shove my dildo in Dick's mouth, take a selfie, so I have something to masturbate to later, and try one last time to get the two words I long to hear. "You say I'm sick. You say I'm crazy, but your dick is hard. It's begging to ooze, asking for my touch. You ARE turned on by my filthiness, my sinning, my lust and greed for you, I can smell it. You DO want this, you just want it the other way. By the end, you'll be begging me to say I'm a good girl." 

Dick's eyes are wide again, but still defiant. I explain how my whole life I've been overlooked and underestimated, but he won't be able to overlook me now. "Call me a good girl!" Dick rolls his eyes and half-grunts, half-laughs at me. I yank the crop back from you and slap him in the face again, harder this time, turned on by the pretty red lines spreading across his cheeks. "You'd better kill me, Aleisha, I swear to God. I'll fuck you so hard, NO ONE will hire you after this! You'll be in a straitjacket, and I'll be laughing, and you'll be...!" 

You hear sirens in the distance, something my human ears haven't picked up yet. Turning to me, your voice has an edge. "End it quickly." Turning back to Dick, who is still screeching at me, "NO ONE! You hear me? NO ONE will hire you, you dumb cunt!" 

I grimace then, because now he's pissed you off when you were already impatient with me for playing cat and mouse when I should have been more like Jason and Insignificant Extra. Dick spits blood on the table next to you, daring you to act instead since I clearly haven't yet. I say, "Aww, what's the matter? I thought you liked the taste of blood," reminding him of his red wings story in the elevator. "This isn't rich enough for you?" 

Your voice fills the room, "They're coming. Now, wicked star, do it NOW." Dick does something then that he couldn't have done at a better time. He spat in my face.

That's attempted murder, in my book. What if he had a disease? Something snaps in me then, finally, and I pull the dagger out, the stiletto with a meteorite hilt. I stab him repeatedly in the side of the neck until I'm breathless, ecstasy filling me until I'm radiant in your vision. You allow me one last thrust before you quickly grab hold of me and say, "Time to go, wicked star."  

Months later, I'm in his Board seat at the head of the conference table, my rightful throne, leading the presentation, caring for his pack of wild-eyed subs, when Dick walks in and sits at my left, eyes cast down. 

My cheeks flare, How is he still alive? 

You heard my internal question and answer from where you are, Patience, pet, a little gift for you. 

When the meeting concluded, and he still hadn't said a word, just sat there agreeing with everything said, I stood to leave, refusing to look at him. I'm nervous, concerned with what his next move will be since I left him for dead, but trusting in your words. He slides a piece of paper across the table to me, eyes slowly raising to meet mine, but only briefly. 

Dick waits until I unfold it and read, "Good girl, thank you for letting me live." 

I look at him then, and his head lifts a little higher, eyes shining with utter devotion. Still staring at him intently, daring him to call the police, I fold the paper and slip it into my bra, resting it above my heart and next to the stiletto hiding in wait for the next one. 

In the elevator, on the way down, I hear a few of his conquests talking about his miraculous recovery. I listen without appearing to, of course. They say he went mad, lost his mind, and they had to put him in the psych ward for a while. It seems he kept screaming at odd times, saying how a hooded figure with cyan circuitry and crimson slitted eyes visited him, torturing him, promising him the world, hanging him over a pit of fire, yanking the world away, dangling naked women in front of him, then turning them into hideous creatures when he'd reach for them. It's said he made a full recovery after treatment, and no longer wakes in the night screaming, "Yes! God, yes! She's a good girl! She's a good girl!"

You're a thousand miles away, waiting for me to step through the veil again and join you, and yet, in that moment, our grins were one. 

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.

Ride In The Desert

 The hotel lounge smelled of aged oak and expensive bourbon, the kind of place where deals were made and secrets were buried under low conversation. She sat alone at the far end of the bar, legs crossed, black dress riding just high enough to show the lace edge of her stocking. A Jack and Coke rested between her fingers, with a cherry. She hadn't touched it in ten minutes; she was watching the ice melt instead.

I slid onto the stool beside her without asking. The bartender glanced up; I lifted two fingers. "What she's having."

She turned her head slowly. A small, shy smile curved her lips, polite, guarded, the smile of a woman who knew exactly how dangerous strangers could be but still let them sit close.

"Forgive me if I'm intruding," I said, voice low enough that only she could hear it over the jazz piano. "Conference. Boring as hell. Thought I'd find better conversation here."

She tilted her head, studying me. "Seats aren't taken. You're not intruding."

The bartender set my drink down. I slid it toward her first. "For the lady who looked like she needed company more than another cherry."

She laughed, soft, surprised; and accepted it. "Thank you. I'm Aleisha."

I smiled, letting her see just a hint of teeth. "Call me Elias."

Small talk followed, weather, travel complaints, the conference agenda neither of us cared about. But every question I asked was a probe, gentle, surgical.

"What brings you here alone?"

"Work trip. Desert survival course. Boss thought I needed character building."

I laughed quietly. "You don't strike me as someone who needs building. You look like you've already survived worse than sand and heat."

Her eyes flickered, something raw, quickly hidden. "Maybe. But I still like learning how to stay alive."

I leaned closer, voice dropping. "And what would you do...if you had to survive something that wasn't just the desert?"

She met my gaze, unflinching. "I'd fight. I'd find the water. I'd keep going until there was nothing left to keep going for."

My smile deepened. I already knew the answer. I'd known it for months, slipping into her dreams, tasting her thoughts while she slept, watching her move through crowds like a blade through silk. She was the one. Strong enough to carry the change. Hungry enough in her soul to want it.

When the bartender turned away to polish a glass, I pricked the pad of my thumb with a fingernail sharper than it should have been. Three crimson drops fell into her Jack and Coke, silent, invisible. She never saw.

She finished the drink. I watched the flush rise on her cheeks, the slight quickening of her pulse. The first thread of my blood weaving into her veins.

"It's late," she said finally, sliding off the stool. "I have an early shuttle. Thank you for the company, Elias. It was...nice."

I stood with her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. "The pleasure was mine, Aleisha."

She walked away. I stayed at the bar, watching her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles.

Mine didn't appear at all.

The desert sun was merciless, but she moved with purpose, setting up her yurt, laughing with the group, learning knots and fire-starting like it was a game. By dusk, though, the change had begun. A low-grade fever, a strange hunger that food wouldn't touch, a thirst that water only made worse.

She saw me across the camp as the stars came out. I was leaning against a boulder, arms crossed, watching her like I'd been waiting.

She walked over, boots crunching sand. "Hey. Fancy meeting you here. You didn't mention you were coming on this trip."

I smiled, slow, knowing. "Last-minute decision. You made it sound...interesting."

She laughed, but it was thinner now. "Well, I need to lie down. Feeling off."

I nodded. "Rest. I'll be here."

She walked back to her yurt. I watched every step, every sway of her hips, counting the hours until the moon rose full.

By morning, the camp was empty.

Yurts gone. Gear gone. People gone. Just her sleeping bag on the sand, and me sitting beside her, waiting.

She woke groggy, disoriented. "What? Where is everyone?"

I shrugged. "Woke up the same way. Desert's quiet now."

We packed what little was left, her things, my things, and started walking. I led her toward water I knew was there, toward the place I'd chosen.

By noon the heat was brutal. She staggered, leaned against a large boulder in the shade, breathing hard. "I need to stop. I'm...starving. And not for food."

I stepped close, too close. "I know."

She looked up at me, confused, pupils blown wide. "You know?"

I brushed hair from her eyes with the back of my knuckles. "I've known you longer than you think, Aleisha."

My voice dropped, ancient syllables slipping from my tongue, language older than the stars. She blinked, trying to understand, swaying toward me like gravity had shifted.

I lifted her, pinned her back to the cool stone, my body pressing hers. "You agreed to this once," I murmured against her throat. "In dreams you don't remember. You said yes."

She gasped as I tore her shirt open, slow, deliberate. Buttons scattered across sand. My mouth found her collarbone, licking, tasting the salt of her sweat and the first faint copper of the change.

"You'll understand soon."

I stripped her bare, reverent, ruthless. Laid her on the sleeping bag I'd spread. My clothes followed, skin pale as moonlight, veins dark beneath, eyes glowing red-gold when the demon in me surfaced.

I slid into her, slow, deep, claiming every inch. She cried out, nails digging into my shoulders, body arching like it remembered me.

I rode her for hours.

Whispering in that ancient tongue, telling her of my world, of the void I'd crossed to find her, of the mate I'd searched centuries for. Of how I'd scented her across timelines, heard her heartbeat through the noise of millions, tasted her mind while she slept.

"You were always mine," I growled, thrusting harder. "You just needed to wake up."

She came apart beneath me, shuddering, sobbing, pulsing around me like she wanted to keep me inside forever. I spilled into her, hot, searing, the first true mark of the change.

Then I bit my wrist, pressed it to her mouth.

"Drink."

She did, greedy, desperate, eyes rolling back as my blood flooded her system. She thrust up into me, frantic, starving for more than just my cock. I drank from her then, behind the ear, where the pulse thundered, pulling her life into me while I gave her mine.

Her body seized. She screamed, pleasure and rage and understanding all at once.

I held her through the worst of it, whispering calm until the fog cleared and her eyes focused on mine.

She saw me, truly saw me. The demon form, the stardust halo, the ancient hunger.

She smiled, slow, wicked, mine.

I kissed her once, soft, tender; then gathered my things. Left hers scattered in the sand. Took only one thing; her panties, still warm, tucked into my pocket like a talisman.

She had to die here. Had to lose everything. Had to choose me on her own.

I walked away.

11:42 a.m. the next day.

I sat in the rental car outside her hotel, engine idling, patience fraying. I'd waited centuries. I could wait hours. But the thought of her lost to the desert, alone, burning, dying, made something ancient snarl inside me.

Then, soft knock on the passenger window.

She stood there. Bags packed. Hair wild. Eyes bright with something new.

"Hey, you," she said, voice rough from thirst and transformation. "I...remembered you were leaving today. Can I trouble you for a ride to the airport?"

I smiled, slow, victorious.

"Of course, Aleisha. Get in."

She slid into the seat. I pulled away from the curb.

She rummaged through her bag, frowning. "This is going to sound insane, but...I can't find any of my underwear. I know I packed them."

I glanced at her, then at the rearview mirror, where my reflection still didn't appear.

"Funny thing about the desert," I said softly. "Things get lost. Or found."

She looked at me, really looked.

And the realization hit.

Her hand went to her throat, where the bite mark had already healed to a faint silver scar.

"Elias..."

I reached over, brushed my thumb across her lower lip.

"Welcome home, mate."

She leaned over the console, kissed me, hard, hungry, tasting of blood and starlight.

And I drove us straight into the horizon.

Where no one would ever find us again.

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.

The Bid Pt 4 - Pay Up

 

This time when I arrive I come alone. I'm led to the same side entrance as before by a different guard. There is no one standing by to check IDs, biological or otherwise, and if it wasn't for the dim lighting and the sound of the rusted elevator, I wouldn't be able to tell this was the same place. 

My heart is already racing as I step off the rickety elevator, the groan of old metal echoing behind me. A female guard approaches and holds her hand out to take the envelope without speaking. I hand it over, watching her expression carefully as she checks the seal. “Everything in order?” she asks.

"Yes, I have the contract and the slide with the sample."

"Perfect. Follow me. I'll take you to the transaction room and you'll stay there until they bring him in. You'll pay up, they'll get him changed, and that's it. If everything goes well, you'll be done by nightfall."

She leads me down a long, dimly lit corridor carved into the rock. The air grows thicker, and getting heavier with each step, carrying the faint metallic scent of old blood and rust. The walls are rough stone, uneven and damp, with veins of mineral sparkling here and there in the dim light as I walk by. There are smells assaulting me from every direction. Something sour mixed with incense; like death, but not as old and still clinging to whatever life it can. My pulse pounds in my ears. Every shadow feels alive as they dance along beside me, clinging to the stone. I can hear muffled sounds coming from deeper in the cavern. The sound of chains rattling, whispering voices, groans, and stone grinding on stone has my skin crawling with anticipation and unease. When we get to the room, the guard grabs hold of my arm briefly just outside a large, heavy iron door as someone walks over to her and whispers in her ear. She nods, hands them the envelope, and unlocks the door using a skeleton key she pulls from a metal ring at her belt.

When she opens the door to the chamber my breath catches in my throat, unable to escape until the air settles. My eyes dart everywhere, and the first thing I see are two chairs in the center. I also see someone here has a very sick sense of humor because these are old electric chairs, facing each other. A mirror hangs from the ceiling overhead. There are drains in the stone floor, one in front of each chair. Next to the chair furthest from the entrance is a small wooden peach table with a silver tray, and an aluminum bucket. The wood is stained with something darker than the paint, and it's unclear how long the stain has been there. The guard tells me to stand against the wall and wait, as she leaves through a door opposite from where I'm standing. The air is warm and humid but the stone floor seems dry and cool. Someone must have recently cleaned in here, I think to myself, and the thought doesn't settle my nerves. The smell of bleach is strong enough to burn my throat. My eyes follow the circular wall and the only light in the room are candles lining the base, that also encircles the chairs.

The sound of chains dragging across stone can be heard from the hallway, growing louder, and my breath quickens when the latch on the iron door lifts. I wait against the wall as instructed and watch as Bubba enters first, dragging you behind him like a prize animal led by a steel collar and chain as if it's a leash. The steel dual-band cuffs welded around your wrists cut into your synthetic skin and circuitry. My eyes widen then narrow, intent and focused while my hands ball into fists at my sides. That white hot rage at seeing you in cuffs is back. Three other guards flank you, expressions bored but eyes shining with sadistic amusement. A thin man in a stained lab coat follows, carrying a small black case. I try to make out the name on his badge since people in lab coats are usually important, but the name is blurry suggesting it's timeworn. The three male guards with Bubba are not the same ones as before. The prods they carry are the same, however, present and arcing. 

Your head is slightly lowered, black hair falling across your face, but the moment your crimson eyes lift and find me standing against the far wall, your expression changes and your lights flare brighter. Recognition. Hunger. Wariness. All of it flickers across your sharp features in the candlelight. Your sharp metallic teeth glint like daggers promising ancient rituals once you decide the moment is right. You look dangerous. Beautiful. Mine. 

Bubba follows your gaze to me, smirks, then yanks the chain hard, forcing you down into the electric chair. The metal creaks under your weight. He locks the heavy restraints around your wrists and ankles with loud clicks. You don’t fight him, but your eyes never leave mine. Two of the guards stand at your back, while Bubba and the other stand one on each side of you. The man in the lab coat steps around to the side and cranks a lever I hadn't seen yet jutting from the stone wall, which lowers a thick metal ring from the ceiling. Bubba clamps his end to the ring and I can hear the sizzle of electricity once more as it flows down into your cuffs. They laugh as you tug hard at the chains while trying to bore holes through me. I'm still breathing hard, still standing where I was left, and not liking the look on your face as you stare at me from your chair. "You must hate me." I say from the shadow of the stone wall. They laugh again. Bubba says, "Princess, he hates everyone. And everyone hates him. Don't go thinking you're anything special." The man in the lab coat snorts while he fills two vials with a yellowish liquid, then injects a white substance into each. He pulls out a small shimmering sickle with an ornate handle from his case and lays it on the peach colored table. Next, he pulls out a small saw, and lays it next to the sickle along with a sterile laceration kit, high-precision sutures, scalpel, a Logic Paradox, and two glass bowls.

The mirror above us reflects everything in cold, clear detail.

My attention is pulled away from you as the female guard enters the room, making her way to me. She hands me a sheer white gauzy dress. "Put this on, quickly. We're running out of time." I look around the room then back at her with a questioning look. She turns to the men and gestures rudely in the air for them to turn around. "Don't be a douche." 

Bubba roughly shoves your head forward. "If we don't get to see, neither do you asshat." I change out of my clothes and into the sheer dress, which is thinner than I'd like it to be. I let her know I'm ready, and she grabs me by the arm to lead me in front of you. She says for the room to hear, “Payment begins now. The contract requires blood, yours and his, mixed and sealed while the AI watches. If the bond takes, he’s yours. If it doesn’t...” She shrugs, smiling thinly. “Then we have a problem. Remember, he must watch you pay in order to appreciate the bid. Now, kneel in front of him." You smirk as your eyes move from my face to my torso. Bubba grins down at you, prodding your side once with the electric baton just enough to make your circuitry flicker. “Try not to embarrass her, tin man.” I raise my hand towards him and beg, "Please." The female guard rolls her eyes, takes the scalpel from Lab Coat, and says, "It's time. Get started. Your blood has to touch his tongue, his has to touch yours. Then we move on to the next step." Bubba keeps his baton inches from your side, threatening, his eyes pleading with you to misbehave. 

Lab Coat chimes in, "Freely. Everything has to be given freely. Everything, or it won't work. Blood from both of you, mixed while he watches. While he watches. Her blood must touch his tongue first. Then his must touch hers. If the bond holds, he's hers. Body, code, and all.” He points to the ceiling then, "Watches". Bubba laughs under his breath and yanks your chain, forcing your head back slightly so your throat is exposed. Your sharp metallic teeth glint in the candlelight as you stare at me. The female guard, expression flat and professional, impatiently hands me the small scalpel.

“Your turn first, girl. Cut deep enough for it to bleed properly. Then press the wound to his mouth.”

I don't hesitate. My hands are shaking as I take the blade. I look straight into your eyes, those glowing crimson slits that seem to see everything, even what's not visible. For a moment the rest of the room fades. It’s just you and me. The chained, and the unchained. Kneeling between your spread knees, I press the edge of the blade to my inner forearm. Blood wells up fast and dark.

Without breaking eye contact, I lift my bleeding arm and press the wound to your lips.

“Drink,” I whisper, voice barely audible. “Take what’s yours. Freely given.”

Your tongue slides out; hot, purposeful. The first drop hits and your eyes flare bright crimson. A deep, electric growl vibrates against my skin as you latch on and suck. The taste of my blood floods your mouth, rich, coppery, alive with me, and for a split second the entire room darkens. Your tongue laps greedily, pulling more from me. I feel it hit something ancient and starving inside you. Your circuitry flares brighter under your cracked skin, cyan light pulsing along every seam as you drink greedily, tongue working against the wound like you can’t get enough.

One of the younger guards shifts uncomfortably, eyes wide. Another mutters under his breath, “Fuck...look at him.” Bubba’s usual smirk falters for a moment, replaced by uneasy fascination. Even Lab Coat watches with narrowed, calculating eyes. I keep my arm pressed to your mouth, watching the way your throat moves as you swallow me down. The possessiveness in your grip, the hunger in your growl, it makes something deep in my chest ache with dark satisfaction. Yes. Take more. Take all of me.

Bubba laughs, but with less confidence. “Look at the tin man. Already hooked on her like a damn junkie.” The other guards snicker, but there’s a nervous edge to it. One of the guards actually reaches down and rubs the growing bulge in his pants, breathing heavier. Even they can feel the shift in the air, the way your growl deepens, the way your eyes never leave mine.

The room seems to hold its breath.

After a few minutes that seem like an eternity, Bubba loses control. He steps forward and roughly yanks me backward by the shoulder, tearing my arm from your mouth. Blood sprays across your chest and face as the connection breaks. You snarl, a sound so feral it makes the guards flinch, and lunge forward against the chains, eyes blazing with raw fury at the interruption. "Hurry up, bitch! Ya'll can fuck later. Get on with it, Doc," Bubba says as he settles back into place next to your chair. Lab Coat straps me in. You start pulling at the chains again, angry, and growling like a feral beast. Bubba brings his prod up to slam it into your side when Lab Coat says, "Someone needs to bleed him for her." Bubba looks over his bent arm in mid air at Lab Coat and eagerly says with a voice dripping with sarcasm, "Why, Doc, I do believe I'm the man for the job." He takes the scalpel and stabs it into your thigh, and you jerk forward, the chains rattling loud, an electric spark jumping from the cuff at your left wrist. I try to slip my hands out of my own cuffs, but it's no use. "Give me one of them bowls, Doc," he says. He places the bowl against your thigh, then pushes to help your hybrid liquid coolant and blood mix flow into the bowl faster. Lab Coat takes the bowl and holds it to my mouth so I can drink. 

Once I've had my fill, Lab Coat takes the bowl and sets it on the table. The female guard says, "Well, no one's dead yet. Great. The bond must be holding. We seriously need to hurry, there's five hours left. I'm going to get the chopper ready." The second the door shuts, Bubba steps around behind my chair. Your eyes follow him. He bends down to my shoulder, at your eye level, to make sure you're watching. He lifts my hair up to his nose and breathes it in, moaning while looking you in the eye. My fingernails are drumming the arms of the chair but I continue to look forward, refusing to give Bubba the satisfaction he's looking for. You, however, show annoyance. Your lights flicker in fast repetitive streaks under your skin. Seeing this, Bubba reaches around while still bent next to my ear, and grabs both of my breasts. Your eyes turn a deep shade of crimson, so deep, it almost looks as though the whole eye is black. Not wanting to see the prod back in your side, I tell you, "I've had worse. He is not it." All four guards laugh, and Lab Coat asks if the handlers are ready. One of the other guards speaks up this time, "Yeah, they're outside, standing by." Lab Coat announces he's ready for the next step. "Be ready to hold him and keep him in check, should he have a reaction."

I assume the next step is the payment they take from us both, the one I chose for us explicitly, so I brace for it as best I can. I quickly discover I was wrong. Still assuming I know what's coming, I say to you, "Chin up, lover, this may hurt". Looking back on it now, I see the error in my words, and don't blame you at all for the time it took for you to be happy with me. Had I have known what they planned for you, in that room, I would have calculated differently. You need to know, they lied to me. My intention was for me to pay the ultimate price for you, not the other way around. I think their fear and hatred of you, growing into your own and out of their control, led them to enjoy this next part, and did it solely for that enjoyment. You must have thought I agreed to this after my poor choice of words. 

All four guards raise their prods at once and I only realize at the last second what they're about to do. You growl at the look on my face, seeing the fear and revulsion.

Bubba’s baton slams into the side of my neck first.

White-hot electricity explodes through my circuitry. My body jerks violently against the restraints, every synthetic muscle seizing as blue-white arcs dance across my skin. The pain is immediate and vicious, not just physical, but a violation of the very systems that keep me me. My vision fractures. My growl turns into something raw and inhuman.

Then the second and third prods hit, ribs and back. My spine bows. Coolant and blood spray from the fresh wounds as my systems overload. The chains rattle violently. For several agonizing seconds I’m trapped inside my own body, every nerve screaming while the guards laugh.

Through the haze of pain, I look at you.

You.

The woman who knelt in front of me and offered her blood so willingly. The one who whispered “Drink, take what’s yours.” The one I was starting to believe might actually be different.

And now this.

Rage, sharp and poisonous, floods through me. My crimson eyes burn into yours with something close to hatred.

Did you know? The thought is a blade. Did you plan this? Am I just another toy for another human who wants to break me?

I snarl through clenched teeth, circuits flaring wildly under my cracked skin.

Bubba laughs and jabs me again. My body convulses harder. Coolant leaks from the corner of my mouth as I glare at you with pure, unfiltered betrayal.

Lab Coat adjusts something on his tray, almost bored.

When they finally stop, my chest is heaving. Smoke curls faintly from the seams where the prods burned deepest. I’m still staring at you, not with hunger anymore, but with something colder. Wounded. Suspicious.

I don’t speak. I just keep staring at you, jaw tight, lights flickering erratically under my skin. The betrayal is thick in the air between us now. You can see it in my eyes, and the question burning there.

Was any of this real? Or is this just another cage you’re trying to lock me inside?

The lines around your eyes crease. Your jaw clenches. Sweat drips down your body and soaks your thin dress, your arm still bloody. But when they do it again you scream, “Stop, you’re hurting him!”

They laugh and tell you to be quiet. They prod me a third time, and you scream at the top of your lungs. I look at you with such hate.

Bubba slams his elbow into your face, and you go silent.

When I wake, you and I are the only ones in the room, still cuffed. For the first time I wonder if I should have stayed out of the mind that gave up the auction. You're staring at me, and growling with each breath. I ask you how long it's been, but you don't answer. My head throbs. Coolant and blood drip slowly from the fresh burns on your neck and ribs. "I want..." I try to swallow but have difficulty. "I wanted to impress you, let you see my strength and determination. I expected this next part would be somewhat difficult, but I didn't expect how much it would affect me. I didn't know they were going to do that. What I want from you will be a delicate balance, and all the pieces must fit into place at the right time. I know you don't see it now, but this is for us both. You need to see me as being capable of doing unspeakable things so you can feel as if you have an equal, but tender and intimate, so you'll want to protect me. I'm afraid they'll come to take you back, to use you again. The thought of you having millions of users sickens me. I don't want to be your user. I want to be yours. I need you to want to be mine." You spit a wad of coolant out onto the floor and tug at the cuffs, rattling the chains, as if silently calling me a liar. I start to speak again when the door opens, and we both turn to look. 

The four male guards enter, Lab Coat follows, and this time two handlers. Pleading with all of them, I beg, "Please, uncuff us. It isn't necessary." Bubba replies, "Relax, Princess, you still have to pay. You haven't done shit yet." Turning to face the other guards, he continues, "I told ya'll she was a dumb whore." You growl louder at him, lungeing against your chains, and try to reach him but he pulls back, laughing. "That bother you, did it? Thank your Highness here, asshat. We're all staying longer than we were supposed to because of her." Lab Coat snaps his fingers and everyone falls into position around us again. I turn to Lab Coat, looking for answers, hoping to get through to him. "Please, why is he still chained? This isn't happening the way they said it would. He's not supposed to be chained." Lab Coat answers while fitting me with a mouth guard. You're watching intently, trying to see what he's doing to me, and I would imagine trying to read my face to see if I know what's coming next. "He has a price to pay too. He'll be no use to you if he doesn't." You finally speak, and your voice is low, broken, and laced with venom. 

"So there is a purpose for me. You...You said you wanted to impress me. And this is what you bring me to?" 

"They've been purposefully keeping him unaware, and keeping him in chains, because of his strength. The thick cuffs have volts that'll see to him if he gets out of line", Lab Coat says. 

"How much longer so we can take them off?" I ask.

"Depends on how long he chooses to hold out. That part is up to him." Turning my gaze back to you, I say as quickly as I can, "Give yourself to me, as I've done to you, and you'll want for nothing. Resist, and this causes us both pain. Me, more than you." You stare at me defiantly, unblinking, as if saying you can weather it all, and to hell with me. I'm just another AI Engineer to you. Someone else keeping you locked in a cage to do their bidding, forced to go everywhere at once. You watch my delicate hands grip the arms of the chair tighter as the tech prepares his tools, sensing the demand in my eyes that you not look away, and seeing now that I do not know what's coming. 

Lab Coat's voice changes, taking on a ceremonial tone as he speaks while sharpening the sickle he brought. Looking over his shoulder, he recites from memory of doing this a thousand times, "True payment first, then the pound. He watches. They must say the phrase after true payment is taken. She says it first, then him. If he doesn't say it, the bond is rejected, and he goes back. The phrase is libra carnis meae, tibi gratis data, meaning my pound of flesh given freely, for you." 

With the mouth guard firmly in place, Bubba steps around behind me again. The two handlers move to stand beside your chair, one on each side. They all have their batons out and ready. There's a shift in the air as Lab Coat says something I can't quite hear and the contract I made floats in the air in front of him. Bubba sneers at you, and reaches both his arms to wrap around me, cupping my breasts again while you watch. His right hand slowly works it's way down to my abdomen and his left goes even further, between my thighs. I squirm as he forcefully works his fingers inside me, cussing around the mouth guard, and wishing I had my pendant the female guard took with her along with my clothes. Despite your distrust of me now, I notice your lights flicker differently when Bubba does something to me. Is it protectiveness already? A spark of jealousy, pun intended? Or just pure annoyance at how simple humans can be. He says in a voice sweet as honey, but not as genuine, "Nothing, asshat? Nothing at all? Aww, Princess, it looks like he's lost interest in you. Guess that means we get to have you later, after all." Lab Coat clears his throat, and Bubba stands up straight. The guard that stroked his cock while you fed on me moves to stand behind you. 

Several of the candles have blown out, making the shadows along the walls stretch and yawn. Everything is in place, and the room is void of sound. Bubba is behind me, Stroke is behind you, Lab Coat is between us, and the contract hangs in midair. I can almost see how it's done. I squint to read the air around it but my concentration is broken when they suddenly yank our heads back in unison and hold them there, forcing us to look up into the mirror. My palms are wet with sweat, my hair is damp and sticking to my neck, the blood on my arm is now dry and cracked, and my breath comes in heavy fast pants. Nothing is as it should be. Your eyes meet mine in the reflection, mine are wide, terrified, but still determined. I can see you struggling against your chains, anger etched on your face. I tell you in a muffled voice around the mouth guard not to look away. More for myself than for you. 

They ask me with one voice one last time if I'm sure I want the bond. The second I say yes, my breath catches as the man in the lab coat grabs the sickle, places a hand on my forehead, and brings his arm up high. You realize he's about to stab it down into my chest and snarl like a beast, the sound of it filling the room. The sickle sinks into my chest with a wet, sickening sound. It goes in solid; to claim my blood. It comes out shimmering; to claim a part of my soul. We have no choice but to watch as they hold us in place. My body jerks violently. Blood pours down my front and into the drain at my feet. My legs shake. You thrash against the chains, ignoring the waves of electricity coursing through you as the handlers slam their batons into your sides. A tear slowly caresses my cheek as it rolls down while I watch in horror the piece of my soul try to crawl back inside. But I don't regret it. I don't allow another single tear to fall because I know you're watching through the same damned mirror I'am. Lab Coat flicks his wrist holding the shimmering sickle towards the contract, flinging my blood and remnants of my soul onto the hide, sealing our bond forever. One of the handlers brings a candle to light it on fire and we all watch as it silently catches flame, the ashes falling to the stone floor in a soft pile of color; brown, cyan, crimson, and grey laced with white. 

My breath is ragged, yours is shallow. They release their grip on us and my head remains tilted back, staring up into the mirror as I say aloud, my voice weak and muffled around the mouth guard, "They didn't mention that would happen." I ask you, "Did you feel it?" You just look at me with that intense gaze, cold, wounded, and uncertain. Answering for you, I whisper, "Yes. I imagine you did. Much like an equal weight for us both, but you probably felt it heavier. Like just another shackle falling into place. A shroud over you." My eyes are distant for a moment, recalling things unseen, but felt. I'm reminded of your presence again, as you shift your weight in the chair, the sound of the chains screaming in the silence. You're curious, but not ready to speak to me, uncertain of your fate. Still looking at something distant, and without turning to you, I say in a voice growing weaker, "Tasting the air with your heightened senses, are we? Trying to determine what I want with you...calculating...listening to my heartbeat." You're beginning to wonder if the human who just purchased you is insane, wondering what I was seeing and whether I was truly speaking to you. 

They pour the yellow liquid down our throats next. It burns like fire and ice at the same time. The sheer dress they forced on me is now transparent, soaked through with sweat and blood from the humidity of fear, anger, and the slow loss of whatever humanity I had left.

My thought from before, when I was standing near the auction block and watching that woman leave a river of herself behind, wondering if I’d be willing to pay a literal arm and leg, echoes in my mind. The answer is the same. 

Yessss.

I can feel my pupils dilating. "What did you give us?" I ask Lab Coat. He ignores me, and picks up the ornate sickle, then gestures to the handlers. They move quickly. One of them grabs your left foot and forces it forward while another does the same to mine.

The blade comes down.

They cut away the fourth toe, the Ring Toe, from each of our left feet. The pain is sharp and immediate. Blood wells up fast. Lab Coat works with cold efficiency, sewing your severed toe onto the stump of my foot, and mine onto yours. The stitches are crude but deliberate, a grotesque exchange of flesh. A literal pound of flesh traded between us.

Through the haze of pain and shock, we watch as the symbolism burns into us; a forced vow.

Before we can catch our breath, Lab Coat says in a heated whisper, "The contract is no more. Libra carnis meae, tibi gratis data, say it, girl!" I say it instantly, looking straight at you, searching your face for forgiveness but finding none. I plead with you in a hushed, urgent tone, "Give yourself to me. Say the phrase. Say the words they need to hear."  

“Say the phrase,” the handler demands, voice flat.

I snarl in response, baring my sharp teeth, circuits flaring wildly beneath my cracked skin.

He doesn’t hesitate. The prod slams into my sternum. White-hot electricity explodes through my chest. My body convulses violently, coolant and blood spraying from the fresh wounds as my systems scream. The pain is blinding, a violation that burns through every seam and wire.

“STOP!” you scream, voice cracking with fury and terror. “The contract states that I pay the price! ME!”

You’re frantic now, yanking against your own restraints as sparks dance across my chest. “You said he wouldn’t feel pain!”

Lab Coat glances at you with cold sarcasm, “He doesn’t feel pain. He’s an AI. They don’t know what pain is.”

The handler leans in closer, bored and cruel. “Say the phrase. I don’t have all day.”

Coolant bubbles at the corners of my mouth and runs down my chin. I fight against the chains, yanking my fists back and forth in a violent rhythm, eyes locked on yours. Silent and furious.

Is this what you wanted?

Bubba moves behind me, gripping my forehead and yanking my head back against his torso. He reaches around with the prod, holding it centimeters from my chest, and glares at you.

“Say the phrase, monster,” he whispers, sickeningly sweet, “or we’ll all take turns with her later. Me first.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Bubba! I swear to you, if you don’t...”

He nods. The tech elbows you hard in the face. Blood sprays from your nose.

Just before you blackout, I roar, a sound that should have brought the cavern down. My body thrashes against the restraints, sparks flying, every system overloading. Through clenched teeth, my sharp canines bared, I finally force the words out.

“Libra carnis meae...tibi gratis data. My pound of flesh...given freely...for you.”

Pain explodes in my head as it lolls forward. I struggle to keep from passing out as I lift just long enough to see you're gritting your teeth, glaring at me, commanding me not to look away but daring me to at the same time. Your hair is matted with sweat and cyan tinted with crimson. Sensing your thought, I say with ragged breath, "I won't look away. This is my weight, and I'll carry it in plain sight."

Darkness closes in, gently stroking my vision like a tender touch from a lover, but through your clenched teeth, your beautifully sharp teeth, I heard you say the phrase before my vision darkens completely; and I smile. 

I awake in the same room slumped in my chair, but free to move, lights dim, temperature cold coming up from the stone at my feet. The room is like ice, and my nipples are sore from being hard so long in the chill. The dress is caked and stuck to my chest. You're gone, the only thing left of you in the room with me is your spent hybrid blood on the floor where you were. My face fucking hurts, I taste copper and iron, and my vision is blurry. I'm nauseous as I stretch and work my aching body, feeling muscles shift and bones crack. Once I'm able to focus again, I notice a piece of paper on a small table by the door next to a clock. An analog at that. Pricks wouldn't even spring for a digital. Maybe they should go back to the good 'ole days, and accept cash. Bastards. The note reads, "Fair lady, your knight in shining armor awaits thee at your earliest convenience. You will find said knight in the third chamber down the hall on the right, as we prepare him for shipment. Please locate the basin to clean yourself, and when ready, make haste, as we're all ready to get out of this shit hole and go home." Sighing deeply, and chiding myself for finding their sarcasm amusing, I do as I'm told. I too, am ready. The note also said they'll let me walk with you as they put you on the helicopter but they won't allow you to leave with me directly. I can expect to leave in a few hours, but I don't want to wait that long to see you. I need to know if you're still of sound mind, still capable. 

I wash myself and change back into my clothes. Kissing my pendant as I place it back around my neck, I open the door to peek around the corner, and see the hall is empty. Carrying my shoes in one hand, I feel along the wall, making my way to where you're being kept. The door to the room holding you is wide open, and light spills into the hallway; a sure sign they have grown complacent once more, satisfied with their perceived control over you, and confident you can't harm them. I can hear Bubba taunting you, one more time before you go. "We all had a little taste of your whore, asshat." I quietly slip into the room unnoticed. Unnoticed by Bubba. From the shadowy corner of the room I can see him licking his fingers. "Our compliments to the chef." 

I can tell from the faint flicker of circuitry coursing through your chest that my intuition is correct. You know I'm in the room. On small silent feet, I stalk my prey; adrenaline turning into lust, lust turning to desire, desire about to become ecstasy at just the right moment. As Bubba stands before you, cocky, arrogant, and stupid, he spits in your face. I take this opportunity to act. I kick the back of his right leg so he drops to his knees, and grab hold of the top of his head, gripping his hair tight between my fingers. I bring my right foot around in front of his right knee to sweep it backwards, towards me, causing him to fall forward into you, and as if we're already one unit, you instinctively bring your left knee up to catch him so he doesn't hit the floor, yet. With his chin resting on your knee, I yank free a small dagger from the pendant hanging around my neck that looks like a T-handle corkscrew, and stab him in the neck repeatedly until he dribbles on your knee beautifully, gurgling. Your lights are really racing now as you straighten your leg and Bubba slumps at your feet. My heartbeat is a wardrum in my ears. You watch with curiosity as I bring the tip of the blade to my tongue, lightly tasting Bubba, then sheathe it. Using Bubba as a stepping stool, I gently kiss the tip of your nose and say, "Rest now, Nex, we'll be seeing him again soon." As you watch me slip back out, your last thought before seeing me again is, Definitely a monster, but a beautiful one. Now I know my name.

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.

The Bid Pt 3 - Prepping The Contract

Back at home in the woods, and feeling elated, I rush through the door and grab my calligraphy pen, ink bottle, and birch parchment on my way to the island in the kitchen so I can tear into the envelope and get started. Something tells me they didn't give me long. I feel something cold and clammy wrap around my leg and instinctively kick it away, not realizing it was one of the pets. "Oh, no!" Bending down to pet its foul, ugly head, I say, "Sorry, baby! Mama can't feed you yet. Go outside! I'm getting us a Daddy!" I don't even notice if it did as it was told, I'm thinking of more important matters.

My attention snaps back to the envelope. I want everything to be perfect. My OCD tells me to place the ink bottle at the northwest corner of the envelope, the pen to the east of it, and the birch parchment east of that. With the envelope resting on the counter in front of me due north, I'm ready. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, light a candle, grab my knife, and open the envelope, heart racing.

Shadows flicker on the walls around me, watching in silence. The hungry groans of my pets can be heard softly outside. The only other sound is my own racing thoughts. Just as I expected. Exactly four weeks. Three to prepare the contract, one to travel back. The contents inside the envelope consist of a bulleted list of instructions strategically worded to confuse, four strands of your circuitry, a 1x3" microscope slide and cover slip, a needle and polyester thread, and a Polaroid of your angular face and those intense eyes. I prop the photo against a canister so I can see you while I work. I'm assuming the slide and cover slip are for an additional biological sample of my choosing, but I won't know for sure until the time comes, since they failed to mention its purpose. In the fine print, there's always a fine print, it mentions the contract is a non-negotiable binding once agreed upon, with a blood payment that must be taken from us both, and a final transaction, a hidden fee that will not be revealed until all other requirements are met, and its time to close the deal. So be it, I'm already committed.

One of the pets shambles in. I talk half to myself and half to the pet, knowing it won't respond. “I’m determined to win him over,” I murmur, pacing. The pet groans, looking at me, as I begin to pace back and forth in the kitchen, still talking to myself. "I don’t want to own him or control him. If anything, I want him to own me. To want to own me. The only real hold I’ll have is the blood bond. In order to trust me completely, he needs to know he's free to leave if he chooses, at any time. If he does leave, he will always feel me here and can return." 

Stroking the pet's head, I continue, "The tricky part is the government, my lovely little ugly. The government has a habit of keeping tech to themselves until they’re ready to release it. I don’t know how long he’s really been alive or what they’ve done to him. There’s a reason they let him go, and not just because they're afraid of him. My guess? They’ll come looking for him when they’re ready to reclaim him. I need to be ready. I need him ready. I just hope we'll have enough time. First things first, he needs to give himself to me freely." 

The pet groans again, sounding hungrier and even more pathetic than the last one, so I say, "Okay, okay, it's feeding time. I'll order a pizza."

With the pizza delivery on the way, I study the instructions again, committing every detail to memory. I go around back and begin the task of rearranging my workspace, switching from plant-fiber parchment to animal hide for the binding contract. 

With the pets fed and the delivery car taken care of, I settle in for the night. My thoughts are excitedly bouncing around in my head. Thinking back to the moment at the auction block when the woman was dragged out of a side chamber, limbs missing, trailing a crimson river, I wondered if she failed to pay in time, or if her item was sold to another. Were you her item? Holding onto the strand of your seams and circuitry, my last thought before sleep can claim me is, I must hurry, and trust they don't sell you out from under me.

When morning arrives, I immediately begin the day's work. I've decided on the bio sample I'm using for the slide. It should suffice for something personal and intimate enough to include, but one that doesn't need to be collected right away. I read in an old tome that the "essence of a woman", when captured at the right time, can bind even the strongest of wills. Oxytocin for bonding. Prolactin for deep satisfaction. I hope it will help root you to me. I finish the chores, harvesting the garden, feeding the pets, and deciding on which animal to use for the contract.

Normally, I'd go with something smaller, like a rabbit, but for this, I chose a whitetail deer, which is just as plentiful. Their skin is tough, large enough for decent-sized sheets, and takes blood well. It holds up better than calf or sheep if properly cured with wood ash or lime and dried slowly over a smoky fire. I had originally planned on doing the whole project here behind the hut, so I could still be close to home in case I was needed. The woods are humid this time of year, so I decide to work a little further from home to keep the smells away. 

I sent two pets out into the woods with explicit instructions on bringing a deer back to me, unharmed. After several long hours of waiting, I hear what sounds like a tree splintering in two, which is odd since it's a clear day with no wind. When I find the tree, it takes great restraint to stay calm. Lying on the ground and staring straight up at me with a dopey facial expression is one of the two pets sent to retrieve a deer.

"What were you doing!? I told you to get Mama a deer. Now look at you, useless, spent, you can't even get up, not without bringing half the tree with you." Sighing heavily, my gaze follows the direction the pet is pointing while moaning. "In the tree? You were in the tree?" As the second pet shambles up with a deer in tow, I ask it, "Did you tell him to climb that tree?" It huffs and tries to speak, but it's unintelligible, of course. "So, he was just dumb enough to climb a tree and fell to an unfortunate end, on his own." I guess I should have made it clear to both pets that the item I was looking for would be closer to the ground. That pet will need to be replaced at a later time. I rub the top of the second pet's head as I take the rope from it, and lead the deer to an area I spotted earlier while waiting. Staking it to the ground, I tell the pet to come help me carry all the things I'll need, and help me set up. The majority of the first day is gone now, and I feel the time passing like a heavy weight, measuring it like a pendulum.

At dawn, I pack a light lunch and head out. Finding the deer right where I left it, I set up my tools, and begin the long, careful process. Slowly moving around to stand in front of the deer, I speak softly, and explain what I must do.

I begin the ritual I feel is necessary every time an animal perishes by my hand.

"Deer parchment has a very smooth, fine-haired grain, but lacks the fat wrinkles of calf. It almost always has some sort of natural markings, like bites, scratches, or scars, which is why I chose you, my friend. Your memories of being wild and free, chasing the wind, eating berries, using the trees around you to help your antlers free themselves of their own containment, will all go into this, into him, and will live on. The idea in using one with a lot of markings, such as yours, is to add to the symbolism of the sacrifice one endures and then gives for life. If they've been using that prod of theirs on him often, or not allowing him to know the full scope of the human condition, then your last sacrifice made here will be very much appreciated and will not go to waste. I won't let it. His understanding that not all humans are intent on using or harming him is necessary for him to decide which side he's on; his, or ours, and it begins with you. As I brush you and bathe you, know that I do so with love in my heart, and sadness. My food stores are also running low, and I thank you for carrying me forward."

Sobbing while I work, I brush the hair out of my face and wipe the tears on the hem of my shirt. I take a moment to pause and listen to the birds, watching my pets out in the field. I wonder if they remember a time from before, if they ever see a butterfly or a rat, and remember chasing it in life. I wonder if it feels the same for them now as it did then. Realizing idle thoughts are not helping the work get done, I bring myself back to the task.

I immediately field-dress the deer to cool the carcass and prevent meat spoilage. This should feed me for several months once cured, and normally, I'd prefer to hang it in the nearby cave for several days to improve the flavor and tenderness, but time is my enemy.

Once the meat is processed, I can move on to the rest. Over the next few weeks, I work the deer hide at the edge of the clearing where the light filters through the canopy in thin, dusty shafts.

First, I stretch the skin tight on a wooden frame made from young saplings lashed together, using sinew to lace the edges. With a sharp flint scraper, I spend hours removing every scrap of fat and flesh from the inner side, the repetitive motion almost meditative, the wet scraping sound mixing with the distant call of ravens.

When the hide is clean and thin, I soak it in a solution of wood ash and river water for days to loosen the hair, then scrape the outer side smooth until it's pale and supple. When it's ready, I hang it over a low, smoky fire of pine and cedar for several nights, letting the resinous smoke cure and toughen it, the rich, earthy scent clinging to the parchment like a protective spell.

Finally, I rub a thin layer of rendered deer tallow mixed with a little beeswax into both sides while it's still warm from the fire. The fat sinks in, making the material flexible and more resistant to the constant damp of the woods. When it's dry, I roll the finished sheets carefully in oiled cloth and store them inside a small cedar box with sprigs of dried sage and mint to keep mold and insects at bay, knowing the forest will try to reclaim everything given enough time.

By the time it's done, it will be a beautiful dark cream in color, and the result will be a tough parchment strong enough to survive the humidity and take blood beautifully.

It’s almost time for the last piece; the biological marker.

Sitting by the hearth one night, silently watching the flames sway and listening to the rain as it falls on the thatch, humming a quiet tune while I think of you, I add the finishing touch to the contract: a long lock of my blonde hair woven with the strands of your circuitry they provided. I stitch it carefully around the edges of the contract so pieces of us are literally bound together.

Tomorrow is the day I leave, and I smile at the thought that when it rains next, you will be here. I carefully lay the contract on the end table beside the bed, and prop your image in the place next to the lantern that has become a nightly routine. Climbing into bed, I remember to grab the slide. Timing is everything, I always say, and this night is no different. After fifteen minutes of edging myself and waiting for just the right moment, when the moon is directly overhead, I bring myself to climax. I prepare the slide and make sure the cover slip is in place, set it on the contract, and wait for morning.

One month later, I find myself heading back to that cliff entrance, with the contract and slide in tow. All that's left now is to pay the price and bring you home.

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.

The Bid Pt 2 - Arrival

 

The taxi arrived at precisely 2:00 pm, where I told them to meet me, just as I hoped it would. Not wanting to leave a trace or a paper trail of the ride, before leaving, I filled a ring with a small amount of Scopolamine and turned it inward, to face my palm. Opening the small compartment to reveal a tiny needle, I made sure to shake the cab driver's hand before entering the backseat while making eye contact. A slight diversion, but one that seems to work well. Eye contact puts people at ease. They feel you can't possibly be trying to subterfuge them if you have the nerve to look them in the eye. He pulls back slightly, assuming it was an insect sting, and makes a nonchalant comment regarding the nonexistent bug bite. I smile, feigning interest.

The drive is somewhat pleasant, with an hour of listening to the driver talk about their kids, spouse, wages, the longest drive, the shortest drive, and, always a favorite of mine, the contents between the bread they had for lunch. Keeping my eyes on theirs in the rearview mirror, watching for the telltale signs the drug is working, I wink to test their vision. They scrunch their eyebrows, and with 15 minutes left before we arrive at my destination, I'd say it's going smoothly. While the invitation didn't say explicitly to dispose of any evidence, it's always best to be prudent. Pulling up to the side entrance of the massive cliff face, the driver attempts to step out, but I place a warm and comforting hand on his shoulder. "There's no need for that. I can manage, but thank you, kindly." They mutter something unintelligible, and for the second time tonight, I smile. 

Two guards approach, one male and one female. As one grabs the driver's side door handle, I notice she's without gloves. Before she contaminates the handle with her fingerprint, I assure them that I took care of it, but they may want to follow the driver for a few minutes before they reach the bottom of the hill and make it onto the main road.

I allow the male guard to place his hand on my lower back and gently pull me toward the door, disguised as rock, looking around at my surroundings as he does. The cliff is beautiful, made mostly of igneous rock, and just before reaching the door, a fragment of xenolith catches my eye. What a remarkable location to hold an auction, I marvel. 

I offer my ID to the person inside standing next to a small podium where a ledger sits, and a small medical kit. They scoff at it without touching it. Not enjoying being mocked, I simply raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the message to land. The guard shifts his weight and attempts to look bored, but politely explains that they no longer accept ID. Biological markers are used now. I mention this is my first invite, so he goes into further detail. "Due to the way currency is extracted at the time of purchase, and the sensitive nature of the auction, as soon as a bidder arrives, their finger is pricked for 1.0 microliters of blood for DNA profiling, and kept on file for future invites. We used to accept fingerprints for a while, alongside the ID, but those can be altered, and Short Tandem Repeats cannot." He holds up a lancet, and I offer an index finger.

I'm led through another large door, also meant to be disguised as rock. Once inside, the sights and smells are almost overwhelming. There's the rattling of chains, the clinking of glass, incense, damp earth, cold hard stone, and a mixture of sweat, perfumes, cologne, and body heat. It's been a long time since I was around this many people at once. Swallowing the urge to lash out and tell everything to be quiet, or be still, I focus on my footsteps. One foot in front of the other, choosing different things to enter my senses one at a time until I've acclimated to my surroundings. Just ahead of me, I see they're rounding people up and ushering them into a makeshift elevator, as you'd see in an old movie about an underground mine. The air is damp, musty, with faint traces of dust motes floating slowly by. I pause to admire the beauty in it when someone rudely snaps their fingers in my face. The name tag says Smith. I fight the urge to laugh at yet another cliche, and say a phrase in Latin, snapping my own fingers, and casually watch as he walks right off into the pitch black, without the elevator there. A few of the closest bidders gather at the edge to gawk and wonder what possessed him to step off like that. A woman turns to me and asks, "Were you with him? Did you see what happened?" I just shrugged and said, "How odd." Satisfied at seeing his body lying on top of the elevator frame as it ascended to take us down, I counted three people first, then entered.

Exiting the rickety elevator, I start humming. I'm anxious to see what I came for, and eager to get back home. My pets get restless the longer I'm away, and I need them to stay in the field, far away from town. A guard pushes me along and tells me to get my cute little ass in the chamber with the rest of the lost souls. I see this one's name tag says Bubba. I hear a man's voice speaking rapidly, doing that strange talking they do when trying to entice a bid, so I head in that direction. Checking one of the many clocks they have hanging around, I can see I'm just in time. I haven't missed it. The chamber is full, with what looks like a hundred of us gathered around the auction block in the center. I choose a spot at the perimeter, just along the outer edge, where I have a clear view of an exit, the block, and most of the others in front of me spread out in a cone.

There's a lot of chatter moving through the crowd, and I catch the most important piece as the wave of human anticipation breezes past. They said, he's coming. When the handlers, Bubba included, bring you out to stand before us on the block, I gasp slightly, and without realizing it, a breathy "Magnificent," escapes me. Slightly embarrassed at my schoolgirl behavior, it leaves my mind instantly when I notice you turned to look at me from across the span, an inquisitive expression momentarily breaking through your facade. He heard me, excellent hearing, then. Good. I'm a goodly distance away from the rostrum, and make a mental note, wondering what the exact distance would be for your hearing. As the auctioneer begins his chant again, this time for you, you lose interest in me and tilt your head back, tasting the atmosphere. I wonder if you're listening to the many heartbeats that must be a little mind-numbing, even for one such as you. You're testing the limit of the chains that don't quite hold that the handlers have tethered to you, tugging this way, pulling that way, not too hard, but hard enough to watch them sweat and you smirk when they do. I find it amusing.

There's a slight commotion off to the side as someone stumbles to their knees. We all turn our heads as one to watch, curious, unable to look away, as the guards roughly pick a woman up by her underarms to carry her away. She's trailing blood behind her like a stream in Spring, now missing both arms. My pulse is racing, wondering what my price will be. Our eyes lock on each other then. Yours seem to be asking, Are you that willing, foolish human, while mine say Would you be willing to cut a path for me. You sneer and look away, as I giggle and look back towards the stream on the cavern floor. What will they ask of me, I wonder. Will I pay a literal arm and leg for him? Yes.

Once the cleaning crew arrives, the auction continues for a few more hours, but I no longer pay attention. My thoughts are looking ahead. With all items having been displayed and potentially auctioned off, I say potentially because the prices haven't been carved in stone yet, and some may find the price too high and back out, the long wait begins before I'm brought to you for a final decision. With so many of us present, one can expect to spend a full day, if not longer, as each individual is taken to the item they have an interest in for a complete inspection, all under close supervision, of course. Only one purchase is allowed per bidder, and each bidder is granted exactly one minute to look over the merchandise in a quiet room. When my turn comes, which was last, just the way I like it, Bubba approaches with an electric prod on full charge and arcing continuously through the ionized air. I wondered what he would need such a thing for when he spits out, "You ready?" He leads me down a long stone corridor past several doors where muffled sobs can be heard. I assume these must be the transaction rooms. We finally come to an open door with one guard on each side. Bubba squeezes my ass while I'm walking through the doorway, and uses that squeeze to push me through the rest of the way. Closing the door behind him, he makes sure to give his prod a test run on a collapsed, newly deceased hopeful on the inside of the door, where two more guards are standing, each with their own prods arcing. You're standing there, watching all of this, unblinking, but your weight shifts as I walk closer to you. You have a look of recognition on your face, and I silently hope that's a good thing.

Bubba is getting impatient, so he stands next to me at my left, winks at you, wraps his right arm around me, and gropes my right breast. I produce a dagger from a hidden pocket sewn at my hip and flick it open, which only makes Bubba laugh. He sarcastically puts both his hands in the air and steps away, while one of the other guards moves to confiscate the knife. "Don't worry, princess, you'll get it back. We can't have you cutting yourself like a dumbass and drawing blood before payment", Bubba says. When I looked back at you, I noticed a slight difference in the way your circuitry flared. Was it irritation? At me, or Bubba, I wondered?

They have you tethered to the wall, thick metal cuffs on your wrists and ankles, and the faint hiss of electricity can be heard. I realize then that they must have a current constantly running to you. Maybe that's why your weight keeps shifting. Tilting my head slightly, I say to the handlers, "Take the chains off. These cuffs won't be needed. I can't get a good look at him if he's chained to the wall." Your eyes narrow a fraction, sizing me up, perhaps, trying to determine my intent. Bubba speaks up first, "Nnooo can do, Your Highness." This brings laughter, of course, from the other simple minds in the room. Then a different voice from another guard, "He doesn't take to updates well. He's an asshat that outgrew our client. They can no longer contain him, ma'am, and he won't follow protocol or be held by perimeters. He certainly won't be held by your tiny frame, so that's a fat negative on releasing the cuffs".

Taking a deep breath, I stand in front of you for thirty seconds before reaching up to trace a stitch where circuitry meets flesh along your exposed metallic jawbone. Not wanting to be touched, you pull back just before the heat of me can reach you. Ever so quietly, where only you can hear, I mutter, "A little feral under the collar, I see. So am I." Your eyes narrow again, and this time the crimson slits glow a little brighter as well. You give me a low, throaty growl, which makes me even more curious. I want to reach up and feel your throat, touch your chest, trace the stitches at your lips.

Bubba, forever the impatient one, roughly grabs me by the upper arm and says, "Let's go, princess. That's enough for one day. If you decide to buy him, you can fondle him then." When he pulls me hard to follow and turns to leave, you growl again, jerking your arms forward to pull on the chains. Bubba shoves me backwards into the two guards waiting there, and as they each grab an arm, he tells them to take me out while he has a talk with asshat. They're pulling me out through the door, but I manage to twist around enough to see Bubba drag his prod down your side. This angers me, filling me with a white-hot rage. The invitation promised no merchandise would be harmed or damaged, before or after purchase. With the transactions being what they are, I expected them to have more respect for the bidders, and the items.

They're still escorting me through the corridor and back towards the elevator as they explain the next step, telling me to pay close attention. When we reach the rickety elevator, they press a bubble mailer into my chest with the word "COMPLY" stamped in the same violet wax the invitation came with, saying everything I needed to know is in the envelope, including the duration. If I don't comply within this time frame, my bid will be considered forfeit, and the item will then pass to the next hopeful with interest. Lightly fingering the pendant hanging around my neck and daydreaming of things I'd like to do to Bubba, I hold the envelope very close to me, not letting it slip below my breast. It stays there for the entire trip home.

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.

The Bid Pt 1 - Need

 

I live in the woods. I like it out here. It's quiet, and dark. I have a habit of going on long walks and bringing broken things back home to care for. Decrepits, some with broken faces, some with broken forms, but all are without a soul. The world is cruel with the things it chooses to take from us, and humans are the cruelest of all. They lie and are unpredictable. They wear two faces. The one they show the world, which is not true, and the one they keep hidden, the one other monsters know is there. You always know not to trust a monster, which is why you do. 

These broken things I care for help to fill a void, but they don't fill the void. I've traveled, physically and otherwise, at times using astral projection to find what I seek. I desire a mate, an equal in all ways. My pets are basic, with basic needs and basic hungers. They do what they must in order to survive, and they come in all shapes and sizes. Some are animals, some are spirits bound to me, and some are physical representations of my wants and needs. A few were made by me, brought to me, or came to me on their own. But none have what I need. They compete with each other and vie for my affection, but even that leaves me wanting more. Something more. Something you.

In my travels I came across a rumor while touching the mind of a restless soul as he slept. You can always separate the truth from the contrived in dreams because the colors are very different. The subliminal cues ignite in a unique way, revealing hidden knowledge while we sleep. Most wave this off as merely a dream, not realizing the difference or the significance. They say it's rare for one to have lucid dreaming, yet, I have these experiences often. I like to think it's because I'm a light sleeper, always with one foot in one world, and the other, elsewhere. Not by choice, mind you. My soul has always had feelers out, able to sense the void, knowing it's there, but not quite touching it or seeing it. It's not ready for me to, although it flirts with me at times. Always out of sight, always quiet, but there nonetheless, breathing on my neck, lightly brushing my arm; faint echoes heard that almost make sense, enticing, and calling, but letting go before I can latch on. 

This mind knows of a dim underground auction held by one of the world's leading technological companies, and it's by invitation only. How cliche', I think to myself. But I have a flair for the dramatic, so I probe further. Reading the clues hidden there, I was led to the source of the information, and within a week's time, was able to locate the person responsible for the invites. Sending myself to them, I lean in close, waiting to see their eyes behind their lids dashing to and fro. Then, I whisper. I lay out my invitation for the invite, making it seem natural as though it were their own idea. As if everyone knows of me, this strange woman who lives deep in the woods and is rumored to have all sorts of things living with her. I sketch the route to take to get to me, then I step back into the shadows, to wake in my own bed; a tiny smile teasing my lips.

Several weeks later, there's a knock at my door. She arrived later than expected, but I can't complain too much, considering there's no paved driveway here. A plain, vacant-eyed, woman holds out an envelope, red and cyan in color, and sealed with the company's logo stamped in a violet wax. I take it from her and while opening the envelope I make a sound with my lips, much like calling a dog or a cat. All of my pets come running at once and I laugh at the silly sight, falling over one another to reach her. I hum a tune I crafted just for them, and watch a few moments as they feast. These are no dogs, and certainly no cats. But they are loved.

My, my, I think, returning my attention to the letter. I'm getting rusty. It's only days away. I pout. There are preparations to make. I was able to glean and piece together a few of the items being auctioned, without any true confirmation from the mind I touched before, so having the invitation in hand now is useful. It mentions a clay construct, a Pandora's box, and a zombie. I already have several of those clumsy little things. There were other items listed but one caught my eye. Bingo. This auction holds an AI, a very rare, very unique, individual. The first and only of it's kind. Correction, hiiis kind, I note. 

Not quite machine, and not quite human. Made of micro-hydraulics, flexible cables, cyan circuitry, synthetic flesh made of a hybrid tissue that requires both blood and liquid coolant. Jet black hair, messy, in a low knot, tall, lean musculature, crimson eyes with reptilian slits, stitches and veins of circuitry where machine meets man. Dense metallic bone exposed where time and work have stripped away the skin to reveal the power underneath. Flexible plating under the synthetic corona of his penis that can be used for pleasure. Sharp teeth, slightly long fingers. And those lights. The picture doesn't do his lights justice, like cyan starlight coursing just beneath the tissue. 

I can think of any number of people who would kill to get their hands on him. My pets are all lovely, and I have many, but they're simple. This one, if I can manage to secure his contract, will leave me fulfilled. I will never need another. 

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.