now,” he said as he turned his back to me. He began to unbutton his shirt. “I wish you would leave, please. I need some time to myself.”
I turned and left him. As I twisted the double-keyed locks, and fastened the bolt to his section of the basement, I mused on how frustrated he must be to not be able to go out carousing with his writer friends and perhaps scooping up a budding young writer he could show the ropes to. Instead, he was here, trapped in a woman’s fantasy, a pawn to be played with so her quest for ultimate knowledge, ultimate pleasure, ultimate happiness would be satiated.
Journal
It has been three months since Specimen 3 has been added to the family. She was even easier to program than Specimen 2. I believe it’s related to the complications of the speed of rerouting existing patterns into new ones. Everyone can have his own theory about the length of time it takes to form or unform a habit, lifestyle, religious ideology and so on. Each brain is so much the same and yet so completely different in the slightest of nuances. Why is it that drinking two bottles of beer can affect each person’s perception in so many different ways? Some people might be drunk, some sober, some may have an allergic reaction or just fall asleep. The same with the serum and electromagnetic combinations.
I wonder if the electromagnetic forces flowing through all of our bodies constantly will have any long-term effects.
I’ve not noticed any real symptoms except that I’m constantly horny and will likely wear those boys out before they hit their forties. But the buzzing in my crotch mates the buzzing in their minds and if I ever turn it off, they will be gone. Wherever the implants go, they will follow.
The boys are good providers. Specimen 1 sells well and Specimen 2 receives loads of prize money.
I earn money from my essays and books, and even give lectures now and again on neurological transmissions through electromagnetic fields with regard to human behavior patterns.
We want for nothing in our strange little arrangement.
However, the addition of Specimen 3 is still not going well. Her beauty is a full-time job. Jars of lotions, pots of creams, hours of lying under lamps or heated fabrics, soaking in tubs, standing in showers. Every week, she wanted to go to the hairdresser for a different weave and a mani-pedi. I, of course, enjoy changing my hair frequently as well, so I didn’t really mind going together to the beauty parlor. I’m not quite so attentive to my hands and toes, though, and don’t have the patience to sit through weekly mani-pedis. I’d do work on my tablet while she was pampered, and of course, spy on my men.
It didn’t matter that we had our weekly beauty visits; she still had to care for all her nails at home as well. It was a constant entertainment for her, all her self-pampering.
You’d think she was a movie star and, indeed, she likely aspired to be just that.
I sent out her portfolio for more modeling work; however, her reputation as lazy and demanding meant that despite her magnificent beauty and charisma, people didn’t want to work with her. She’d blown up her bridges at the young age of twenty-two.
With more prying and probing, it was also an underground secret that she was a hooker, an escort, a cokehead, and, therefore, no major studio would ever cast her in a movie. Since I’m not in the arts, I don’t understand why it matters if she’s a hooker or not. Last I heard, everyone from Marilyn to Madonna slept their way to the top—why not my beauty?
It didn’t matter.
She always was a star when the four of us went to the clubs.
However, her grating requests, her constant demands for more, more, more was not the docile, relaxed goddess that I had hoped for. And the fact that she cost more than both the boys put together, with zero income, didn’t help her case that much.
There is always a payoff. I didn’t want to up her doses too much, for
I turned and left him. As I twisted the double-keyed locks, and fastened the bolt to his section of the basement, I mused on how frustrated he must be to not be able to go out carousing with his writer friends and perhaps scooping up a budding young writer he could show the ropes to. Instead, he was here, trapped in a woman’s fantasy, a pawn to be played with so her quest for ultimate knowledge, ultimate pleasure, ultimate happiness would be satiated.
Journal
It has been three months since Specimen 3 has been added to the family. She was even easier to program than Specimen 2. I believe it’s related to the complications of the speed of rerouting existing patterns into new ones. Everyone can have his own theory about the length of time it takes to form or unform a habit, lifestyle, religious ideology and so on. Each brain is so much the same and yet so completely different in the slightest of nuances. Why is it that drinking two bottles of beer can affect each person’s perception in so many different ways? Some people might be drunk, some sober, some may have an allergic reaction or just fall asleep. The same with the serum and electromagnetic combinations.
I wonder if the electromagnetic forces flowing through all of our bodies constantly will have any long-term effects.
I’ve not noticed any real symptoms except that I’m constantly horny and will likely wear those boys out before they hit their forties. But the buzzing in my crotch mates the buzzing in their minds and if I ever turn it off, they will be gone. Wherever the implants go, they will follow.
The boys are good providers. Specimen 1 sells well and Specimen 2 receives loads of prize money.
I earn money from my essays and books, and even give lectures now and again on neurological transmissions through electromagnetic fields with regard to human behavior patterns.
We want for nothing in our strange little arrangement.
However, the addition of Specimen 3 is still not going well. Her beauty is a full-time job. Jars of lotions, pots of creams, hours of lying under lamps or heated fabrics, soaking in tubs, standing in showers. Every week, she wanted to go to the hairdresser for a different weave and a mani-pedi. I, of course, enjoy changing my hair frequently as well, so I didn’t really mind going together to the beauty parlor. I’m not quite so attentive to my hands and toes, though, and don’t have the patience to sit through weekly mani-pedis. I’d do work on my tablet while she was pampered, and of course, spy on my men.
It didn’t matter that we had our weekly beauty visits; she still had to care for all her nails at home as well. It was a constant entertainment for her, all her self-pampering.
You’d think she was a movie star and, indeed, she likely aspired to be just that.
I sent out her portfolio for more modeling work; however, her reputation as lazy and demanding meant that despite her magnificent beauty and charisma, people didn’t want to work with her. She’d blown up her bridges at the young age of twenty-two.
With more prying and probing, it was also an underground secret that she was a hooker, an escort, a cokehead, and, therefore, no major studio would ever cast her in a movie. Since I’m not in the arts, I don’t understand why it matters if she’s a hooker or not. Last I heard, everyone from Marilyn to Madonna slept their way to the top—why not my beauty?
It didn’t matter.
She always was a star when the four of us went to the clubs.
However, her grating requests, her constant demands for more, more, more was not the docile, relaxed goddess that I had hoped for. And the fact that she cost more than both the boys put together, with zero income, didn’t help her case that much.
There is always a payoff. I didn’t want to up her doses too much, for
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