Razor Wire Pubic Hair by Iii Carlton Mellick

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
                She strings me from the ceiling of her living room and removes all my fresh plastic wrapping.
                "Here is your new home," she tells me, smiling and licking her face with a sticky dragon tongue, rattle-stepping into the next room to remove her metal clothing and limb attachments, stripping the clank-materials away until only cobweb strings remain, too tight around her flesh to remove.  And she arrives to me to expose her cute sickly skin, shriveled slightly and white from wearing her heavy clothes too regularly, thick metal, chains, leather clothes, her skin rarely exposed to the gray sun.  Ropes and plastics sewn through her leg and arm meat, the latest fashion styles.
                The woman circles in her stringy nakedness, cutting into me with sharp eyeballs.
                "I promise not to kill you first," she says.  "I normally wear my hook-nails when mating and get fast-fast excited, I just can’t stop cutting."  Her head cocks.  "They just don’t survive long enough to ..."  Her eyes click.  "I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen with you.  I am mature enough now to know how to mate for pregnancy instead of pure pleasure purposes."
                I’m too weak for you right now, I tell her with my fingernails, body swaying in the nerve-openness.
                "You’re not used to being disconnected from your container."
                I should eat first.
                "I’m impatient," the woman responds, dipping her poison tongue.  "After I plug you in, you should forget about hunger and weakness."
                My teeth whimper, I hope I am satisfactory.
                "Yes, yes," replies the woman, jiggling an enthusiastic breast.  "I want you to last for a second child."
                Is that possible?
                "It happens," the woman circles to my back and shuffles mechanical trinkets in a box, and I shiver uncomfortable. 
                You are very beautiful, shaky-telling the woman, but she only answers with more shuffling.  The other females who considered purchasing me were not as high quality as you are.
                "Don’t call me high quality," she says.  "I am above merchandise."  Then plugs a cold metallic rod into my excretion shaft and flips the power on.  It drives a claw of electrical waves into my body, up my ass, erecting my two members to full extent, the skin ready to pop and peel, hardening my nipples, my vagina hairs standing up into needles, spiky and tickling.
                It’s not that bad, my voice now panic-harsh and gyrating, gasping lungs.
                "What is?" asks the woman.
                Being merchandise.
                "Maybe for you it is satisfactory, you are part male," she comes to me, eyes twisting under pasty film in circles, "But a woman is too free-spirited to be controlled.  There is nothing that can hold us."
                What controls a man? I ask.
                The woman begins to rub her faded nipples into erection.  "His penis, of course," grabbing one of my solid members.  "They lived, they loved, for sex.  Slave to cunts.  That’s why they run extinct.  Only women and flesh-creations such as yourself can live in today’s society."
                When I was in the testing period, I enjoyed drawing, I say.  It is what made my artistic rating so high.  If I were not a manufactured product for women, I would have lived for art rather than sex.
                "As long as you have a penis and testicles attached to your body, you will live for sex."
                No, sex is not that important to me.  Sex is just a game to play.  A game adults can have fun with.
                "You are a fuck toy, created for sexual purposes," says the woman.  "If sex is