~~~Dr. Frankenstein's Second Creation~~~
To her credit, her playacting was superb, eyes glassy and disfocused, without even the slightest signs of breathing or movement in her chest.
The back of his hand hovered several inches in front of her mouth. There was not even the tiniest hint of breath there to graze it.
Her body was limp, as if lifeless. Her jaw loosened but not nearly slackened nor agape.
He sighed, quelling another, muted wave of disappointment. The fingers were still warm. The blood was, fortunately, real, but the wounds non-lethal. He sighed again.
For what other purpose did a woman's head serve, than to stay/stave off decomposition?
It was a thought he would keep to himself.
Unlike the body, facial features possessed no clear idealization, or set of idealizations. It was a highly frustrating thing. He leaned the back of his head against the headboard, disgruntled.
He loved hoods when it came to his playmates. What right did the creature have to look at him? What better assurance of complete control, of dominance than the simple length of cloth?
It was not simply a silicone body with a light steel frame- it was flesh and blood! Organs
pulsed and blood flowed through its veins, throbbing and pulsating beneath his fingertips.
It was his greatest creation!
An ample endowment lay beneath a hooded cerebrum, just as he preferred live-women during their activities. So to what end did he need a live woman anymore?
His hands slid down to "her" thighs, stroking lightly.
He loosened/slid a hand beneath the garment about "her" hips before snapping it back into place.
He dragged a knife along one of the thighs, moaning. He watched, with glee, as crimson bubbled to the surface.
Like the screw-top lid of a bottle coming loose, so too did his self control, and he began grinding/rutting
against his creation.
Ironically, the inherent guilt and weight of the deed had actually, utterly illogically, and ironically, been even greater than if it had been a real woman.
.../the () he c that day was even greater than if it had been a real, live wmn. He often
wondered why that was.
Excitement quickly overwhelmed him.
He had not bothered extensively with the facial details-his preferred form of play with
in the past had often involved similar toys, and his doll was a hooded one.
[It had him nearly ecstatic, nearly delirious with enjoyment.]
He noted, with vague amusement, that he committed an equal or greater sin when indulging himself with a lifelike doll, as he would with a real woman.
So then what purpose did a real woman serve?
What on Earth did he need a woman for, when a doll would work as well?
Some ego-stroking?
It was a thought simultaneously intensely depressing, and yet somehow ameliorating.
Dr. Frankenstein admired his latest creation, a true technological marvel!
His master required tea upstairs. The door to the lab slid shut behind him.
Therefore, if his lover wished to solicit his services, he would ensure that she needed to beg.
With that same, depressing and gratifying thought, he made his way upstairs.
It was a thought simultaneously intensely depressing and intensely ameliorating.
The door to the lab slid shut behind him. It was time for his Master's midday meal.
Rosaria pushed herself to her feet, and into a pair of fuzzy pink slippers (courtesy of Frankenstein), completely oblivious to Frankenstein's guilt and internal struggle.
She strode past the mantle-easily bypassing the leather, and without even sparing it a second-glance.
It was a thought simultaneously intensely ameliorating and intensely depressing.
A blade of grass in a river without any roots to tether it.