riwa
Governor
Synopsis ~ NC. Imagine three identical bodies grown from the DNA of Playmate Kerri Kendall. Imagine that these bodies possess networkable positronic brains, so that the experience of each becomes the experience of all. Imagine that one of these bodies crucifies and tortures the other two...and you have Multikerri.
"What we got is the latest thing. Vatgirls grown to your specs, around a networkable positronic brain."
"Come again?"
"Artificial telepathy. You can link their brains together. What one feels, they ALL feel, you get me? You see the possibilities?"
"Yeah, sure, I get it. But look. I mean, these girls...they aren't really human, right?"
Shrug. "What's human? We grow 'em in a vat, from the finest DNA."
"Yeah, but the brains...they're robotic, right?"
"Positronic."
"So they can't really feel pain, right?"
Shrug again. "Who cares? EEG, alpha waves, all that shit, reads the same as human out to fifty decimals. When you hear 'em scream, believe me, you won't know the difference."
"What about personality?"
"Personality?"
"I like a girl with personality."
Sigh. "You're a character. They come with a basic victim's persona. They can scream, beg, like that. Very convincing. They know how to fuck. You can talk to them, ask them questions. They'll respond. Intellectually, they're twelve year-old girls, which for your purposes is perfect. They scare real easy. You want to talk Heidegger with 'em, we can load up a nice program on existentialism."
"Can you program one of them to act as the torturer?"
"Yeah, sure, no problem."
"OK, I'm sold. I'll try it."
"That's great. You got your own specs, or you want to try a prefab model? Here are some of our most popular ones: the Cindy, the Jo..."
"How about this one here?"
"The Kerri? Yeah, she's good. How many you want?"
"Two networked, and another outside the circuit, running the torture program. Say, can I switch the torturer into the circuit if I want?"
"No problem. We'll fix you up with a code phrase. Anything else we can do for you?"
"Can't think of anything."
"Pleasure doing business with you."
-----
They take me out of the vat, dry me off with soft fluffy things. After a moment's thought, I remember that these are called "towels." I smile and nod. My subliminal language lessons have worked well. The mother-machine has assured me that I now have all the words I'll ever need.
Being out of the vat is strange. I miss it, and I want to go back in. It's warm and wet and safe inside; out here the world is vast and strange. But the mother-machine has explained that I must leave now, to experience this world. I can't remain in her womb forever.
They give me strange garments to wear. I recall that they're known as "g-strings." The mother-machine taught me all about them (and also about bustiers, corsets, garter belts, stockings and push-up bras. This knowledge will be vital to me in the outside world.) I smile. I know how to put on these garments. I slip the green and white g-string onto one of my bodies. The red one is a little harder, because it has extra straps, but I figure it out. The spare straps go up from my waist, cross between my breasts, then snuggle up against my neck.
There is a mirror in the room, and I look at myselves in it. The mother-machine has told me that I am very beautiful, that men will want me. The g-strings cover the part of me that has so many names: cunt, twat, pussy, vagina. Men will want to insert themselves into that strange space, and I must always let them. The mother-machine was very specific about that.
They lead me out of the room, out of the building. I gasp in delight. I have never seen outside before. The sky is beautiful. It is the color called blue, and those must be clouds. I see a bird fly by and I let out a little cry of joy. It's all just like the mother-machine said it would be--and yet there's so much more here than any mere description could convey!
They lead me to a large object which I recall is called a "cross." The sight of it fills me with horror. I remember what I've learned about crosses.
Women are tortured to death on crosses.
No! It can't be! Desperately, I review my lessons. What do I know? I know how to talk. I know how to wear clothes. I know how to make love. I know how to be tortured. The mother-machine talked about torture a lot: how it feels, what to do, how to scream. She told me about being hanged, and stretched, and whipped, and branded, and gutted, and...crucified. But I never thought to ask her why...
I cry as they lift one of my bodies onto the cross. They choose the one with the green and white g-string. They bind my wrists to the crossbeam with thick rope. I breathe a sigh of relief: at least there are no nails. But then I remember my lessons: without nails it lasts much longer.
The rope digs into my wrists, and I wince. They lead my other body to a large glass tank which stands next to the cross. Inside this tank is another cross. They open a door in the tank; we step through. They put me up on the cross, tying my wrists tightly. I feel the pain much more clearly now that the rope is cutting into all four of my wrists. They leave, sealing the glass door behind them. I'm alone now.
The tank begins to fill with water. I whimper softly. I can see steam coming off the water; it's very hot. I recall that the best water for torture is water that is not quite boiling.
Someone is approaching my other body, the one outside the tank. I gasp, astonished. She looks exactly like me! She must be another vat-grown Kerri! And yet she isn't part of the neural network that connects my two bodies. She looks like me, but she's isn't me.
She has no g-string; she's naked. She has something in her hand--a "bullwhip." She raises it, aims for my belly, and strikes. I scream, inside the tank and out. Pain blazes in my belly. Looking down, I see an angry pink welt starting to rise on my flesh. The other Kerri raises her whip again, and sets another mark parallel to the first. I howl, twisting on my crosses.
My instinct tells me that I should be able to command that body to stop whipping me, and yet it isn't so. She is a Kerri, but she is not of this Kerri, and so I must use words. I open my mouth, try to form a plea. My words echo strangely off the steamy glass walls. I realize that in my pain and confusion I've used the wrong mouth. I force myself to calm down, try again. This time I open the right mouth, the one outside. "Please," I sob. "Oh, please, don't hurt me!"
"Shut up, cunt," the whip-Kerri says. Her lash falls hard across my naked nipple. I convulse in agony.
I try again. "Please, look at me! I'm a Kerri, just like you! How can you hurt me like this?"
"It's my nature," the Kerri replies, and lashes my other nipple. Pain blazes in my full, firm breasts.
Now the whip-strokes fall like rain. She whips my thighs, my belly, and especially my breasts. Large and round to begin with, they soon swell far beyond their original size. They are lavish with bright red whipping sores. A little blood trickles out of the nipples.
I'm amazed at the cruelty of the whip-Kerri. I could never hurt somebody the way she does, especially not somebody who looked just like me. The lessons she received from the mother-machine must have been very different from mine.
I feel a vast and inescapable heat beneath my toes. Looking down, I see that the water has almost reached my feet. Inside the tank, I twitch as the whip falls on my outside body. Outside, I prepare myself to be boiled alive.
The searing pain hits me with unimaginable force. I howl in wild and desperate agony. It hurts more than anything I've ever experienced. It's not quite hot enough to cook me, but almost.
The torture-Kerri steps back, leaving me alone with my pain for a while. Trembling on my crosses, I whimper as the water slowly rises around me. I still feel throbbing pain from the breast-whipping, of course. I decide I don't like having two bodies, because all the pain is doubled.
The water comes up to my knees and stops. For a long time nothing else happens. Inside the tank, my calves boil; outside, my breasts blaze with whipping sores. I notice another pain, more subtle: a stiffness, creeping from my wrists up through my arms, to my shoulders. I recall that it can take a woman days to die of crucifixion. The stiffness grows, and with it the pain, until at last she can't breathe and she dies.
The sun is low in the sky--that means it's afternoon now--when the torture-Kerri returns. She has exchanged her whip for a cattle prod. I close my eyes, but I forget to close my other eyes. I can still see, a little bit, through the fogged-over glass walls of the tank. She raises the prod towards my breasts, my nipples. She knows how sensitive those nipples are; after all, they're identical to hers. The prod touches a stiff red flesh node, and my world explodes with a new anguish. My lips work soundlessly; it hurts too much to scream. My bodies twitch and convulse as the electric agony ripples through them. The torture-Kerri cycles through an intricate series of voltages, amperages, durations. She plays my tits like a musical instrument. The prod flies back and forth from one nipple to the other, sharing the pain between these two breasts, sharing it also with the two in the tank.
Through a haze of agony I realize that the water is rising again. It reaches my thighs, bringing vast new pains, and stops once more.
The torture-Kerri leaves me like that for the night, half-immersed in near-boiling water, my whip-sore tits still resonating from the electric torment of the prod.
-----
By morning I'm having trouble breathing. The pain has spread from my shoulders into my chest; it's increasingly difficult to fill my lungs. I comfort myself with the thought that I'm unlikely to survive another day.
The water rises again, and I nearly lose consciousness as it touches my g-string. It spreads quickly through the fabric, and the tender flesh of my cunt feels its deadly embrace. The torture-Kerri has returned, this time with a branding iron. Though I know it's futile, I beg her not to use it on me. She smiles wickedly, and presses the brand into my belly. Red pain fills my vision. She holds the brand there until I'm about to pass out, then mercifully removes it. She brands me in several places: my thighs, my breasts. I hear the sizzle of my cooking meat; I smell my flesh roast.
The water flows over my belly, rises towards my breasts. My legs kick weakly. My breathing is shallow, labored. The crucifixion is doing what it's supposed to do. None of the other tortures, however elaborate, can distract me from the fact that I'm strangling to death on these crosses.
The torture-Kerri returns with a long knife, and I know why. She opens my belly from sternum to crotch. My guts pour out eagerly onto the ground, as if they had been trying to escape all along. I'm left with a vacant, steaming belly and a great deal of pain. The scalding water flows over my naked breasts, and I sob helplessly as it caresses my tender, sensitive nipples. My breasts have had all they can take, and more: whipping, shocks and now this. The agony is shared between two bodies, but it's all breast pain, and it's all mine. I cry at the horrible injustice of it.
I can barely breathe at all now. The water has nearly reached my neck. The torture-Kerri stands back to admire her work. A man appears, and speaks to her: "Lay down, so I can fuck you." She complies immediately. He slips easily into her body. He glances up at my suffering bodies, then down at her face. "I love you," he says, and suddenly I am three!
Sharing the pain with a third body in no way diminishes it. In fact, my torment increases, for this man is huge, and I am dry and unready. He fucks me hard, indifferent to my pain, or eager for it. I twitch beneath him as my gutted, strangling, burning bodies express their pain. I take the deepest breath I can take. The water flows up, over my mouth, my nose. My other body is just as strangled: unable to lift itself up to breathe, it gurgles softly and begins to die.
He fucks me harder, staring deep into my eyes. I know that he can see everything in those eyes: the last desperate moments of pain as I drown and strangle and die. My crucified bodies spasm and convulse horribly. I open my mouth wide, turn my head from side to side. It's unspeakable...
He sees the double death in my eyes, and pumps his load into me as he watches it. I shudder and gurgle as two of my bodies expire, and at last I am one.
I lay there in tears and in shock, unable to move, too traumatized to do anything. "That was great, baby," he whispers into my ear. "And just think, I can do that to you again anytime I want to. I just have to hook up a couple more Kerris to that beautiful positronic brain of yours, and we're ready to go again."
I'm too horrified to scream. Later I learn a new word, a word the mother-machine didn't teach me, a word for what the world outside the vat really is: hell.
"What we got is the latest thing. Vatgirls grown to your specs, around a networkable positronic brain."
"Come again?"
"Artificial telepathy. You can link their brains together. What one feels, they ALL feel, you get me? You see the possibilities?"
"Yeah, sure, I get it. But look. I mean, these girls...they aren't really human, right?"
Shrug. "What's human? We grow 'em in a vat, from the finest DNA."
"Yeah, but the brains...they're robotic, right?"
"Positronic."
"So they can't really feel pain, right?"
Shrug again. "Who cares? EEG, alpha waves, all that shit, reads the same as human out to fifty decimals. When you hear 'em scream, believe me, you won't know the difference."
"What about personality?"
"Personality?"
"I like a girl with personality."
Sigh. "You're a character. They come with a basic victim's persona. They can scream, beg, like that. Very convincing. They know how to fuck. You can talk to them, ask them questions. They'll respond. Intellectually, they're twelve year-old girls, which for your purposes is perfect. They scare real easy. You want to talk Heidegger with 'em, we can load up a nice program on existentialism."
"Can you program one of them to act as the torturer?"
"Yeah, sure, no problem."
"OK, I'm sold. I'll try it."
"That's great. You got your own specs, or you want to try a prefab model? Here are some of our most popular ones: the Cindy, the Jo..."
"How about this one here?"
"The Kerri? Yeah, she's good. How many you want?"
"Two networked, and another outside the circuit, running the torture program. Say, can I switch the torturer into the circuit if I want?"
"No problem. We'll fix you up with a code phrase. Anything else we can do for you?"
"Can't think of anything."
"Pleasure doing business with you."
-----
They take me out of the vat, dry me off with soft fluffy things. After a moment's thought, I remember that these are called "towels." I smile and nod. My subliminal language lessons have worked well. The mother-machine has assured me that I now have all the words I'll ever need.
Being out of the vat is strange. I miss it, and I want to go back in. It's warm and wet and safe inside; out here the world is vast and strange. But the mother-machine has explained that I must leave now, to experience this world. I can't remain in her womb forever.
They give me strange garments to wear. I recall that they're known as "g-strings." The mother-machine taught me all about them (and also about bustiers, corsets, garter belts, stockings and push-up bras. This knowledge will be vital to me in the outside world.) I smile. I know how to put on these garments. I slip the green and white g-string onto one of my bodies. The red one is a little harder, because it has extra straps, but I figure it out. The spare straps go up from my waist, cross between my breasts, then snuggle up against my neck.
There is a mirror in the room, and I look at myselves in it. The mother-machine has told me that I am very beautiful, that men will want me. The g-strings cover the part of me that has so many names: cunt, twat, pussy, vagina. Men will want to insert themselves into that strange space, and I must always let them. The mother-machine was very specific about that.
They lead me out of the room, out of the building. I gasp in delight. I have never seen outside before. The sky is beautiful. It is the color called blue, and those must be clouds. I see a bird fly by and I let out a little cry of joy. It's all just like the mother-machine said it would be--and yet there's so much more here than any mere description could convey!
They lead me to a large object which I recall is called a "cross." The sight of it fills me with horror. I remember what I've learned about crosses.
Women are tortured to death on crosses.
No! It can't be! Desperately, I review my lessons. What do I know? I know how to talk. I know how to wear clothes. I know how to make love. I know how to be tortured. The mother-machine talked about torture a lot: how it feels, what to do, how to scream. She told me about being hanged, and stretched, and whipped, and branded, and gutted, and...crucified. But I never thought to ask her why...
I cry as they lift one of my bodies onto the cross. They choose the one with the green and white g-string. They bind my wrists to the crossbeam with thick rope. I breathe a sigh of relief: at least there are no nails. But then I remember my lessons: without nails it lasts much longer.
The rope digs into my wrists, and I wince. They lead my other body to a large glass tank which stands next to the cross. Inside this tank is another cross. They open a door in the tank; we step through. They put me up on the cross, tying my wrists tightly. I feel the pain much more clearly now that the rope is cutting into all four of my wrists. They leave, sealing the glass door behind them. I'm alone now.
The tank begins to fill with water. I whimper softly. I can see steam coming off the water; it's very hot. I recall that the best water for torture is water that is not quite boiling.
Someone is approaching my other body, the one outside the tank. I gasp, astonished. She looks exactly like me! She must be another vat-grown Kerri! And yet she isn't part of the neural network that connects my two bodies. She looks like me, but she's isn't me.
She has no g-string; she's naked. She has something in her hand--a "bullwhip." She raises it, aims for my belly, and strikes. I scream, inside the tank and out. Pain blazes in my belly. Looking down, I see an angry pink welt starting to rise on my flesh. The other Kerri raises her whip again, and sets another mark parallel to the first. I howl, twisting on my crosses.
My instinct tells me that I should be able to command that body to stop whipping me, and yet it isn't so. She is a Kerri, but she is not of this Kerri, and so I must use words. I open my mouth, try to form a plea. My words echo strangely off the steamy glass walls. I realize that in my pain and confusion I've used the wrong mouth. I force myself to calm down, try again. This time I open the right mouth, the one outside. "Please," I sob. "Oh, please, don't hurt me!"
"Shut up, cunt," the whip-Kerri says. Her lash falls hard across my naked nipple. I convulse in agony.
I try again. "Please, look at me! I'm a Kerri, just like you! How can you hurt me like this?"
"It's my nature," the Kerri replies, and lashes my other nipple. Pain blazes in my full, firm breasts.
Now the whip-strokes fall like rain. She whips my thighs, my belly, and especially my breasts. Large and round to begin with, they soon swell far beyond their original size. They are lavish with bright red whipping sores. A little blood trickles out of the nipples.
I'm amazed at the cruelty of the whip-Kerri. I could never hurt somebody the way she does, especially not somebody who looked just like me. The lessons she received from the mother-machine must have been very different from mine.
I feel a vast and inescapable heat beneath my toes. Looking down, I see that the water has almost reached my feet. Inside the tank, I twitch as the whip falls on my outside body. Outside, I prepare myself to be boiled alive.
The searing pain hits me with unimaginable force. I howl in wild and desperate agony. It hurts more than anything I've ever experienced. It's not quite hot enough to cook me, but almost.
The torture-Kerri steps back, leaving me alone with my pain for a while. Trembling on my crosses, I whimper as the water slowly rises around me. I still feel throbbing pain from the breast-whipping, of course. I decide I don't like having two bodies, because all the pain is doubled.
The water comes up to my knees and stops. For a long time nothing else happens. Inside the tank, my calves boil; outside, my breasts blaze with whipping sores. I notice another pain, more subtle: a stiffness, creeping from my wrists up through my arms, to my shoulders. I recall that it can take a woman days to die of crucifixion. The stiffness grows, and with it the pain, until at last she can't breathe and she dies.
The sun is low in the sky--that means it's afternoon now--when the torture-Kerri returns. She has exchanged her whip for a cattle prod. I close my eyes, but I forget to close my other eyes. I can still see, a little bit, through the fogged-over glass walls of the tank. She raises the prod towards my breasts, my nipples. She knows how sensitive those nipples are; after all, they're identical to hers. The prod touches a stiff red flesh node, and my world explodes with a new anguish. My lips work soundlessly; it hurts too much to scream. My bodies twitch and convulse as the electric agony ripples through them. The torture-Kerri cycles through an intricate series of voltages, amperages, durations. She plays my tits like a musical instrument. The prod flies back and forth from one nipple to the other, sharing the pain between these two breasts, sharing it also with the two in the tank.
Through a haze of agony I realize that the water is rising again. It reaches my thighs, bringing vast new pains, and stops once more.
The torture-Kerri leaves me like that for the night, half-immersed in near-boiling water, my whip-sore tits still resonating from the electric torment of the prod.
-----
By morning I'm having trouble breathing. The pain has spread from my shoulders into my chest; it's increasingly difficult to fill my lungs. I comfort myself with the thought that I'm unlikely to survive another day.
The water rises again, and I nearly lose consciousness as it touches my g-string. It spreads quickly through the fabric, and the tender flesh of my cunt feels its deadly embrace. The torture-Kerri has returned, this time with a branding iron. Though I know it's futile, I beg her not to use it on me. She smiles wickedly, and presses the brand into my belly. Red pain fills my vision. She holds the brand there until I'm about to pass out, then mercifully removes it. She brands me in several places: my thighs, my breasts. I hear the sizzle of my cooking meat; I smell my flesh roast.
The water flows over my belly, rises towards my breasts. My legs kick weakly. My breathing is shallow, labored. The crucifixion is doing what it's supposed to do. None of the other tortures, however elaborate, can distract me from the fact that I'm strangling to death on these crosses.
The torture-Kerri returns with a long knife, and I know why. She opens my belly from sternum to crotch. My guts pour out eagerly onto the ground, as if they had been trying to escape all along. I'm left with a vacant, steaming belly and a great deal of pain. The scalding water flows over my naked breasts, and I sob helplessly as it caresses my tender, sensitive nipples. My breasts have had all they can take, and more: whipping, shocks and now this. The agony is shared between two bodies, but it's all breast pain, and it's all mine. I cry at the horrible injustice of it.
I can barely breathe at all now. The water has nearly reached my neck. The torture-Kerri stands back to admire her work. A man appears, and speaks to her: "Lay down, so I can fuck you." She complies immediately. He slips easily into her body. He glances up at my suffering bodies, then down at her face. "I love you," he says, and suddenly I am three!
Sharing the pain with a third body in no way diminishes it. In fact, my torment increases, for this man is huge, and I am dry and unready. He fucks me hard, indifferent to my pain, or eager for it. I twitch beneath him as my gutted, strangling, burning bodies express their pain. I take the deepest breath I can take. The water flows up, over my mouth, my nose. My other body is just as strangled: unable to lift itself up to breathe, it gurgles softly and begins to die.
He fucks me harder, staring deep into my eyes. I know that he can see everything in those eyes: the last desperate moments of pain as I drown and strangle and die. My crucified bodies spasm and convulse horribly. I open my mouth wide, turn my head from side to side. It's unspeakable...
He sees the double death in my eyes, and pumps his load into me as he watches it. I shudder and gurgle as two of my bodies expire, and at last I am one.
I lay there in tears and in shock, unable to move, too traumatized to do anything. "That was great, baby," he whispers into my ear. "And just think, I can do that to you again anytime I want to. I just have to hook up a couple more Kerris to that beautiful positronic brain of yours, and we're ready to go again."
I'm too horrified to scream. Later I learn a new word, a word the mother-machine didn't teach me, a word for what the world outside the vat really is: hell.
Multithreaded operation, multithreaded cruel torture, technological progress doesn't always bring good things, does it?