Put the Poet on Mute

“You are riding Route 173. The next stop is Kerrangee and State. Dear passengers! The Transit Authority reminds you to remember to take your belongings with you when leaving the bus. If you find any abandoned items, please do not touch them and inform your driver or call…”

There was a blinding, split-second flash. Thunder ripped through the sky somewhere too close for comfort; it drowned both the number to call and the angry signaling right outside the window. Countless cars jammed the opposite side of the road, among them a few trailers lined up one after another; the leading one bore a massive decal depicting the American flag painted across a blue-sky backdrop.

The sky on the decal looked nice, Rolf thought. Blue. It's been what, a week since he'd last seen blue like that? The weather has been atrocious: non-stop rain with occasional bouts of fine hail, piercing northern winds; sometimes – a thick, frozen, dirty fog in the morning. The storm seemed a culmination, Mother Nature's final word for the moment: she's scolded the city, she's punished it, she didn't think it beneath herself to break some trees and rip some power lines. Witness her anger! The lightning strikes are the sparks thrown by her metal whip; the dark clouds overhead are her furrowed brows; the angry sea out west is nothing but… water, perhaps… water swirling in her cup… or, maybe, roiling in her teapot?

Cheap banalities, all that. These weren't the words Rolf was looking for. No spark in those, for sure; only dull, beat-up cliches and barely formed ideas. It wasn't even a real storm: just a bit of thunder with occasional gusts of wind. He pressed his face tight against the window of the bus, squinting, trying to see something that would scare him, kick him into high gear, force him to think, to speak, to get the words out from where – he knew, or, at this point, he might have just hoped – they lay dormant within him.

“Maybe I should be out there,” he thought, staring at the water droplets drawing wet paths down the glass. “Maybe I need to get soaked, stand under a tree…”

That sort of thing never worked for him in the past. But he was out of options. Abigail had been calling every day; at first he didn't pick up because he was ashamed to admit he didn't have anything ready, later – because he was scared of her. Abigail could be way more terrifying than Mother Nature. Abigail could tell him they weren’t going to renew with him. In his imagination, she'd make a show of it – she'd rip the contract right next to the mic, she'd crumple what remained and throw it into the nearest bin… and – just like that! – so much more would go poof. He'd stop riding the 173, for one. Nothing left for him at the end of that line.

Rolf sighed. Self-pity was addictive. It was a dark and deep well, he knew, and he'd long learned there were no words to be found at the bottom.

***

There'd been five more stops after Kerrangee and State before it was time to disembark. Lightning didn't strike again. The sky was only getting darker, though, the clouds swelling with lead.

(Another cliche. Was there something better than lead? Clouds filling with iron? Pig iron, for something vaguely occult-themed? Clouds swelling with gold, if he'd ever wanted to pull up the myth of Midas, reshaped into something new? Clouds swelling with – no, looking like – that gray foam that he sometimes saw construction workers use… or maybe he could just use cement, yes, that would work too, and there's a parallel with acid rain – isn't cement caustic?)

There was something to it, he thought. Something to latch onto and pull until he got an entire line out, maybe a whole verse. The cement, surely. The cement, caustic and dense and ugly, and so drab and gray. Cement clouds lining the ceiling in a giant subway station. Cement clouds as a contradiction: cement ruins everything nice about clouds, takes away every aspect of cloudness. Cement clouds spraying acid rain on people who'd never left that station…

The bus came to a halt. The doors opened into a wall of rain. He stepped out, immediately pulling his head into his shoulders and opening up his umbrella – a foldable, flimsy little thing. It creaked. He was hoping it would at least protect his sweater.

Then he cursed again. No, no, it didn't work. Cement was alkaline. He could not remember who told him that, but… not acidic. Someone would call it out if it ever made it to print.

Stupid.

(Does alkaline rain work? Caustic rain? Lye rain?)

He awkwardly ran, his thoughts swiftly shifting from word-hunting to what he would do the moment he stepped into his apartment. The umbrella held; it was only his pant legs that got wet. He would change. Shower – a very quick one, sure, but he had to, sometimes the words came to him there. A snack. Then – hunt. Hunt more, hunt relentlessly, because they are out there. He'd made it big one time, he could do it again, Abigail knew it and she'd never made mistakes. (Before, an unwanted little voice remarked. She'd never made mistakes before.)

He should have just told her before they finalized the timeline. Should have admitted he was in a bit of a rut. Just didn't have it in him. Abigail was so good at writing out her calendar for months to come, so efficient, so prudent. Telling her “I think I can't” would have spoiled it all.

Rolf turned from the sidewalk onto the dirt road leading to his house. He ran up to the porch, stomped up the steps, pulled out his key, fumbled it – the rain was still getting to him, thrown around by gusts of wind, leaking through the shabby roof over the porch. The lock felt scratchier than usual; the way it clicked wasn't right, either, it was way too loud, and Rolf briefly wondered if he should call the police over a suspected break-in. But he was in one of his nothing matters moods, and so he figured that if someone did break in, they would be long gone, having realized there's nothing to take.

Another gust of wind, another portion of rain hitting his buttocks. Cursing again, Rolf opened the door and pushed it inside, leaning into it with his shoulder. The door swung open.

There was a soft crackle. He barely managed to catch sight of the wrongness before he fell, his ears immediately filling with static.

***

Rolf fell.

He caught a snapshot of what was below him: a flat, polished surface in a rectangular pattern, nothing like the old, scuffed tiles by his own front door. He didn't get a better look, because he closed his eyes. He was in freefall. He was so surprised he didn't even make a sound until he hit the floor; at least he had the presence of mind to wrap his arms around his head. And even then, all he could muster was a shocked, drawn-out “wha-a-a-t?”

His eyes and body disagreed on the scale; the former estimated he'd fallen a few stories, the latter insisted it was no worse than tumbling off a bicycle. Peculiar.

He cautiously opened his eyes. His mind was trying to make some sense of what had just happened: was he so distraught he walked up to the wrong house? Did he stumble? Did someone push him? All nonsense: he knew it was his residence, he didn't hear anyone walking up, and he distinctly remembered using his own key without anything looking to be out of order. A minute ago. And yet…

No, this wasn't his house; in fact, this could not be a house at all. The polished hardwood floor he fell on had the widest grain he'd ever seen and the largest slabs of wood to boot. Warm sunlight flooded the room through immense windows built into formidable beige walls; they stretched so far up that the place felt a little like a cathedral. A cool draft blew over him; his teeth clattered, and he suddenly felt angry at the fact that since this decidedly was not his house, he could not take his wet pants off. They clung unpleasantly to his shins.

There was more – there was a dresser, and an overloaded shoe rack, and a few framed pictures on the walls, and a shiny mirror with a thin golden rim, and a few coat hangers, and a neat doormat just behind him – except all of it was way too big to be of any use. It felt a little like a movie set. Surely, he'd know if his house was converted into a movie set. Was this a prank?

But this was impossible, he realized, as he stared, confused, at the oversized foyer. This straight up would not fit. None of it would, his house had two stories above ground, it just would not work.

“Creepy,” he thought.

If this ended up being his house, then this was some real-life House of Leaves crap. There'd been days in his life when he'd be intrigued by such a mystery, but today was not one of those days. He had to sit down and work. Churn out poetry. Hunt those words down.

He coughed – he really felt cold now – and looked down at the floor. That massive grain again. He squinted at it, crouched, and ran his fingers across the lacquered surface. It felt real. Felt the way it should.

And how the hell did they cut out planks in this size? Each one was as long as he was tall. What lumber is this?

He scratched the back of his head. It was then that he heard a distant explosion of laughter. He almost jumped, shivers running down his spine. “This is a dream,” he decided as he slowly started walking deeper into the house; he heard more then, muffled voices, a bit more laughter. Feminine, he thought. Rolf couldn't remember the last time he'd had a woman in his house, all the more proof to the dream hypothesis. “I am conscious in a dream,” he repeated to himself.

Unfortunately, his bruised elbow disagreed. It hurt. For real.

Alternatives, though, were all far more fantastic than the whole thing being a dream. Nothing else held up to scrutiny. Nothing else made any sense, no matter how much he could try to rationalize it. Nothing else…

(Glasses clinking; someone laughs again; her laughter is the contagious kind, sharp, catchy, childishly pure. The kind you want to laugh along with, even if you're cold, wet, and really confused).

The foyer turned into a wide corridor; the abundance of paintings and little trophy shelves told him that the owner – if there was an owner – was a loaded show-off. He kept close to a wall, and so couldn't see the trophies on those shelves that were right above his head, but he could make out a few on the opposite side. One was shaped like crossed swords wrapped together with a ribbon; another one – like a stylized, sharp-winged dragonfly. He couldn't read the inscriptions; some were too far, at least one was in a language he was not familiar with, abundant with the letters s and z.

The corridor had doors. The first one was closed, and he had no hope of reaching the handle; he didn’t notice any other mechanism to open it.

(Maybe there wasn't one for him to use. Maybe he should have accepted the obvious; that he was simply shrunk in a foreign home, magically transported there through his own door. That seemed the most logical explanation of the reality he observed; trouble is, at that point you might as well accept that this is just a ridiculous dreamscape).

He tried to peek under the door but didn’t’ see anything of note. The voices were louder now, but he'd have to get closer if he wanted to make anything out. So he did; in another twenty steps there was a second door, this one slightly ajar, yet the room behind it was empty, seemingly a storage room or a closet repurposed for the storage of household cleaning products. There was a sharp, chemical odor there; something wasn't closed tight.

It was the next door; he could tell now. Each step brought him closer. He could eavesdrop, now, except that he wanted to meet the people there and introduce himself; after all, if this was all real, he would need help, and if it was not, he could do anything he pleased. So he ran; helped him to warm up a little, too.

“...so what's that one meant to be, Pani Bartosz?” An excited, giddy, obviously drunk voice.

“It's a clitsucker,” someone said authoritatively. Lower, more confident, with a snappy quality to it. Rolf had to do a double take: did he hear that correctly? “See, it works like this…”

“What the fuck,” Rolf wondered. He got a little closer. He still wanted to come in and introduce himself, but that one line from “Pani Bartosz” made it a lot more awkward. It wasn't even crazy enough to chalk it up to the dream scenario; it was just weird.

He had an idea. “Hey!” he exclaimed, trying to sound a lot more confident than he was feeling. “Excuse me! Is anyone there?”

It didn't seem like anyone heard him. Ms. Contagious Laughter was laughing again; it was silvery, he thought, light and silvery, like the tinkling of an elegant chain necklace.

“So how good is it,” he overheard the first woman again.

“Bella, it's a specialized product. It's always going to outdo a jack of all trades, unless that jack is well-trained in the one important trade,” Pani Bartosz replied. Something clicked for Rolf; it was pani, not Pani, it was a title, or just a weird address thing. Something Eastern-European. Polish? Lithuanian? He wasn't aware of any families from that area in his neighborhood.

Which, perhaps, wasn't relevant anymore.

“Oh! So you like it?”

“Girl…” Click of the tongue.

Rolf made the corner.

They were there. He wasn't sure what he expected; he’d been clinging to the hope that the whole thing was masterfully engineered, method and purpose equally insane. That wasn't the case.

The room around the corner was just as giant as the rest of the house: there was a towering coffee table, its glass top littered with items he couldn't immediately discern and those he could, like a few elegant wine glasses, candy wrappers, phones, purses. A low leather couch flanked the table; a little further, there was a beanbag the size of a hot air balloon; finally, someone moved a chair to stand opposite the couch, in front of the TV screen, dark at that moment. Three options for seating arrangements; three women. He could barely see anything of the one lying on the couch: only her dark hair strewn out across a headrest. The girl in the beanbag was a bit lighter, her hair shorter; a heart-shaped face framed by a sharp, angular pixie-cut, a wine glass in her hand, her eyes focused on the third woman. This third one – the one who clicked her tongue, he could tell, she was now playfully dangling her slipper – had a very fair complexion, her hair the color of dry hay. There was a vague sense of threat in how she sat on that chair. The way she raised her shoulders a bit, the way her muscle tone was visible… she was like a taut spring, Rolf thought, ready to shoot out any moment. (Or, perhaps, she was like a wild cat, a large cat, a puma; he couldn’t decide which cliché is worse). As a cherry on top, her nose had obviously been broken before. “Wish I could see the other guy,” he thought.

“...I do. It is remarkable.” Her rolled r's were giving her away: she must have been that pani Bartosz.

“Do they… come in different sizes?”

“Not the ones I have here,” she said, glancing down. Rolf froze, thinking she was about to notice him; he was, after all, the height of a chihuahua, hardly difficult to spot. But she missed him. There was a rectangular plastic storage crate next to a table leg; it was full of dark objects, but the plastic wasn't nearly transparent enough for him to get a good look. “Different brands, though. Try one!”

The wine-drinking woman laughed, raising a palm to her mouth. Her laugh was unpleasant, shrill and repetitive; a second later, the lady on the couch joined in, and now he could definitively assign that silvery, musical giggle he'd heard before.

It struck Rolf that it was probably time to make his entrance. He didn't want to perv on women who were obviously engaged in the exact kind of conversation men aren't supposed to be privy to. Still, he lingered at the door, pressing himself against the doorframe. Rolf couldn't forget the jolt of panic that shot through him when Bartosz glanced sideways. He needed help – and yet he was afraid of being discovered.

They would have good reason to be angry at him, he thought. He trespassed – even if he had no idea how he'd got here. He eavesdropped – without having any choice, but he did. And he was tiny. Fantastically so. Half a foot tall, at best. That wouldn't be a cause for anger, but it brought a sense of insecurity he couldn't easily overcome. The women were giant. Massive. His self-preservation instinct screamed at him to get away from them until he could figure out a good way to explain his presence. Right now, he didn't even know how to ask for help. Sure, at least they all spoke the same language – but what would he say? Take me to the doctor? To Abigail? To mom?

“Get your shit together,” he whispered to himself. No, standing here was still stupid. Incredibly so. What was he going to do, wait it out? He needed help. Doesn't matter they are giant, doesn't matter that it's awkward to interrupt them…

Gulping, Rolf pushed off the doorframe and advanced into the room. Ahead, miss Bartosz pulled another item out of the plastic box; it was a massive, black dildo, so excessively humongous and textured that Rolf instantly regretted seeing it. The woman waved in the air – back and forth, back and forth – which elicited another little explosion of giggles from both of her friends.

The girl on the couch finally said something.

“Have you ever played Cyberpunk two thousand seventy seven?”

“Huh?” The blonde stopped, cocking her head. Rolf stubbornly walked forward, expecting them to notice him at any moment. They didn't.

“There's a unique weapon,” the girl on the couch said. “I forget the name. It's a dildo.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Lorelei.”

“No, I am serious. It's a bludgeoning club, I think. You can get it if you screw the Militech woman… Bella, do you know what I am talking about?”

A resounding – albeit somewhat slurred – “Absolutely not!” came from the direction of the bean bag.

“So enlighten us,” Bartosz said.

“It's Sir John… ugh,” Lorelei said. Rolf has walked far enough in that he could see the woman now. She was wearing an oversized white hoodie and dark jeggings. Shorter than the other two, she fit on the couch with her legs stretched out. Her round face bore a very thoughtful expression. A shiny earring glistened in the one ear he could see; a many-faced stone in a casing of polished brass. “It's on the tip of my tongue, I swear.”

Bartosz snickered.

“What was it again? Cyberpunk?”

“Excuse me,” Rolf said. No one looked at him.

“Fuck you, Maria,” Lorelei said. “It's a weapon in the game. Indulge me, o greatest of fencers, if you had to fight with this thing, how would you do it?”

“Excuse me!” Rolf repeated, raising his voice.

This time, Lorelei noticed him. She squinted, then went wide-eyed in disbelief. Bartosz, though, was oblivious, and so was Bella.

“Sure thing,” the Slavic woman agreed, her voice a playful low roar. “Bella, stand up, I am going to whip you with a phallus.”

“Am I allowed a shield,” Bella inquired.

“Pick up a pillow.”

Lorelei pushed a couch pillow off the edge with her foot. She wasn't taking her eyes off Rolf. He quizzically stared back. She winked.

Bartosz went around the table. Bella stood up, rocking back and forth; she clutched the pillow in her hands. Bartosz slapped the dildo into the palm of her other hand; she grunted approvingly. “This is really a club,” she noted. “No fencing skills required. You just hit. Although,” she paused, “I guess there's an argument to try and poke, too. I’m gonna poke you, Bella. Slap you around a little. En garde.”

Bella lost it. Her hysterical laughter was interrupted by Bartosz gracefully lunged forward and drove the tip of the dildo into the pillow. Bella was forced back; she could barely hold onto her “shield”.

Rolf licked his lips, still feeling very extra. He cast a pleading gaze at Lorelei. “Please,” he mouthed. “I am lost, and tiny, I don't know how this all happened I really need help…”

She rolled off the couch and got closer to him on all fours; Rolf yelped and jumped back but she turned out to be faster – she reached out, her hand grabbing him across the torso. She squeezed. In an instant, his lungs were emptied of air. He placed his arms against her fingers and pushed, but her digits didn't even budge; Lorelei smirked at him, then pulled him in and stuffed him into the front pocket of her hoodie. She had to bend his legs to get it to work; to him, her hands felt unrelenting, merciless mechanisms capable of bending him into any shape rather than human appendages. His sense of danger was on high alert; this was not what he expected, not what he wanted at all! Rolf's chest still hurt, yet he tried to get a few words out – “please, don't, I just need help” – but Lorelei forced him into that cave of fabric, then pat down on top of it, forcefully flattening him against her belly; he could feel the warmth coming off.

If Rolf were a few inches shorter, she'd easily subdue him right there and then. But he was big enough to resist – and, in truth, he barely fit in there. He fought, trying to crawl out. The light was close, tantalizingly so. He would get back out and ask the other two for help; or, at the very least, convince her that she'd better…

The world moved. He felt his stomach sink back when she'd just picked him up, but this was worse, because the floor and ceiling changed positions in a second's time. Lorelei flipped herself, he realized, and…

…and she was on the couch again, except she was laying on her stomach, and Rolf ended up trapped in that pocket between her belly and the couch. He groaned, suddenly immobilized, trapped, smothered; sounds barely reached him at that point and no light came through. There was a faint odor to her hoodie; it was just a little stale, right at that point where it needed a good wash. Air was scarce.

“Sir John Phallustiff”, Lorelei mused. “That's what it was. Maria, you should take this thing to your next tournament, or whatever it is you do.”

“Can't, pretty sure it would count as excessive violence. I would be disqualified.”

“And tempted to finish your opponents off with proper assfucking?”

“That's what I meant. Bella, stop that, will you?”

“You've bruised my finger!”

“Tough luck. Anyhow, as you can see, this thing doubles as a weapon. I will be honest, I like their X3 series more, it's a little less, uhh, unyielding. I like a little yield.”

“I yield, pani Bartosz!”

“I am not even doing anything anymore. Get back to your beanbag. There you go…”

“You know, Maria,” Lorelei mused, “all of this crap is fit for a grandma.”

“Excuse me?”

“I like a little yield,” Lorelei teased. “Girl, these days they make things that feel real. One thing you never realize until you pay attention is that actual cock, actual guys go back and forth during sex, sometimes harder, sometimes softer, it's, like, oscillating back and forth. A modern sex-toy can replicate this stuff, and you can pre-program it to your preferences, you can even launch a learning function, synthetic reward systems associated with reaching orgasm… It all feels so much better.”

“This your “cyberpunk” crap again,” Bartosz inquired. She had that manner of asking questions in a deadpan, affirmative intonation. “Lorelei, you should go outside a little more often.”

“No, I am serious. And have you seen the androids?”

“What?”

Lorelei moved. Rolf cried as she lifted herself onto her side and fished him out of the hoodie pocket. He felt weak, tired; like her weight had flattened him some and he needed time to recover. Rolf didn't even fight it when she triumphantly hoisted him up in the air, her fingers once again tightly curled around his torso. She wore a natural polish, he noticed. “There, Maria. Look. Seen these?”

These? he wondered. There's more like me?

But that wasn't what she meant.

“Ho-holy shit I've seen these,” Bella said from the beanbag. She was slurping wine out of her glass again. “They-they creep me out, like what if he bites, did he ever bite you?”

“No.”

“What is that,” Maria said.

“You really don't know?”

“Sorry. I don't have time to read LatestTechieJunk during all the winning I am doing.”

“Point taken,” Lorelei nodded, her voice suddenly sweet. “This is a toy, obviously.”

“No!” Rolf managed to get out.

“As you can see,” Lorelei continued, “it's perfectly sized, and it's far more capable than a vibrator.”

“But it's shaped like a guy,” Maria pointed out. “Isn't that weird?”

“It's amazing,” Lorelei said. “You won't believe what it can do. And the feeling!..”

“I am not a toy!” Rolf cried out. “My name is…” But she squeezed her fingers, inching them a little higher this time, and his voice choked out as air was squeezed out of his lungs again.

Maria Bartosz bit her lip.

“It's making sounds,” she said. “Doesn't sound too happy.”

“Because it's more fun that way,” Lorelei said. She brought Rolf around to her face, suddenly looming in front and a little above him. There was no contempt in her expression; just a tiny, mad, drunken glint in her eye.

“So yeah,” Lorelei let out and giggled in that same silvery, tinkling laugh that he was so enamored with earlier. He thought it devilish now. “It's quite interesting to, you know, push it in. There's always a struggle, but you're gonna win, obviously, and then…” She clicked her tongue.

“P-please…”

“Silence,” she said, casually giving him a shake. “The women are talking, toy.”

“I am a hu-”

She brought her other hand and gave him a light flick to the face.

“You're quite mean to that thing,” Maria said. “So it's an android?”

“Yep. That's the current day tech. The cutting edge, so to speak.” Lorelei enthusiastically nodded a few times, as if agreeing with herself. Bella followed suit, though it wasn't clear she still realized where she was. “Pretty cool, is it not?”

“Please, I-”

Another flick.

“You're gonna smash its face,” Maria said.

“I might bust a lip or break a nose,” Lorelei replied. “It bleeds very naturally. It's quite hot.”

By then, Rolf's hopes were largely crossed out. He didn't speak again, just hanging in her hand and hoping that Bartosz would do something. Surely, she could just go on the internet and figure out tiny sex toy androids were not a thing?

(unless this was a parallel reality, and they were)

“Did you just say that's hot,” came from the direction of the beanbag.

Lorelei licked her lips. “Kinda,” she said. “Come on, don't look at me like that.”

“I mean, that's weird. Right, pani Bartosz?”

Maria was silent. She was thoughtfully rubbing her chin. Then, she reached towards the table and poured herself a glass of wine. Most of that was promptly sent into her mouth.

“There's gotta be a reason you've brought this here,” she finally said.

“Sure is,” Lorelei said. “I hear about all the bank you're making swinging medieval weaponry around. Thought this might interest you. A treat.”

“Why wouldn't I get a new one, then.”

“Go look up the prices, I'll wait,” Lorelei said smugly.

“But this is… used stock, is it not?”

“You want to take a look?”

Rolf's head was thrown back so hard he thought his neck would break. He struggled again, more so for the sake of showing resistance than out of any hope of breaking free. Lorelei's fingers uncurled; Maria Bartosz's hands were there to catch him. They were different, he felt instantly. Stronger. Colder. There were calluses at the base of her fingers; not bad ones, she clearly looked after them, but noticeable. Her nails were well-cared for but trimmed short. There was a ring on her index finger, a dark gunmetal band. She accidentally brushed it against the side of his cheek, and he recoiled; the ring felt cold.

She examined him like one inspects a new kitchen tool; he could just as well be a can opener or a pair of tongs. She pulled his limbs apart, pinched at his thighs and shoulders, lightly squeezed his belly.

“Can it undress,” she wondered.

“Tell it to,” Lorelei suggested. “It might be a little reluctant, but that's the setting.”

“Can you change the setting?”

Lorelei glanced at him; her gaze was like a hot knife. Rolf – humiliated, hyperventilating, aching from Maria's unceremonious handling of him – decided to keep quiet until he could at least get out of Lorelei's sight.

“Not on this one,” Lorelei said. “That's part of why it was in the bargain bin. But if you don't like the reluctance…”

Maria smirked.

“Undress, then,” she said, giving him a tap on his head. “Don't make me rip all that off. I've got nothing to replace it with.”

“Please…”

“Lorelei, can it be put on mute for the moment?”

“Improvise, Maria!” A silvery giggle. Lorelei’s fingers aligned for another flick.

He felt tears coming to his eyes as he – hands shaking, jaw trembling, heart pounding – started to pull off his sweater. He tried to fold it and put it right next to him, but Bartosz flicked her finger, and it floated down to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Rolf noticed Bella in the background; the half-drunk woman was leaning out of her beanbag at an impossible angle, her eyes fixated on what was happening.

“Isn't that too freaky?” she said. “It looks too real. I wish they made it a little less human. Maybe make it blue, like an alien. R-right out of that cyberpunk Lorelei likes.”

“There isn't… Ah, whatever.”

“I disagree,” Maria said, looking at Rolf as he was pulling off his pants. “I think I prefer it this way. How human is it on the inside?”

“Like you wouldn't believe,” Lorelei said. “If you gore it, you can study anatomy.”

“I would not.”

“It's happened before. By accident, you know. People break them sometimes.”

“And what do I do then?”

“No warranty,” Lorelei said.

“Bargain bin. Right. This is a scrawny model.”

“They come in all shapes and sizes,” Lorelei said. “I prefer the bulkier ones, but, Maria, I remembered your twig of a boyfriend…”

“How observant. Jesus, it’s slow.”

The hands he was held in were suddenly in motion again; pinching, pulling, ripping away. His undershirt, his underwear, shoes – all went to the floor, strewn around like random trash. Rolf tried to curl up and shield his privates, but Bartosz forced him to lie flat across her palm, his legs hanging off the edge. She put two fingers on his thighs and spread them, taking a look.

“I don't know why you care,” Lorelei said. “You use the whole thing.”

“I was wondering about the details,” Bartosz replied. “Does that actually work?”

She prodded at his balls.

“The way this one's programmed,” Lorelei laughed, “you're not going to see much.”

In her own way, she was entirely correct. Rolf could hardly imagine a less arousing scenario, despite being naked and in the company of two attractive women. He felt like he'd just taken an ice bath. He closed his eyes, suddenly wishing to be back at the door to his house; in that exact instance when he'd known that something was wrong. He should have turned around, trusting his premonitions. He tried to curl up in shame again, and this time Bartosz didn't stop him – he pulled his knees to his chest and put his arms around them, trying desperately to keep himself from crying, gritting his teeth, quivering…

The world rolled again. His stomach sank as Maria's fingers clasped onto his form, now holding him like a misshapen, flesh-colored ball. She dropped her arm to hang along her side; Rolf was but a few feet away from the floor, and he could not look away from it. Maria's hand felt deceivingly relaxed; it felt like he could drop any moment. He gasped loudly multiple times in a row.

“How much,” Maria asked above.

Lorelei named a price. He wasn't familiar with either the unit or the currency, but at that point that didn't seem to matter.

“Are you really gonna take that,” Bella whined. “Can we get back to the normal toys? Like anal beads and dragon cocks? Do you really want anything squirming in there, pani Bartosz?”

“I want to try it out. What do you care?”

“No returns,” Lorelei interjected promptly.

“I'll try it out,” Maria repeated. “If I can't orgasm, I will put this thing to work. It can work, right? Labor?”

“Doing what,” Bella asked skeptically.

“I don't know. Cleaning my oven?”

There was a moment of silence.

“What? It's hard to reach in the corners inside.”

Throughout that exchange, her grip was getting tighter and tighter. And it shifted. Her fingers rubbed up and down his body in a possessive way. She didn't have to say anything to him; he felt the anticipation and curiosity in her touch – and, more than anything, the desire to own.

***

And own she would.

The friendly gathering ended in about an hour. Maria eventually sat down, but she didn't let go of Rolf; she let Bella rummage through her box of toys while absent-mindedly mashing her newest acquisition in her hands. He didn't try to talk to her; instead, he worked on a plan. He knew he would probably get just one shot at talking to her, and for that one shot he needed words. Not the sort of words he usually looked for. These would have to be concise. To-the-point. Convincing. “I am not a toy. I am a human. I don't know how I got here, nor where here is, but I really, really need your help. Please, just listen for a moment.”

It didn't feel like that would work. Perhaps he needed to up the drama a little. “Please, listen to me, it's a matter of life-and-death. Please, for the love of God, listen to what I have to say!”

Or even something absurd, something an android would never say. “Before you rape me” – oh, yeah, rape was a good word, a strong one, it was bound to stop a woman to think for a second – “before you rape me, can I have a shot of vodka?”

He even contemplated insulting her – “aren't you one ugly bitch” – but that carried the risk of getting punched with a dishwasher-sized fist. Still, it could have an effect. All he needed was a pause; a thoughtful wrinkle between her eyebrows, a break in her thoughts, a mental space to wedge into. He wasn't a toy. He needed help. He was a human, just like her…

But then the time to think was over. Lorelei helped Bella to the door. Maria patiently waited for her wasted friend to pull her shoes on; then the duo stomped out, the door locking behind them with a painfully familiar click. Rolf, dangling from Maria's hand, tried to get a peek outside; he caught a flash of a modern neighborhood with townhouses and sleek cars. Not his place, then.

I am not a toy. I am a real man who's fallen into a wrinkle in reality. Don't rape me.

The moment her friends were out, Maria turned on her heels and marched down the corridor – past the living room and onto a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. There was a carpet here; she kicked her slippers off at the top, her steps now silent. Her bedroom was a blur; he could tell it was messy, with a few drawers hanging wide open, a pile of dirty laundry in a corner, a dusty TV screen… then she let go of him, and, with a yelp, Rolf flew a few feet through the air to fall onto her bed.

He sat up. Maria was standing at the foot of the bed, furiously typing at her phone. Texting. Her face lit up; she smiled, and it was a gentle smile, the kind that one reserves for the loved ones. Then the smile disappeared. Her finger flicked at the screen dismissively.

Maria got out of her pants and climbed onto the bed, now wearing nothing but her panties and loose-fitting t-shirt. Her phone was in her hand. For a moment, her toned body arched over him. He caught a glimpse of her well-defined abs; marveled for a second at the wiry muscles moving under the skin of her limbs. Shivers ran down his spine again; her motions were far too determined. She had a plan.

She turned around and settled in her bed, stretching her legs out towards the corners; her free hand came at him, picked him up. Rolf squirmed this time; fiercely so. He squeezed a few words out:

“Please, listen to me!”

There was a glance from her.

“P-please,” he repeated. “M-maria, don't rape me.”

That was quiet. It was so quiet he'd barely heard himself.

“What?” she inquired. Her eyes looked dull, low on emotion, full of thirst. The eyes of an addict, he thought. She felt lustful, felt in the mood for some high-quality porn; there was no place between those eyes for him or his words, whether the concise ones or the poetry.

“Maria,” he repeated. “Please. I am a man not a toy. My name is Rolf I am-”

She flicked her wrist. There was a professional quality to that movement. A sense of control. She parried, he realized. His neck ached; he’d been thrashed around way too much today.

“No talking,” she said. “Not interested. Turn that off.”

“Maria, please listen-”

Another parrying flick.

“Sh-h-h,” she said.

“Please!”

She dropped him back onto the bed, then slammed her hand on top of him, pressing his face into the fabric of the comforter. He tried to address her again, but he could only produce unintelligible, muffled sounds. She forcefully pressed on the back of his head, then removed her hand – but before he could lift it, lift himself, she moved her thigh to rest on top of him. He heard an ominous sound: a low-pitched click-clacking of the digital keys on her smartphone.

A minute passed.

Then another one.

Then he heard more sounds. A wet slap. A series of moans. An exaggerated, intense, sultry sigh. All distorted by the mass of Maria's flesh resting on him, yet all perfectly recognizable. Porn, of course. The woman was watching porn.

It dawned on him that it was really happening. He was trapped in a parallel mad world, where he was half a foot tall, and no one listened to him. No one even recognized him as a human being; he still wasn't sure how much Lorelei believed when she pawned him off to Bartosz. Maybe runaway human-shaped sex toys were normal here. He was mistaken for one, he was gonna get used as one, and she had no intention of listening. Afterwards, maybe? During that serendipitous moment of perfect clarity, when the world appears as if through the surface of a pure, still pond; when thoughts calm down; when one feels the exhilaration of the most primal instincts getting sated; when the excitement for the wildest dreams is replaced by a hint of shame, with guilty pleasure thoroughly enjoyed, the craving, lustful beast within returning to its slumber…

Words.

He cursed to himself. He whimpered. Then the thigh moved; convulsed on top of him.

Maria relented just enough to pull him out; her fingers felt sweaty. She brought him over to the dark triangle of her panties, then awkwardly pulled them down with him still in her hand, Rolf’s head brushing against the bottom of her tummy. He got a clear view of her clean-shaven crotch. What little light fell into the room was enough to give away the glistening wetness, just a little streak, like the trail of a teardrop. Or a moonlit path across the sea at night.

Fear paralyzed his body but shocked his brain into action. Thoughts raced madly; he wished he could get lost in them. There was no escape from his reality; the woman was going to use him just the way she'd planned. Mad. The wildest thing he'd ever gotten around to before was going down on a girl, and that was only for a minute, and he didn't even like doing it very much. Now…

Another parry-flick. Far ahead, she dropped her phone; it rested awkwardly on her belly – and she reached for him with her other hand. Wordlessly – but in a hungry, hurrying manner – she pressed his legs together, pulled his arms up to his head; he didn't dare fight it, and he could only force out another meek, unheard “please”. Her hand dove towards her pussy to part her lips. She brought him down there, manipulated him, mashed his face into her clitoris – it seemed too large even given his diminutive size – and rubbed it around there for a second; the musky smell assaulting his nostrils, her dampness already soaking into his hair. Then, without warning, Maria rammed him in headfirst. Rolf went in with one last yelp.

It felt tight. Claustrophobic. Hot. The moist, muscular walls contracted around him, his skin immediately coated with the juices; some of it got into his eyes, and he tried to wipe them clean, but couldn't. She pulled him back out – the air of the room suddenly cold on his skin – then pushed him back in, now another inch deeper; she changed her grip to hold him by the thighs now. Maria repeated the thrust a couple more times, and each time her vagina swallowed a little more of him, until his head hit a wall – and he heard her let out an excited “o-oh”.

“Move!” she added then. She pulled him a bit out, pushed him in again. He screamed into the darkness, which was a mistake, because his mouth got flooded instantly; he inhaled, choked, convulsed. With his arms, he tried to push against the muscular, slick walls surrounding him; but he could barely move, so tightly she clamped on him. All around him, Maria clenched, the dark tunnel changing shape ever so slightly as she changed posture, pulling up her legs, moving, grinding, one hand on his legs (push-pull, push-pull, push! grind! press!) – and the other, he had no doubt, fiercely rubbing her clit.

She went at it.

It took a while.

***

When she pulled him out – all the way out – his senses were still on fire. His heart felt heavy, aching; his lungs burned. He hungrily swallowed air. He tried to wipe his eyes, but, before he could do that, Maria jumped off the bed, turning his world into a messy blur once again. He thought he'd vomit, but, miraculously, he held it back. Didn't piss himself, either. A bleak point of pride for a man so crudely used.

She walked over to the bathroom and stuck him under the tap. The base of the tap was clean, shiny chrome; he saw his reflection, battered, bruised, red-eyed. Then Bartosz turned the water on. It was cold; he wriggled weakly in her grip as she forcefully spread him out to rinse him clean. She picked up a bar of soap, too, slathered her hands in it and slathered him too, giving him a proper, but utterly uncaring scrub.

“Pretty good,” she said. “They've done well, huh.”

“I'm real,” he whimpered. “Am. Real. Rolf. My name is Rolf.”

“Sure thing, Real Rolf,” Bartosz said and winked. “Real good. Fuck, that's brilliant. Let's go.”

She walked back into her room and looked around, with him once again dangling from her hand. Then, with an “a-ha” sound, she knelt next to one of her drawers and pulled it out. Inside, he saw a few toys; painfully familiar shapes. The things he was meant to replace. Because he was a new favorite.

“There,” she said. “I gotta go get the rest of that stuff…”

She dropped him in and shut the drawer, leaving him in darkness. He heard her steps as she walked away: quiet, soft thuds. Then she was gone.

“A man turned function,” Rolf thought. “An object of her desire. No. An object for her desire. Transformed in her eye via the power of lie, misshapen through delusion. Such was his fate. No escape. She doesn't hear the words. The words are meaningless. I am no more.”

Later, she came back and dumped the rest of that plastic box into the same drawer. He didn’t try to talk to her.

***

Maria Bartosz kicked the drawer shut. She put on a bath robe, went out of her bedroom and down towards the kitchen. On her way, she glanced at the mess in the living room, scoffed at the amount of cleaning she’d have to do – but left it for later. Once in the kitchen, she made herself a coffee and sat down by the window.

She pulled out her phone and did a few naïve web searches.

Lorelei’s thing was spectacular, she thought. Her pussy still throbbed a little, in a pleasant, slightly pulling way. She could definitely go again. Maybe she would, she mused. But later. It’s like a good song. Don’t just put it on repeat, you’ll get tired of it. Extend the pleasure. Everything gets old at some point.

Even if it’s hard to imagine this thing getting old. The way it squirmed! The way it fought, not strong enough to hurt her or escape, but so pleasantly resistant – until a certain point, when it could not resist anymore! It was an amazing pattern, she thought, and if Lorelei was to be believed, then the whatever-learning algorithms would make this thing perform even better after a few times.

She was curious about care, of course. The basics. Just how human-like is the thing? Browsing, she realized she should’ve asked Lorelei what brand this was. Because there were a lot of options. Some were bigger, some were smaller, some were more specialized. Charming!

Maria closed the tab. She was still a little buzzed from the wine earlier. She knew herself well enough to know not to browse tempting online storefronts when buzzed.

Still. The sensations! She closed her eyes as she drank her coffee. Yeah, maybe she could go again. Would have to wash up for the second time, but that’s no biggie. She’s got the entire evening to herself. Efram won’t be back for another week. Plenty of time to explore.

She opened her phone again, went to incognito mode and went back to the video she’d stopped. “Maybe if I can find another good one,” she decided, licking her lips.