Read Online Programmed for Peril by C. K. Cambray - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. K. Cambray
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languidly toward the control unit. Let the current flow!
See me! A model lover for the Third Millennium. Do not bother me with flesh, blood, or heart and their intricate demands. I am a Don Juan of electric current, transistor, acetate, silver salts, and chrome oxide. A Casanova for long-dead ladies clustered for the lens on the porches of summer cottages fallen now to anty ruin. I press my lips to faces on yellowing high school crush squeegees (“To the next president of GM”). To porn queens and staple-naveled nubile nakeds I offer seminal tribute. Neither their names nor my involvement are real. To images and illusions only do I give my seed. Shall I compare thee to a laser ray? I do not love you, Queen of My Heart! Your real flesh and soul are Carson’s. I love only what the tools of illusion and my own imagination have fabricated from the meager materials of your surface and shadow.
Even such a limited adoration did not begin to bar his increasing arousal, flogged as it was by rewinds, repeats, freeze frames, and the rising stimulation of the whiz-bangs. Ultimately, behind closed lids he paraded with Queen of My Heart in acts bearing names spoken only in locker rooms and in spasms of passion. He shared with her positions attainable only by fakirs. He soared up, up, up in the balloon of his expert fantasies. Oh, Queen... Queen... Queen of My Heart!
I will never dare to love you.
After repeating his performance twice more he had hoped to sink back, sweaty and spent, into sleep.
It wasn’t to be.
Earthquake Anger again smoldered deep within, linked to his self-abusive passion as inviolably as smoke to black powder detonation. He tried to resist it. He was weary. But it reared up mightily, thrust a grunt through his dry lips. He thrashed on the bed, raised palms trying to drive off the first swells of rage. How could... she dare run away from Carson? Steal his child? He groaned loudly. He hadn’t the will to resist the dark wellings of primal emotion. He sat up, tore off the whiz-bangs, now as loathed as leeches. He flung himself to his feet, smeared and panting. His first howl echoed loudly in the small room. He whirled, fists balled. Even the rising waves of rage couldn’t submerge his admiration for Carson’s foresight.
He had insisted Champ include his mended Siege Restraint in the move.
He howled again. The sound even to his ear carried the timbre of a beast stalking the night forest. He flung himself into the heavy chair and busied himself with thick Velcro straps. Spit flew from his mumbling mouth.
“Awrrrrrooooooowwww!”
6
TRISH DIDN’T HAVE A WEIGHT PROBLEM. IT WAS ALL right to go into Estrella and order two ricotta pies to have with her morning coffee. So they were a little heavy. But they were good! Mario was behind the counter, bent and thin, always with a trace of gray stubble on his cheeks. The heat of the place didn’t seem to bother him. She had gathered from their brief conversations that he had not long ago been homeless. He was most grateful to fellow-Italian Dino for hiring him. Dino said he had been in a hurry to open up three months ago. He had hired the codger on impulse. Trish had smiled inwardly. Never let it pass brash Dino’s lips that he had done Mario a favor.
Mario put the two pies in a small white box and tied them with string. “Next week we’re putting in an air conditioner. So it won’t be so hot in here, you know?” His grin showed—count ’em!—three missing basic teeth. The survivors had the look of fangs.
She knew Mario slept on a cot back with the mixers and ovens and sometimes helped Dino bake. He played watchman in exchange for a bed. A win-win. Onto her box he stuck something. Oh! A smiley face sticker.
He winked at her. “Special customer that means.”
“What’s special about me? I only come in here once in a while-”
“It ain’t what you buy, Trish. It’s how you look.”
She could still redden. “Mario!”
His fangy grin
See me! A model lover for the Third Millennium. Do not bother me with flesh, blood, or heart and their intricate demands. I am a Don Juan of electric current, transistor, acetate, silver salts, and chrome oxide. A Casanova for long-dead ladies clustered for the lens on the porches of summer cottages fallen now to anty ruin. I press my lips to faces on yellowing high school crush squeegees (“To the next president of GM”). To porn queens and staple-naveled nubile nakeds I offer seminal tribute. Neither their names nor my involvement are real. To images and illusions only do I give my seed. Shall I compare thee to a laser ray? I do not love you, Queen of My Heart! Your real flesh and soul are Carson’s. I love only what the tools of illusion and my own imagination have fabricated from the meager materials of your surface and shadow.
Even such a limited adoration did not begin to bar his increasing arousal, flogged as it was by rewinds, repeats, freeze frames, and the rising stimulation of the whiz-bangs. Ultimately, behind closed lids he paraded with Queen of My Heart in acts bearing names spoken only in locker rooms and in spasms of passion. He shared with her positions attainable only by fakirs. He soared up, up, up in the balloon of his expert fantasies. Oh, Queen... Queen... Queen of My Heart!
I will never dare to love you.
After repeating his performance twice more he had hoped to sink back, sweaty and spent, into sleep.
It wasn’t to be.
Earthquake Anger again smoldered deep within, linked to his self-abusive passion as inviolably as smoke to black powder detonation. He tried to resist it. He was weary. But it reared up mightily, thrust a grunt through his dry lips. He thrashed on the bed, raised palms trying to drive off the first swells of rage. How could... she dare run away from Carson? Steal his child? He groaned loudly. He hadn’t the will to resist the dark wellings of primal emotion. He sat up, tore off the whiz-bangs, now as loathed as leeches. He flung himself to his feet, smeared and panting. His first howl echoed loudly in the small room. He whirled, fists balled. Even the rising waves of rage couldn’t submerge his admiration for Carson’s foresight.
He had insisted Champ include his mended Siege Restraint in the move.
He howled again. The sound even to his ear carried the timbre of a beast stalking the night forest. He flung himself into the heavy chair and busied himself with thick Velcro straps. Spit flew from his mumbling mouth.
“Awrrrrrooooooowwww!”
6
TRISH DIDN’T HAVE A WEIGHT PROBLEM. IT WAS ALL right to go into Estrella and order two ricotta pies to have with her morning coffee. So they were a little heavy. But they were good! Mario was behind the counter, bent and thin, always with a trace of gray stubble on his cheeks. The heat of the place didn’t seem to bother him. She had gathered from their brief conversations that he had not long ago been homeless. He was most grateful to fellow-Italian Dino for hiring him. Dino said he had been in a hurry to open up three months ago. He had hired the codger on impulse. Trish had smiled inwardly. Never let it pass brash Dino’s lips that he had done Mario a favor.
Mario put the two pies in a small white box and tied them with string. “Next week we’re putting in an air conditioner. So it won’t be so hot in here, you know?” His grin showed—count ’em!—three missing basic teeth. The survivors had the look of fangs.
She knew Mario slept on a cot back with the mixers and ovens and sometimes helped Dino bake. He played watchman in exchange for a bed. A win-win. Onto her box he stuck something. Oh! A smiley face sticker.
He winked at her. “Special customer that means.”
“What’s special about me? I only come in here once in a while-”
“It ain’t what you buy, Trish. It’s how you look.”
She could still redden. “Mario!”
His fangy grin
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