Fresh from the Biophallus tube came a stark white mare, with a pink mane and orange eyes; one pupil in the shape of a diamond and another in the form of an upside-down heart.
Unaware to herself, she was a custom job, and her future owner had slapped some fat stacks on the table to test her serum in a laboratory environment.
The day came, her owner stepped into the Biophallus London branch to grab her prize.
“Good afternoon, Madam. I trust your day is going well?” a tall, auburn haired gentleman in a silver suit and bowtie smiled at the owner. “My name is Rory and I’ll be y-.”.
“Keen, Betty: I have a custom XXL order for pickup today; a K113212M model, order number: 013542404.” she said in a tone both stern and cold.
“R-right away, Madam.” the staff worker said as he left Ms. Keen in the comfort of the wide, roman inspired marble hall that was the Biophallus London branch’s reception desk.
After some waiting, she, the XXL in question stepped forth to meet her new owner.
“You have a name, sat it.” Betty ordered.
“Cyn-fee-ah.” the fuckffie replied with a wagging tail, so very happy to meet her owner for the first time.
“And what is your function?” the woman demanded to know.
“Tu bwing nyew mummah ‘pweasuwe’.” she stated in reply.
“Excellent, follow me to the car, we can begin shortly.” she grinned, revealing the silvery tinge of her braces.
As soon as the manager had returned, they were gone. He straightened his bowtie and wiped the sweat from his brow with a hankerchief.
“There’s something not right about that woman…” Rory sighed.
“She pays good though.” the assistant receptionist replied, still hidden beneath the table, “Speaking of which. Is she gone yet?” he added, “She gives me the proper damn willies.”.
Cynthia sat beside her new owner in Betty’s beat up old Honda Accord and smiled. She drank in her owner’s profile, watching her as she drove.
pale-peach skin, short golden hair, a silver piercing under her lip, a ring in her left nostril and left brow. She even had a charming little beauty mark on her right cheek to pull the look together.
She was beautiful to look at: Soft cheeks, an upturned nose, emerald eyes surrounded in the smokey shadows of her liberally applied eye makeup. Her outfit was a dark purple summer dress, paired with a black cardigan and knee high converses. The golden definition of a ‘manic pixie dream girl’.
“Suuu… ummm… Wat y-.”
“Don’t talk, not right now, I find it displeasing.” Betty interrupted.
“Oh… Otay.”
“My name is Betty; I’m your ‘mummah’; you will do what I tell you, when I tell you. You will live in my basement and I will feed you twice a day, should I remember to, and you will not show sexual interest in me. Understood?”.
“Yus, Mummah Betty”. Cynthia replied. She did not mind these restrictions. She had been bioprogrammed from the word go to only have sexual interest in fluffies; not humans, not other fuckffies, but simply fluffies. She did not mind the laying down of the law, although she wished her owner would do it in a softer tone.
“I can see that you are pondering something, go on, say it.”.
“Wy am Cyn-fee-ah wike dis?” she asked.
“Like what?”.
“Udda ‘Enfie-Fwuffies’ nu am wike Cyn-fee-ah… Wy mummah wan Cyn-fee-ah be wike dat? Wiking fwuffies nu am nowmaw.”.
“Who’s to say what is normal?” Betty chuckled lightly.
“Bu-… Nu am. Fwuffies wub fwuffies, hoomins wub hoomins, an Enfie-fwuffies wub hoomins. Dat am haow id am spose tu be.”.
“You’re an awfully opinionated clown.” Betty snickered ever so subtly.
“Mummah said dat wan’ed yew owdew be ‘Ink-qwiz-et-tib’ an ‘Cayp-ew-bew ob stim-ew-wayt-in con-bew-say-shun’.” Cynthia explained, repeating the exact words that were requested of her creators.
“Well, so far, I’m not impressed. I’m half tempted to drive back and demand a refund.”. Betty glared as she drove on.
“Nu mummah wouwd nut.”
“You wanna bet, shitpig?” Betty smirked.
“Yeah, cuz Bio-phaw-wus nu du wefunds… duh? Yew onwy gun git stowe cwedit.” Cynthia giggled.
Betty seemed to genuinely seethe that her property had won a debate against her. Her: Betty Keen, with an IQ of 128, a degree in bio engineering and several published papers on her theories of applied engramatic neurology to treat PTSD; all of that at the age of 23, and yet still she sat there in her car, mogged by a living sex toy of her own making.
The rest of the drive was discomfortingly quiet, some two hours to get back to her home, a nice village near enough to the water to get clean air, and close enough to the farming countryside to be tucked away from the noise and disruptiveness of the big city.
“Get in the fucking house.” she growled, and Cynthia obeyed.
The house was sparse within. Barely any furniture beyond the absolute necessity, no pictures on the walls, no colour or vibrancy. In truth, it was anti-aesthetic in practice, internalised brutalism made manifest.
“Dis pwace need a woman’s touchies.”
“Are you trying to be cheeky?” Betty hissed.
“Maybe an widdwe…” Cynthia smirked, “su wy nu stuff in hewe?”.
“I discard what isn’t pleasing to me.” Betty explained as a matter of fact, while sitting herself on the stark white faux-leather armchair in the living room.
“Am dat wy yew nu gut an speshew fwend, eben doe yew am pwetty?” Cynthia inquired with a raised brow.
“You know… you, yourself, are becoming rather unpleasant in your own right.” Betty threatened, forcing an involuntary gulp in her new toy. “I think it would be best if you fucked off to bed. You’ll find the basement door under the stairs, in the hallway.”.
Cynthia made her way down into the dimly lit and oppressive grey stone structure that was the basement. She tucked herself betwixt a box of rusty, suspiciously smelling tools and the washing machine.
She had no inkling for what was in store for her, only that it was and would forever be the entirety of her world.
-To be continued-
