She Shall Have Music            by: Jennifer Jane Pope

 

The silence is near deafening, for the wax plugs that are molded to the contours of my eardrums and the rubber pads that cover them beneath the tight fitting latex helmet block out sound more efficiently than I would ever have believed possible, leaving only the resonance of my own, tortured breathing and, somewhere, the steady pounding of my pulse.

The miniaturised speakers that are seated next to my eardrum provide the only aural contact I have with the world and that is not within my control. Somewhere up there - out there? - my master and mistress watch, monitoring me via what must be an incredible array of tiny cameras and sensors.

They can see and hear me, but I can hear them only when they decree and I never see their faces, just the masks behind which they keep their humanity - if they have any - anonymous. Most of the time I work, dusting, polishing, washing windows that show me that there is still a world approaching normality outside of this silent prison, but the armoured glass precludes any chance of my rejoining it.

I can simply stand and view, my perspective distorted by the pale brown tints of the lenses in the helmet through which I now see everything. I can tell it is sunny only by the shadows that are cast from the trees and bushes and I suspect that the window glass, too, is similarly tinted, for everything out in that rolling garden appears as it would in one of those old fashioned sepia prints.

Brown, distant and silent. The silence is the worst. Oh that I could once again hear music, any music, but the only sounds come from the rythmn section of my own body and they accompany no sweet melody.

My name? It doesn't matter.

Who am I?

Ask rather: what am I?

Answer: a robot, a drone, a slave, a doll. A thing. A plaything, except that my playtimes are never fun, except for those who play with me.

Look on me and take pity. Remember that there is a real human being inside this faceless shell. Gaze deeper than the rubber covered head, with its inanimate, doll like features; try to imagine what is inside this latex sheath that clings to my limbs and reflects the light so mockingly and consider the torture that this rigid corset inflicts and how the fiercesome rubber rings grip so firmly about the distended teats that nature never intended me to have.

Wonder at my heels and how I balance upon them so precariously, their needle sharp heels that seem to taper to infinity, sinking into the plush carpet that then springs back to obliterate all signs of their passing.

See how my fingers have to fight to flex inside their shiny black skin and how my stupid head is held so proudly erect by the rigid collar, so cunningly disguised inside the ruffles that encircle my neck, ruffles that look from a distance as if they must be lace, but which, up close, are seen for what they are, beautifully sculpted, in latex again, but white, to contrast with the blackness of my suit and dress and to match the ridiculous little apron that completes my domesticity.

I am a man made maid, a maid made of man, a stupid, frivolous little thing, that minces from task to task, dusting where there is no dust, polishing where I polished yesterday, tripping dutifully from room to room, until I am summoned to other duties.

`Number Forty Two, report to the reception hall.' The sudden intrusion of noise seems to come from inside my head. Number Forty Two. My number. My name, as I said, is unimportant. I am Number Forty Two.

I straighten at the waist - it is the smallest movement, for this corset prevents any real flexibility there - and turn towards the door. Outside, in the corridor, I pass my reflection, or so it seems, but the small white number on the back of her helmet reads thirty six. Another number. No name, no face.

No names, no pack drill.

I'll take the pack drill; just give me back my name. Give me back myself. Give me back the use of what is strapped and held so tightly between my legs.

I am a man.

I was a man. Am I now a woman?

These thrusting breasts are real enough, my swaying gait feminine enough, my stupid, death white rubber face, with it's pouting rubber lips, behind which the inflated rubber tongue stills my own, the wide, unblinking eyes with their fringe of spider limb lashes ...

Am I now become what I wanted, rather than what I wanted to be? Am I consigned forever to trip the dark fantastic of this heartless place? Maid Forty Two is here and the tall woman, her face hidden as efficiently as my own, stands waiting, high boots glinting, but red, not black, long cape swirling, revealing glimpses of the corset beneath and the luscious ripe promise that they support, but barely constrain.

The whip which hangs coiled from one hand suggests one thing, but the hard rubber phallus that rears from between her thighs threatens worse.

`You are Number Forty Two?' Her voice is muffled. The throat microphones always have that effect. I nod and give a little curtsey, my amber eyes fixed on that whip. She nods in turn.

`How would you like some fresh air?' Her tone is pleasant, inviting. I curtsey again and nod, though not too eagerly. She steps forward, walking slowly around me, prodding here and there with first a finger and then the coiled braids.

`Yes, you will do, Forty Two,' she says and turns towards the barred grille, through which a small steel gate leads towards the outer door and the world beyond it. I feel my heart leap, if not with joy, then with some sort of hope. God knows there has been none since I came here.

`Follow me,' she instructs. The barred gate slides open at her approach. `I am taking you to the stables,' she says, halting at the high wooden door, but not looking back at me. `The grooms will prepare you and I shall come for you at sunset.' The outer door swings open. There is no one outside. I step out into the muted sunshine, struggling to inhale the fresh air through the tubes that line my nostrils, but all I can smell is the heavy aroma of rubber.

Now, at last, she turns to me again, grasping my upper arm with surprising strength.

`Perform well and we shall see what we shall see,' she says. `We shall run the night together, you and I.' I sense that she is smiling, but the bland face that she shows the world shows no more emotion than does my own. `Beneath the trees and the moon,' she continues, until there is no more breath in our bodies.'

In the distance, two male figures are approaching, the wide expanse of lawn between us narrowing rapidly.

`The grooms,' she says, though more to herself. And then, to me: `They come to take you to your next life, Forty Two. A new life, with a new body and a new name.' I cock my head slightly, as far as the collar will permit. I hear a throaty little laugh inside my skull.

`Yes, a new name,' she says again. `I can hardly call my new filly by a number, after all, can I, my pretty little pony to be.?

`This is Melody,' she says, as the grooms hove within hearing distance, `or will be, when you have done your work.' The grooms - real faces this time, though scarcely more animate than the facsimiles we two wear - barely nod.

`Red harness, golden tail and mane and training bit,' she says, ignoring me directly now. `High hooves, heavy shoes and my personal brand upon her flank. And bells, my lads, little golden bells. She shall have music, wherever she goes!'

 

 

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