Prologue

John Francis D’Arnot wandered into his study, glimpsing at his collection of oddities. Bored with his accumulations, he stood and stared at the statue of the girl satisfying two satyrs. How long had he had it? He counted the years as he stared into the girl’s sad, lonely eyes. She blinked slowly. Once she had been his wife. Now she was little more than a museum piece, frozen in time under a man-made, synthetic marble veneer, still and unmoving.

He turned and stared up at his ode to pulp fantasy novels; a girl trapped on a spider’s web awaiting her demise. The girl, still beautiful after so many years of entrapment, stared into nothingness. Long ago she had been a careless nineteen year old girl, a student going to college, with hopes of a bright future. No longer was it so. Now she merely existed.

“You’re still quite beautiful,” he told her, drawing her eyes to his. The girl’s eyes rested on him for but a moment before returning to stare into nothingness.

John continued his meanderings throughout other portions of his home, a frown resting on his square jawed face. Passing the small fountain – a mermaid cast as if resting upon a rock – he stared into the open eyes of the girl imprisoned within, then continued his journey.

In his bedroom he rested his eyes on the sex-doll that had once been a woman. A skin of some unknown origin coated her body, and impossibly large breasts stood out from her body like twin basketballs. Motionless, she watched as he approached her to rest his hands upon her synthetic skin. Expecting to be used, as so many times before, she was quite surprised when he turned and left her atop the doll stand created to control her bodily functions while displaying her like a trophy.

Wandering back down stairs, John D’Arnot made his way back to the study and sat at his desk. Immediately the woman locked into it made motions to service him with her mouth, but was rebuffed. He picked up the phone and dialed.

The conversation was short. The individual on the other end of the line was overjoyed at the gifts he was going to give her, though worried at his mood. He assured her of his well-being, said his goodbyes and hung up.

“I’m done with these museum pieces,” he said to no one. “I need companionship.”

Chapter 1

Their meeting had been one of chance. He was the new owner of a small but growing software firm. That company’s CEO had hired her on to optimize a particular bit of coding that was giving his programmers rather a difficult time. It was a Monday, and had it been any other Monday they would not have met. However, a few pressing bits of business had drawn him into the office; and it was there that the two met.

Their attraction was quite palpable. John Francis D’Arnot was a tall man, standing just over six feet, four inches tall. Broad chested and muscular, his was a lithe form topped by a square jaw, liquid blue eyes, and a main of Stygian black hair. Had Kyra not already been attracted to his physical form she would have been entranced by the hint of French accent in each syllable he spoke. Too, he spoke in a rich baritone, with authority and confidence that served only to increase her attraction to the man.

For D’Arnot’s part, he was instantly attracted to the woman. His first glimpse of her was from behind as she headed to the conference room for a meeting with his CEO. She was shapely in her black skirt and with her high heels showing off her shapely ankles and calves, the skirt only just tight enough to show off her well-rounded bottom and hips; and though her white blouse was relatively loose fitting, he could see the slight outline of her waist. Instantly, he decided that meeting this woman was of paramount importance, and immediately changed his day’s activities.

Once in the conference room he seated himself beside the CEO, and sitting across from the girl. Instantly, he was enamored. She spoke with a throaty voice, and an odd speech impediment he would later learn was the result of an ill-advised tongue piercing that left her with a lateral lisp and the inability to properly pronounce words containing the letters ‘L’ or ‘R’. What most caught his eye, however, was her symmetrical face, near perfect nose, and intelligent, near violet eyes.

When the meeting came to its inevitable conclusion both Kyra and John were quite disappointed; and it was later that evening that D’Arnot broke protocol and called her at her home.

Surprised and pleased at hearing the voice on the other end of the line, she was considerably more pleased when her new employer proposed a date. Before agreeing, however, she had a moment of deviltry overcome her, and despite her better judgment she blurted, “Do you always ask new employees out on dates?”

Nonplussed, D’Arnot recovered quickly. “You’re a contractor, and therefore not technically an employee,” he said. “But the answer is that I do not make a habit of asking employees on dates.”

Kyra grinned into the phone, even as she chided herself for commenting as she had. Unable to help herself, she asked, “Then you aren’t some sort of lothario?”

Suddenly realizing she was teasing him he shot back, “What’s a wothawio?” poking fun at her speech impediment, and regretting it instantly. “Sorry. That was mean. It wasn’t meant to be.”

Kyra, ever sensitive by her inability to speak clearly, was silent for a moment. “It’s okay,” she lied. “I can take it if you can.”

John frowned. “Really, I’m sorry. We don’t really know each other well enough for me to joke like that; and I should know better. I hope you accept my apology. It’s sincere.”

“Don’t worry. I do get sensitive about it,” she admitted. “But I know you were just teasing me for teasing you.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I can make it up to you over dinner?”

Kyra laughed. She appreciated his confidence and that he did not back away from his intentions of taking her out. Regaining her humor, she told him, “That might be difficult, but I think I’ll let you try.”

“Friday, then,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Their date was a resounding success. An evening at a five star restaurant in downtown Seattle was followed by a trip to the Space Needle.

Later, he took her to a large, private art gallery, owned by a close friend, where, talking and sharing experiences, they perused the exhibits. As the night wore on they came upon a curtained entryway. A sign over the entrance read ‘Deviant Art – Enter at Own Risk’. Without word she pushed through the curtain. It was there that they shared their first kiss, laughed, and then kissed again.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” he asked. “This is not exactly first date sort of stuff.”

Kyra laughed. “You aren’t a prude, are you?”

“Far from it,” he told her. “In fact, some of my old pieces are here.”

Continuing their journey, they stopped at a particular piece of work; a depiction of a woman on a spider-web in oil. The woman was sad faced, helpless, and hopeless. Her fate, it seemed, would come all too soon. A shiver ran up Kyra’s spine, and she clasped his hand in hers, looking at him in wonder as she read the small plaque beneath.

“This is yours?” she asked, amused and rather excited that it should be his.

“It’s on loan, the gallery is holding it for the new owner,” he admitted. “I grew tired of it.”

“I like this,” she said, looking at him with renewed interest, “It’s strange, erotic and sad – arousing, too.”

They continued on, passing various pieces, and then stopping at another; this one a woman apparently in stone, holding up a pillar. “Holding up the Building,” was the name of the piece, and on its opposite side was another woman in stone. Kyra commented on the craftsmanship, noting its lifelike quality.

“I want to touch it,” she told him. “They look real.”

“Maybe they are,” John mused.

As their wanderings progressed, Kyra found herself becoming quite aroused. Many times would her mind meander to erotic stories she had read, and the fantasies she had enjoyed. She looked up at the tall, blue-eyed man and wondered if he might be one she could tell her fantasies to, and then dismissed the thought.

Several more pieces were passed, all of women in various forms of use or torment. Some were missing arms, or legs. Others were depictions of grossly disproportioned women; women with lips that obscured much of their face, others with breasts the size of basketballs, some without breasts or vaginas. There seemed to be no end to the horrible, yet erotic, representations of women.

“Does your friend hate women?” Kyra asked, in spite of her arousal.

John D’Arnot laughed. “This is just a recent theme, I would guess.” Then, as they departed the gallery they were greeted with a sign that read, ‘Thank You for Visiting the Misogynist’s Gallery of Women’. “There’s your answer,” he laughed as they passed from within. Kyra laughed, too.

It was nearing three in the morning when John D’Arnot’s car came to a halt in front of the high rise building within which resided Kyra’s condominium. Kyra, whose thoughts remained at the art gallery, was quite aroused. Consequently, she had found conversation difficult.

“I really had a good time,” Kyra told John. “Thank you.”

John smiled. “Ma chère, it was my pleasure. Please allow me to walk you to your door.”

Presently, they were hand in hand, and walking to her building’s secure entrance. Several times she fumbled with her keys, dropping them in the process. Each time he bent and picked them up. Eventually, after being instructed as to which key would gain entrance, it was he who opened the door for her.

“Perhaps I should walk you to your door. I am not so certain you would be able to unlock it,” he said. Then he laughed. “It would be a shame if you had to sleep in a hallway.”

Kyra acquiesced with a smile, and they slowly made their way to her elevator, where John was forced to ask which button to press. Several minutes later, and after a moment of intimacy, she allowed him to open her door. There, and much to her disappointment, he bade her goodnight.

Kyra’s sleep was fitful, her dreams filled with lurid images of women. All were disfigured in one way or another. Some were the epitome of femininity taken to the extreme, while others were missing limbs, breasts or faces. Then her dreams shifted and she was in her condominium with John D’Arnot. Suddenly, she was on her knees, supported by breasts of such enormity that they defied reason. The dream shifted and she saw herself from above, suddenly realizing that her arms had been removed. From this vantage she could see that her breasts were the size of large beach balls.

“I love these breasts,” D’Arnot said to her as he approached from behind. “I hope you don’t mind that I had your arms removed.

Kyra looked up and smiled at the man, her lips appearing as crimson inner tubes. “I like it,” she told him. “Please use me.”

“Did I tell you I had your pussy removed, too?” he asked.

Horrified and aroused by what she was seeing, she heard the Kyra below say, “Thank you.”

Waking with a start, Kyra wiped the sweat from her face. “Holy fuck!” she blurted. “What the Hell was that?” But she was aroused, and terribly so.

Unable to sleep, and somewhat troubled by her arousal, Kyra left the bed and headed to the living room to watch television. Never did she reach for the television’s remote. For resting atop her coffee table was her laptop computer. Presently, she was perusing various websites in search of erotic tales that might aid in relieving the terrible arousal residing deep within.

So specific was her quest that it proved to be rather lengthy. Still, her ardor was not dampened, nor was her determination. Eventually, Kyra discovered a site filled with tales of the sort she desired. Soon, with one hand on her computer mouse, and the other between her legs, she began reading.

With each word read Kyra became ever more aroused. The tale, that of woman being redesigned into an armless sex-toy, was utterly horrifying and she knew she should not feel as she did. Still, with each terrible word, Kyra’s fingers, seemingly of their own volition, worked to satisfy her cravings. Presently, and as the story turned ever more dark, she found herself in the throes of a tremendous orgasm. Two orgasms later, and nearly exhausted, Kyra ceased masturbating, shut off her computer and retired to the comfort of her bed. It was there that she contemplated her new-found fetish and all it implicated.

Morning arrived far too soon for Kyra. Her dreams, in spite of her multiple orgasms, had continued their terrible trend. Consequently, her sleep was fitful. Nor would she have awakened but for the phone call from John to check on her well-being.

“You must have drunk more than you thought,” he concluded, commenting on her apparent state of being when last he had seen her. “You were rather unsteady.” After assuring him of her well-being, the two made plans for later that night. Then Kyra left her bed for a much needed shower.

As the hot water cascaded over her body, Kyra thought to the night before. Smiling, she thought back to dinner, the Space Needle, and then the art gallery. Suddenly she was flush with arousal. Needing release as badly as ever she had, her hands moved along her belly to her breasts. She cupped them, squeezed them, and pulled lightly at the gold rings in her nipples. As her need increased and her pulse quickened, her right hand moved, ever so slowly, between her legs. The first touch on her clitoris was electric. Slow rubbing became nearly frantic, but it was not enough. Fingers, first one, slipped inside her sex. Another soon found its way inside. Presently, and as memories of her dreams returned to her conscious mind, she climaxed. Nearly collapsing, Kyra righted herself. Her mind still filled with prurient images, she eased herself to the floor of the tub. Again, she rubbed her hands across her body, squeezing, kneading and pinching sensitive areas needful of attention. Then, amidst the fog of the hot shower, she slipped her hand between her legs and worked towards another orgasm.