Fuckenstein; or, The Modern Eros

Part 1

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 9

I've made my decision - I'm going to bring a new life into this world. Rather, I'm going to bring life back into this world.

Late last night, I put on an interesting documentary on the reanimation of dead tissue. Using a combination of synthetic blood and electrical currents, scientists were able to bring recently deceased pigs back from the brink of death. I hope to accomplish the same thing but on a larger scale.

Lately, I've been in a bit of a rut. Even the most proficient of my partners, those who satisfied me the most, could not scratch that itch, the genuine carnal lust born from raw desire. I could always detect when someone was holding something back, preventing me from feeling the rush of adrenaline that comes from not knowing whether you are safe. My creation would know no such bounds.

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 21

What a productive few weeks this has been! To procure all the necessary parts for the creature, I struck up a few deals with several less-than-honorable morgues and funeral homes in nearby towns. A few morticians were more willing than others to cooperate, and more than a few had a slew of questions about my intentions. Their reservations had been easy enough to ease, and all it cost was some minor indignities. Men are all the same, they want their egos and their cocks stroked.

I thought it was a bit strange that so many of these men would have the same request - specifically, they wanted to fuck me in the ass from behind. At first, I took it a bit personally. I never thought of myself as unattractive; men had called me beautiful before. I convinced myself that the embarrassment of having to ask for something so taboo made it difficult to look me in the eye while fucking me. Honestly, I got over the objectification very quickly. I was, after all, building a sex creature made solely of the most attractive hand-picked parts of the recently deceased. Who was I to judge? Would have been nice if they had a different preference of holes, though. The cashier at the pharmacy must think I'm pouring the copious amounts of lube I've been buying on my cereal.

I also wondered why more men didn't fuck each other. If anal was so good, why not help each other out? Everyone has an asshole, but only men have prostates. It seems like a mutually beneficial arrangement, so why weren't more men sticking their dicks in each other?

But I digress.

One of the more stubborn undertakers was blessed with a powerful set of shoulders which I thought might suit my final design.

Originally, I planned to abscond with a few choice slabs of meat from a local boxing legend named Rodney O'Bannon, more famously known as "The Anvil." The Anvil had been found dead in his apartment; he had been shot through the temple. The story on the news was that he had placed one too many bad bets and found himself in a pit of debt out from which he could not climb. I suppose he decided to bury himself with it instead.

In the week following the news of his death, highlights of The Anvil's most brutal fights were being shown with such regularity that I began to have quite vivid dreams of being pinned under that muscular frame. One night, I dreamt that The Anvil was ferociously fucking me in front of a live audience. They cheered him on as he held my legs behind my ears and plowed me into the ring. The crowd went wild with each thrust. My legs were quaking when I woke, and I found myself soaked through my sweatpants. After a quick shower and a wardrobe change, I got in my car and drove to the funeral home where The Anvil's viewing had been.

All of the bodies I had procured until this night had been from mortuaries and graveyards, this was my first foray into a funeral parlor. Maybe I was still riding the high of the dream I had, but I expected to arrive at the tall iron gates of a romantic gothic manor with towering spires and peaked, looming windows. Something with purple curtains and maybe, if I was lucky, an ancient gnarled tree. Sadly, the funeral home was an innocuous, well-kept, brightly-colored, single-storied home. The lawn was green and enclosed by a white picket fence. It was a sterile scene, not at all what I had hoped for.

The funeral director wore a pitch-black suit, and except for his pale face, he resembled a large rectangle. He seemed unmoved by my generous financial offering for The Anvil's corpse and refused to give up The Anvil's body unless I gave up mine first. This wasn't an uncommon problem, but I preferred when they just took the money I offered and looked the other way. These types usually had unusual kinks I had to suffer to get what I wanted. So many men are into feet nowadays, my pedicure budget has gotten out of hand. Unfortunately for me, The Anvil was too fine a specimen to let slip through my fingers, so I agreed to stomach his brand of fetish.

He led me downstairs to the mortuary. The cold blast of air raised goosebumps along my arms, but he seemed entirely unbothered. In the middle of the room was an autopsy table. I had a fairly good idea of where this was going. Honestly, it was shocking that it hadn't happened sooner. In the business of dealing with death and bodies and morgues, it seemed like only a matter of time before I encountered a necrophiliac. Then again, who am I to judge?

"Please, if you would undress and lay down."

I wonder if he fucks the corpses, or if this is just his idea of a first date, I thought.

I stripped down, neatly set my clothes in a vacant cabinet, and lay down on the table. Ice cold. And uncomfortable. But of course, these tables weren't designed with comfort in mind. They were designed for people to poke and prod the guts of the deceased. The director had a different sort of poking and prodding in mind.

"I hope you don't mind a little roleplay," the director smirked, barely able to contain his giddiness. "Please, close your eyes. Stay very still. And try not to breathe."

Try not to breathe? Whatever he had in mind, I hoped he hadn't planned on taking his time.

I could feel his tiny black eyes studying every detail of my body. A shudder began creeping through me, but I stifled it, like a good corpse.

"You have beautiful pale skin, very deathlike." He meant it as a compliment. My eyes rolled behind their lids.

Suddenly, something lightly grazed my stomach and my entire body spasmed. Embarrassing. There was far too much at stake for me to be making such schoolgirl mistakes.

He cleared his throat. "If this is going to be too difficult for you, we can stop." His impatience couldn't mask the feigned empathy. Not wanting to get on his bad side, I tensed up and kept very still, like a good corpse.

The director let me sit in that uncomfortable silence for a full minute before I heard him fiddling with something at the side of the table. Then another minute of uncomfortable silence. I resisted the urge to peek. I began to worry that this had been a horrible mistake, that any moment, the director would glide a scalpel across my neck and drain me before having his way with my bloodless body. It would be the easiest thing in the world to do, I had served myself to him on a silver platter.

Maybe he just wants to jerk off over my naked body. I tried to calm my mind. I've encountered innocuous kinks before.

No such luck, as it turned out. A gentle caress crept up from my inner left ankle and slowly traced its way to my crotch. The caress circled its way around my lips, teasing my clit after every lap. I appreciated the soft touch and was relieved that the director was interested in enjoying me while I still had a pulse.

I tried to let my mind wander elsewhere, but the director's tactless prodding and the chill of the room kept snapping my mind back to reality.

After unsuccessfully making several attempts to warm me up, the director's shoes clacked toward the far side of the room. A drawer opened and then closed again after a few seconds. I heard the sound of latex gloves being pulled on as he walked back over to me. Then a light plastic click. I'm usually pretty good at "Name That Ominous Sound," but I couldn't quite put my finger on what the director was up to.

Once again, the dark intrusive thoughts crept in. In my heart, I knew that I would leave this place alive, but I try not to ever be one hundred percent certain of anything. You'll live longer if you reserve that your life might end at any moment, especially when you take up a dangerous trade like mine.

A generous glob of viscous liquid dripped unceremoniously between my legs and was slathered unlovingly inside of me. The director was growing frustrated that his feeble attempts at foreplay failed to arouse even the slightest drop of moisture. But I did exactly what he asked me to do. I stayed very still, like a good corpse.

He worked quickly. I heard him undressing before he climbed on the table and carelessly stuck himself inside of me, but not before missing his mark while clumsily jabbing around. When he was finally inside me, I could barely feel him. A macabre sense of disappointment washed over me. Thankfully, it was over after a few thrusts and he filled me with his hateful seed.

The director rolled off the table with a light groan and walked over to the sink at the foot of the autopsy table. I sat up and looked at the mess between my legs. He must have been saving up, because there was a small waterfall of cum cascading between my asscheeks. At least it was warm.

"Your body is in the cabinet under your clothes," the director seethed without looking up from the sink. He was using a shower head attached to the table to clean himself off. His cock looked as unimpressive as it felt. "If you want, I can wash you down as soon as I am done cleaning myself off."

I came prepared for his inconsideration. I hobbled over to the drawer and pulled out a few wet wipes to take care of myself. Then, after sliding on a clean pair of underwear, I pulled out my scalpel.

I slit his throat while he was washing his cock off in the sink. After the bleeding slowed, I washed his blood and cum down the drain.

After loading the director and The Anvil into the back of my car, I took a Plan B from the glove box and swallowed it dry. Noticing that I'd run a bit low, I made a mental note to swing by the pharmacy on the way back home.

It's been a long night - I'll wash and prepare the final parts tomorrow.

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 22

The result of my nightly tomb raiding has yielded a medley of muscles and many other handsome rewards for my creation. For some reason, the finest specimens had met violent ends, so several donors had to be stitched together to create the beast. Strange thing that in a relatively quiet town so many people would suffer such gruesome and fantastical deaths.

His cock was my masterpiece. It was a massive tool, stitched together from three well-endowed donors. The donors on their own would have satisfied the needs of most other women, but I would not settle for anything less than my own personal God of Sex.

The Anvil was the last of those donors. It's a shame that someone with such marvelous features should decide to end his own life. I will give him a second chance to please me. He will serve me in this new form, an amalgamation of brute and beauty.

It is time to build.

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 23

He is finally finished! So handsome yet so intimidating. The skin is somewhat mismatched in some spots, but when I stood back and took all of him in, I saw how truly beautiful he was. The head was constructed from a cute gay couple that died in a murder-suicide. One of them had been having a long-standing affair with their partner's ex, and upon discovering this, the partner stabbed the cheater in the heart while he slept before overdosing on medication himself. Getting access to the bodies was easy enough, the mortician on duty had a touch of homophobia and was more than happy to lighten his workload. Upon returning to my lair, I picked my favorite features from each, a la carte, and mended them onto the head of the cheater, who had more rugged and exaggerated features than his spurned lover. It really is a pity it didn't work out for them; in the end, they looked good together.

When it had all finally come together, the creature was a hulking mass of muscles constructed from a bouncer, a bartender, a semi-professional football player, a wrestler, two bodybuilders, a necrophilic funeral home director, a bartender and his unemployed freeloading boyfriend, a carnie, a construction worker, and, oddly enough, one blacksmith. Even seated, he dwarfed me in width and height.

I admit I got a bit carried away, stroking the beast in admiration of my work. The stitching had healed nicely, and there was practically no sign of any scarring. As I worked his massive girth with both my hands, I thought I detected the slightest twitch, the hint of a burgeoning erection. Excited that my touch alone might bring my creature to life, I began pumping harder. Not having anticipated this development, I didn't have any proper lubrication handy, so I spat into my hands and gripped him eagerly. My eyes fixated on his face, searching for even the slightest reaction to my vigorous pumping, but there was no life behind his milky eyes. Calming myself, I reluctantly stopped.

"Soon," I whispered to him (or to myself?). "Soon you will make me whole." I strapped the creature down with as many restraints as I could find, mostly old belts and loose cables. You can never be too safe.

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 24

I set to removing the top of the creature's skull and interfacing the brain to a computer that I had loaded with petabytes of pornography.

"Lemon stealing whore!" The monster aped a line piped into his brain. The brain isn't fully functional just yet, but during this training process, he appears to "activate" from time to time. I had considered not equipping the creature with vocal cords at all, but I thoroughly enjoy the moans and grunts of a man taken by the throes of passion. I considered stitching the mouth shut as well, but I had acquired a serpentine tongue from a circus performer that I desperately wanted to feel between my legs.

Once again, I found myself getting swept away in anticipation. I worked the creature's mast with both hands. It lolled heavily as I tried to keep it upright. His eyelids fluttered, but whether it was in response to my touch or the videos being fed into his consciousness was impossible to tell.

Was he too big? It was like another limb, and just about the same circumference as my forearm. Did I get carried away and neglect to consider the amount of blood needed to maintain such a massive erection? The thought was too horrible to bear, so to test the theory, I wrapped my lips around the head and used my tongue to tease the massive bulb in gentle circular motions. His staggering mass was too heavy to keep from falling out of my mouth, and my jaw was already beginning to cramp, so I lowered my head to allow the weight to slump into my mouth instead. It wasn't the most comfortable position, and I could feel frustration beginning to crawl up my cheeks. If only he had his own autonomy. If only he had his own passion to throw me to the ground and pin me just as his donor's arms had in my dream a few nights ago. I wanted him that very instant. I worked so hard and debased myself for so many unworthy men, that I deserved my reward.

I wanted to scream. Exasperated, I grabbed it by both hands and crammed as much as I could down my throat until I retched. I couldn't breathe, and I had only barely swallowed the tip of his shaft. A tear rolled down my cheek. I can't remember how long I sat there on my knees with that load soaking in my mouth. Saliva began dripping down my chin. I felt so ashamed, so childish. Why was I rushing this? I had been so patient up until this point, all that remained was to wait for the upload to finish then jumpstart the heart.

After a few minutes of sulking, I spat out the limp mass and shuffled away from the creature's lap. As I left the room, I turned back to the creature. He really is handsome. His eyes continued to flutter as the upload continued. Hopefully, he can put that knowledge into action tomorrow.

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 25

It occurred to me, after nearly choking myself last night, that perhaps I should give the creature a dry run (or "wet run," as it were. See Vickie? You still got it). I dreamt that the creature was alive, but I was hiding from it. I was scared that he was coming to kill me. One scene still stands out to me - I got into my car after escaping the house and began speeding away. In the rearview mirror, the creature was in ferocious pursuit. In my panic, I lost control of the car, crashed it, and quickly escaped into the woods. The last thing I remember before waking up was looking back as the creature effortlessly knocked entire trees over as he chased me down.

My original hypothesis was that the creature's brain, having been fed a strict diet of porn, would only desire sex. I hadn't given any credence to the idea that the creature might interpret this data as aggression and become violent upon being brought to life.

As impatient as I've been lately, it would be too careless to test the creature's temper on myself. Even if he doesn't turn violent, I don't know what he is sexually capable of. A field test is the responsible choice.

I've decided to coerce Iggy into coming over to meet him later this week. It shouldn't be difficult, she has been complaining about a lack of clients lately and could probably use the extra money.

But I've buried the lead! Tonight is the night I flip the switch! The brain is full of all the carnal knowledge I desired him to have. Now all that is left is the spark of life. I nabbed a defibrillator from one of the first morgues I visited a few weeks ago. I thought it was strange that a building full of dead people would need one, but I'm sure they won't miss it. It's going to a noble cause.

From the diary of Victoria Franken, October 26

It's alive! The most difficult part of the experiment is an absolute success. I can hear him now, rumbling around his room. Hopefully, he calms down soon, his thundering might scare off Iggy. All I told her is she's meeting an eager client who doesn't speak much English, and that's not technically a lie now, is it?

When he first set his eyes on me, he muttered something unintelligible. It had the cadence of a well-formed sentence, but I was unable to gather any meaning from it. His twitching face fought competing emotions. His whole body followed suit as the twitch worked its way through his body, and the makeshift restraints began to give way under the power of those tree-trunk limbs. Worried that the roulette wheel of emotions would land on anger, I ran from the room and deadbolted the door.

Iggy should be here soon. I wish I had a safe way of watching the experiment with my own eyes, but the carefully placed network of webcams will have to do. If I had the foresight, I would have installed one of those one-way mirrors in the adjacent room. There's a much more intimate feeling that comes with watching with your own eyes, the feeling of "being there" without being in the room, or for that matter, without being seen. How exciting to be a voyeur, a ghost in the room, close enough to smell the sex and sweat in the air.