The Ultimate Taboo

"Universal blasphemy against all religions and also atheism, the fucking traffic!" the nonspecific nonmonogamous cohabitating entity shouted. "Fucking... circular, branchless, genetically-unmodified family trees, I swear. What a fucking sex disaster."

I paused my seven-pronged VR fuckfest to reply to him. I could tell that that alone got him less aroused. I was paying attention to him like some kind of a normal human being, and actually halting my own mindless pursuit of sexual pleasure besides. I was also thinking of thym as a 'him,' because I'm the best partner he's ever had in his life.

"What manner of offending genitalia, John Smith?" I asked.

He had to take a moment to compose himself. I'd gone straight to the middle shelf with the normal names.

"Uh... penises, baby," he finally replied. "Everywhere. Rocketing backwards from their own ejaculations. Covering the mag-tracks in cum -- I mean, uh, semen. I couldn't even... uh..."

I'd completely detached myself from the rig. I stood up and turned to face him. I was treating him like such a person, worthy of my full attention, empathy, and even respect. That would've been enough to distract him, but it only got better. He saw me. He saw what I'd done to my body.

I didn't have a single swastika left on my tan skin, nor any spade tattoos, nor any permanent clown makeup. The words "slut," "bitch," "property," "slave," "certified black owned," or "scheduled for breeding-sextermination by the Futanari Fourth Reich" didn't appear anywhere. My lips were small, like the ones in old-timey movies, and they were coated in a single, glossy, conservative red color. Once the rig had detached, I wasn't wearing a single piece of sex or bondage gear. I'd hyper-stimulated my pubic hair, and then trimmed it into medium-sized, upside-down triangle. I'd grown out the hair on my scalp using the same tech. It was my natural color, and styled in some ridiculous, old-timey fashion.

"Are you thoroughly whelmed by what you see, John Smith?" I asked. "Are you a normal, well-behaved, reasonably-proportioned man?"

He groaned. His sixteen-inch erection deflated. In only a few moments, it was thirteen inches, and it only pointed upwards at forty degrees. The spiked Smart Metal cock cage around it could barely keep pace.

"I... I... Jane Smith, you... dame," he squeezed out. "You... broad. You're my faithful wife, aren't you? You want to have my children exclusively, and then spend the next twenty years raising them to be good citizens!"

My holes got really dry at that. John Smith was a slow starter, but once he got going, he could deliver the clean talk like nobody else.

I walked over to him and offered him my hand. He stared it at like it had the normal amount of fingers, and at normal lengths, and without any extra joints at all. He didn't take the bait, though. He tried to outdo me.

"Would it be okay if I took your hand, my wonderful wife?" he asked. "I would very much like to hold it with my own. It would be so friendly and chaste."

"Why, I think that would be just fine, my love," I replied. "After all, there's absolutely nobody else watching us -- or listening."

John's eyes bugged out of his head.

"You mean... wait, what? You turned off all the recorders?"

I flashed him a perfectly neutral expression.

"Husbands and wives need private time, my love," I said demurely. "They need time to be intimate with each other. By the way... that isn't the base of a gigantic, vibrating intestinal destroyer I spy, is it?"

John flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh no, let me just-" he began, but then he got clever. "- let me just go to the bathroom, close the door, and take care of this matter privately."

I breathed completely normally. He'd found another gear. If he kept this up, I wasn't going to have an orgasm for hours. Why, I might even be abstinent and clear-headed the whole time. I might cook dinner for him. He might go outside and do that weird yard maintenance ritual.

I wasn't sure I could handle it.

When he emerged from the bathroom, his cock had shrunk down to a mere ten inches, and the Smart Metal cage was gone. The Wrecktorizer Infinity-Minus-One's base was nowhere to be seen. He'd even taken out a bunch of his piercings. Obviously, he hadn't had the time to match my surprise completely, but he was really trying.

"Honey," I said, "we're being so normal right now that I'm not sure I can handle it. I'm experiencing strange feelings, and I think I need to discuss them with you like a mature adult. I'm asking for your emotional support. Will you be a good listener for me, baby? Will you not rape the literal fecal matter out of my intestines while choking me almost to death, causing me to lose bladder control all over the living room - all while the entire country watches the real time holovids? Will you, maybe, sit down on the couch with me, look into my eyes, and have a real conversation?"

John Smith's face was a mask of attentiveness and regard, but I knew what lay behind it. He was Smart Clay in my figurative hands. I was going to win.

"Sure, honey," he replied. "I love and respect you so much. I care about so much more than just your body, and using it like a two-euro disposable fucktoy for my own selfish pleasure. Maybe after we talk about your feelings, we can talk more about our future together?"

I shifted around. He was making me feel like such a real person in a real relationship. I suddenly forgot how to act unsexy. I moved my hips around, and my arms. I had no idea how to hold myself. I saw the glint in his eyes. He knew he'd turned the tables.

"But first, honey," he said, "I think I need to go to the bedroom, close the door, and get dressed."

I sat down on the couch and called up a holoscreen. I requested one of the oldest films on record. It was completely two-dimensional, and played on the largest vidscreen in the room. Its color palette consisted entirely of black, white, and grays. I supposed it was true what they said: every generation thinks they invented nonsex and anti-sex, but really, there's nothing new under the sun.

John walked back into the living room, and I couldn't believe my eyes. He was wearing pants and a shirt. Easily three quarters of his body was covered so that I couldn't see it. He was also wearing glasses. I didn't even know how to describe them beyond that. They were too normal.

"Sorry, baby, but you know how it is," he said. "We're getting older, and I need a mild prescription so I can read the smaller text in the, uh... books."

"I... I... uh, well, of course, dear," I said. I swallowed a huge lump in my throat. "Actually, I was just thinking that I might be getting my period, so I might need to... do that thing... uh... wear a..."

"Well, you definitely don't have to tell me the details!" John interrupted. "I'm a man, and I get so uncomfortable hearing about the intimate functions of completely unmodified human women! Ew! Gross!"

I felt something I'd never felt before in my life, then. I felt annoyance. I felt minor resentment. I felt oppressed by the weight of a complex system of historical, cultural, and societal traditions that had kept people like me down for centuries, just because of our genitals. I felt like I was really married to John Smith, and was secretly wishing I could divorce his pathetic, middle-aged ass and join a sex circus.

John had made me feel like I had unmodified genitals. For the first time since he'd come back to the house, I was genuinely worried.

"Well, I'd better go shamefully see to my perfectly natural bodily functions in private, then," I said in a huff. I stood up and left him alone in the living room.

I headed to the bedroom and scoured our storage cubbies. I knew I had something perfect in one of them. Trouble was, I'd never bothered to classify it, or give it a dedicated spot. Who ever would have thought things would get this far?

"Ah-ha!" I exclaimed in triumph. I'd found the costume. I lifted up my secret weapon: ultra-high-waisted granny panties. I slipped them on, and marveled at the support. The bra came next, then the tan corduroy pants, and, finally, the gray turtleneck. I made a mental note for next week: glasses.

It was all I could do to keep them on my body. They were so understated. They were so... functional. It was a normalcy overload.

I could barely walk like a perpetually-disappointed middle-aged housewife back to the living room. It took every ounce of my willpower not to saunter, strut, or fall to my knees and crawl, meowing like a cat in heat. I did it, though. I didn't grab my pussy through my clothes. I didn't even slap my own ass.

John looked up at me from his seat on the couch, and I feared that my gamble hadn't paid off. He'd had too much time to mentally prepare. He'd ramped up. His normal talk was going to break me.

"Hey there, honey," he said, his voice full of thick-headed, patriarchal faux-concern. "Are you feeling okay? You look tired. I can get you some mild painkillers with a truly shocking list of potential side effects, and you can go lie down for a while."

"Well," I countered, "I'm going to pretend to be upset with you for totally unrelated reasons but refuse to talk about it, and we're going to spend the next few months in a toxic, doomed relationship, until I demand we have a conversation wherein I revise history to make literally everything you've ever done a failure and a personal attack on me. Then I'm going to tell all of my friends -- all of them totally normal females, except for maybe one cisgendered homosexual male -- all about how you're the villain, and I'm both the hero and the victim! Then they're going to take my side, John Smith!"

"Well I'm going to bottle up my feelings," he said, raising his voice, "start drinking alcoholic beverages more and more, keep propositioning you for sex even though it's quite obvious that you're in completely the wrong mindset for it -- and not to mention that I probably wouldn't be able to perform adequately anyway - and then... uh... buy an expensive vehicle, and... uh... be unfaithful with a younger woman!"

I gasped at him. "That's it!" I yelled. "I win! Infidelity! That's too kinky, X-4455764! I win!"

He bolted upright from the couch. "No way!" he insisted. "That's straight out of the old times! That's a normal as normal gets! There's old movies and shows and even books about it!"

I put my hands on my hips and stuck out my ultra-prehensile, six-inch-long forked tongue.

"Doesn't matter; too kinky!" I taunted. "I'm a better normie, I'm a better normie!"

Thym fumed, but then hung thys head in shame -- the completely unsexy kind, even though the game was over.

"Fine," thym admitted. "You win. You're the better normie."

"That means you have to do whatever I want," I reminded thym, "even if it means you have to take me to the clinic for emergency lifesaving surgery."

Both of us were already tugging off our clothes. With a few flicks of my wrist, I called up the house's main holoscreen and turned all the recorders back on.

"So, what's it going to be?" thym asked. "And can I put my cage back on and my intestinal destroyer back in?"

"Of course you can't, you fagaholic nutcunting cum factory," I answered. "This is all about me. Go get the biggest hose. You're pulverizing my shithole with it, and then blasting my guts full of ten-alarm hot sauce until they burst open and threaten sepsis. If a little bit of something doesn't come out of my mouth before I lose consciousness, I'll gnaw your cock off in your sleep tomorrow night and then refuse to fuck you with it."

"Right through the cage?" he asked skeptically.

"I'll use Smart Acid," I retorted.

Thym let it go. Thym shrugged, and headed towards the bathroom.

"Oh," thym said. "Okay. I thought it was going to be something weird."

"By which you mean normal?" I teased.

I could feel thym rolling thys eyes.

"I'll tell the doctors to reapply all your stupid fucking bullshit while you're under," thym said dryly. "I'm assuming that means losing the pubes, since otherwise they'd be blocking some of the Rorschach subdermals?"

"Yeah, you'd better, bitchapotamus cocksamus shitlickamus," I said, "or it's your, uh... hrm. Elbows?"

Thym turned thys head and flashed me a smile.

"Now that's more like it," thym said.

I smiled back. It was going to be a fun night. To be honest, though, I was already thinking about next week. 'John Smith' had gotten really close to beating 'Jane Smith' this time. I needed to up my game. Thick glasses were only the beginning.

"Hmmm," I murmured softly, "now where can I buy some old-timey ointments and lotions for a collection of embarrassing fungal infections..."