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by M. Christian
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica/Science Fiction
Description: M. Christian's claimed BDSM science fiction cyberpunk novel is back in print - a tale of futuristic sexual submission and domination! One of the pleasures of a dystopic future is the erotists, professionals who paint their clients' bared skin with neurochemicals that induce all forms of sensation - even pain. Erotists offer landscapes of ecstasy, sexual extremes, joy, and delight. Few citizens can afford the skills of the talented Domino. Fewer still know her identity is but a mask. Beneath the facade, Claire hides from a vicious crime lord who would not only kill her but her childhood lover. But the mask of Domino is beginning to crack... Strange sexual pairings and strange sexual practices highlight this futuristic noir tale, set in a wildly imaginative erotic future, exploring who we are and the sexual awakenings that occur when we become someone else. MORE ABOUT THIS BOOK: "M. Christian is one hell of a writer. He paints his universes and characters in full, living color, thrills the reader with non-stop action. A no-holds-barred storyteller, he embraces his reader at the start and doesn't let go until long after the end." - Mari Adkins, Apex Publications contributing editor "M. Christian is the chameleon of modern erotica. One day punk, another romantic; one day straight, another totally perverse and polyamorous. But always sexy and and gripping." - Maxim Jakubowksi is the editor of the Mammoth Book of Erotica series "A non-stop ride of precise prose and unexpected imagery. Painted Doll is another M. Christian gem; a seamless blend of the erotic with the darkly fantastic. Unpredictable, engaging, and an often startling read." - Marilyn Jaye Lewis, author of Freak Parade "No matter how long I've been at the erotica game, M. Christian continues to surprise me. With Painted Doll, he again proves that his imagination knows no bounds. The first pages sucked me into the story, and I couldn't stop reading. Who was this woman? Who was she...really? Provocative and unique, Painted Doll is M. Christian at his finest." - Gwen Masters, author of One Breath at a Time
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/s,
eBookwise Release Date: May 2012
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [287 KB]
Reading time: 189-265 min.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. Notice her carefully controlled pace. Observe the finely machined stride. Witness her gracefully gliding movements.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. See her stroll along, even and sure, stable and keenly balanced. Across the black ink asphalt of the newly paved Qui Dan Road, up and onto the eternally fractured pavement of the sidewalk, and then among, between, through, and then past the bellowing hawkers, rickety stalls, lazily fanning merchants, and rushing buyers of another corner market.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. Silk dress as ghostly as a half-finished thought, rarer than a honestly cool breeze; satin splashing down like water from inordinately high fall; couture as elegant as only a kimono could be -- and as alien as one moving along Qui Dan Road.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. The puzzle paused, held back by the impact of her, released as she passes. A furrow of brow, a scratching of head, a question: did I see that? Am I dreaming? Is she real?
The woman continued to think about herself, about her walking, a flawless jewel, a perfect image, a carefully crafted ideal.
Watch her walk, Claire thought: Is she real?
Qui Dan Road to the High Street, a stumble of crisp British in a city of fish sauce and MSG. The change didn't alter her steps, modify her movements.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. The splendor of a rose, the loveliness of an orchid. The kimono is flawless, as is the china white of her immaculately applied artificial complexion. As she walks, hearts stop then race. As she walks, heads twist, eyes widen. As she walks, breaths are hissed in, sighed out.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. But she is a knife-edged rose, a razor sharp orchid. Her stride is mechanically perfect, as is her perfectly vertical posture. Their hearts might race, their heads may twist, their eyes certainly widen, their breaths absolutely hiss in and hiss out, but as she steps nearer they instead step back. As she walks, they avert their eyes. As she walks, they pull themselves in.
The woman walking down the High Street feels them watching her, their glances furtive tickles, their quick stares barely felt hooks out of the corners of her always forward facing eyes. Passing a bookseller -- tight fans of rough tan paper with lurid Cantonese chops on their glistening plastic covers hung in sagging arcs of cord -- a reflection was revealed to her, a caught sight of what they were seeing.
But not what they were thinking. But she knew, nevertheless: each of them lost in illusions and fantasies as carefully crafted as her rouge, as flawlessly presented as the mae migoro and ushiro migoro of her kimono, as immaculately assembled as her performance:
She's a dragon, some might think: the cruelty of a reptile, the flawlessness of a myth. You may approach her, with bravery beyond that of any battlefield, speaking with a stammer and a twitch, and if you were fortunate beyond your worth she'd slow, pause, turn with prudently measured grace, deeming your presence not completely disgusting. With that look, at that glance, would be a flickering forked tongue of cruel invitation, a scintillating promise of peaked breasts topped with fist-tight nipples, a belly steel plate flat and firm, a behind curving out in twin clenches of muscular intensity, thighs sculpted by rigid posture, and between them a scented valley of ruby silk.
But first, a minuscule task. But first, an all but insignificant request: to firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity; to fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry; to perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth; or a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense.
An insignificant request. Accepted without doubt or hesitation, the reward a slow curl at the corner of her cold stone face, a bow of gratitude, and a bright flash of serpentine green eyes. Totally entranced by her, completely captured by her, the dragon would then reveal the metaphorical points of venomous teeth, sinking the illusion of her love deep into the shaft of your encouraged penis by showing you the true face of her cruelty.
The prize was yours but the tasks were actually anything but minuscule, not at all insignificant: firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity -- for a year; fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry -- from a thousand miles away; perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth -- perfectly, without the tiniest flaw; a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit -- unattainable by even the greatest athlete; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense -- in combat against a killing machine.
And so the dragon passes by, a smile on her cold-blooded face. No one approaches her, no one is willing to come near. And so they live, by letting her just walk by.
She's a doll, some might think: a porcelain figure, an ivory representation. Beneath the silks and satins would be a body as perfect as only a master artisan could create. Breasts both delicate and womanly, nipples as delicate as rosebuds, a belly with an ideal swell, hands with the grace of ten Noh performers, calves a perfect taper, thighs an entrancing form, back a clean surface of alabaster, neck a musical curve, feet delicate and precious, a behind highlighted with sacral dimples, and a female cleft that was a pale oyster and a tiny pink pearl.
Like a doll, she would belong to whoever buys her. Cash, credit, merchandise -- the right amount and the woman would instead walk behind, following her owner towards palace or hovel, both with the same unmoving mask of her face.
Palace or hovel, she would walk in the door, standing still and quiet with an item's posture. Maybe she'd look better in the living room window, where the afternoon would bathe her in golden light? Or perhaps she'd be better exhibited in the bedroom, where her kimono could be removed like one from a real woman.
Yes, the bedroom. That was where she would be best displayed. Moving past, it was clear in their eyes, the allure of her perfect submission. A thing. An object. A piece of feminine sculpture. Unable to disagree, unable to refuse, bendable in all kinds of imaginative ways. From behind, cock sliding between her cool ivory cheeks. Face to face, marble breasts for unimpeded kiss, licks, and sucks. On top, her tight thighs spread apart and welcoming upward thrusts. Anything you wanted, anytime you wanted.
Desire was a rippling wave behind her, a heat distortion in the warm city air. It was obvious in their eyes that there, in her, was a world without 'no,' a land without complaint, a woman without a soul.
Then they stopped, that wave of erections and licked dry lips chilled with a slap of frigid revelation. Stepping back with the rest of the crowd, these men retreated from the precise rhythm of her steps, with whimpering fear in their wide eyes, their shaking heads.
Ivory arms, marble legs, alabaster body: inflexible, unfeeling, stiff, unbending, unyielding, and -- worst of all -- cold. With her you'd never hear 'no,' never be refused, never be denied, but you'd also never hear the beat of her heart, the music of her voice, the chimes of her laughter, the moans and screams of her pleasure. You'd perform with her your deepest, darkest, most subterranean -- and all she would do would be to look at you with inscrutably glass eyes.
She's a tiger, some might think: a beast with the stripes of a traditional Japanese dress. Hidden beneath her Asian camouflage was a woman's body, exercised into an extension of her erotic drive. Where any other woman would have used euphemisms and poetic alliterations, she chose simple, direct, and powerful words to describe herself. Where any other woman would have bosoms, she had tits of ideal jiggle and sway, covered in thrilling smooth skin. Where another woman had nipples, she had a pair of dark brown direct connections to her clit. Where another woman had a posterior, she had two plush muscular globes that clenched and released with the beating heat of her clit. Where any other woman would have a sex, she had a demanding, insistent cunt.
There was no way to make her do anything, no way to slyly allure or simply trick her into a private room, no way to seduce her. The only thing anyone could do was to stand within the range of that sweeping predatory glance and hope that her eyes would positively estimate your worth as a device for her pleasure. Then, and only then, would her red-painted lips open ever-so, more than a whisper but less than full voice, and speak the one word you'd prayed to hear: "Come."
Behind her, pulled along by her insatiable need, you would follow. It wouldn't be a long journey, for her cunt has a very short attention span. Cheap hotel on the next street, expensive one even closer by, or just the nearest fetid and slimy alley -- whatever was within range.
Patience was for ladies. Hesitation was for women. Tigers -- even ones hidden within silks and satins -- had no need for foreplay, patience, or hesitation. They wanted, so they took.
And if you were lucky, she would take you. Hands down to your cock, a squeezing judgment for size and firmness. Lips to yours, a tongue penetrating your mouth, am attacking kiss wanting nothing of you but to be kindling to her roaring heat.
On her knees, she would take you. But only because that was what she wanted. Your come was not expected or important. A flesh device to penetrate an orifice, you would be used until she was bored and ready to move onto other penetrations of other orifices.