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Subject: {ASSM} "Of One Flesh" (M Mg, rom, mc, va, pedo, magic, caution, no-sex)
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Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2004 04:12:22 -0400
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Of One Flesh

{ASSM}(M Mg, rom, mc, va, pedo, magic, caution, no-sex)

By Brother Buzzard (C)2004

*******BE WARNED********
This story contains fiction and any resemblance to persons, places, or
organizations living or dead (except for satirical purposes, as
covered under Fair Use laws in the USA) is purely coincidental.
Additionally, though there is no actual sexual intercourse in the
story, some activities and situations portrayed are definitely illegal
and/or immoral. This story is also definitely calculated to offend
certain people, a group which may very well include you. Read at your
own risk: I will not be held responsible for anything that happens to
you or anyone else for reading this story.

     <Do we have to do this?>

     <Don't worry, sweetheart.>

     <I feel so ugly in this thing. And they always say such icky

     <The rent's due, sweetheart. You know how it is. Just trust me.>

     The sun is on the horizon and sinking fast. The worn soles of the
torn and discolored sneakers we retrieved from a dumpster are the only
thing keeping little Marissa's dainty little feet safe from the
crumbling sidewalk, which is littered with broken glass from vandalism
and discarded crack vials. Her dress is as ugly as she says, but only
to some; a gray rag, as worn and torn and discolored as her sneakers,
held together mainly by a long strip of the same cloth tied around her
waist. The skirt hangs just long enough to conceal her lack of
undergarments, and one could, if the light were strong enough, see
right through the front of the blouse, though there's nothing
noteworthy under it to see. The grunge and a whiff of her unwashed
self cling to her like a damp cloth. She walks with the aimless,
innocent gait of a child, something I can never fully imitate.

     The hooker on the corner still has some of her good looks, but
also has the pale, papery skin of a heroin addict. She wears dark
pantyhose to cover the rash that's spreading down her inner thighs and
fishnets on her arms to disguise the needle marks. The local pusher
sometimes pays her for the names and embarrassing photographs of her
customers, who usually don't realize until it's too late that she's
sixteen. Marissa hesitates, coming closer only at my prodding. I let
her stop a yard or so away from the corner. She squeezes me tighter.

     <I don't like this.>

     <It's all right, darling. I'm right here with you.>

     "What are you doing here, kid?" the hooker asks. "You look like
shit!" The question shakes the little girl, but with a little effort I
keep her from bolting in terror. "You're not even old enough to breed,
are you?" The hooker shakes her head and goes back to scanning the
streets for a paying customer. Marissa says nothing.

     A ride arrives, eventually, in a classier car than usual. He's
white, clean-shaven, and wearing a business suit.

     "Hey, sweetcakes," he says. "You lookin' for a free ride?"

     "Not a free ride," says the hooker, leaning over a little to give
him a better look at her team members, "but if the price is right..."

     "I wasn't talking to you," he replies. "Go sell your ass
somewhere else, scabby."

     "What!?" She's so worked up that she trips over her high heels
and tumbles to the ground. Shaking with rage, she hisses "Whatsamatta,
sissy? Can't handle a real woman? You need that Little Red Riding Hood
to get it up? Freakin' tree-jumper..." She stands up, composes
herself, flips him the bird, and marches off in a huff as well as
anyone can march in high heels.

     <Shut them out, sweetheart. They're only words.>

     The tears are welling up in Marissa's eyes. The man reaches out
the window and strokes her cheek.

     "Aw, don't cry, little girl. I hate it when little girls cry."
Nevertheless, Marissa lets loose with a flood of tears. I hear the
engine cut off, and the man gets out to pick her up and carry her in
his arms. "Come on, little girl. I'll let you ride shotgun." Carrying
her around to the passenger side of the car, he unlocks the door,
opens it, and carefully buckles her into the seat. She's still sobbing
as the man gets back in on his side, but the feel of the cool plush
seats is soothing and she feels better. At the same time, her fear is
rising to her throat.

     <I can't do this!>

     <Do you want me to take over for you?>


     <Then just hold on to me. It'll be all right. Nothing's going to
happen until we get there.>

     My assurance flows into her body, unclenching tight muscles,
calming her breathing, drying her eyes. The sun has turned a brilliant
coppery golden-red. The man takes the freeway home, giving her a view
of the city's glorious glass towers, reflecting the golden light in a
thousand mirrors. As we look at them together, the driver reaches over
and strokes Marissa's neck. With my help, she doesn't shudder until he
pulls his hand away.

     "You're such a pretty little girl," he says. "Have you got a name
on you?"

     <I hate when they talk like they're nice.>

     <I know. Let me do the talking for this part.>

     "My name's whatever you want it to be."

     "Oh really?" he chuckles. "I didn't know I was dealing with a

     <What's he saying?>

     <Don't worry about it.>

     "A what?"


     We drive on in silence for a while.

     "That's a nice doll, little girl," says the man, mustering a
smile. "Did you get him for your birthday?"

     "I got him in the courthouse."

     "The courthouse? What were you doing there?"

     "I was all alone, and I was bored, so I got me a friend to play

     <Man, I hope those words sound like something you'd say!>

     <I don't know. They don't sound like you.>

     <Then I've probably got it right.>

     "Oh. And they let you keep him, eh?"

     "He's always good to me."

     "Really? What does he do for you?"

     <Do you want to tell him, or shall I?>

     <I'll tell him.>

     "He gives me nice things and says nice things to me and he's
always with me everywhere I go."

     "It looks like you give him nice things too. I've never seen a
doll with a tuxedo before."

     "He got it at a party."

     "What kind of party?"

     "A sex party."

     "No kidding!? Where was this?"

     <I don't remember how to say all of it.>

     <That's all right. I can say it.>

     "Trinity Presbyterian Church."

     "The place that burned down? Wow! I know they used to hold GLSEN
meetings there, but I had no idea!"

     "I don't like to talk about it much."


     He says nothing more for a long time. We arrive at his home as
the last few rays of daylight are fading. It's small, but it has an
automatic garage door and what little lawn it has is recently mowed.
When the garage door is finished closing, the driver lays his hand on
Marissa's knee and leans in to whisper.

     "You know, we haven't discussed the price yet. Would fifty
dollars be enough?"

     <Fifty dollars! What a cheapskate.>

     <He sure is, but now pay attention. You'll have to learn how to
do this yourself when you're older.>

     "If I don't ask for a hundred, Mommy will beat me."

     "She will? Uh, I see. Um, well I'll tell you what: you can tell
her you asked for a hundred, and I gave you eighty, and threw in
dinner and a free bath. Would that be all right with her, you think?"

     <I don't like baths.>

     <Don't worry. When it comes to that, I'll take care of it for


     "You're a good kid. You're shaking like you're sick, though. Have
you had anything to eat at all today?"


     "Well, dinner's on me, and you are invited, little, uh... Katie.
Can I call you Katie?"

     "Yeah, I can be Katie."

     "All right. Let me unhook you." He reaches down and unfastens the
safety belt. Marissa and I together can't hold back a shudder as he
pulls her out of the seat and into his arms, but he still apparently
thinks it's from hunger. "It's not much, but I've got some chicken
from last night, and some rice..."

     "I want a drumstick."

     <How did you know that?>

     <Kids always want the drumstick. It's like your law, or
something. Would you like to do the talking now?>

     <No, but let me talk when I want to.>


     He carries her through a den and up the stairs to his kitchen, a
small but--as real estate agents would put it--cozy room. There's a
table with just two chairs at one end of the room, and he seats her at
one of them. He gets an ornamental candle from a cupboard above the
refrigerator and sets it on the table as I let Marissa follow it with
her innocent gaze of curiosity. Stepping into his living room, he puts
on some soft romantic jazz music. Then he lights the candle with a
kitchen lighter, and dims all the other lights in the house. The
candle smells sweet and fragrant, and burns with a soft pink flame.
Strangely, he doesn't change out of his business suit before cooking
the meal, and he doesn't ask Marissa to wash up for dinner.

     There's probably something he likes about dining in his business
suit with a little girl in rags. They're all like this, his kind; they
all have some ritual, some ceremony they feel compelled to enact, some
fantasy to fulfill. At Trinity Presbyterian church just last month,
some of his kind held a mock wedding. As often as not, these
ceremonies are what pays our bills. In this case, it's what keeps us
warm and well-fed. The chicken and rice may be mere leftovers as he
says, but the man is a good cook. The chicken is teriyaki chicken, and
it's delicious. He also serves a salad, which Marissa doesn't like,
but I do. As compensation, I let her savor the taste of the chicken
and the rice. He watches her across the table as we eat. The air seems
thick and the meal seems to take a long time to eat, but finally the
plate is clean. The man has barely eaten half of his portion, even
though it's smaller.

     "All done?" he says. "As agreed, then, let me draw you a bath."
Marissa says nothing as he takes her into his arms again, but she has
to let me take over completely to keep her body from betraying her
disgust. The bathroom is surprisingly large for this house, and the
bath tub takes up a lot more of it than usual. When he puts her down,
I let Marissa have full control again, but she stays silent as he
pours the bath.

     <Is he going to try something now?>

     <I don't think so, but hold on to me just in case.>

     The bath is ready. He turns to Marissa with a smile and holds up
a wash cloth.

     "Think you can handle it yourself? Or do you want me to do it for

     "I can do it myself."

     He looks a little surprised at the edge of defiance in her voice,
but he doesn't lose his composure.

     "All right. Tell you what, Katie: while you take care of that,
I'll go finish dinner. Then I'll change into something more
comfortable and be back to check on you, okay?"


     He watches her over his shoulder as he goes, but he goes. She
closes the door behind him.

     <This is your part. You're taking this bath for me, remember?>

     <Of course I do. You've done well, Marissa. Now rest a while, and
I'll take care of everything.>

     Marissa's little hands strip her dress from her faster than any
ordinary child's hands could, and she climbs into the tub. I seat the
little doll in the tuxedo in the soap rack before resting her body.
Every feeling is more intense for a little child; the warmth of the
water washes over every nerve ending as I lay her body down in it. To
Marissa, this would be much too hot. To me, it's a comfortable heat
that would boil every ache and pain out of me, were her body an
adult's body with an adult's aches and pains. I try to pass on the
sleepy, soothing feelings to her as much as I can while bearing the
heat for myself. The dirt on Marissa's body is just a little dust I
had her rub into her clothes, and it comes away easily.

     As the heat gives way entirely to comfortable warmth, Marissa is
almost asleep when there's a rap on the bathroom door, and it pops
open. The man is standing naked in the doorway with an enormous
erection; somehow, he doesn't look nearly as dignified without his

     <All right, Marissa. The time is now. Let me out.>

     "All nice and clean, Katie? I've got eighty dollars waiting for
you now, but first you're going to have to earn it," he says.

     <You won't be out too long?>

     <Only as long as it takes. Let me out, darling. You need my
strength now.>

     <How long will it take?>

     <Only so long as it takes to pay the rent. I swear. Let me out.>

     Marissa takes one look at the man coming toward us, and makes her
decision in a heartbeat. Her hand goes to the doll of a man in a
tuxedo, and when she picks him up, she suddenly shrinks down into a
tiny anatomically correct doll in the hand of a man wearing a tuxedo.
The water in the tub is wetting my fancy shoes, but they won't be much
worse for wear when they dry out. Stepping from the tub, I put Marissa
in my pocket and approach the guilty man, who's looking at me in dull

     "You just made the biggest mistake you've ever made in your
life," I tell him, and put my hand on his neck. His flesh turns to
plastic almost instantly. I close my thumb and forefinger around his
neck and the rest of my fingers around his back. Laying him on the
counter, I then pull Marissa from the one pocket and a simple white
dress from the other.

     <That gray thing is rather ugly, isn't it? Still, I say you'd be
beautiful in anything, sweetheart.>

     <Am I really that pretty?>

     <Of course you are.>

     Getting the dress on Melissa is a delicate maneuver; the cloth is
finer than anything human hands can spin, and I don't want to tear it.
I finally manage to put it on her, though, and then I put her on the
counter as well.

     <Now you know I've got to take care of a little business, but
I'll be right back, sweetheart.>

     <Don't ever leave me. You promised.>

     <Never, little girl. You're the best thing that ever happened to
me. Haven't I always told you that? Now sleep just a little bit. I'll
be right back.>

     Picking up the foolish doll of a man who thought he would molest
my little girl, I carry him from the bathroom to the living room.
Through the confusion of the man's mind, I can see that he never had
so much as eighty dollars in cash on hand, and was planning to kill my
little Marissa when he was done with her. Nevertheless, he has ATM
cards and a savings account. I scribble the PINs for them on a pad of
paper he has by his telephone, tear off the note, and put it in my
pocket. The fire place in the den has been neglected for a long time,
but the logs in it are gas logs, and the pilot light is going. With a
flip of the switch, they catch almost immediately. For a moment, his
mind struggles feebly with mine, but he is no match for me: he is an
amateur and I am experienced. His consciousness drowns in mine, and I
throw his plastic remnant into the fire, which takes all of a minute
to consume it. The mystery of his disappearance will probably rank
somewhere behind that of Joseph Crater, who turned a corner in 1930
and was never seen again. Accounts I've read say that Judge Crater was
involved in dealings with some shady people. I sometimes wonder if he
ran into someone like me.

     Raiding the molestor's house for goods will take much less time
than it took to plunder Trinity Presbyterian; maybe an hour or two at
the most. It's a nice house and he's only been in it for a month, so
I'll just throw his stash of pornography and sex toys on the fire and
let the house stand this time. His clothes are mostly in my size, so I
think I'll take some of them with me too. His car is rather sporty,
but I've read in the annual report from my insurance company that it's
not a very safe or fuel-efficient model, so I think I'll sell it to
Eddie down at the chop shop. Other than a few electronic odds and ends
(his TV should be easily fenceable and his computer is nicer than
mine), there's nothing much else of value.

     Returning to the bathroom, I scoop Marissa up from the counter,
and admire her perfect little form resting in the palm of my hand. For
three long years, we've been together. Three years that seem like
another lifetime to the little doll who captured a foolish young juror
who sneaked into a child psychologist's office, thinking he'd steal an
anatomically correct doll he saw displayed as evidence at a trial.
Cradling her in my hands, I hold the little girl who showed me the
error of my lecherous ways to my chest, as if I might curl her up
inside of me.

     <We'll always be together, won't we?>

     <Yes, little darling. Always.>

     She's growing up, my precious little Marissa. While I can't tell
whether our time together has aged me very much, she looks more like
an eight-year-old than like the five-year-old she was when I found
her. I can't make much sense of her memories from before that time,
and neither can she, but our present condition speaks for itself:
someone probably put a curse on her, something that stole her human
form and turned her into a doll. Then, when I held her as my stolen
prize for the very first time, my human form passed from me to her,
and we merged together. Ever since then, we've been punishing the men
(and in a very few cases, such as the Trinity Presbyterian incident,
women) who try to steal even more of her. Some day, maybe when she's a
little older, I won't have to put her to sleep and leave her in
another room anymore when I'm dealing with the Johns who buy her.

     I look at my watch. It's almost 8:00 P.M.

     <It's bedtime, sweetheart. Let Daddy work, and in the morning
you'll be yourself again.>

     Maybe one day, when we've saved enough from our work and she's
old enough to drive a car and buy tickets at an airport, we'll set out
to find the one who cursed her and bring him to justice; we do at
least remember his face. Maybe if we can finish him off as we've
finished so many others, that'll break the curse. In the meantime, the
money from our latest job should help pay for several more months in
the 10th story Wonderland I've built for her. It's all she needs at
her age, though I'm already saving money for a mansion. I think
there'll be enough left over to pay for another year of Catholic
school for her, too, though we may have to take up homeschooling soon
if we can't get the other children to stop asking her why she still
brings a doll to school at her age. No one seems to notice that no one
has seen the two of us together in the same place, but someone
probably will eventually. We'll just have to cross that bridge when we
get to it.

     No matter what happens, though, we'll always be together.


Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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