Pain
by Caleb Coomer
They killed pain. Childbirth is easier. War is easier. Rape and murder happen less. Mental anguish remains. Sex is worse.
My twisted arm didn’t shiver with the twitches of resistance, and my ass didn’t quiver under the paddle.
No writing utensils. No personal computers. Automated processors take records. I can’t afford a nice one. Only short sentences. Unless I shake it hard.
The benefit of a cheap device is its susceptibility to cheap tricks. It doesn’t last long, but I can squeeze out more words after a hard shake. The computer feels pain better than we do.
Had to diary this. Life has been lost. Pain comes back with injections. But injections aren’t cheap. The rich play with them. I need them.
Mental anguish remained, and the peeling of the skin on backs meant nothing without a groan. The whip lost its healing power without the squeals.
I won’t waste shakes. They’re for the fun. Pain left before my birth. First felt pain at thirteen. He said it wasn’t fucking. Not without pain.
It was only pressure at first, and I hadn’t loosened up. I wasn’t dry, but I wasn’t wet. It popped in, and I inhaled his breath. Girls said it hurt. It hadn’t for them, not truly, but I knew love and they didn’t. He pushed himself into me in jaunty bursts of force, and the abrasive rhythm softened my insides.
The injection stung. His cock filled me up. I still smell his staleness. Sweat and his steel leash. He came, I didn’t. I smiled.
The others told me about cumming and how some men behaved when pain was natural. They learned to please with their cocks and with pain and violent rushing waves of sensation, like a greasy tide of pleasure, a strong tide with rough crashing and ugly algae leaving the shore smooth and wet and all beaten up but glowing with desire and the light of the moon.
I’m over forty. Pain is harder now. I need this diary. People need to know pleasure. It exists in pain. I came at fifteen.
Laird was his name; he had wide cock, but he didn’t plunge it into me. He injected me first to make me feel pain, and then he nibbled on the lips of my pussy, drawing little bits of blood before pinching my nipples. He didn’t use a device or a prop. He didn’t even use his cock—not yet. It stood twitching and firm, begging to be put inside me, but he waited. I came twice before he put it in. My lips tingled with soft buzzing bursts. My nipples swelled up and were raw for a week.
Pain killed war. Automation hadn’t worked. It caused pain. Now, robots do our jobs. We experience no pain. And no pleasure.
The others in my life said happiness was a couch, a beach and comfort—comfort to eat, comfortable conversation, comfortable fucking. Only men achieve orgasm, not women. Wars are fought mainly by prisoners, and war is their death sentence. Crime is down, and warriors can cause pleasure. When I turned eighteen, we went to a base where they kept the soldiers all holed up in warehouses like beans in a can. There were five of us and dozens of them, all sizes and lengths. We injected ourselves, walked in naked, and didn’t say a word. Some of them had killed, some had raped, and some hadn’t paid the taxman. I lost a fistful of hair, and the necklace I had on had been pushed a half-inch into my flesh. As I walked out, blood from my split lip painted my tremoring legs. I came a dozen times.
They knew about us. Pain houses for the rich. And for us, the poor. For pleasure. There was money in it. People still wanted money.
Thugs didn’t matter; we paid with our bodies, and if it got bad, we had other ways of draining them. Blood play helped us seasoned pleasure seekers get off. The first time the man slit my wrist open down the middle, my skin split. He opened my legs and moved my arm above my head. Red milk poured down my arm and down the centre of my breasts, where he waited, lapping it up like it was his only sustenance. I sank into myself and pushed my groin further into his. I came.
This was rudimentary. Real blood play was transfusion. Meehan once lured a thug. She injected him twice. Drained every drop. Left his pale body outside.
You can lose several pints of blood before hypovolemic shock occurs, and you can gain several pints before you’re overloaded. The tube connected our arms and our bodies, and it was filled with red milk. We licked the tube, and he started slow as blood poured, his heart rate increased and he toed on the edge of tachycardia. His heart rate reached panic levels, and his cock was filled with too much blood. We squealed; my skin felt sticky and cold, I went pale, my breath felt shallow and overworked while the world bobbed back and forth. His cock felt stuffed to the tip with blood, then he fell on me. I thought his head would rip straight into my chest and stay there for good.
Worse than thugs. Officials from the department. Departments ran everything. They took pain. They started wars. Too many departments to name.
The automated pricks talked to us first, saying that we had to shut down or go to war. We thought war would be a delightful place to find pain, but injections would be rare. The lower-level suits could be fucked for their silence, but when the real department pricks came in, the kind who hadn’t felt a wet woman in their whole family line, going back to even the days with pain, generations of dry and painless fucking, we had to go on the run. That was ten years ago now. Mental anguish remains.
Injections were hard to find. New fucks, even harder. The road was automated. Took weeks to get somewhere. Took months to find pain. The next city killed us.
Every building was grey, and every soul. Nothing was alive; the people felt automated. Bars threw us out when we laughed, and clubs played automated sounds from the automated entertainment that none of us had seen. No one moved at the clubs. No one stank, and no one was fucking. We fucked each other without pain, and we didn’t come. The officials nabbed some of us. We didn’t have a home, and we didn’t have pain. Some killed themselves, but for me, I wanted to come before I died.
I hoarded injections. I have dozens. One last run. I will take them all now. A room full of people. All people, and all pleasure.
I spill blood and I spit and I scrape and I punch and I’m punched. The back of my throat is filled with cock and cum and the juice of a woman’s pussy and red milk from my flesh. I smell stale rot and sweet sweat. I go pale, I have skin under my nails, and I’m filled. My hair and fluid cover the cement floor. Sounds from the mouths of humans spill out, music of pain and pleasure. There’s no mutual anguish in this. My milk pours for them. Their milk pours for me. I go paler. It’s still spilling. I’m translucent. They’re still fucking. I’ve vanished. I came. I’m coming.
Caleb Coomer - I was born in Kentucky. I live in Maryland. I wish to die in Italy.