51 - Her Masterpiece

"Communication is the key to all relationships," Asenath said, as she picked up a candle. They were more than half gone now, and the dark was more palpable. The ring of light that had held it back had shrunk, and with each story it grew closer. "What you expect. What you want. What you need. Some people think problems stem from miscommunication, but I find the most terrible scenarios come from those moments when the communication is perfect. I call this story

HER MASTERPIECE

Alice Gamwell was not yet forty when she became a widow. Her loyal attendant Emmi wheeled her to the Eastside crypt where the Gamwells had been interred for generations. She wore her dress limbs with her widow's weeds. Wooden prosthetics, just for show, to make the dress fit better. "Hands" folded in her lap. Lost in her own thoughts as she saw her wife's casket placed in the vault.

Then back to the big, empty house.

Emmi helped Alice out of her dress, and then out of her limbs. A careful diet and regular exercise had kept Alice from ballooning since she had lost her limbs. The stumps of her arms and legs had dwindled, but her core was amazingly strong, abs flat, shoulders strong. She stared at her breasts, the swollen globes the very last gift from her wife, the heavy chain between the nipples had been the last toy that Tonya had played with.

Now here she sat, a trophy without anyone to admire her. A discarded toy.

For a month, Alice mourned. She ate what Emmi fed her. Did exercises as Emmi directed. Went to bed when Emmi carried her there; took a bath when Emmi washed her. The young woman's dark eyes watched the life and purpose fade from her mistress. Lost. Without purpose.

"Mrs. Gamwell," Emmi said one morning, as she dressed Alice for the day. The sleeves tied off. "Would you like to see your late wife's gallery?"

It was an unprecedented suggestion. Alice raised her chin, dark hair not yet touched with grey.

"Show me," she said.

So Emmi drove Alice into town. Wheeled her into the gallery that had been shut up for weeks. Turned on the lights, and exposed Tonya Gamwell's life's work.

It was a museum of the grotesque. Of broken, beautiful things. One-winged angels and crippled succubi. Blind monsters in erotic poses. In stone and wood, cement and plaster. Every medium worked to try and achieve a vision of beauty in monstrosity, of a flawed creation whose flaw was what defined it, made it both repulsive and attractive.

Tonya's workspace was at the back of the gallery. There were drawings there. Sketches. Alice's eyes widened.

"Her masterpiece," Emmi said, a bit of awe in her voice. "She had such plans for it, but her heart gave out before she was able to achieve it."

Alice stared. Something cold crawled through her guts. She knew what Tonya Gamwell was capable of. Knew what she herself had agreed to, when she accepted the cruel love of her wife, and basked under the attention of whip and hook. Sometimes she had hung from the ceiling for days, her body as exposed as a raw nerve to the love and torment that only Tonya could lavish upon her wife.

"It's horrible," Alice said, in a soft croak.

"Yes," Emmi said. "But you could complete it. Realize it."

Alice shuddered. "It would require a volunteer. Someone with..."

Emmi's hands moved from the handles of Alice's wheelchair to her shoulders.

"I think you will find," Emmi said softly. "That I have all the necessary attributes. Mrs. Tonya and I discussed this before she passed. I wouldn't have brought it up, but you seem so...I thought...you, of all people, would understand."

Alice turned her head. Away from the obscenity in blue ink and charcoal scribbled on the pages. She stared up at Emmi as if noticing her for the first time. The way she stood. The Adam's apple, normally hidden. The slight scars along the jaw from facial feminization surgery.

"You know what this requires," Alice said. "Are you really prepared to go through with that?"

Emmi wetted her lip. "I am. For the same compensation you received."

They signed the pre-nup first. Then they began.

Alice insisted on watching. The top half of Emmi was covered with a surgical gown, the bottom half exposed. Alice saw the penis exposed, flaccid. The grey-haired doctor drew a dotted line on it in blue marker, right from the base to the tip. In her wheelchair, she shivered as the scalpel cut into the soft flesh of the perfect prick. The spongy glans slowly split in two, lengthwise, and Alice watched the sight that very few people were privileged to witness. The vascular system of the prick exposed, cauterized, rerouted. There was a lot of blood. The scalpel cut deeper and deeper each time, biting through the cock-flesh, the surgeon's hand steady as slowly, carefully, until the glans pulled apart, split in half.

The rest of the prick bifurcated relatively easily. Alice was leaning forward in her chair, teeth biting into her lip, rubbing her bottom on the chair, silicone tits pressed into the railing. She quivered with an ecstasy she had not experienced in a long time, the strange, terrible pleasure that came from the unmaking and remaking of a human being.

Skin was folded over. Blood vessels attached to feed both halves—no, that wasn't correct. To feed both cocks, the twin skinny pricks purple and bruised, with black stitches down their length, meeting at the middle.

There would be time to heal. Emmi stayed in the house, temporary servants seeing to both of their needs. Alice was conscientious, always by her betrothed's side. Ordering the girls to bring cold packs, ice cream, painkillers, whatever was needed.

There were additional surgeries. Alice stared in fascination at the swollen sack between Emmi's legs, now featuring six testicles. The donors had agreed to both organ and sperm donation. The stitches were livid, but already Alice knew Emmi could feel it. There was always a white bead of precum at the tip of both of her dicks. Erections often came spontaneously, painfully, and Emmi could not wear underwear until everything had healed.

The final steps, after the doctor confirmed the functionality, was cosmetic. Inky black tattoos, subdermal implants, solid titanium rings through the glans.

Alice could hardly contain herself at night. Emmi slept in her bed now, in the nude. She stared at the horrific monstrosity that wealth and perversion had brought her. Knew, for a little while, the absolute monstrous vision that had led her own wife to surgically remove Alice's healthy limbs.

She leaned forward and kissed the left-most cock. Let her tongue taste the dribble of pre-cum, the hard tang of the metal piercings.

The wedding was a legal formality. They were bonded together by something more stranger and stronger now, a mutual pursuit of an artistic goal.

On their honeymoon, the servants were dismissed. The hooks deployed from the ceiling, and Emmi hung her wife by the chain that held her silicone-inflated tits. At just the right height for the two dicks to squeeze into Alice's raw and unprotected cunt. Blood ran down Emmi's balls as something split, but neither of them cared.

It was what they both wanted. Perhaps it was what they both deserved.

Asenath gave a sigh, as a young woman might give when thinking of a prince charming. Around her, men and women who had described horrors looked slightly uneasy at the blush that came to Asenath's face.

She blew out the candle, the night crept in.