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You're bred to have perfect ears. You hear her before you see her, above the hum of conversation from inside the club and the lake lapping the deck at your feet: sssssss of breath through a cigarette, scrick... scrick... scrick as she extends and retracts the blades under her fingernails.
You find her leaning out over the water, elbows on the railing, watching her hands. She turns when you round the corner, lazily grinding the butt of the smoke under her heel. Her mirror-eyes reflect your approach, glinting in the artificial torchlight, revealing nothing. But she knows who you are.
"Jack in?" Her question is matter-of-fact. "I'm wired for stimstim."
Your role in tonight's performance was simple: rarefied heiress, of insatiable desires, who wants and is satisfied. Your tastes are unimaginably perverse. When you look at the razorgirl you see PeterÕs depraved projection of her, meticulously dismembered: skin flayed back to reveal pulsing striations of muscle, surgical lacerations through tendon and bone, until limbs and organs lie quivering on the walkway, oozing like cuts of meat in a shop window.
You lift the hair off the back of your neck so she can key in, fingers icy against your skin.
Molly is your medium, your body automated. Behind her eyes, you see yourself sitting cross-legged against the wall, elegant and still. Her lenses correct for darkness and the image is vivid as day, sharper around the edges than in even your own purified vision. Molly's enhanced nerves prickle, registering every whisper of breeze as she gathers up her shirt, exposing her belly to the humid air. Her cunt throbs and swells to its own rhythm as hands slide over tissue, tracing a tantalizing webwork of sensation. And then, scrick... four fingertips etch four lines across her midriff, beading with red.
Pants unzip down the sides, falling open in front to make room for flashes of silver. Pain ribbons over hipbones, the swell of an upper thigh, clean and precise as code. Lips are parted by the slender flats of two blades, nicking razor-sharp along the slick inside, soothed by fingertips that find a tumescence, a polyp, a node of pleasure. Soft and slicing in turn against you, you disembodied, given over to an interface that catches your clit between two hairline edges and draws a shocking droplet of blood. To come is to shudder to the pulse of alien flesh.