kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"BobToysWithLife.0"

words

"Bob? Bob?"

Bob put laid down the two AAA batteries he was fondling and looked back up at his doctor.

"Bob, now just where did you get those batteries from?"

Bob shifted in the couch and mumbled, "The television remote."

"Bob, now, you don't want us to start treating you for kleptomania as well as your sexual dysfunction, now do you?" Bob made no comment. "I think not." Bob continued his long and eloquent lack of comment. "Have you been looking at the pornography I prescribed you?"

"Yes..." Bob's uncomfortable shuffling said it all, but the doctor probed further.

"And have you... managed to rouse yourself with any of it?"

"Just when I was playing with these batteries."

The doctor scribbled down some notes and made a lot of "mm-hmm" noises. A big red light lit up on his desk and he depressed the button next to it gruffly. "Mmm?"

"Doctor, you better come quick; one of the non-seds needs some talking down."

"Allright, I'll be right there." He let go of the button and gave Bob a quick once-over. "Bob, now you lie in that chair. Here, you can even fondle these batteries for a bit. And I'll be right back, okay?"

Bob nodded, and took the batteries with obviously suppressed glee.

The doctor nodded in reply and ducked out of the room, his footsteps tap-tap-tapping away; the door *snicked* shut.

Bob looked around and fondled his batteries; and fondled his batteries and looked around. There was a wall outlet just behind the doctor's desk. Bob looked behind him and verified that the walls were still solid; nobody was going to notice him as he snuck behind the Doc's desk and filched two paperclips.

He straightened the paperclips out, forehead brimming with anticipation. He hadn't had live juice, the wondrous yin-yang of alternating lifeforce, in... in... he remembered how good it felt, though.

A female voice called to him from the desk, "Bob... Bob, don't leave me... Bob, I need you..." He turned around slowly; there was a small television on the doctor's desk. It beckoned to him seductively. "Bob, I want you to do me from behind. Take my plate off and jam your manhood into me!"

He'd heard stories... stories... the amount of juice a CRT produced could fry his skin; could send his heart into fibrilations; could blow his mind. His hands were shaking as he dislodged the mini-phillips screwdriver from out of his cheek's hollow. A bit too quickly, he hurried at her fastenings; he got the screws out but then had trouble with a clasp. She helped him with it, wriggling about.

Soon he had her casing off and bells were ringing in his head and he smelled the sweet success of singed flesh and his vision was fading in and out and he...

"Bob? Bob, don't go to sleep yet... you just got me on... Bob..."

He was happy.