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RYN Part One: Life of the Machine A government limo brought the man to the office building on Wabash Avenue, an upscale Chicago address. His attendant opened the door and the middle-aged man stepped out, closing his dark topcoat against the wind. It was blowing directly off Lake Michigan and had a bitter, gelid feel against his face. “Wait for me here until I return.” “Yes sir Mr. Warren” the attendant replied briskly. Warren was a powerful man, a politically connected man, and his servants and vassals invariably obeyed his instructions to the letter, or suffered the consequences. As the fourth highest person in the Internal Revenue Service he commanded a staff of thousands, and was the center of a tentacle of command that reached from the Dakotas down to the bayous of Louisiana, from the western high plains to the prairies of Indiana. No business, no person, no property was safe from his power to bind and to loose. No Doge, Caesar, or Minister of days gone by had power of his measure. He took a high-speed elevator up to the floor his friend had told him of. He got off and walked briskly to the suite, paused before the plain door with only a suite number on it, collected himself and turned the brass handle. The door opened and he found himself in an anteroom completely covered in mirrors. All four walls, ceiling, and to his surprise, even the floor, were covered by pure, reflecting glass. His lambent image was smeared across uncounted scintillating panes. “Hello, is anyone here?” he asked sternly. Warren closed the door and immediately became disoriented. The back of the door was also mirrored, and he could no longer see it. Nor could he see a door handle. There was no way out. “Hello!” he cried, more loudly. The distant edge of panic seeped into him. He wasn’t used to feeling this way. If his servants had been near him now, they would tremble at his anger. He heard a sound, and turned towards it. An entire wall was receding into the floor. A room was opening up before him. The acoustics changed and he heard a vast, deep echo of silence before him. He saw darkness. He entered the room, and as his gaze swept it he was shocked at the stark feel of its ambiance. Black walls, white carpet. The walls were not stucco, but a metallic black, like smooth boilerplate, like virginal coal-black iron. He saw no seams, it looked as if the room had been painted with iron. No windows disrupted the absolute smoothness of the walls. This shock did not prepare him for the sight of Ryn, standing statuesque behind an ebony desk. 6’3” with raven black hair to her waist, onyx eyes, black lipstick, black fingernails. A gold ring adorned her index finger, and he noticed a small black stone glitter cruelly. The ring was her only jewelry. Her features were striking and angular, an aquiline nose, delicate feminine eyebrows with high cheekbones. Her bemused raptor gaze pierced him, as he savored the spectacle of her lithe athletic body and firm breasts. Neither young nor old she seemed to him, rather, timeless, beyond age. A dark and deeply erotic Lady Galadriel she appeared, lofty, aristocratic. No man was good enough for her, no king, no god. Heroes and savants might dash themselves against her in futility. The face of Helen of Troy may have launched a thousand ships. Ryn’s beauty would smash a thousand nations to pieces. Standing before her he felt its power beating upon him, like facing a dark sun. Love her, and despair. Or so it seemed to his feverish imagination, swaying before her as if taken by a dream. An image of beauty from beyond the world she was, darkly angelic, empyrean. An obsidian, benighted radiance illuminated the room from an unknown source- he could find no specific lighting. Behind her what seemed to be a giant aquarium covering the entire wall loomed from floor to ceiling. But in it he saw no fish- he noted with surprise that it was huge lava lamp. The room was indeed “darkness made visible.“ Molten red globules of unctuous material floated eerily in a black, viscous fluid. She wore an austere gray turtleneck and tight black leather pants. A single gold thread was sewn into the long neck of her sweater, as if marking her for some office of unknown dignity. The curve of her figure as she made a step forward to greet him startled him with its elegant beauty and his heart raced uncertainly. So might he be received by Death’s mistress. “Ah, hello, a friend of mine gave me your card, Dr. Nyr. My name is John Warren.” “Call me Ryn” she replied in a firm contralto voice. “He gave you my card.” It was a statement, not a question. She did not ask people questions. “Yes, uh, here it is” he said, digging a business card out of his shirt pocket. It was a shiny black card, made not of paper but metal and it had a heft and weight to it that was inexplicable for its size. Its edges were razor sharp and he had cut himself when he first handled it. Gold script lettering stated her full name, Dr. Ryn Nyr, her office address, and her occupation: Cutter. No phone number was given. Her office did not have a phone. She didn’t need one. She took the card, and her gaze passed over it in a flicker of concentration. She pressed a button on her desk and a small carpeted panel in the floor opened. A shaft of bright, hot blue light emerged from the floor. She tossed the card in. There was a flash as it was boiled into plasma by a laser incinerator. The brief burning smell quickly passed and the panel slid shut. This gave him pause. He wondered idly, wildly, what other buttons lurked on her desktop, and shifted uneasily. He collected his battered thoughts and pulled his shoulders up in a desperate lunge. Their conversation, or rather, his questions and her statements, resumed. “My friend said you were the best cutter this side of the big apple. He was very satisfied with what you, ah, what you did for him.” “I am the best cutter in the world, now, or ever” she stated flatly, staring directly into his brown eyes. He noticed that she did not blink her deep black eyes, they seemed unerring in their focus on whatever she looked at, unfailing in their command. He faltered in asking his next question. Faltering was new to him. “You see, I’ve had this fantasy, uh, for a long time now....Its a strange fascination of mine.” “Go on” she said. She came out from behind her ebony wood desk, and glided with catlike grace onto one of a pair of wrought iron chairs that faced each other. Each chair had a high, spiked back that towered up into the gloom above. Neither chair had a cushion. He sat facing her, and a melting sensation passed over him from his proximity to this dark goddess of whom he had heard so much. He was becoming erect, and felt giddy. A wave of heat surged up from his belly and he took a deep breath. She clasped her hands together and fixed her gaze into his eyes. She was upright in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, and he saw her patent leather riding boots. Her leather pants were tucked into them mid-shin. A black steel band lined the toe of each boot. “I love your name” he blurted, trying to resume his effort at speaking to her. “A palindrome. ‘Able was I ere I saw Elba’ or so Bonaparte’s fate was lamented by his English admirers.” “I see...I hadn’t noticed that...” Warren faltered again. Her prodigious intellect dazzled him, and he felt cowed, smaller. He gripped the arms of his chair with sweaty palms. “So, anyway, I’ve had this fantasy of, of....being cut, you know?” “I know.” “And my friend, Robert, he was just so overwhelmed by your...your performance for him, with...I mean on him...” “To him” she corrected, and began lecturing him. “Cutting is an art form. The highest art form because the material being sculpted and smoothed, human flesh, is the most evolved meat on this planet, just as man is the most advanced predator nature ever created. But I do not merely cut, I create an ambiance, I paint a scene that shall not be forgotten for the rest of your life. Of course I am the one who will decide on a choice of scene. All such aesthetic questions will be resolved at my own discretion. The actual slicing of your organ of pleasure will be merely one part, the last part, of the most intense experience you will ever have, the most intense experience that it is possible for a man to have.” “And make no mistake, I shall insist on slicing your erect cock first, and yes, it will be fully erect when I decide to cut it. More erect than it has ever been. If you want balls removed then you must either cut them yourself or go elsewhere. I prefer that balls be kept, to chemically power your imagination, to tease and torment you after your organ of satisfaction is removed. And to remind you forever of the power and significance of the act of cutting.” “I...see” he said weakly. He was overwhelmed now, and his breathing was shallow. “I...I definitely want to...to do this. Soon,” he murmured in a low voice. “We will do it at my convenience, where and when I decide” she stated in a level, professional voice. “How much...do I have to...”he started to say, but she interrupted him- “$500,000 in U.S. dollars. All payable in advance by wire transfer to a Cayman Island corporation. Strictly non-refundable. And you will sign all paperwork presented to you by my attorneys.” “I do not like or deal with paperwork” she added with disgust, “I deal with flesh, and steel.” “$500,000, that’s what he, Robert I mean, paid, so... you will give me the same deal?” he asked. “No. No two of my clients ever ‘get the same deal’ as you so crudely put it. All of my clients will receive a unique, unforgettable experience. My work is sui generis, one-of-a-kind, never repeatable. Never!” He winced at this reproof, and apologized to the Artist before him, “I’m sorry” he stammered. “You...you must know who I am...you recognize me don‘t you” the government man went on. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care for any person” she proclaimed. “And before we proceed you will have a complete physical checkup at a doctor approved in advance by me.” “But don’t you...I mean...Ok, yes...whatever you say. Do you want my address...telephone?” he asked. “Read them to me” she commanded. He recited his information, and observed that she took no notes and wrote nothing down. He saw no paper of any kind in her office. “You’ll remember all that?” he asked meekly. “Fool! The power of my memory is complete- all that I choose to remember is mine at any time. All that I choose to ignore is lost forever. You will be contacted when I am ready to proceed.” She spoke these words in a level, unraised voice, in the firm tones of a disgruntled intellectual responding to a dumb idea but not to its emotional baggage. So might a High Priestess rebuke an erring acolyte. “You may leave now” she added. “But...but I have the money now...Robert told me....here..” he fumbled in his pocket for the check. She stretched out her slender, agile arm towards his face, palm upraised, the dark stone on her index finger fascinating him. “Give it to me” she said. He handed her a green and beige U.S. Treasury check payable to Thanatos Entertainment Corporation, a Cayman Island address was listed below the payee. The check was for $500,000. A stub was attached to the government check, with an account coding the payment as “entertainment expense.” “Its a good check” he assured her. “I know it is.” She leaned over her desk and dropped the check into an empty bin tray. The curve of her incredible, tight ass briefly flashed before him like a vision. She returned to her seat and stared at him fixedly. He endured the silent, hypnotic gaze for a short while, then understood. Despite her emphatic, overpowering nature, not once during this interview did he feel that she had consciously tried to offend him. In this he detected a higher courtesy, a superhuman etiquette that he could only guess at. This was a dangerous game the rules of which he little understood. “Well, I guess its time for me to go. Uh...thank you very much.” He stood and turned to leave when she rose also and presented her right hand for him to shake. He reached for it, and his cold, sweaty palm was gripped, viselike, by her warm smooth flesh. An electric current passed through him and another wave of giddiness made him wobble on his feet. He thought momentarily of what it would feel like for this hand to grasp his cock. He shivered from the very root of his being in anticipation. She released his hand with a smile. “Goodbye then...Ryn.” She did not reply. * * * * * Later, back in the limo, he raised the hand she had grasped to his nostrils and inhaled her faint, delicate, body-scent, like a faint perfume of rosewood and lilac, keen and biting. He did not wash that hand for two days, and used it generously, as any man would. Part Two: Way of the Machine [I may continue this if people want it???]