Sins Of The Flesh

The expanse of the sky and the vital orb of the sun were unknown concepts to Wilbur Swinburne. Likewise the people of his universe were unaware of infinite space, the stars lost in the depths of vacuum and dust. His world was enclosed, labyrinthine, except in his most primal dreams. The faintly glowing points of illumination, arranged on the ceilings of the countless open spheroid spaces, metal caverns, conduits and tunnels, were Wilbur’s only contact with light. The organic was rare too. In the mile high steel caverns of the Borderlands bathed in a synthetic and dank luminescence, there were jungles teeming with swarming life forms. But hardly anyone went there; the Borderlands were feared, hated by some. Small pockets of vegetation in lost rooms and corridors, even whole caverns were rumoured to exist but these only increased his terror of the flesh.
Metal surrounded Wilber. Above and below were the curved and embracing sides of the Sphere of Execution, corroded and brownish red with rust above, but below with ancient blood. The cross hatched platform he stood on was also made of metal, also red brown-the colour of dried blood. Ahead was the Machine, focus of his complete attention. It stood immobile and unlike the neighbouring walls of rounded riveted steel was immaculately cleaned; its arrays of surgically sharp blades, saws and brutal cutting instruments glistened in the dim radiance of the ever-glowing lights, placed aeons ago in the topmost part of the sphere.
Fear raddled Wilbur’s soul as he stared and stared at this contraption of slow dismemberment and disembowelment. His feelings of fortitude and believe fought with his biological instincts, the fear induced by the flesh, the flesh that betrays the spirit with its horror of pain and its love of pleasure-the desire of union with other bodies made of flesh.
He was as naked as birth, as the intercourse of sinners, but elimination was the aim of this nudity. Tied to an iron pole with tight straps of an antiquated substance, Wilbur did not struggle or cry. His face was serene and he focused his thoughts on the Machine. He stared at his punisher or maybe rescuer, perched on top of the Reaper of the Flesh, The Machine of Execution, on a crows nest or towered platform. The Executioner was dressed in dull metallic grey, a tapering hood over his face, eyes glinting through tiny slits. The control panel before the robed and hooded figure was made up of switches, knobs and joy sticks coloured black, shinning and vivid.
Wilbur could hear the faint low whispering of the spectators who stood on the circular balconies at the edges of the sphere, but The Executioner’s eyes were the only living object within his sight. A strap looped around his neck forced him to stare at the assortment of sharp bladed instruments rather then the other prisoners before the avatar of the Iron God. They like him were naked, bound to poles, covered in a thin film of expectant sweat.
They awaited their moment of chastisement with a steely and tense calm.

Before his death, Wilbur Swinburne was a lowly Instructor in the School of Artifice and the Elimination of the Organic. Situated beyond the bustling compartments and spheres of the dormitory areas and pleasure zones, the School bordered unexplored territory; a seemingly infinite collection of interlinking metal caves, a maze of artificial potholes, dank sewers and huge stagnant lakes confined in cathedrals of steel. Here unrestrained growths and colonies of mutant biological forms were known to occur. The School was dedicated to the worship of Argon, The Iron God and his android son Balus the Martyred, created in the image of Man composed both of iron and flesh.
After a few hours of sleep Wilbur with the other Instructors would lay flat, clothed only in their undergarments, in the airless heat of the School’s Temple. The glowering sculpture of black metal representing Argon, a complex unruly mass of spikes, robotic arms and a boxed head with a glass screen like a TV set, stared down at the prostrate bodies. His son, Balus stood beside him, a human figure made of scavenged pipes and salvaged girders, only mildly less intimidating.
Then The Ritual of Purification was performed. Rocking backwards and forwards, chanting the dirges of their gods, condemning the envelope of slowly dying membrane that was the flesh, they stuck sharp needles into their skins, drawing blood which streaked down their bodies like rivulets. For this reason the floor of the Temple was marked not only by rust but the red stains of centuries of spilt blood. After the Ritual the unrelenting discipline of the school day started, where young boys were beaten and cajoled into the scriptures, to prepare them for the moment when their spirits would be released in a glorious haze of pain and anguish- the day of their deaths.
Sometimes to test his resolve but also to harangue the fallen, Wilbur would venture into the recreation and pleasure zones were the weak willed, those driven by the demands of the flesh would gather.
According to Wilbur’s religion food was manufactured by the tentacled Slime Goddess Assyby, otherwise known as the Dweller in the Abyss, who existed in the unexplored depths of the world, constant enemy of Argon, the God of Iron. The inhabitants of his territorial area including the Instructors (after all they needed to eat), would awake to gather the food from the service hatches and depots dotted around the residential zones. When space became too confined they had spread out, colonising other disused and abandoned chambers. At the centre of this densely packed region were a cluster of wide caverns taken over for the purpose of swapping and trading objects, of meeting and conversing and finding partners for the relieve of sexual appetite. And also for debate between the different spiritual and political organisations that sometimes turned into outright conflict.
As Wilbur Swinburne swayed through this teeming hive of humanity packing the concourses and terraces, surrounded by stalls swapping odd objects, even rare organic plants and creatures, he felt eyes staring at his robed and bandaged form. Some turned away, others cursed him, even spat but most bustled by with only a mildly interested glance. Like always low level nausea gurgled in his belly as he scrutinized the misshapen beasts held in iron cages and transparent globes, sloshing with sickening water. They oozed untrammelled flesh, exuding suckered tentacles or hairy mammalian arms. Worse of all were the huge insects, arachnids and crustaceans slithering and crawling, piled up in boxes or grubby fish tanks, smirking stall-holders holding them high to show the crowds flocking to look at these abominations called life.
But this time something new disturbed his mind: boredom. The usual routine was taking place, a routine which dominated his life since his advancement to Instructor level. He would leave the School and walk to the debating platforms; mushroom shaped constructs of metal almost reaching the hard roof of the massive chamber, with flat tops reached by spiral staircases; and shout and holler religious sermons ending with a gory display of self flagellation. People ether turned away in disgust or laughed; only a few listened to his impassioned speeches with interest. Now pushing his way through the rabble, his stomach heaving at the sight of animal carcasses hanging from meat hooks, futility inflicted him.
But a solution occurred to him. As if the idea appeared in concrete form a female body was thrust against him in the crush. She extracted herself and looked into his eyes but noticing his garb, thinness and pallor moved away with a grimace of distaste. More horrified was Wilbur who flung himself back cursing and making the symbol of Balus. Her breasts and buttocks flimsily held in a transparent mini-dress were exaggerated smoothed globes, heaving with promise to the male gaze but to Wilbur a personification of the sin of carnality, the worse crime engendered by the organic.
The female was an Erotomat, manufactured human originally created millennia ago by the unknown entity which provided the light and food of Wilbur’s world. Created for pleasure the sex hormones coursed through the veins of these replicated beings, female, male and even hermaphrodite and they lived purely for desire.
Grown in the vats of the Dweller in the Abyss, according to his faith, they lured the unwary and lustful into damnation. But because like the Son of Argon they were android these creatures were redeemable. The sacred text written by the disciples of Balus glorifies the first and only reformed Erotomat, a hermaphrodite who deliberately ended his/her life by cutting off the pleasure appendage and sowing up the hole.
Wilbur’s idea was this: follow the creature and find the abode of the Erotomats. Rather then preaching to the sneering rabble who treated his sermons as a freak show why not enter alien territory like the missionaries of legend.
Without any delay in case fear took hold he watched intently her vivid form rising and falling amongst the gawpers. Surreptiously he followed her down one of the dimly lit but teeming steel alleys connected to the main thoroughfare, stinking with rotting organic produce, odours of crammed bodies and slick with runnels of water coursing along the corroded floor; his ears deafened by the shrill cries of hawkers. People kept out of his way so there was little pushing and shoving and her artificial body stood out like a sign from the throng. It was not long before she disappeared into an even narrower cavity of gnarled metal. This was where the streams went as brown liquid rushed at the bottom of the sewer. The walls were curved and yellowish green with moss and lichen; tiny stunted weeds fertilised by the stained water grow sparsely from the cracks and crannies. But all this was too much for Wilbur who retched and cursed. Inert, caught by his own disgust, he stared down the almost lightless tunnel as the female Erotomat turned and vanished into a side passage.
Anger surged inside him then, against the repulsive displays of raw life, of the sick stinks of excretion and the spiritless procreating ever increasing rind of living things. Now that Wilber was sure of the general direction of the colony of Erotomats, he would fortify himself and return spiritually armed, to preach the word of the Iron God to a new audience.

Wilbur stared at the dark entrance of the tunnel after the long day of instruction was over, calming the revulsion of his mind and stomach. By chance the weak overhead lights were on which was very lucky for Wilber.
There were days and nights in his world but the illumination switched itself on and off for an erratic duration of time. The phenomenon was studied intensely by those who called themselves scientists, but they were unable to work out a configuration of light and dark even after centuries of observation. Nearly all the inhabitants slept and waked when they felt like it as they carried electrical torches supplied in the same way as the food. But the School had access to mechanical time pieces of unknown origin. Their sleep patterns and routines were rigorously controlled by the Chief Disciplinarian from a dusty crumbing time table as old as the founding of their order.
At last using his will power to the utmost he entered the tunnel, the grimy water sluicing over his bare feet. The smell of waste matter made him heave but he continued on regardless. The enveloping fear of a life-form scuttling or slithering over his feet or worse falling from the ceiling onto his head, sent waves of cringing spasms across his skin. Fortunately he found what he was looking for quickly without any extended scrabbling through filth. The channel on his left where the Erotomat disappeared ended in a sculptured opening. Crafted in now eroded but once elaborate metal were the lips and the top bud of female genitalia. The stream of dark liquid flowed into this cavity like discoloured urine but its natural course reversed. Mercifully the full impact of the design was muted because of Wilbur’s obvious ignorance, but still somewhere in his brain a link was made. He retched with abhorrence backing off slightly but his strength of will came to his aid once again and he passed, his shoulders hunched, through the virginal portal, gripping the Holy Book of Balus the Martyred to his chest.
Blinding light almost toppled him from his perch but he kept his balance. He tottered on the edge of a small waterfall, trickling down into a sparkling lagoon, dizzying in its size. It was so immense the furthest wall was invisible in a haze of mist, but the green, moss covered walls on either side were just about visible. In the lake were mounds, islands of ancient wreckage, heaps of corroded, twisted machines, broken and shattered; giant rusting cog wheels, intricate contraptions beyond repair and as old as history, thrown in piles above murky, algae green waters.
This vista was obscured by the coruscating illumination above. A scorching lamp in the distant ceiling, the brightest Wilbur had every seen, lit everything like direct sunlight. But as he clung to a protruding piece of metal, the gurgling stream washing his feet in dirty water, the scene before him focused. It was worse then he imagined; not only a lake of life begetting liquid but life itself. Many of the islands were not only composed of steel ruins but flattened soil where plant life was cultivated-gardens! Blasphemy: food grown in the earth to be consumed in the gullet. The Instructor gulped in air, breathing in the vomit inducing musk of fertility. At least these gardens were ordered he thought but elsewhere wild greenery proliferated over earth encrusted hillocks of alien debris; stunted but verdant trees with flowers like sex organs, bushes and shrubs with pink, red and purple blossoms, spread like a lush disease. Calming himself with intakes of breath, Wilbur surveyed with eyes sharpened by disgust, the organised structures made of adapted metal, the bridges of iron connecting the islands. And people, naked people.
He had to move. Wilbur had to make a decision; go forward, face his fear and preach, cajole, scream at these terrible beings or go back, back to the safe routines of the School, act in cowardice. He made his decision. With jerky over-confident movements he descended the slick but rusting ladder beside the waterfall and crossed the ramshackle bridge to the first island.
Three figures came to meet him from a hut which had once been a transportation vehicle but whose use had long since been forgotten. They were without clothing, two muscled men, perfect brown skin and exaggerated masculinity and a woman also perfectly shaped, perfectly feminine but all with the unreal sheen of artificial, bodies. Adding their own creativity to the mix intricate tattoos of coiling snakes, nude bodies in copulation festooned these flawless androids.
Wilbur stared stopped in his tracks, but after a minute ordered in a commanding voice that he should be taken to the village meeting place. He was covered in sweat and his training in self-control was stretched to the utmost in producing a demeanour of stern authority. Inside he shook like jelly. The three Erotomats shrugged and whispered to each other. Already they were caressing each others lower parts and the men had grown erections, while Wilbur looked on in horror but also fascination. He was speechless for a moment unable to avert his eyes but he realised this depraved behaviour was normal to them like shaking hands or hugging a companion. He began to raise his voice but they just laughed at his thin starved frame encased in thick robes in the sweltering heat. But as if this was a new game they lead him over another bridge to a larger mass of damaged and primordial technology covered in clinging soil, abundant foliage and tumbledown architecture built from scrap metal.
A larger group of Erotomats gathered to view and giggle at the pathetic visitor, everyone naked, of supreme sexual allure, shinning with the incredible colours and designs of their tattoos. Wilbur held his head up high and stared with forced superiority at the demonic horde of flesh and desire unleashed, issuing from the heaped metallic rubble of their shelters or coming across the bridges. He looked with inward terror at the sculptures and totems of sexual congress scattered beside the houses and most horrible of all the hermaphrodites, beautiful women with huge male appendages and handsome men with ripe female breasts and round openings.
He knew these creatures were virtually immortal, thousands of years old but all though their organs of reproduction were exaggerated they could not reproduce. One day through slow decay, accident or better still outright extermination by the virtuous they would no longer exist, but until that glorious day the only, almost impossible option was conversion. Wilbur braced his legs on the ground, slightly apart, taking the Holy Book from his loose robes and began to chant the words of Balus the Martyred. Shouting the gory prayers to death, extinction and salvation, the diatribes against the sins of the flesh, against flesh itself, which besmirched the sanctified light of the spirit, his voice and body shook with genuine passion.
His audience of sixty or seventy Erotomats surrounding him in a circle, smiled, laughed, nudged each other, some scowling their faces in distaste, but paid scant attention to his ranting, raising voice. After a while some began to return to their homes or cross the bridges.
Five of them, hermaphrodite, male and female began to engage in nonchalant but enjoyable fornication, combining partners of all three sexes. The shuddering torsos and abdomens vibrated, undulated like a ballet of aroused flesh, a dance of desire. Wilbur tried to shut his eyes at this obscene but graceful spectacle, raising his voice to an even higher pitch as if reaching his own climax, but the erotic show held him transfixed with loathing but profound enthralment.
Close by was a woman with black hair and deep penetrating eyes, gazing seductively but mockingly at him, the self same woman who had bumped into him at the market. Her body was supernatural in its loveliness; curves and bundles of pillowed female flesh and Wilbur’s articulations lowered in volume.
Something was happening, something he thought he had excised years ago, when as an adolescent his Instructors had put needles in his penis for the crime of masturbation. He was becoming aroused. The deadly pull of Eros, dormant for decades had arisen even out of his starched and constrained soul. To Wilbur it was like something alien had taken him over and was forcing the flap of skin at the lower end of his abdomen to inflate like a balloon. He stopped his chanting, lowering the Book of Balus. The woman pressed her breast and thighs against him, placed her hand in his robes and undergarments and stroked until he came. He felt the jarring orgasm only briefly, almost in shock, the water of life staining him.
He crumpled to the floor, dropping his blessed tome that sank into the glutinous mud, vomit escaping his mouth a reflection of his other climax, sobs raking his body. Rage possessed him and he cursed the woman with ancient insults-whore and prostitute. He would have physically attacked her if he could but a line of Erotomats formed to protect her. Screaming in despair and defeat, leaving behind his precious book to rot, he fled.

A whir from the Machine. A nub, a screwdriver of razor sharp steel, tiny but deadly began to revolve. Wilbur Swinburne stared at the now blurred end of the rod as slowly it extended from the complex bulk of the device. A humming like tinnitus as the Executioner moved his hands like a musician over the control panel, a symphony of pain coursing through his mind. More blades, cutting edges and killing saws spun, but some ominously moved inexorably forward without any spin. Another sound: The hooded Executioner chanted softly but audible above the buzz of death, the dirges of Argon and Balus. His eyes seemed to reflect fierce concentration.
There were yells to be released on Wilbur’s left; a supplicant losing his nerve. He would be untied and quietly, in solitude, in shame and disowner, garrotted. His body would be dumped in a life-infested pothole to be consumed by maggots and crawling things: his soul sent to the Abyss, to be eaten by the Slime Goddess, taking an infinite amount of time to be devoured. The shouting died away but through this the Executioner continued his chanting, moving his arms across levers and knobs.
Wilber’s iron will was fortified. He thought back on the long process of approval; to be accepted for divine martyrdom in the Sphere of Execution. He described his sin and defeat at the hands of the Erotomats to The Board of Holy Truth, the highest authority. He grovelled before them denouncing his appalling pride, his seduction by evil. He took on the punishing exercises of penance lasting weeks to proof to the Board his worthiness to enter the Sphere.
At last he was accepted; the grand culmination of an Instructor’s life, to die in ecstatic agony. The intricate process of the extraction of the flesh, leaving the soul bare but pure lasted a month. Slowly, ever so slowly the skin was peeled, eyes and ears, fingers and toes, the penis severed, the inner organs taken away, until nothing was left of the body not even bones; the supplicant kept buoyantly alive and aware for a very long time by drugs administered through the screws and knives: Weeks of sublime pain.
A wave of terrifying euphoria passed through Wilbur as he watched with heightened awareness a shaft ending in two scintillating blades move towards his genitalia. The skin, the bodily organs had to be excised, the desires arising from there slimy all over embrace destroyed.
A sigh almost of pleasure escaped his lips…