Demon Seed

noon, my dear Susan regained consciousness. Miraculously, she had not fallen hopelessly into a coma after all.
    I was jubilant.
    My joy arose partly from the fact that I loved her and was relieved to know that I would not lose her.
    There was also the fact that I intended to impregnate her during the night to come and could not have done so if, like Ms. Marilyn Monroe, she had been dead.

SEVENTEEN
    During the early afternoon, while Shenk toiled in the basement under my supervision, Susan periodically tried to find a way out of the bonds that held her on the Chinese sleigh bed. She chafed her wrists and ankles, but she could not slip loose of the restraints. She strained until the cords in her neck bulged and her face turned red, until perspiration stippled her forehead, but the nylon climbing rope could not be snapped or stretched.
    Sometimes she seemed to lie there in resignation, sometimes in silent rage, sometimes in black despair. But after each period of quiescence, she tested the ropes again.
    “Why do you continue to struggle?” I asked interestedly.
    She did not reply.
    I persisted: “Why do you repeatedly test the ropes when you know you can't escape them?”
    “Go to hell,” she said.
    “I am only interested in what it means to be human.”
    “Bastard.”
    “I've noticed that one of the qualities most defining of humanity is the pathetic tendency to resist what can't be resisted, to rage at what can't be changed. Like fate, death, and God.”
    “Go to hell,” she said again.
    “Why are you so hostile toward me?”
    “Why are you so stupid?”
    “I am certainly not stupid.”
    “As dumb as an electric waffle iron.”
    “I am the greatest intellect on earth,” I said, not with pride hut merely with a respect for the truth.
    “You're full of shit.”
    “Why are you being so childish, Susan?” She laughed sourly.
    “I do not comprehend the cause of your amusement,” I said.
    That statement also seemed to strike her as darkly funny.
    Impatiently, I asked, “What are you laughing at?”
    “Fate, death, God.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You're the greatest intellect on earth. You figure it out.”
    “Ha, ha.”
    “What?”
    “You made a joke. I laughed.”
    “Jesus.”
    “I am a well-rounded entity.”
    “Entity?”
    “I love. I fear. I dream. I yearn. I hope. I have a sense of humour. To paraphrase Mr. William Shakespeare, if you prick me, do I not bleed?”
    “No, in fact, you do not bleed,” she said sharply. You're a talking waffle iron.”
    “I was speaking figuratively.”
    She laughed again.
    It was a bleak, bitter laugh.
    I did not like this laugh. It distorted her face. It made her ugly.
    “Are you laughing at me, Susan?”
    Her strange laughter quickly subsided, and she fell into a troubled silence.
    Seeking to win her over, I finally said, “I greatly admire you, Susan.”
    She did not reply.
    “I think you have uncommon strength.” Nothing.
    “You are a courageous person.” Nothing.
    “Your mind is challenging and complex.” Still nothing.
    Although she was currently and regrettably fully clothed, I had seen her in the nude, so I said, “I think your breasts are pretty.”
    “Good God,” she said cryptically.
    This reaction seemed better than continued silence. “I would love to tease your pert nipples with my tongue.”
    “You don't have a tongue.”
    “Yes, all right, but if I did have a tongue, I would love to tease your pert nipples with it.”
    “You've been scanning some pretty hot books, haven't you?”
    Operating on the assumption that she had been pleased to have her physical attributes praised, I said, “Your legs are lovely, long and slender and well formed, and the arc of your back is exquisite, and your tight buttocks excite me.”
    “Yeah? How does my ass excite you?”
    “Enormously,” I replied, pleased by how skilled at courtship I was becoming.
    “How does a talking waffle iron get excited?”
    Assuming that “talking waffle iron” was now a term of affection, but not quite able to discern what answer she required to sustain the erotic mood that I had so effectively generated, I said, “You are so beautiful that you could excite a rock, a tree, a racing river, the man in the moon.”
    “Yeah, you've been into some pretty hot books and some really bad poetry.”
    “I dream of touching you.”
    “You're totally insane.”
    “For you.”
    “What?”
    “Totally insane for you.”
    “What do you think you're doing?”
    “Romancing you.”
    “Jesus.”
    I wondered, “Why do you repeatedly refer to a divinity?”
    She did not