This was lying, half-finished, on my hard drive for quite some time. The original idea came to me in 1996 when Michelle Laybourn was reading some chapters I'd just written for my novel. The particular passage that led to this short story is quoted below:-

"Looking at the sides of the zone, he saw the green falls of creepers and climbers fade into an opera of darklight petals. The baritones and basses of dull infrared formed wide glowing expanses against which the other tones could show their colour: the tenors of vines created contra-melodies which ran their own course through the scene, yet somehow supported the soprano tunes of the divas, which dotted the image with small flower heads of brightly coloured ultraviolet. Finally, more thinly spaced and yet so brightly coloured as to be pinpoint icons of the gods themselves, were the sopranino flourishes of the smallest, and rarest of darklight's flora."

On reading this, Michelle was kind enough to inform me that the technical term for one sense being represented in terms of another sense (i.e. the sense of sight, in the form of the coloured flowers, being represented (though metaphorically in this case) by an auditory sense) is synaesthesia. This whole idea of one sense being represented by another was the inspiration for this story.

Note: This story is basically a piece of science fiction, however it has a fairly explicit sexual content, and so should be avoided if you think you might be offended. In fact, the number of expletives in this one story is considerably higher than that in all my other stories and novels added together (at the time of writing). I feel that the content and language are important to the principal plot of this story, and are not just there for tittilation, but you have been warned.

It was three days since the surgery - the type of surgery that only a decade ago would have required three weeks to recover from. How had people coped back then? Even these three days had passed like molasses and she was already counting each second that the doctor was overdue. When the door to her room finally swung open in a flurry of unfastened lab coat, two-hundred and thirty-nine of them had elasped.

He mumbled a well rehearsed speech about having to grow into the implants, and not to overuse them at first. As he spoke, his thumbs gently stroked the squares of short cropped hair that hid behind her ears. Just three days ago they had been a pair of inch square skin patches, shaven for the nanosurgery. Already her follicles had re-established themselves and were sprouting fibres of Italian-black hair to cover what little scarring there was.

The surgery had been uncomplicated to the point of relative simplicity. The induction loops sat flush with her skull, covered by the squares of flesh, whilst the synaesthetic implants had stretched out their tendrils through her perfectly mapped tissue, and had rooted themselves firmly in the depths of her brain.

"Got your glasses?" She nodded, and tapped the hard, black, resin-fibre case that rested so obviously on her lap. The optician had been to see her the previous day to try various styles using a freeze-frame display on a roll-up computer terminal. She had given some thought to contact lenses, or even a lenticular graft, but decided that the extra expense wasn't worth it for the limited periods that she expected to need dichromatic vision. In the end she'd selected an inexpensive design which made her appearance no more offensive than any other.

Much as she wished she could claim otherwise, she predominantly had sex just before going to sleep, anyway.

The doctor plucked the case from her lap, his fingers gently brushing her thin cotton skirt against her thighs. It was a feeling she liked, although she would never have admitted it. Not then, at least.

He lifted its lid, then almost dropped the box as it suddenly snapped open to reveal its plush, red, faux-velvet interior. He pulled the glasses out and let the case fall back into her lap. The fabric of her skirt brushed the other way, equally pleasurably. He unfolded the thin metal arms, and slid the frames into place. All traces of light were cut off.

He waved a plastic plate - about the same dimensions as a credit card, but a few millimetres thick - in front of one lens. At the same time he held a blister button on its surface. The capacitor in the card, almost a tenth of a Farad, released a trickle of current into an induction loop embedded in the plastic. The loop induced a change in magnetic flux; the change in flux in turn induced a current in the receiving loop which was built into the frames; the induced current charged a capacitor in the glasses.

The net result was that the glasses were now charged and ready to operate. They just needed to know what to do.

He pressed another blister: this time the charging current was modulated to transmit information as well as energy. The glasses faded from pitch black to fully transparent. He asked, she confirmed. Everything was working alright so far - she just wished he'd get on with testing the implants. Another blister and the lenses filtered the world into dichromaticity.

It seemed strange at first. The blacks were still black, but every other colour had been reduced to a shade of grey then stained with sepia to present her with a world of reddish-brown. He tested the glasses thoroughly: the contrast and range of shades was changed repeatedly, taking her vision from the murky depths of blood stained darkness to a world in which even black was just a slightly red shade of white. Another blister changed the world to shades of green, and the calibration was repeated. Shades of blue. Shades of grey. Then he switched back to red.

"Time to test the implants," he said. "Just five minutes on audio to start with."

"At last," she thought.

He pressed blisters on the plastic slab until segments of the surface proclaimed his chosen time limit. He held the device by each ear in turn, thumbing a button to release an electromagnetic pulse of just the right duration for a five minute charge. The implants hummed into life.

"Can you hear anything?" he asked.

"Just a sort of buzzing or humming really."

"Good, good. What you're hearing now is the sound of red." A blister pressed near the glasses switched the world to shades of green. The change was accompanied by a higher pitched tone. She told him as much.

Blue was higher still, whilst greyscale produced a strange collection of sounds which combined into a dull sibilance. As she turned her head the volume changed in each case, with the starched whiteness of his lab coat producing the loudest sounds. She blinked, and there was momentary silence. She blinked again, then twice more - each time the sounds stopped dead.

"Time for some colours - let me know what you hear." He pressed another blister and the world was shut off once more. Silence. Then her world became a pane of flat, dull red. A low moan. It grew brighter and the sound became louder until it was just a little too uncomfortable. She told him, and he reduced the intensity.

Now the brightness remained stable whilst the colour changed. Red to orange, orange to yellow, yellow to green, green to blue and finishing with blue to violet. As the colours faded gently into one another so the tone in her head increased in pitch. Another blister and the colour changed to a muddy blue-brown. The sound it produced was a beautifully harmonious chord.

The flat colour tests continued for a short while, until the sounds faded quickly into silence, despite continued visual input. Her five minute charge was exhausted.

"Okay, let's try thirty seconds with a complex input." He thumbed the plastic card until it brightly informed him that it was set. The blister depressed with satisfying tactility as he charged the implants. Another press near the glasses sent the lenses swirling with fractals and plasma effects. The resultant sounds were something like a combination of whalesong and crashing waves, all fed through flangers, phasers and all manner of other gadgetry to produce a soothingly complex whole. All too soon it was over.

"Again!" she begged.

"Wouldn't you prefer to try the other setting?" he replied. His voice bore the unmistakable sound of innuendo. She nodded her assent.

He pulsed a message to the implants, switching them out of audio mode and into their psychosexual response. This was what she had paid for. This was what everyone paid for. The audio response was just an added bonus, predominantly included to test for the correct function of the implants. He doubted whether anyone ever switched back into audio mode after leaving the surgery.

"Just thirty seconds?" The tone of his words undulated as a question, but there was little doubt in her mind that he was making an informative statement. If even half of what she'd heard about the implants was to be believed then thirty seconds would not be nearly long enough, but she knew she had to take things one step at a time. He killed the dancing patterns and returned her to blackness before recharging the implants.

She felt something as they kicked into life, but it was too mild and too transient to have any real effect. He increased the contrast until her dichromatic sepia world returned. It felt as though she was being gently caressed. It felt as though he was brushing her skirt against her thighs once more. But the feeling wasn't in her thighs. It wasn't in any part of her body. Yet at the same time it was in every part.

He switched to green and the feelings became more intense. She moaned involuntarily, and he changed everything to blue. The feelings were amazing, as though her entire body was being massaged. "More," she moaned. "Give me more."

He switched to greyscales. There was a sharp intake of breath, released as a slow whimper as her nipples stiffened and she moved her legs ever so slightly apart. She looked around the room in amazement: the charcoal grey recesses of the corners and alcoves ran fingernails gently along her thighs; the medium greys of the floor and walls pressed harder, and delicately traced the outline of her breasts; the light grey of his lab coat teasingly stroked her body, barely making contact, yet causing her to gently rock her hips forward in the hope of increasing the pressure of the non-existant hand.

Suddenly the feelings stopped. Her thirty seconds were over. "More," she begged. She looked up at him, knowing that her movements and exhalations had aroused him, and licking her lips in the hope of becoming even more desirable. Her hand began to run up the inside of his leg, then over his groin, until she was able to slip her fingertips into the waistband of his trousers to pull him closer.

He fumbled with the induction loop, pressing buttons as quickly as he could in order to deliver a five minute charge. He pulsed it next to her right ear, making her gasp as the feelings began to return. She started to unbutton his fly. He pulsed it by her left ear, making her throw her head back and bite her lower lip. "Colour." She held him tightly in her hand. "I want colour," she panted. "Now...."

He pressed the blisters, setting the relevant parameters as quickly as he could, but it was still too long for her. He finally concluded the configuration and waved the slab of plastic in front of her eyes. Instantly the lenses became transparent.

The rush was phenomenal. Her body visibly shuddered with pleasure and she brushed her free hand over her breasts, teasing her nipples and squeezing them abrasively within the folds of her blouse. Her other hand tightened around him, moving rhythmically to and fro until her own feelings overcame her and she lost interest in her new partner. She released her grip and ran her fingertips along her thighs. The dark blue tiles of the surgery floor caressed her firmly, making her moan with each stroke on her skin. She took a sharp breath as her eyes scanned the light green walls, but it was the starched white linen of his lab coat that finally pushed her over the edge.

"Fuck me," she pleaded. This wasn't her. She would never say anything like that. "Oh God, I want you." Mind you, only half an hour ago she'd been a happily married woman who had only ever touched her husband's body. Now she was a cheap slut with another man's groin only inches from her face. "Fuck me. Fuck me now!" He began to slide her skirt up around her thighs, and it felt good. But her words weren't meant for him. They weren't meant for anyone. They were just a release mechanism, a means of escape for her sexual tension. She pushed him away, then leant back on the bed as her hand explored the satin sheen of her underwear.

It was half an hour before she left the surgery. Somehow she'd managed to resist the urge to make love to the doctor, who had to remain content with watching her. She was amazing. He'd never known anyone become so involved in the implants that they reached quite such a degree of abandonment. Sure he'd slept with plenty of patients, but they were invariably the sort who put it around a bit anyway. Not her. She was different. Twenty-nine, beautiful, and with a wonderful body; but something about her marked her clearly as a happily married woman.

So why the implants? Who knows. Sometimes people had them to help them relax. Sometimes it was at their partner's request, to heighten the pleasure of sex. Many were just out and out nymphomaniacs. Not her though. When she came in for the initial consultation she was so quiet that at first he suspected she'd chosen the wrong room. How different from the sexual animal that had left, having filled his mind with images of such disgusting degradation that he still nursed a solid erection.

"Nurse Simpson - can you come in here please." He released the button on the intercom and waited for his assistant to join him. He ushered her onto his lap, then held the plastic slab just behind her left ear....

She crossed the car park towards her dark blue Ford. All the while her hand rolled the plastic card around in loosely tumbling gymnastics which bounced it repeatedly against the walls of her pocket. The temptation to fire up her implants was almost too much, but she knew she wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else if she did.

It was a bright spring day. The sun warmed her skin, but a chill breeze rushed easily through the thin cotton of her skirt, as though tempting her to try the implant once more. She looked around the car park, wondering how the different cars would feel. Would the bright red sports car have more of an effect than her own darker, but higher frequency Ford? Her eyes caught the metallic silver reflection of a Daewoo, bouncing the sun towards her in a thousand shards of light. "That looks interesting," she thought.

Another plastic slab, this time withdrawn from the depths of her handbag, recognised her thumbprint and transmitted the requisite code to unlock and open the driver's door. She climbed in. Her weight on the seat activated the control panel, which had already configured itself to her own settings. A joystick extended on a solid looking armature, whining gently into place, to terminate with an artificial click - itself the result of many years research into ergonomics.

But she didn't grab it. She didn't even put the machine into auto-pilot. She just sat there, motionless, wondering just what she had done.

She pulled down her vanity mirror. The face that looked back at her was her own, but she didn't recognise it anymore. It was the face of a floozie; the face of a cheap teenager who would do anything, go with anyone, for the sake of a quick fumble and pseudo-popularity. How could she face Kimm now?

Kimm was her husband of eight years. It had been his idea for her to have the implants. They'd dated from the age of sixteen, and he knew that he was the only man she'd ever been with. They'd grown together over the years, learning and exploring as a couple, but he always had a nagging feeling that perhaps she wasn't getting all that she could from their love life. He was barely any more experienced than her, aside from a one night stand during a brief separation at the age of eighteen, and wondered if their combined innocence might be robbing her of feelings that she was otherwise entitled to.

As far as he was concerned, their love life was fine. From his point of view there was no problem. But he knew - from afternoon talk shows and the copies of Cosmopolitan that resided in the bathroom - that women had more extensive equirements. So he suggested the implants.

She'd dismissed the idea at first. It seemed somehow unnatural - almost as though she'd be betraying him by finding her kicks in anything other than his lovemaking. But he refused to let the idea drop - indeed the very thought of her being able to climax every time they had sex seemed to increase his own enjoyment of the act. He began to be more attentive to her needs, making sure that she reached orgasm before he rolled over to sleep. And with each orgasm he whispered coarsely in her ears: "It could be like this every time. God, I love it when you come, it makes me feel so good. Just think about it."

So she'd thought about it. And finally conceded.

The auto-pilot had taken her gently to the front door. She'd thought about using the implants on the journey home, but two things had stopped her: the legal requirement to be fully compus mentus if stopped by the police, and an overwhelming feeling of guilt.

He was waiting for her when she arrived home. Although she hadn't realized, he'd taken the day off in anticipation of her return. The door swung open for her, having recognised her retinas, and she stepped inside.

"Did it go alright?"

His voice made her jump, though how much was due to sheer surprise, and how much to nagging guilt she couldn't tell. He already had an erection, but she couldn't tell that either.

"Yes. But there's something I've got to tell you..."

"Later." He pressed a finger to her lips whilst his other hand slid into her pocket. He pulled out a slab of plastic, glanced at the embossed Ford logo, and threw it into the corner. He thrust his hand into her other pocket, simultaneously grinding it between her thighs whilst his lips pressed hard against hers and his tongue tried to force its way between her teeth. She tried to talk to him, but it was useless.

He pulled out the card, wrapping his arms around her so that he could see it clearly over her shoulder. Whilst she'd been away he'd taken the time to find out how to operate these things from the manufacturer's web site. A few quick presses informed him that the capacitor was all but fully charged. Thirty minutes should do it. He selected the options, then waved the plastic behind her ears.

She felt a slight tingling, but nothing more. It was so slight, in fact, that it was lost beneath the feel of his leg working its way slowly between hers. She kissed with her eyes closed.

He pulled his head back, half expecting her to collapse in pleasure. The removal of his lips at last gave her the chance to speak. What would she tell him? She wasn't sure, but he deserved to be told something. She opened her eyes...

...and collapsed in pleasure. The lightness of their livivng room, its apple white walls and mint green furniture, all combined to form an invisible finger dancing rhythmically over her clitoris, whilst another slid gently around the back of her neck. She was supported entirely by his arms around her, and the feeling of his chest against hers was amazing. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled herself up until their lips met in a frenzied swordplay of tongues. Her hips bucked repeatedly, inching her dress up until it was rucked around her thighs. She pushed her groin hard against him. "Fuck me. Fuck me now!"

She couldn't tell him what she'd done. What was the point, after all? Why should she risk everything over what was just a momentary lapse - itself the result of surgery that he'd insisted on. And what was her big crime anyway? All she'd done was hold another man's body for a few moments - for Christ's sake, he hadn't even come! She'd just held a lump of his flesh - and she wouldn't be feeling so guilty if it had been a finger or thumb. No. She wouldn't tell him. It wasn't worth it.

Kimm was watching some documentary. She wasn't interested in it, so instead was just lying on the sofa, her head in his lap, a half hour charge in her implants and the gentle massage of dark red plasma on her glasses. She could hear everything that was happening, but didn't much care.

The mating ritual of penguins was interrupted by the adverts. She felt his fingers brush across her cheek.

Suddenly her glasses were off. The event was so unexpected that it almost felt as though something had been forced into her. "SHIT!" she exclaimed as the rush of psychosexual hormone release knocked her for six. She instinctively closed her eyes, clutching her hands to them for added effect, and rolled into a foetal position. "Don't ever do that to me again!"

"But I just wanted to see your face."

"You idiot. The whole point of the glasses is so that I can carry on fairly normally if the implants haven't discharged fully. If you just go pulling them off like that it kinda defeats the point of them."

"Sorry, I forgot."

"Yeah, well next time you 'forget', I might just let you know how it feels with a swift kick in the balls. Now where are they?" Her hands floundered before her. He grabbed one by the wrist, and positioned the glasses between her fingers. She slid them on, but the massage was ruined. She switched them to black until the implants died down.

These things were going to take a bit of getting used to.

Over the following weeks their love life improved vastly. Not only was she satisfied every time, but she was becoming more and more comfortable about sex in general. Soon the stimulus of the glasses was abandoned in favour of simply leaving the light on - although she still required the sepia massage if the implants hadn't died down by the time Kimm had.

When fully charged, her whole body seemed to become electrified. Her nipples - previously quite pleasurable, but nothing awe inspiring - had become so potent that she frequently found her own hands wandering to play with them as she bounced upon him. Her whole vaginal area was similarly affected, and within a month she was prepared to do things that she would never have dreamed of before.

When the implants were on, it seemed that every part of her was worth exploring for a new kind of sexual trigger. The trickle of water over her body when she had a shower turned into a thousand caressing fingertips once the implants were activated, and she spent a good half an hour most mornings with her hands sliding their soap covered digits all over her body.

Even daytime television had a new twist to it; the garish logos and flashing graphics keeping her on the brink for up to an hour, before she finally succumbed to the urge to look up at her white ceiling and flourescent lights, in order to push herself over the edge into a shuddering, all-encompassing orgasm.

Kimm was certainly happy with his "investment" - even if she did occasionally go a little too far for his liking. Of course, he had no idea about the mid-morning fumbles, and afternoon orgasms, but he was certainly getting well serviced of an evening. As well as a variety of new positions, she seemed to have found a liking for oral sex. And then there were the stories she told. And when she talked dirty....

"Fuck me, Kimm. Fuck me hard."

Kimm fucked her.

"Now bite me. Bite my tits. I want to feel your teeth squeezing hard on my nipples."

Kimm bit her. All the while she writhed and twisted, gently teasing him, lifting her body high above his, then plunging down on him once more.

"Karen, tell me a story," he begged.

"You want a story, do you?" She teased him as she spoke, pulling herself high into the air until the slightest twitch would have freed him. He stopped moving, almost stopped breathing, for fear of slipping out.

"I said," she slid halfway down, then pushed herself back to her teasing position, "do you want a story? Answer me!" She slid down and back again, relishing the gasp she induced in him almost as much as the mental masturbation she received from the pinkness of his face.

He jerked his hips upwards, desperately trying to push more of his body into her, but she countered his every movement with one of her own. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I want a story. Please Karen. Please."

"Call me 'mistress'!"

"Sorry mistress. Can I have a story. Please mistress. Please..."

"What about?" She finally gave in and let herself drop onto him, her hips pushed forwards so that he could feel, millimetre by millimetre, the contours and textures of her body.

"About you and another woman." The phrase was half question, half answer. Only a month ago he would never have dreamed of making such a request.

Only a month ago, she would never have dreamed of fulfilling it. Now, however, she did.

The story was short lived - as soon as she described the "large chested blonde nurse" in excessively minute detail, he reached his orgasm. Nevertheless, as he became more accustomed to such tales, their nightly storytelling sessions became longer and more detailed. In only a fortnight he had her explicitly describing her own imaginings of lusty affairs with well known female TV personalities.

Little did Kimm realise that she rehearsed her stories with her hands rummaging around as she watched those same personalities flickering her to orgasm every morning. And every afternoon. And usually at lunchtime, too.

Although frequently tempted, it was just over three months before she dared to activate the implants outside the house. The first time was on a picnic with Kimm, when the bright blue sky and white fluffy clouds - coupled with champagne and strawberries - combined to make her feel warm, loved, and sexually fulfilled.

The second time it happened by accident. She was sitting on a bench in the local shopping centre, treating herself to a particularly sticky cake, when an old man next to her charged his hearing aid. She hadn't even realised he was doing it until she felt that familiar twinge which reminded her of having her thighs gently caressed, yet seemed to come from every part of her body. Fortunately the old man wasn't close enough to deliver a full charge, but it still took a good five minutes before she decided that her legs would remain steady enough for her to walk on.

The third time was intentional. She'd made the mistake of going shopping on a Friday afternoon, and the hustle and bustle that she was subjected to was slowly getting her down. Half of the things she wanted to buy seemed to be sold out. Everywhere there were women with abnormally oversized prams and pushchairs, ferrying kids around with at least another dozen crocodiling behind. Eventually she became so tense and frustrated that she just had to calm hersef down. A trip to the park, a click of the plastic blisters, and a perusal of the colourful flower arrangements was all that it took.

From then on, she tended to charge herself up whenever she went shopping, wearing her glasses with their sepia tint in order to keep her calm and relaxed throughout the ordeal. She almost collapsed in a sudden orgasmic fit on one occasion, when the glasses were knocked off by a young lad running through the shopping centre, but otherwise she found the hassles of everyday life far easier with the implants fired up.

Life carried on like this for a while. The sepia massage was pleasant enough, but soon gave way to yellow tones, then to blue. In the six months that followed, her body became more and more resiliant to the new found kinks which filled her days.

Kimm noticed the change, but was more than happy with it. Her stories became wilder and more explicit. She bought a selection of kinky outfits. She even travelled down to London to buy an "under the counter" video. She took great delight in lying on her front whilst he mounted her from behind so that they could both watch the screen. Whilst he got his kicks from the images being portrayed, she was given an extra buzz from the pinkness of the flesh that writhed before her. Each time the scene was cut to another camera angle, her eyes were presented with a whole new collection of pixels; a whole new selection of signals for the implant; a whole new group of hands rubbing against her, or pushing inside.

"Do you mind?"

She looked up to find her eyes meeting the blue stained face of another woman, clearly asking if she could sit down. Karen nodded. The woman was quite short, with dark hair and an elfin face. Although the glasses tinged it with colour, she'd been wearing them for long enough for her mind to do the necessary decoding, presenting fairly white skin, but with evidence of an asian influence somewhere in the gene pool.

Her clothes were minimal, but suited her. Her skirt was very short, revealing smooth thighs as it rode up. Her top stopped short of her navel, in which was fastened a single ring. She lifted a coffee cup from the saucer in front of her, and slurped a small amount into her mouth. Not once did her eyes waver from her bespectacled companion.

"Nice glasses."

"Thanks."

"Had a friend with some like that once. She needed them after an implant." The word "implant" was accompanied by a quick raising of her eyebrows, turning the whole phrase into a teasing double entendre.

"An implant, eh?"

"You got an implant?"

"Might have."

The eurasian kicked off one sandal and looked deep into the blue lenses. Then she ran her foot along the calf of her new friend - who responded by shuddering openly, almost spilling her own coffee in the process.

"You got an implant," the eurasian said, with a smile.

Her name, it transpired, was Mina. Not that names mattered. It wasn't long before her foot had meandered up towards its victim's inner thighs, and it was only a short step from there to being invited back to her home. On the way Mina fumbled in her host's handbag, retrieving the plastic slab and ensuring that she was fully charged as they stumbled through the door.

"Close your eyes," Mina ordered. She removed the glasses, and began to run her fingers over Karen's breasts. "Now open them just a crack." She did as she was told, just as Mina's lips found hers, and their tongues snaked around each other in a passionate battle of lipstick and saliva. "A little more." She opened her eyes further, wrapping her arms around Mina's waist and grinding her crotch against Mina's thigh. Mina pulled her even closer, sliding her hands over Karen's buttocks and pulling her skirt around her waist. Mina's hands slipped into her partner's knickers and began to knead and caress her cheeks.

"Lick me, Mina. Make me come." She pushed Mina onto her knees, though there was little resistance. Karen's skirt fell quickly around her ankles, and her underwear followed shortly after. She opened her eyes fully and looked at the sun as it streamed in through the window, pressing her groin hard against Mina. Her hands fitted smoothly into the crook of Mina's neck, forcing her partner's tongue even further into her. The fingers of her other hand tore her blouse open, then pinched her nipples roughly...

She charged the implants again before sharing a shower with Mina. Afterwards, as the woman gently towelled her hair, she thought about Kimm. This wasn't the first time that he had sprung to mind. When Mina had invited herself back to Karen's home, she knew exactly what they were going for. At the time she told herself that she was investigating the possibility of a threesome: she knew Kimm would like that.

By the time Mina had made it clear that she simply wasn't interested in men, the implants were charged. It wouldn't have mattered what Mina said by then. It wouldn't even have mattered if Mina had changed her mind. If that had happened, she would have just gone outside and picked up the first person she could. Once the implants were on, her Mr. Hyde took over. It was as simple as that, and completely beyond her control. Once the implants were activated, she had to come. It didn't matter whether it was by her own hand, or by another woman's tongue. It wouldn't really have mattered if it had been by another man - although she had yet to find herself forced into such a situation. She just had to come.

Now, however, she thought of Kimm. Half of her thought he would like the idea of her with another woman, yet at the same time she knew that a lesbian affair, rather than an egocentric threesome, was not quite what he'd had in mind. It certainly wasn't the basis of the stories he'd asked her to tell.

The towel rubbed against her groin, combining beautifully with a chill breeze down her still wet spine. She looked at the shower - at the polished white tiles that lined the cubicle. Kimm didn't matter. He didn't have to know about this. Really she was improving his love life by researching her stories, and making them more accurate. At least that's what she told herself.

She felt Mina's lips pressing gently against her stomach, whilst a single digit gently traced the outline of her body. She slid her hands lovingly over Mina's head, then twirled her fingers until they were entwined in her hair. She pulled Mina up, the eurasian's tongue marking the movement with a thin trail of saliva from her navel, between her breasts, and along her neck. Their lips touched. Their tongues met warmly. They moved as one. Movements which turned her face to the window. The sun shone through in a hundred tinly patches of blotched and mottled vanity glass. She shuddered with pleasure.

She darted her tongue viciously, whilst her hands ran quickly over Mina's back. One hand slipped further down behind, its fingers caressing the woman's buttocks as she found herself spitting well rehearsed lines from her empassioned evenings with Kimm.

"Oh Mina, you're such a slut. What are you?"

"I'm a slut." Mina bit her neck. "Treat me like the whore I am."

Karen ground her hips hard against her partner's body whilst her free hand grabbed Mina by the throat and pushed her firmly against the cold tiles of the shower. "What do you want me to do then? What do you think you deserve, bitch?"

"Hurt me. Please. I want you to hurt me. I want you to bite me, and to spank me."

She tightened her grip on Mina's throat, until the words reduced to a hoarse whisper. "You fucking slut. You're such a cheap little bitch, aren't you?" She spat the words. A drop of saliva landed fully in Mina's right eye, and began to creep slowly over her cheek, whilst Karen's fingers moved in threatening circles around her skin.

Mina was nothing. In less than an hour she had turned from the dominant opportunist into a submissive sex toy. It was the first time she had been so weak. She'd always been more dominant in the past, but the sheer brutality that the implants had instilled in this woman made her realise that her earlier affairs were shallow and unadventurous in comparison. With no need to worry about taking the lead, she could relax and enjoy herself even more. It was a change that she liked.

It was a change that they both liked.

She saw Mina regularly after that. Sometimes, on bright sunny days, she became so highly charged that her slight partner stood no chance at all. Within moments of walking into the house, her clothes would be virtually torn from her body, and she would be forced to play the part of the submissive.

Then there were the dull, overcast days. The days when they sat in front of the fire, watching the flames dancing over the carbon blocks, feeling its heat against their naked bodies. Those were the romantic days. The orange and yellow ran smooth palms over Karen's body, pressing hard into her flesh, and massaging her from within. She felt secure and cared for, the tendrils in her mind imparting all the comfort of a firm, loving hug.

Then there were the in-between days. Too hot for the fire, but too dull to arouse her. Those were the days when Mina became dominant. Those were the days when she closed her eyes, or when Mina blindfolded her, reducing her to purely physical feelings. Then, with her partners permission, she would open her eyes, or remove the blindfold, to bring herself to a sudden, shuddering climax.

But Mina had to work, so she still found herself spending most days alone, with just the television for company. She'd seen the videos she'd bought for Kimm a hundred times each. She'd grown bored of the repetitious logos of daytime TV - now they felt to her like an unambitious lover, repeating the same tired motions again and again.

In fact the television had dulled so much as a stimulus that she had stored her own user settings with the brightness and contrast turned up to near-maximum. Even then she found that it was ineffectual for masturbation unless she knelt directly in front of it, her forehead resting against the screen, watching the red, green and blue elements of each pixel firing in turn.

Whenever she left the house - shopping, or just for a walk - she found that the same irritations that had previously been soothed by the dichromatic glasses, now required a true greyscale. And even then she had reduced the opacity setting on an almost daily basis, letting more and more of the real world leak in.

Things were getting bad. The fix that she used to get from the implants was next to useless now. That orgasmic hit when she'd first charged them up without the glasses had now died away to the same slight caress that she used to feel from the darkest of reds.

And slowly she learnt to lie. Not about Mina - Kimm still had no idea about her. No, she learnt to lie about the implants; learnt to fake her orgasms and act out responses in time with the delicate clicks of the blistered controller. When Kimm thought he was charging her up, she had to take a gasping breath accordingly. Little did he know that he was simply topping up a charge that was already set to last twenty-four hours.

She learnt to lie about the glasses, too. Throughout the day her face was naked. Even if she went outside on a bright sunny day, she'd reached a stage where the glasses were unnecessary. That glowing orb which used to abuse her, now stroked her back and kissed her thighs. Orgasms were the sole domain of a physical touch. But Kimm didn't know. Nor would she tell him. So long as he was happy with their lovemaking, there was no need for him to know that the implants, which had cost so much money, were now virtually ineffective. So whenever it should have been appropriate, she continued to wear the glasses, and continued feign discomfort if they were inadvertantly knocked off.

She despised herself for what she had become. She was one of those few individuals for whom the implants were so much more than a sex toy. She was addicted. She needed a constant fix, trickled into her system, just to last the day. She was a junkie, and she knew it.

Occasionally she tried to go without: deliberately letting the implants run down. But she couldn't manage for long. Invariably she gave in to the temptation to masturbate. But even that was useless now - she had to trigger pulses of energy in the fibres which wrapped around her brain before her body would even register her touch. It was as though each of her nerve endings was disconnected from her mind, and could only be re-attached by means of the implant.

So she moved on. When the television lost its charm, she removed the shade from a standard lamp, and wrapped herself around it. A few weeks of that soon dulled the feelings, so she invested in a car battery and a halogen fog lamp. Then a high- intensity security lamp, mains powered and posed just inches from her eyes.

But she was destroying herself. With every orgasm, her retina was damaged a little more. Already the images that danced around her eyes were so thoroughly burned in that they formed an ever present phantom. She knew that one day - one day soon - her eyes, or her brain, would concede defeat. What of her implants then? What use would visual synaesthesia be in a blind woman? And without the help of the implants, she knew she couldn't carry on.

She knew she needed help. She tried a number of support sites. But everytime, she disconnected before even admitting the problem. Day-by-day her feelings grew weaker, and her desires grew stronger.

"Will someone please tell me what's happened to her?" Kimm was in the back of a police car, racing across town. All he knew was that it was something to do with Karen, but nobody would tell him what. They confused him by racing past the hospital, and into the suburbs.

Finally they screeched to a halt. Outside the football ground.

"Kimm Dawson?" The man who held the car door open was dressed in an old, crumpled suit. A brief exchange of words revealed him to be a CID officer.

"What's wrong with Karen? Where is she? What the hell has the football club got to do with it?"

"Just follow me, Mr. Dawson. Everything will become clear."

They walked past an empty hotdog stand and through a bland concrete portal which led to the terraces. A gate leading onto the pitch was open, with a uniformed police officer standing alongside. They continued onto the thick, green grass, where twenty-two players and a handful of substitutes, trainers and hangers-on were standing around, looking up at the far end of the grandstands.

"Up there, Mr. Dawson. It's your wife."

"What the hell is she doing up there?"

"Well sir, we think it's just a cry for help. She hasn't made any attempts to jump - although things got a little hairy when we tried to turn the floodlights off."

"Hairy?"

"Yes sir. She got a bit hysterical, began screaming and threatening to throw herself off. Since we turned them on again she's just been standing in front of them, staring right into them like she is now. She asked to see you, and that's the last we've heard from her."

"So how do I get up there?"

"Just come this way Mr. Dawson."

"Karen?"

"I'm glad you could come Kimm. Glad they let you up here."

"Yeah. They insisted I wore a harness - and they've got me wired, too. I think the idea is that I talk you round, then tell them to kill the power and send in the troops, as it were."

"Can't do that Kimm. You can't let them kill the power. You don't know what's happened to me; what I've become. I need it. I need that energy. I need that light. I can't go on without it."

"The implants?"

"Yeah. The implants. I think they're malfunctioning - or maybe I am. They just don't do it for me anymore. Even now, with God knows how many Watts beaming down on me, there's only just enough sensation for me to be comfortable. Take that away and I go cold turkey. I become a quivering wreck. Useless."

"I can get you help. If the implants are damaged, we'll get them fixed."

"You know, as well as I do, that it's not really the implants."

"Well we'll get you weaned off them then. There are places that specialise in that sort of treatment. I read something in Cosmo' - you're not the first person this has happened to."

"That's just it, though. I don't want to be weaned off them. I don't want to turn back into that dowdy, frigid little bitch you married."

"Don't talk like that. I married you for your personality, not your body. If we never had sex again, it wouldn't matter."

"It's good of you to say so Kimm, but I know you don't mean it. Sure, you might think you do now, but after a couple of months of me pushing you away all the time, of me vomiting, crying, convulsing, you'll be desperate for just one night with a normal woman."

He didn't answer. He knew that what she said was true - no matter how much he wished it otherwise. He loved her dearly, but he also loved what she had become over these past months. Worst of all, and he hated himself for it, he knew that he would grow to resent her if she continually pushed him away. He also knew that if she had the treatment, every sight, colour or touch would become tortuously dull to her; just a reminder of what she'd lost.

"There's only one way, Kimm." Her eyes directed his downwards. In her hand was the panel of blistered plastic that had started it all. Her thumb traced small circles round one of the buttons. He knew what she had in mind.

"Hold me Kimm." He stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the myriad bulbs that threatened to blind him, then moved around her so that he was facing her, and facing away from the light. He wrapped his arms around her, and felt her own reciprocate.

They both cried.

"There's so much you don't know about me Kimm. All the things I've done over the past few months. These fucking implants have turned me into something horrible, Kimm. You don't deserve to suffer like this - not after what I've done to you."

"Shhh.... It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing except you."

"D'you mean that?"

"You know I do."

"Kimm. Promise me one thing. No matter what you hear about me from now on, just remember that I never meant to hurt you. I always loved you. I always will."

She pulled one hand within the folds of their embrace. They separated enough to let it in, foreheads resting against one another, tears falling freely to the metallic grid of the floodlight gantry. She still held the controller. Her thumb still rested gently on one of the buttons. He wrapped his hand around the plastic, his own thumb lying upon hers.

She whispered: "You said they had you wired?"

"Yes."

Then, in a louder voice: "I'm sorry Kimm, but I have to do this. It's the only way out. Don't try to stop me."

He never knew which of them pressed the button. He felt her thumb move slightly, then added pressure of his own. He liked to think that it was the combined force of the two of them which finally sent a carbon electrode tumbling down onto the conductive pads below. They both pressed it. It was their final act together.

The worst part was the horror of her scream. It lasted only a second, but reverberated around his mind for the rest of his life. With that simple click they switched the implants back into audio mode, and the violence of the light before her turned instantly into a million reverberating sound waves.

Her brain simply couldn't take it. Too loud. Too harsh. Too violent. Too internal. It just shut itself down to save her further pain.