The Last Men

Are you ready?’


Wee Kiong turns his body in the direction of the voice coming from the ceiling speakers, and then looks at the room-length mirror on the opposite wall. He does not say anything, so I have to: ‘Yes, we are.’


‘Please get ready. Number 36.’


We move into position, me behind Wee Kiong. He bends low, legs apart. The sensors on us light up and begin clicking. Those embedded in us – the permanent ones – start ticking, the wiggle of worm-crawl under our skins. It is not an unpleasant sensation; in fact, it is mildly sensual.


I prepare myself, using the lube. The air-con in the room dries it up quickly. I apply a dollop on Wee Kiong. His muscles clench, then relax.


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