index


Message-ID: <48933asstr$1093252204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm@skyhighway.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Jasmin (Mg scifi in-progress)
Lines: 662
Date: Mon, 23 Aug 2004 05:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d




                                  Jasmin

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   In space, nobody can hear the ecstatic moans of illegal orgasms.

   Poets have waxed poetic on this theme, the beauty of space. And
   being a technician rather than a poet, my waxing generally is
   reserved for my moustache. Not that I often wax my moustache,
   though occasionally on special occasions, such as a meeting with
   a provincial princess, or in preparation for a truly hot date, I
   do. Which is to say, not very often.

   The ultra-twinkling brightness of the stars, the rings of Saturn
   when viewed close up, the colorful phases of the Tryxostian moons
   in the springtime cycle, all very spectacular. But for me, none
   compares in the slightest with the simple silence of space.

   True, there is the quiet hum life-support, and all the intrinsic
   functions of a galactic-bound starship to contribute their gentle
   lulling whirr, but in the still of night, when all is still, you
   can hear what I'm talking about.

   The absence of sound. The space for deep thought, for profound
   reflection, a silence that gives birth to sounds of yet
   unconceived beauty. The sonic darkness that gave birth to the
   incredible rainbow of aural possibility.

   And if it weren't for cloaking escape pods, I wouldn't be here to
   write these words today. See, the unpleasant part of this story
   happens towards the beginning, so you may want to shut your eyes
   just now. It will be over soon.

   It began (I suppose) with an ear-splitting rumble, the hull of my
   ship being seized in the harsh grip an Imperial klepto-beam. I
   knew what was next -- the auto-scanner beeped with an incoming
   message. The comscreen lit up with a horribly familiar face.

   The irony of it was that, just at that moment, I had been working
   on a deflection shield for the very klepto-beam which now had my
   ship in its throes.

   See, I'm an inventor. The ship I was on held together only for a
   monumental balancing act of adapting salvaged components for
   unintended purposes.

   "Greetings," greeted a horribly familiar voice over the
   comsystem, with the sonority of gravel in a garbage disposal.

   The voice, I well knew, belonged to Darvo Wedge, the sleazy
   nephew of His Imperial Highness.

   You'd think that with all of our human technology and
   problem-solving ability, we would have by now routed out the bane
   of human greed and intolerance. But no, not even in this modern
   era of the twenty-fifth century.

   Wedge piloted a Mercedes GJ-130, the most expensive Sport-Utility
   vessel money could buy. And money he had, being the silver-spoon
   heir to one of the wealthiest fortunes in the Imperial Galactic
   Realm. The ship he flew was a custom model, engineered in the
   shape of a giant "W," at his command. "W" for "Wedge," he would
   say, though most who had encountered him would say "Worthless" or
   "Weasel," or worse.

   And I could see from the edges of the comscreen, he was still
   surrounded by the same crowd of goons, the type who, when
   planet-bound, would be found riding on those barbaric
   abominations from the late twentieth century, the Harley-Davidson
   motorcycle. In case you have never heard of them, these hideous
   contraptions were designed for the basic purpose of creating an
   awful and intimidating racket, much to the sophomoric delight of
   cowardly bullies (redundant, I know) who never worked out the
   difference between people paying attention to you because they
   like you, and those paying attention because you're being an
   inescapable source of irritation.

   "Blessings of Noxigoth to you," continued the seedy gravel-train.
   "My name is Darvo Wedge of the Imperial Inquisition. Simply swear
   your devotion and loyalty to Noxigoth as your sole source of wise
   counsel, salvation and guilt, and we will be on our way. If you
   refrain from so executing this holy oath, we will, out of the
   profound kindness of our hearts, spare you the suffering of
   eternal damnation by the only means possible, namely the
   purification by fire. You have thirty seconds."

   Funny thing was, they recited the same damn litany in English, no
   matter what language their victims spoke, whether they could
   understand English or not. The Inquisition recognized only one
   savior and only one mother-tongue. I also knew damn well what
   `purification by fire meant,' and it made my blood boil. A
   napalm-torpedo.

   My anger got the better of me, I regret to say, and I rudely
   flipped on "transmit." In a way, silence was pointless, since it
   would result in the same consequences as the string of insults I
   was about to unleash.

   Adrenaline surged. "Darvo Wedge, your idiotic right-wing dogma is
   as worthless as that pathetic piece-of-crap idol you worship."

   Harsh laughter replied, crackling through the comsystem as I
   hastily threw supplies into the escape pod. "Ah, my good friend
   Xithnous, so we meet again," he gloated. "I thought that I last
   saw you from the rear window of my shuttle-craft, as you lay
   helplessly stranded on a dismal forlorn rock of a planet to die."

   "Which, unfortunately for you, I didn't." (be sure to ask me to
   tell you that story sometime. Anyway:)

   Harsh laughter again. The oil-drenched gravel continued: "My
   misfortune indeed. I wish to remind you that, out of my
   kind-heartedness, I am willing to forgive your heresy, and will
   grant you an additional thirty seconds during which you may
   repent before I lob a napalm-torpedo in the general direction of
   your pathetic sack of scrap-metal."

   His irritating cackle was joined by the gloating mirth of his
   crewmates.

   I really should do something about that temper of mine. At this
   point, no further response was practical, so I switched the
   comsystem to `mute,' to conceal what I did next:

   The frantic sounds of my tossing as many practical implements as
   I could lay my hands on, into the escape pod, and myself stepping
   inside. The cylindrical glassene window swiveled shut around me,
   and I activated the cloaking device (of my own design) before the
   tiny coffin-shaped pod silently jettisoned itself from the
   soon-to-be-smithereens craft which I had so lovingly maintained
   for all these months.

   The inky silence of space surrounded me, embraced me with its
   cold harsh beauty, and through the glassene window I weightlessly
   watched my ship recede.

   Drenched in sweat, I switched on the comsystem, keeping the
   volume muted to monitor the interaction as I fired up my PDA to
   calculate a trajectory the closest inhabitable planet. Hopefully
   with a proximity of less than a century of travel time. These
   escape pods were well capable of outlasting their inhabitants,
   and a significant percentage became floating coffins -- that is,
   those from which their occupants had not self-ejected in an act
   of suicidal escape from unimaginable boredom.

   Nervously, I pushed these thoughts from my mind. There had to be
   a way out.

   The greasy gravel churned nauseously. "Xithnous, my friend, I
   hope that you are saying your prayers to Noxigoth at this moment,
   that you may find salvation in the afterlife. For I regret to
   inform you that your time is up."

   More cackling mirth.

   The radar beeped, and I could see the blinking point of light
   trace a path from the luridly overwrought Mercedes towards my
   poor faithful little ship. It should here be pointed out that a
   napalm-torpedo does not literally contain napalm (which would
   have no effect on a modern space-going vessel) but was rather
   named for its mode of destruction.

   A horrid design from the wars of the last century (I forget the
   exact historic details), it engulfs the target in a shroud of
   microparticles which employ atomic-level nuclear fusion to direct
   and reflect intense infrared radiation inward towards the object
   surrounded. The result is that, the ship is surrounded by an
   intense heat which permeates whole interior, usually setting the
   entire contents on fire, gradually as the temperature inside
   increases. Eventually, the hull collapses and the entire thing
   caves in onto itself. The process can take anywhere from ten
   minutes to a half an hour, depending on the construction of the
   ship it victimizes.

   The modern equivalent of being burned at the stake.

   Contact. I watched with great sadness as my the surface of my
   poor ship began to glow with the disintegration. Coupled with
   relief that Darvo had apparently not detected the cloaked craft I
   now uncomfortably observed from. There was a sense of
   satisfaction, I suppose, given that I had designed the cloaking
   circuitry myself. Adapted from a design I had downloaded from the
   Galactranet.

   But I have to say the satisfaction was somewhat muted by the
   experience of watching the spectacular fireworks as my hard work
   was demolished at the hands of a dim-witted megalomaniac.

   "Getting warm, Xithnous?" gloated Darvo mistakenly, chuckling.
   "Too late to repent now, as you know there is no way to reverse
   the napalm effect. My only regret is that you have switched off
   your comsystem, so that I cannot monitor the details of your
   physical destruction. Rest assured, of course, that we will pray
   most fervently to Noxigoth for your eternal salvation."

   The glow grew brighter, and sparks of disintegrating
   hull-material began to fly out into space. My poor ship was not
   as sturdily constructed as the one Darvo and his silver-spoon
   cronies flew, and would collapse relatively quickly.

   Indeed, in a few moments, it did just that, creating
   spectacularly colored fireworks as the various objects on board
   exploded into into charred or vaporized fragments, flying into
   all directions in space.

   A few of the colorful comets flew in my direction, but whizzed
   harmlessly beyond into the emptiness of space, and soon the
   sparks and fires had died out and the spectacle was over.

   Darvo grunted a sound of disappointment, no doubt on account that
   rapidity of the event had left him insufficient time to savor my
   doom, and soon his ship, too, had departed, leaving me once again
   in the silence of space which I so ardently enjoy.
     ____________________________________________________________

   If you had your eyes closed, you can probably open them now. Not
   much to look at, just the stars slowly gliding by with the
   rotation of the pod. I thought about correcting with the
   thrusters to stop the rotation, but it's actually rather
   soothing.

   You might wonder why I had not merely yielded to Darvo's simple
   proposition, and falsely affirmed my devotion to the hideous idol
   whose conquest he sought to promote. The answer lay in what would
   follow, for it was not sufficient to merely speak a simple word
   or two. Noxigoth required actions to back up the words.

   Now for the wealthy, this was easily accomplished by a discreet
   charitable donation to a certain agent of the inquisition. But
   for those with insufficient funds, it was another story. Namely,
   "indentured servitude" (the term used by the Inquisition) for an
   indefinite period, which generally wound up being for the
   remainder of one's lifetime. "Perpetual slavery" would be an
   accurate description.

   There are those who seem to specialize in escaping from such
   ordeals, but I prefer to avoid the whole issue. I find the
   prospect of a brief period of confinement in a claustrophobic
   space-pod better than that of endless toil for an unjust cause.

   Usually when I wind up in this sort of fix, I can send a g-mail
   to someone over the Galactranet begging to come pick me up. But
   besides waiting to connect until I was absolutely sure that Darvo
   was out of range, I was kind of enjoying the solitude. Plus, I
   was finally getting a chance to work on the anti-klepto algorithm
   undisturbed.

   Funny thing about space technology nowadays, the basic hardware
   hasn't changed in centuries. The key changes have been
   algorithmic. The central processors are getting faster, and the
   algorithms more efficient, but the G-field operational engine
   remains basically unaltered from the original design of several
   centuries ago.

   It was with the advent of cheap, small nuclear fusion generators
   as a power source, that the discovery of the G-field soon
   followed, unlocking the corridors of outer space and galactic
   travel.

   Just as computers in the late 20th century cars began to make
   fuel injection more efficient by instantaneously adjusting flow
   according to the temperature and other factors, the key to
   applying the G-field is intensively reactive manipulation on
   sub-microscopic, sub-temporal levels.

   Similar to DNA, where combinations of a few simple proteins yield
   a mind-boggling array of permutations and wondrous possibilities.
   Or the computer, built entirely on combinations of the simple
   binary `yes' or `no,' yet which engages in a dazzling spectrum of
   activities in all realms of knowledge.

   Likewise, the G-field is very simple. It can be used for
   gravitation, propulsion, temporal reversal, a tractor beam, or
   any one of a myriad of possible applications, many of which have
   yet to be realized, or even conceived of.

   The klepto-beam also, is based on the G-field. Thing is that,
   while the klepto-beam algorithm is widely used and published, it
   is also widely believed to be susceptible to security exploits.
   It had been extensively reverse-engineered, and a fair amount of
   work had been done (for obvious reasons) to try and crack the
   algorithm, but so far without reliable success.

   In approaching the problem, I kept thinking of something I had
   read long ago in some spiritual book somewhere. Something like:

   To gain what you want,
   relinquish your desire.

   The spiritual meaning was clear to me - that because desire
   causes only troubling emotions, desire is not what we want.

   But it seemed also to to unlock an algorithmic key that I was
   searching for. The existing attempts to break the hold of the
   beam were like contrasting desires, which only fed the conflict
   taking place. It was only by complete acquiescence to the force
   of the beam that its grip could be broken.

   As I found soulful solace in the contemplation of this noble
   paradox, I glimpsed, disappearing to my left, a star somewhat
   brighter than those around it. Still musing, I again observed the
   same star a minute or so later, appearing to my right, tracing an
   arc across the sky, and then disappearing to my left. Also, I
   noted that the star seemed to be growing. Something about the
   halo of light it subtly emitted caught my attention.

   With an abrupt rush of excitement, I jammed my finger on the
   thrust button to stop the rotation. Glancing down at the radar, I
   confirmed my suspicion. It was a ship! Dead in the void, perhaps,
   but a ship nonetheless! Filled with all sorts of mysterious
   unexplored technological gadgets! I twirled my moustache.

   By the way, I'm a technician. Did I mention that already?

   As I manoeuvred the pod to get a closer look, my astonishment
   grew. A Sabre DX-42. I had seen pictures in books, and a model
   once in a museum, but never a full-sized one in real life. The
   thing was huge.

   Once a coveted top-of-the-line family-sized luxury cruising
   vessel, they stopped making them over a hundred years ago when
   the company, embroiled in a bizarre sexual scandal, was forced
   out of business. Truly a shame, and it was never fully resolved
   whether or not the scandal was entirely a competitor's
   fabrication.

   I gave a low whistle, in spite of myself. It was a classic, a
   collector's item. Looked to be in good shape, too. At least, a
   tour of the exterior hull didn't reveal any serious flaws.

   What could have gone wrong then, to cause its owners to simply
   abandon it?

   A twinge of anxiety in the back of my mind was immediately
   overwhelmed by an engulfing electrical surge of intellectual
   curiosity.

   I found the airlock portal, and began probing the entry codes
   with my PDA, when I noticed that it was unlocked. Looked like
   someone had entered, recently, by force. Rather than politely
   dialoguing with the security mechanism, someone had used an
   electro-jimmy to jam the circuits by fusing the gates into an
   open state.

   An old trick, and more modern ships featured protection against
   such rude strategies, but this grand old vessel was built in a
   time of greater trust and openness and was no match for such
   crudity.

   In fact, these older ships often had a public access point for
   emergency workers to use in case of disaster, information which
   whoever had boarded recently was apparently too dim to realize.
   According to the logs in the entry recorder, whoever it was had
   spent a little over an hour inside the ship within the last 24
   hours, and (according to the log) had since departed.

   The entry method oozed with the signature of a certain
   not-very-nice dignitary of the Imperial Inquisition, whose
   ship-destroying capabilities I had recently experienced
   firsthand.

   My sense of dread had embellished on itself a bit with this
   discovery, but curiosity surged ahead. A Sabre DX-42! Truly
   amazing. Even a Sabre DX-30 would have been a joy to explore, as
   would one of the MX models. But this was the very top of the
   line!

   It was likely that Darvo's sole interest was to ensure that all
   inhabitants had been duly converted; and thus, when he had found
   the vessel abandoned, or perhaps had rather abducted any unlikely
   inhabitants, he had summarily departed.

   Nonetheless, I disengaged the safety catch on my disrupter pistol
   as I dialed entry code.

   My pod resurrected from memory the ancient docking protocols, and
   the two ships elegantly aligned and joined. All around the edges
   of the door frame, I watched the suction bolts twist shut, and
   there was a brief hiss as the air pressure equalized between the
   two cabins.

   Like the doors of an elevator, the two doors -- that of my pod
   and of the elegant older vessel -- slid open in unison. The
   gentle indirect lighting already illuminated the all-white entry
   hall of the Sabre's airlock, and as I pushed myself inside from
   the zero-G weightlessness of outer space, I felt the comfortable
   tug of the larger ship's gravitational system pulling me down to
   step onto the plush deep-red carpeting.

   The outer airlock doors slid shut (as a safety precaution) and as
   the inner doors opened a soft, richly anharmonic chime sounded,
   reminding me of an old clock in a British mansion. I pointed my
   disrupter pistol ahead of me as I gingerly stepped into the
   hallway.
     ____________________________________________________________

   All around me, luxurious opulence mocked my pistol-wielding
   paranoia. A paragon of vieux-riche, the depth of the ship's
   elegance reposed in the aloof calmness of the intricately baroque
   details. The meticulously carved mahogany trim. The painstakingly
   crafted hues in prints from the oil paintings of
   seventeenth-century masters, delicately illuminated with
   track-lights. At any moment I expected a black-suited butler to
   appear, offering to take my hat and coat, bowing, ushering, and
   offering me drinks.

   Eerie silence.

   Wringing my mind for details of the ages-ago museum visit, I
   tried to remember the Sabre's floor plan -- (never had I owned a
   ship with an actual floor-plan!) the bridge should be around the
   corner. Right...

   ...Here. I braced, brandished my disrupter in the faces of...

   An empty room. Lowering my weapon, I stepped around to the main
   console, which stood like a hulking bulk in the middle of the
   room. The thing was honkin'-huge. Nowadays, it would have all
   been collapsed into virtual consoles, to make for a much smaller,
   lightweight control panel. But such technology in that era would
   have been considered unreliable.

   Glancing up at the giant main display screen, I saw the poster
   pasted crudely to it, and rolled my eyes.

   THIS SHIP and its contents
   are hereby annexed
   as parcel and property
   of the Imperial Inquisition.

   Disgustedly, I tore down the proclamation and cleaned the
   adhesive off the screen as best I could.

   Not wanting to sully his hands with such drudgery, Darvo had
   probably noted the location coordinates and left the task of
   transporting the ship with lower-class indentured servants who
   handled his dirty work for him. But why hadn't he just let one of
   his goons fly it back? Surely even he would have recognized its
   value as a status symbol.

   The answer came as I began flicking switches to try and raise the
   main display. About half the systems were completely out.
   Bringing forward my PDA from the side-pack it was stowed in, I
   found an adaptor to plug it into the main emergency interface
   plug, supplied in such cases where the main console was
   experiencing failure.

   The first screen that popped up bore the simple message:

                     Message for Jasmin. Read now?

   I pushed the `yes' button. The system replied:

                         Enter security code:

   And there I was stumped. Who the hell was Jasmin, and why was
   somebody leaving messages here for her. Did they think I was the
   answering service?

   I continued examining the control console. A quick diagnostic
   confirmed what I had observed, that a software glitch had
   resulted in the failure of about half the systems on board the
   ship, apparently at random.

   I punched a few keys and holographically projected debugging
   screens flashed in the air around me. As I watched the streams of
   figures flickering past, an inkling of a memory stirred.

   Yes, now I remember. The early models of the Sabre had a serious
   flaw, one that had not been corrected until after several hundred
   of them had been manufactured: "A simple software glitch which
   was not fatal, but essentially left the main drive systems
   paralyzed, along with other various other systems on board the
   ship.

   I recalled having seen a downloadable patch somewhere on the
   Galactranet, and was about to set out searching for it when I
   heard a beeping from the panel, like the finishing cry of a
   microwave oven. A red light was blinking.

   When I stepped over to see what it was, I blinked. Catastrophic
   failure of cryonic system imminent.

   Whiskers of Zorntrog. Cryonics? Nobody had used cryo for space
   travel in over a century. It was only on those earlier flights,
   before the discovery of infra-space corridors had reduced
   intra-galactic travel time to a fraction of what it had been...

   Frantically, I paged through the pages of documentation handily
   stored in the main console, finally turning up a floor-plan. The
   cryogenic chamber was right... there.

   I yanked the plug on the PDA so I could take it with me, and
   dashed down the hall, to the left, the right, the right, and to a
   sealed door. Shit.

   I used my PDA to index the entry codes it had retrieved from the
   main console, and the door slid open.

   Inside the chamber were three pods. Two were open, and obviously
   unoccupied, but the third one, on my left, bore a blinking red
   light that echoed the alarm from the control panel.

   Like a plunge into cold water, the realization stunned me. There,
   inside the sarcophagus before me, was a live human being. Or
   rather, a human being whose life was now in my hands.

   Damn. I really didn't know much about cryo, but I had to do my
   best.

   What I did know was this: that an unregulated thaw was a
   not-very-pretty thing to watch, let alone to experience. Without
   the encephalogical neuromotor damping, the subject would resume
   consciousness before the thaw had completed. Meaning that they
   would wake up, icy-cold and paralyzed, and then proceed to freeze
   to death, contract severe gangrene, or both.

   Taking a deep breath, I set down the PDA, and set it to searching
   the Galactranet for any information on cryogenics that might help
   me. Then I set it aside, and examined the cryo-pod for clues as
   to the cause of failure.

   The cause was soon obvious. I knelt down to examine. In the
   oblong base of the unit was an unpopulated socket where the
   cryo-regulator should be.

   That was weird. How had the cryogenic system functioned for
   several hundred years without a regulator? Once the freeze had
   stabilized, the system would maintain integrity, even without a
   control system, for maybe a day or so. But what had happened to
   the regulator?

   I looked frantically around the room, thinking maybe it had
   popped out or something and rolled across the floor. I started
   thinking of other systems that might have a generic controller
   that would fit into the standard regulator port once the software
   had been reprogrammed. Surely I could find something to download
   that would fit the bill, but it could take hours, and by then it
   might be too late.

   Woefully wishing I had spent more time studying cryogenics in
   school, my eye rested on the two unoccupied pods. Cryo had seemed
   like such a waste of time, at the time, back when I was into
   blasting thudding speakerfuls of British rock, chugging kegs of
   beer, and downing bongloads of Sorlolian Rastaweed with my
   buddies.

   Something about the two unoccupied pods nagged at the unconscious
   regions of my consciousness, when all of a sudden the dawning
   realization struck me upside the head:

   Both of the unoccupied pods had regulator units in them.

   Puzzling.

   With a jolt, I arose and carefully examined the controller of the
   nearest sarcophagus. Seemed to be fine. I pressed the release
   latch and gently twisted it free.

   Kneeling again at the base of the occupied pod, saying a prayer
   to Krishna, Hanuman, Garuda and Buddha, I reverently placed the
   device into the socket, feeling the delicately sensuous click of
   a perfect fit as it twisted into place.

   Immediately it set to beeping and flashing, and the old-fashioned
   flat-panel display on the wall adjacent flickered to life.

   "Diagnosing thermal and bio-sensors, please wait..."

   Then: "Diagnosing status of cryogenic stasis, please wait..."

   Then, a question: "It appears that a thaw is taking place.
   Continue with thaw, or resume cryogenic stasis?"

   I pressed the "thaw" button.

   The screen flashed: "Commencing re-awaken sequence for subject:

   Name: Jasmin McCloud.
   Biological age on entering cryogenic stasis: 11 earth years.

   "Please verify the integrity of the silicon protective layer."

   Here I set my jaw once more. The results of integrity-loss in the
   silicon layer were the sort of sight requiring a surgeon's
   stomach at the very least. Sickening images flashed through my
   memory, that had been projected on the screens of college
   classrooms, or found in the sort of sensationalistic tabloids
   silently hawked in superstore-chain checkout-stand racks, that
   delighted in such headlines as ... I couldn't stand to continue
   the train of thought.

   Bracing myself, I pressed the button to unlatch the sarcophagus
   lid. All around the edges, a pneumatic sighing signaled the
   equalization of pressure as the seals released. Seeing that the
   hinge was at the head, I gripped footside edge, and slowly lifted
   the heavy, insulated cover. Swirling wisps of freezer-fog flowed
   slowly down to the floor. I raised the lid fully, to where the
   spring-loaded struts supported it in the `open' position. I
   waited for the opaque white mists to part, like the curtains of
   an old-fashioned stage play, or a cinematic dissolve from white
   into the next scene.

   In spite of myself, I gasped at the pale statuesque beauty that
   had ploughed forth through the snowy shrouds to reveal itself
   before me. Uniformly covered by the fully intact diaphanous layer
   of shimmering silicon granules, lay the nakedly healthy glacial
   body of an eleven-year old girl. Anatomically correct.

   Her dark hair was long and straight, frozen in smooth, graceful
   swirls, stylish bangs cut across her blissfully carefree brow.
   Eyes closed, red lips slightly parted to reveal the the playful
   white tips of front teeth, her expression was one of peaceful
   contemplation, as if dreaming of bunny-rabbits and cherry
   blossoms. Smooth and flat chested, not even a hint of breasts
   yet, nor any trace of bodily hair aside from the flowing locks
   that graced her shoulders, gently touching the two reddish
   buttons lovingly painted by evolutionary design on her thin upper
   torso. The curling burgundy-colored folds of skin at the crux of
   her beautifully thin legs stood forth in brazen youthful
   nakedness.

   An ice-statue of an ivory angel.

   How many moments passed before I awoke to the self-conscious
   guilt of my boorish gawking?

   I gulped, and hit the `OK' button.

   "Please replace the sarcophagus cover," the screen requested.

   Drinking in one more appreciative glance at the wondrously
   delicate beauty before me, I reflected that this draught would
   most likely be my last glimpse of such perfection. Surely once
   she awoke, such a thing would be impossible.

   Reluctantly, I lowered the lid, and pressed the `continue'
   button.


     ____________________________________________________________


  For more stories, visit our site on asstr-mirror.org 
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/



  
<1st attachment begin>

<HTML removed pursuant to http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/erotica/assm/faq.html#policy>
<1st attachment end>

----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+


  index