index


Message-ID: <52142asstr$1128409803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
DomainKey-Signature: a=rsa-sha1; q=dns; c=nofws;
  s=s1024; d=yahoo.com;
  h=Message-ID:Received:Date:From:Subject:To:MIME-Version:Content-Type:Content-Transfer-Encoding;
  b=zJfxjUqw3QZy6vsvrk3w+9UqI+Lsg/oeWqJjrIxDtp4Y2mlgGLxuPIbyokl40v1hfgI5u/diVcUx05S3fgyfhI1J9TP6vM7DSsfl5uaepRBbgexyGhtIxtawN24/xANaXo6C5trBIM0PNRrcf/vlU9jxsqvbg4RhVwoDVxgwm/g=  ;
From: juan smith <cannibaldotcom@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
Subject: {ASSM} A Common Thread (Menageire)
Lines: 298
Date: Tue, 04 Oct 2005 03:10:03 -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

A COMMON THREAD


Sometimes, you just get tired of the same old faces.

They become stale.  Once you've sorted them by
characteristics and habitat, there isn't much left to
do, other than look at them.  Certainly, you can
compare and contrast the shadings of coloration, the
physical features, or simply their size and bulk;
write reasoned treatises on the conditions which could
have contributed to the phenomena.  Still, once
they're here, they're here and unchanging; fresh
specimens must be collected if new data is to be
extracted.

And so, I anxiously awaited a fresh shipment.  Hands
clasped behind my back, nervously pacing, occasionally
looking up at the vast span of fauna past and present
entrusted to my care.  I'd received numerous accolades
for my taxonomic skills; the exhibit was considered a
model, each species neatly displayed in ascending
arrays, so that even the lay observer could truly see
how Nature had selected for survival and dominance.

My reverie was interrupted by Mr. Thorvaldsen,
grunting as he pushed his laden dolly through the dark
aisles of the museum.  A large crate was perched on
the hand truck; markings indicated it had come from
America.  Mr. Thorvaldsen had truly been a find; hired
as a custodian, I learned enough about him to realize
he could be the key to developing my collection beyond
the rather heterogeneous confines of Norway. I'd
persuaded the doltish brute he was furthering the
cause of science, and had him reclassified as my
assistant, to travel the world in search of exotic
items for the ever-growing collection.

I had, embarrassingly enough, been forced to relocate
my specimens outside of my work area.  Although there
was vast storage area beneath the main floor, it was
typically used for exhibits temporarily removed from
display or being prepared for future demonstration.  I
relocated many of those with my peers, but even so
found myself running short of space.  Finally, in
desperation, I closed off a single room that had been
occasionally used for private functions, pronounced it
in need of renovation, and kept it locked, its
contents shielded from view.  Other than myself, the
collection has only been viewed by certain of my
colleagues who've grown to appreciate the extent of my
ability to categorize minutiae.  And, of course, Mr.
Thorvaldsen.

"Another successful trip overseas. I venture, Jan?"  I
asked the big man as he lowered his load to the floor
with a thump, then reached for a handkerchief and
mopped his brow, huffing and puffing.

"Yah, sure, Doctor," he finally wheezed out.  "I catch
this one in a place called Nevada.  I never seen
anything like it; put up a pretty good fight, but here
you go."  And with that, he produced a crowbar and
jimmied the side of the crate open, and the contents
spilled out.

The young woman within was trussed and gagged.  She
seemed to be attired as a large bird, silvery plumage
elevated from her head and posterior, glittering shoes
to match.  At the same time, her coverings were rather
minimal, barely concealing her breasts and crotch. 
She glared up at me; I looked down, surely wearing an
expression of puzzlement.  "I don't believe I've ever
seen one like her, either, Jan," I agreed.  "Please
help me transport her to my studio, so I can proceed,
there's a good fellow."

The Birdwoman kicked a bit, but Mr. Thorvaldsen had
little trouble wrapping up her feet, and I took her by
the shoulders as we carried her through the unmarked
door to my work area.  Everything was already laid
out--carefully honed scalpels, spools of thread, a
collection of snap-together plastic rods, which when
assembled loosely resemble the human frame.  I'd laid
in a new supply of the chemicals I use for drying
pelts; eyeing the Birdwoman, I figured her for a two
day job.  Three, tops.

When her gag was removed, a torrent of words emerged. 
My English is respectable; she was demanding to know
where she was, why she had been brought her.  She
wanted to talk to a policeman right away.  These
peculiar clothes, I asked her; you were attending a
masquerade?  No, she told me, she was a "showgirl";
she had been displaying herself, dressed in what
passed in Nevada as finery, for the entertainment of
paying guests.  Fascinating; I'd not previously
collected one of those, and I nodded to Mr.
Thorvaldsen, who removed the peculiarly metallic shoes
before hanging the young woman upside down from the
clamps that descend from the preparation area.  As he
began the task of removing her garments, I explained
my use for her.

"My dear Miss--"  Her name was B., she blurted out from
her upside-down position, so I started anew.  "My dear
Miss B., I am______"  I've learned that few outside my
particular scientific circle are familiar with my
work, so I went on to explain I was a founding member
of the International Society of Modern Anthropological
Study, and a world-renowned curator of post-H. sapiens
exhibits.  On a trip to sub-Saharan Africa a dozen
years before, I'd contracted a raging jungle fever,
and hovered near death for many nights.  The infection
cleared almost miraculously, and at the same time left
me with a sudden, shining vision of what my life's
work was to be.

By this time, Mr. Thorvaldsen had fully disrobed my
subject; it had, in fact, been difficult to describe
my current pursuits over her protests and screams. 
That was all right; I always welcome the opportunity
to show my exhibits to the public.  Although Miss B.
was quite a large specimen--180 cm, with well toned,
firm muscles--she was surely no match for the hulking
Mr. Thorvaldsen, who had once been described by a
judge as a "gorilla in human form".  After retying her
hands and feet, he lowered her from the clamps and
cuddled her in his arms like a baby, trudging behind
me as I unlocked the door to the collection room and
threw the lights.

It always gave me a peculiar thrill to again set eyes
on them.  Now numbering nearly one hundred, the naked
female forms stretched in rows across the room, each
with her own lighting and plaque, each posed as if
performing actions common to her type.  The peasant
woman from South America appeared to be hanging a load
of laundry, a single fragment of clothesline before
her.  Her brown skin, wide hips and pendulous breasts
contrasted sharply with the thin-bodied, pale blonde,
one from my earlier collection, who was inserting a
coin plucked from a purse in a parking meter, on her
way to shop.  The Asian teenager rushed to school, her
body frozen in mid-stride, books pressed against her
chest, spectacles framing the shining glass eyes.  A
plump, dark haired woman stood at a blackboard,
eternally gesturing behind her as she delivered a
lesson to a phantom class of schoolchildren.

Other than the great clock ticking overhead, the only
other sound in the room was the gasps of Miss B.
behind me, still in the arms of Mr. Thorvaldsen. 
Finally, she asked if they were all statues.  I turned
to face her, and smiled.

"That would be cheating, Miss B." I informed her. 
"These were all taken from their native environs, much
as lesser creatures are plucked from their habitats by
my more timid colleagues.  What you see are genuine
women, from all over the world, all walks of life,
presented as they had been behaving at the moment of
their capture."  Mr. Thorvaldsen's face creased in a
broad smile; he would, I reflected, have to tell me
exactly what Miss B. had been doing in that demented
costume.

Oh...my...she said; I believe she was weeping.  It would
probably not be difficult, I reflected as I examined
her inert form, to "hide" her.  Younger than my
typical specimens, her derma could be removed in large
swatches.  On the other hand, she was certainly
larger, vertically speaking, than most of my exhibits,
and I may need to custom-design a framework for her. 
I nodded to Mr. Thorvaldsen, and we exited the display
area and returned to my work station.

Again fastened to the clamps, the naked young woman
swayed and shook violently; her screams had become
wrenching sobs.  I positioned a container beneath her,
selected a Number 6 scalpel, and set to work.  Often,
as I begin this process, my subjects demand to know
why they must remain conscious.  It all comes back to
my vision in Africa.  It is so easy to approach the
science of taxonomy impassively, as coldly as the long
dead samples behind glass in the exhibit.  But this is
the study of life in its many forms, and I prefer to
assign that categorization based on the traits I
observe in vivi.

The day of my recovery, and those that followed,
remain vivid in my memory.  A certain Dr. Mkebele, an
occasional correspondent of mine, had come to my
bedside from the Central African Republic.  He had
made a career's study of the musculo-skeletal growth
pattern of the human female, and during his recovery
was keen to share with me the comparative sketchings
he'd produced from cadavers.  In my recovery, I was
able to see in a new light the step-by-step
development as portrayed in the drawings of dissected
women, and their importance to our field.

As it happened, Mkebele had also been the personal
physician of the dictator Bokassa, and had shared in
the deposed Emperor's strange gustatory habits.  And
so, when I was sufficiently fit to depart Hospital, I
accompanied my friend back to his homeland, where he
was prepared to demonstrate for me both his craft and
his acquired taste.  Through his station, he was able
to direct that a young woman be brought to his
laboratory.  She was sacrificed, so that Mkebele was
able to make evident to my newly eager eyes the growth
in the arthroskeletal regions as was shown in his
sketches.  Then, his kitchen staff prepared one such
joint from the young woman's body for our evening
repast.  It was an extraordinary sharing of cultures
and research, and it left me determined to make a
similar impact on my own chosen field.

And so, I set my attention to Miss B.  With Mr.
Thorvaldsen steadying her, I drew a long incision
along her backbone from buttocks to scapulae; blood
trailed down her neck and collected in her hair before
trickling, a drop at a time, into the container.  She
shrieked and tried to buck, but Mr. Thorvaldsen held
her firmly; two more cuts, above the buttocks, and the
skin peeled away, exposing pink, spongy meat beneath.

Mr. Thorvaldsen was watching my work with some
interest; perhaps, even with approval.  As I've noted,
his history was checkered.  After a woman with whom
he'd been living as common-law husband and wife
disappeared, portions of her body surfaced in various
locations in the slums of Oslo.  A good attorney and
our comparatively progressive legal system afforded
Mr. Thorvaldsen the opportunity to plead guilty to a
relatively minor charge.  It was fortuitous, I
sometimes reflected, that he'd learned a trade that I
could put to good use.  Miss B. would later be his. 
But for now, I had work to do.

I knew, from experience, that Miss B. would gradually
become weaker from blood loss; she was still trying to
fight the blades as they sunk an inch deep into her
body, scoring her skin for removal.  I had been right
about her firm body tone; her skin came off easily,
and I pinned each section to a large board and
attached a note describing its anatomical location. 
The semi-globes of her breasts yielded inverted cups,
a swipe of the blade separating nipples from ducts. 
Her pubic region, the natural hair growth of which
she'd recently removed, came off in a single flap once
the opening to the vaginal canal was cut through. 
Each expanse of skin, when stripped away, revealed
throbbing muscle, bluish veins, patches of fat where
the female human often deposits such added shading.

Hiding a hundred woman had made me deft, and within an
hour Miss B. was denuded of skin but for her head,
hands and feet.  Those extremities can be time
consuming, and are removed at the end of the process
for the sake of ease.  Though she had ceased fighting,
or in fact all movement, she continued to breathe,
each gasp for air producing a ripple effect on the
exposed musculature, the normally hidden flesh
wavering in brick red and translucent ivory.  I sighed
and, complimenting Miss B. on the quality of her
physique, I gripped her blood-matted hair, pulled on
it and placed the edge of a surgeon's saw against her
neck.  A few moments later, I placed her head upon my
work table.

My other lessons from Bangui were also well learned. 
The exploits which had earned Mr. Thorvaldsen seven
years in the penitentiary were put to good use;
allowed to remove Miss B's remains from the premises,
he subsequently presented me with several packages of
boned meat, which I prepared in a stew with garden
vegetables.  The nourishment provided a welcome
respite to the tedious labor of reassembling the pelt
of Miss B. over a custom framework.  Based on a
photograph I'd found on the Internet, she would appear
to be gaily prancing, one long, limber leg lifted with
knee bent, smiling sunnily at an imaginary audience. 
In a facsimile of her natural habitat, accompanied
with a plaque detailing traits characteristic to such
behavior.  The feathered headdress and girdle would be
on display nearby.  I do hope none of my colleagues
are allergic.

Menagerie can be reached at cannibaldotcom@yahoo.com



		
__________________________________ 
Yahoo! Mail - PC Magazine Editors' Choice 2005 
http://mail.yahoo.com

-- 
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}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+