## Archive-name: Crystal.Night

From: bogus@bogus.ca (Jeff Voorhees)

Subject: Story: CrystalNight

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.tasteless

Warning! - The following story contains some
violence (in a sexual context), and may be
offensive to some people.

Please skip the remainder of this posting if
this is not for you..

* Crystal Night *
an Original Story
by J. Voorhees

Night Man

I have always been a night person, sometimes going for quiet
walks in the sleepy suburbs of my safe city; lost in
thought, pondering the mysteries of the universe. I espe-
cially loved the winter, with its tender breezes dusting
white carpeted streets with new-fallen snow. To my tired
eyes, the sparkling new snow was a joy to behold.

Even though the country was at war, I still went out at
night. This was because terrorist attacks on London were re-
latively infrequent, due to the fact that we were reasonably
far away from the Q(uebec) border.

Saint X Cathedral

It was a beautiful night, and I found myself wandering down
into the core of the city, perhaps to peruse all-night book
stores, or to watch the milling crowds in the parks or out-
side of movie theaters. More likely, I was intending to
visit the church. It was called Saint X's cathedral, and I
knew someone who tended the building. It contained an enor-
mous clock in its spire, and I would often climb up into its
interior to watch the turning of its intricate internal
mechanism; to see the clock face glowing from the other
side. It was beautiful workmanship, reputed to have been
built by some strange religious organization before the city
was founded.

The delicate mechanism had been originally connected up to
the exquisite organ in the basement, causing it to emit a
loud bass note at midnight, but this had been disconnected a
couple of years ago, due to complaints from newer residents
of the city. Oddly enough, a religious organization claiming
to be related to the one that built the clock tried to in-
tervene and prevent the disabling of the tone. This wasn't
because they wished to preserve the clock in its original
state (as one would expect) but because they believed that
the clock's tone served some kind of necessary mystical
function in the cosmos. They said that disabling the tone
would lead to causal unstability. Needless to say, the tone
was disabled anyway. The visiting experts who performed the
operation gave up trying to figure out the mechanism (which
was, they admitted, complex beyond belief) and wound up cut-
ting a rope which joined the clock to the organ.

In the Core

I went to a corner NewsBox to check up on the war front. I
paged through displayed menus on the blurred screen by push-
ing buttons, until I came across what I was looking for:
"Chaos in Montreal", "Q Elite Guard Smash StoreFronts Abduct
Residents along main strip". I couldn't believe it! The
screen went to a white noise pattern as it retrieved the
file from the CX news-office. About a few minutes later, an
announcer appeared and the relevant story was related. The
events were still in progress, and the details were still
incomplete. State sanctioned vandals had paraded through the
main strip, smashing windows of stores, looting, raping wom-
en. Anyone who was different, who wasn't 100% Quebecois had
their business destroyed and were marched off to some kind
of concentration camps in the heart of that dark province.
This was all done in the name of maintaining "culture puri-
ty".

The Raid

Suddenly, the power in london was cut. First store lights,
then the street-lights. Everything except the NewsBoxes.
Night pedestrians ran for cover; we all knew what this
blackout meant. An unidentified, likely hostile air-craft
had been detected on radar and was approaching. We should
all take cover.

After awhile, a plane appeared to the East. It had no lights
on it at all but was clear against the backdrop of stars,
perhaps because of reflected light from the snowy ground,
and perhaps because of the bright moon, setting to the West.
It's engine buzzed angrily, threatened to stall, as it went
up up up. Then it dived on our tiny city, making a bizarre
whining noise, machine gun traces flashing outward from 3
points along its wings.

The sound of screams, ricochets, and broken glass echoed
over the approaching roar of the engine. It went directly
overhead - a black rushing in an otherwise beautiful night.
It was a German Stuka. I recognized it's inverted gull wings
from a model I had built as a kid. Where the hell did Q get
these things? "Fuckin' Q Bastards!", shouted an old man -
shaking a bottle at the sky. His 9 month old niece had been
killed in a similiar raid on Ottawa about a week ago.

The plane rose up against the bright moon, turning about,
and dived for another strafing run. The whine of its descent
struck fear into our hearts, but we could hear another
sound, in the distance; the sound of a F18 at subsonic
speed. The thing had just completed its second run, causing
chaos in the streets and killing innocent civilians when
something lashed out of the darkness and followed it on its
passage overhead. It was a rocket of some sort.

There was a loud explosion when the rocket caught up to the
plane, and the tail of the plane burst into flames. The
plane looked like a comet, streaming sparks and flames as it
traversed the starry sky. We heard the peculiar whining
sound again as it made it's final descent, twisting and
turning. Diving, as if by intention, into a more populated
part of the city. It disappeared from sight and a bright
flash briefly lit the sky, followed by a loud crash. We nev-
er saw the plane that fired the rocket.

Actually, that attack was typical of the Q Elite Guard's at-
tempt at power and terror. It was all doomed to failure. At
the time, no one was aware of the extensive Anglophone secu-
rity network that was already at work, keeping tabs on them.
This would be the last winter of the war. A thermonuclear
device, smuggled into Montreal by the London Underground
would lay waste to the entire Q command structure. By
spring, Canada would be a quiet country again.

The Spire

I approached the church, which was situated near Victoria
Park in what was once the heart of the city. Some lights
were on in its interior, giving the cyclopean red-coloured
window on its front a baleful cast. People were shouting,
and I could hear the wail of fire-engines and ambulences
growing louder. A ruddy glow lit up some clouds in the East
that were starting to cover up the stars; a fire glowing
just out of my line of site. This was truly a continent at
war.

The interior was quiet, and obviously uninhabited. I made
myself a cup of tea, and progressed almost immediately to
the locked doorway behind the altar. This doorway led to a
spiral staircase which wound up around a verticle well, into
the top part of the building, where the clock was housed.
There was no apparent ground level entrance to the well, and
I had no idea what its intended fuction was. But you could
look down it, through the metal grid floor of the clock
room, into the inky blackness of its depths. I unlocked the
door, and proceeded up the dark staircase, going around and
around, until I reached the service room for the clock's
mechanism.

I was sitting there watching the intricate gear-work in mo-
tion when I accidentally fell forwards, towards the mechan-
ism of the clock. My hand reached out to stop my fall, with
the empty cup still in it. I succeeded but the cup shattered
against the metal cage. One single piece fell into a rotat-
ing gear. I watched in horror as that one single piece
(which was too far inside for me to retrieve) came between
one gear and the next, interfering with the motion of the
clock, bringing it all to a COMPLETE HALT. About one second
later the piece shattered into dust and the clock resumed.
My heart was pounding. I had been afraid that I had per-
manently ruined the clock, the same clock that the *entire*
city used for timekeeping. I saw a stroboscopic flash a few
seconds later, coming from the well, around which the spiral
staircase wound, but could not account for it at all. I was
just too happy about the clock to care.

The Stranger

A while later I did care. I could hear the approach of soft
footsteps from down below, ascending the spiral staircase. I
could only wait in trepidation. I had no idea who could be
in the building at this time, but the thought of meeting a
complete stranger here, in this metal enclosure high above
the city, scared the hell out of me.

Two dark eyes confronted me, glowing in the depths of a
milk-white oval face. She had lush dark hair raining down
over her shoulders and was wearing a black robe inscribed
with some kind of astrological symbol (similiar to Pisces).
I got up, confused by the entire situation, wishing to con-
front this stranger on my feet; and she drew still closer,
putting her arms around my neck.

[ in Q: Anglophone schools set on fire. Teachers brutally
beaten up. Some killed. ]

We were face to face, staring into eachother's eyes. She
said something cryptic, something forbidden. It was in
another language, but I knew what she meant, almost as if
she was putting thoughts in my mind (some kind of
telepathy). I heard the rustle of clothing, and looked down
to see her robe falling as if in slow motion down to her an-
kles; uncovering, one step at a time, the portions of her
softly glowing anatomy.

[ in Q: Fires set, windows smashed in homes of those sym-
pathetic to the Anglophone minority in Q. Some killed. ]

I reached out, exploring, all caution thrown to the wind.
She was responsive, sensitive. Her eyes reflected my tenta-
tive explorations, and I found myself drawn into the shadow
of those dark pools. The act of giving her pleasure gave me
pleasure.

[ in Q: Q vandals storm English Alliance building. Occu-
pants lined up and shot outside building. ]

I backed her into a corner delicately, picking her up by the
rear and pressing her against the wire cage; imprinting the
wire grid into her soft back. The machinery whirred softly
as I entered her, her hot breath and tongue working my ear.
I could see the gears over her shoulder, beyond the cage,
turning wildly as I thrust myself into her again and again.

[ in Q: Ethnically owned businesses smashed. Owner's face
bloodied by crowd. ]

Her breath came in ragged gulps, and she began to shiver and
moan in anticipation of climax. I had already come, a long
time ago, but I frankly couldn't stop now - even if I wanted
to. The pleasure kept me going, working her steaming pussy
with my erect member.

Suddenly she exploded, thrashing, her legs moving wildly. I
could hold her no longer and pulled her back on top of me as
I fell with what remained of my strength. We lay there like
that for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. Then I
took her and cradled her head in my hands, caressing her
soft dark hair, completely oblivious to all sense of time.

Over an hour later she got up and pulled her robe on. She
smiled back at me once before descending the staircase. I
honestly thought that she would be back up in a moment; that
she was going to the washroom or something. When I saw the
same stroboscopic flash from the bottom of the well, I knew
that she was gone for good.

I sat there for awhile, listening to the mechanical music of
the clocks internal mechanism. Then I got my stuff and
walked home, traversing the lonely winter terrain of
London's quiet, lonely soul.

Last modified (10/09/96 12:14:21) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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