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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of    o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to    o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself."  I think it’s  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-    o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Forgers Retreat and Other Stories (fantasy, sci-fi)
by kelanie Camden 1991



         `The  first  three decades of the twenty-
        first  century  were lean times indeed for
        the automotive industry.  Rising levels of
        pollution    and   falling   supplies   of
        petroleum   reduced   even   the   richest
        countries  to  the  use  of  solar-powered
        vehicles,   with  a  top  speed  of  sixty
        kilometres per hour.
         Then,  in the year 2032, the first mining
        probes  returned from Jupiter, loaded with
        kilotons   of  fossil  fuels.    Many more
        followed,   and   with   the   high-volume
        production of methanol and other such low-
        pollutant  fuels, the future began to look
        faster  than  ever  before  as  the  world
        economies boomed...
         The  real  breakthrough,  however, was in
        2037,    with   the   invention   of   the
        carbon-dioxide-burning small-scale nuclear
        fusion  reactors,  or `baby tokamaks', and
        their magneto-aerodynamic generators...'

          - Fernao Paolo Porsche,
            "My Car's Much Faster Than Your Car"
            (Praesidium Electronic Press, 2074)

  Kely was  hanging out in the Forger's Retreat,  the bar at
the bottom end of the  Great MacMillan Highway that ran from
just  outside  Ballarat  all  the  way  up the coast  to the
Killing Fields Pub, just north of Brisbane. Genesis had said
he'd  be around to pick her up  at six,  and it was at three
minutes  before the hour  that  everyone in the pub  heard a
horrific  screech  of tyres that rattled the windows and set
the  empties  ringing  with sympathetic harmonics.  Even the
wireheads  clustered  around  the  distributor in the corner
looked  up  briefly,  before  returning  to their electronic
ecstacy.   She  slid  her empty glass along the white marble
bar-top,  pushed  her  way through the crowd of piss-artists
that  surrounded  the  hydranol  tank  and  left  the  bar.
  Genesis  had parked around the corner,  and was taking his
helmet  off as Kely rushed into his embrace.  He hugged her,
lifted  her  off  her  feet,  swung her around and she found
herself facing Genesis' new bike.  In the  `enthusiasm'  for
motor  vehicles  that  followed  the  Methanol Boom of 2033,
there  had  been  many and varied designs for motorcycles of
increasing power,  up to monsters of 9000 horsepower.   When
nuclear  fusion-powered  vehicles  entered  the competition,
however, old standards went out the window, and Genesis' new
machine was a prime example of this atomic automania.
 It was larger than a medium-sized horse,  balancing  itself
on  two  wheels by virtue of nanoprocessor-controlled gyros.
The most immediately  striking feature was the toroid of the
baby  Tokamak  fusion  reactor  that sat between the rider's
legs where the fuel tank used to be,  resembling  somewhat a
third  wheel...  this  one  was  the size of a tractor tyre.
Pointing  straight out from behind was the MAD/MHD generator
that  turned  a  short-lived  stream of high-energy neutrons
into electric current with almost 95 percent efficiency, the
remaining  five percent escaping out the back in spectacular
flares of ionised flame whenever the accelerator was given a
good kick.   Kely  was  mesmerised  with  the black-and-gold
mechanist perversity  of  it, the sleek automated sexuality.
 While downing  a  few  MDMA-based drinks in the back bar of
the Retreat, Genesis tantalised her with stories of his ride
up  to  Ballarat  on the back of The Beast, as it was named.
 `Still  a few kinks to be ironed out,'  he said.  `When you
get  up  around  the  upper  registers  -  say,  moving past
two-twenty KPH, it vibrates like a bastard. I think it's the
back-regulating  Ogilvies,  they  aren't compatible with the
previous  revs  of the  monitor  routines,  so when you move
around that speed, it loses synch-'  Kely interrupted him by
pushing his helmet into his lap.
 `Control-C to that,  you idiot.  Come on, I wanna ride that
thing.'
 Many  motorcycling  enthusiasts who remembered the good old
days, the last three decades of the twentieth century, often
complained  that  `those damn electrocycles were too quiet'.
This   had   led   to   the   development   of   synthesized
engine-noises,  synched  with  the magnetic gear systems and
pushed through amplifiers that would have given your average
Marshall stack a run for its money.  Two of the four chromed
tubes  that  flared  out of the back of the electrocycle had
very  little  to do with the operation of the engines:  they
were  complex  speakers   (the  other  two  were  ionisation
exhausts).  Genesis took a spare helmet from the pack, shook
it  out  and  handed it to Kely as the monofilaments writhed
into shape. Within seconds the helmet was as hard as a lexan
eggshell.   She  placed  it  over  her head,  adjusting  the
earphones,   tapping the microphone,  tuning the FM intercom
and  aligning  the  heads-up display.   Genesis made a final
adjustment to his helmet,  grasped the handlebar  and leaned
the  bike  almost sixty degrees over on its gyros.  They got
on,  and  the  bike  shifted  back  to its upright position,
swaying as the gyros settled.  Genesis  hadn't shut down the
reactor  when  he  stopped  at  the Forger's Retreat, and so
within  seconds  seventy thousand watts of power was humming
through the  toroidal tokamak.  He pressed a function key on
the  keyboard,  twisted  the  throttle,  and  a  roar like a
purring  bengal  tiger  at  ninety-five decibels rattled the
Retreat's windows  again.  There  was room for at least four
people  on  the padded leather back of The Beast,  but  Kely
snuggled  up close behind Genesis as they swung out onto the
road that joined the MacMillan Highway north,  more out of a
need for something to hang onto than anything else.  As they
passed  a  group  of  ninety-year-old pedal-cyclists wearing
battered  stack-hats,  Genesis  gave  them  a  taste  of the
sound-system, scattering them like frightened sheep.  One of
them gave the finger just before he fell off his bike.
 When they reached the highway,  Genesis kicked the magnetic
gears  up  to  sixty  percent,  and  smoothly accelerated to
one-eighty.  At that speed,  where the wind made speaking or
even  shouting impractical,  they spoke through the FM links
in the helmets.
 `Are  you  sure  these  things  are properly tuned?  I keep
picking up 3RRR.'
 `That's  probably  because  their new transmitter spreads a
bit. It'll fade once we get near the border.'
 As they gradually settled at a touch under 200 KPH, the sun
set  on  their  left,   and  Genesis  kicked  in  the  xenon
headlamps,  which  were  set  to  aim  themselves  downwards
whenever  the  oncoming  radar sensed another vehicle on the
nine-lane  road.  As  it  got  colder,  Kely  snuggled up to
Genesis,  and  tucked  her  hand under his crotch.   As they
gradually  reached 215 KPH,  the  vibration that Genesis had
mentioned  made  its  first appearance.  For a fraction of a
second, as they passed a certain speed, Kely was reminded of
sitting  on  the  corner of an ancient washing machine as it
reached the end of its spin cycle.  The resulting orgasm had
prompted her to wash everybody's clothes twice that weekend.
She blew into the voice-activated microphone to get Genesis'
attention.
 `Hey,   drop  down  to  two-fifteen,  and  then  accelerate
slowly...'  He  did  so,  and  Kely  noted from the heads-up
display  that  as they moved from 218 to 223 KPH, a powerful
series  of  vibrations  induced  a  wonderful  feeling  that
reached  from  between  her  thighs  up  to  the  pit of her
stomach.  She squeezed the seat with her legs as they topped
225  KPH,  and  she  gasped  when  Genesis  slowed  down and
accelerated  again,  this  time taking almost two minutes to
reach the speed at which the vibration faded.   As he slowed
again,  she  unzipped  his  pants, stuck one hand down their
front and carefully shifted him back on the seat slightly so
that she was pressed hard against him over the exact spot on
the  motorcycle  seat  where  the vibrations were strongest.
Genesis   set  up  a  small  routine  that  would  gradually
accelerate,  slow  down and accelerate again in a loop,  and
executed  it.  As  they hit 221,  she grabbed him around the
waist,  and almost fell off as the vibrations brought her to
orgasm. Genesis tightened the parameters of the program-loop
so that their speed cycled between  219 and 223.   She cried
out loud as they  went  over a slightly older section of the
road, tiny jolts making themselves apparent even through the
fluorine-filled  shock  absorbers,  producing  an  even more
sensuous feeling.  She grasped his erection in one hand, and
slipped  the  other between his groin and the seat.  He took
his  hands  off the handlebars, reached back and stroked her
behind as the autopilot overtook a seventy-metre-long timber
transport.  The  driver  must  have caught a glimpse of what
they  were  up to,  the sound of his horn dopplering down as
they left him behind.  As Genesis again reduced the range of
their velocity- variation,  she began to slide backwards and
forwards in the seat, her feet set firmly in the toe-guards,
at the same time  tugging on Genesis' dick and squeezing his
balls.  He  grabbed the handlebars with one hand and twisted
the  throttle in ecstacy,  producing a roaring bass overtone
to the road-and engine-vibrations.  And  then,  five  things
happened in the space of five seconds:

 1. a flashing orange rectangle  appeared  on their heads-up
 displays, indicating a software failure in the motorcycle's
 operating system;

 2. an  idiot in a huge mining  dump-truck,  who had gone to
 sleep  at  the  wheel while listening to a Jimmy Barnes CD,
 appeared  over the next hill,  driving on the wrong side of
 the road;

 3. their emergency radar beeped a warning;

 4. which  caused  the motorcycle's crashed operating system
 to  accelerate them directly into the front of the oncoming
 truck at almost 255 KPH;

 5. they both had  time  to experience a simultaneous orgasm
 before the truck wiped them off the road.

 the  idiot  in  the  dump-truck  shook  his head,  muttered
something  unintelligible  in  his sleep and rested his head
against  the  steering  wheel  as the truck continued on its
way.

nikolai kingsley
kelanie camden
novembre 1990/Januar 1991


and again:


   `how do you get out of this       nature's revenge
    nature cage craving        wonder the worth of it
    scream                   at the top of your lungs
    so many times             tried not to wonder...'

 - skinny puppy, `nature's revenge'



 It was  bitterly  cold  this  morning,  but  she came to visit me
again.     A creature of habit.   Or possibly something to do with
the spell that holds me here.   It's  more likely that she does it
simply to torment me.
 It's not as if i'm in extreme pain;  it's more the discomfort you
would feel if  you had to stand with your arms in an uncomfortable
position for a long time.   Well, I've been here almost two months
now, and I still haven't got used to it.
 I don't understand  how I can see her when she leaves her cottage
each morning,  to go  picking  medicinal herbs in the forest...  I
don't  think  I  have  `eyes',  but  I  seem to have at least five
`arms',  or,  more precisely,  `branches', spread out as if I were
reaching for the sky.  You don't follow me?  Very well, I'll start
at the beginning.

 Anya had a  reputation in the village as  `the local witch'.  She
didn't like it, but then again, she never refrained from using her
reputation to  intimidate  the hicks.    She was (still is,  and I
suspect probably always will be) quite young,  but even the smith,
a great hulking bear of a man, used to back down when she narrowed
her eyes,  muttered  an incantation  and  reached for  her  sacred
dagger.   Occasionally,  if the hicks were desperate for some sort
of magickal help,  they'd approach her,  caps clutched  in shaking
hands,  and beg a favour.    She'd regard them with a crooked grin
and avarice  glinting in her brilliant green eyes,  usually taking
them for everything that they could spare.

 Naturally, some of us were skeptical about her.

 Tybalt,  Jonah  and  myself were  out in the woods one afternoon,
idly  tossing stones at dragonflies  and discussing Anya's alleged
capabilities.   Tybalt  hunched  over,  imitating  Old  Giles  the
Crofter:
 `Well,  she  turned  me  into a newt!' We sighed, waiting for the
punchline.
 `... I  got  better...' he concluded.  we snickered. Tybalt said,
 `She's probably over at Arnalt's Pond,  now,  fishing for frogs.'
`What's she want frogs for?'  Jonah asked,  turning over a  broad,
flat toadstool with his toe.
 `Didn't you know?   She turns them into horses  and sells them at
Banbury  Market.'   Jonah  pushed  Tybalt  into  a bush,  and they
fought,  pummeling each other  playfully  for  a while.   I leaned
against a tree, lost in my own thoughts, until they both leaped on
me and pushed me into the bush.
 We found ourselves  only  a few minutes' walk from Arnalt's Pond,
so we  decided to sneak up and try to spot her catching frogs.  As
we  neared  the  pond,  we made our way more cautiously,  until we
could hear a clear soprano, singing:

 `Strip me from the bundle
  of balloons at every fair
  colourful and carefree
  designed to make you stare...'

 I carefully  crept closer  through the thinning undergrowth,  not
realising that Tybalt and Jonah had hung back, watching to see how
close I'd get.

  `but I'm lost, and I'm losing
  the thread that holds me down,
  and I'm up hot and rising
  in the - ah, got you!'

 That doesn't rhyme,  I thought,  as I caught sight of her,  black
velvet dress  hitched up  around her thighs,  wading  through  the
reeds  at the far end  of the pond.   She had  just caught a large
toad,  and  was carefully placing it in a bag.   I was momentarily
entranced  by the way  the brackish water  lapped around her legs,
when  she suddenly  turned  and  looked straight at me.   I froze.
 `Why,  hello there,  Jermayn,'  she called to me.  `have you lost
something over there in the grass?'   I desperately wanted to turn
and run,  but I was held there, like a rabbit cornered by a snake.
My mouth  was dry,  my eyes  opened wide  in  something  distantly
related to terror.   She  strode through the water,  knotting  and
tucking  her skirt  at her side,  holding the bag above the water,
without taking her eyes from mine.    The rest of the world seemed
to sway  and swirl  around an axis that ran from her eyes to mine,
the  branches of trees  on the  periphery of my vision  seeming to
shift in  sympathetic motion  with her  short blonde hair  as  she
approached  me.   My  breath  was  stopped  somewhere  south of my
throat.  She emerged from the pond, her white legs glistening, and
noting a blade of grass stuck to her thigh, I found myself wanting
to pick it off,  and then  run my hands up her legs  and to stroke
her hips.   She seemed to realise my desire, although I swear that
I had not moved a muscle.   She undid the knot that held her skirt
up, and as it dropped to drape her legs, I regained enough control
to spring up from the crouching position I had held,  only to trip
over a gnarled tree-root and fall flat on my back.    She giggled,
and held her hand out to help me up.  After a moment's hesitation,
I took it.   It felt cold  and the grip was  firmer than  a girl's
should be if she had  spent her life indoors,  dicing herbs into a
cauldron. She smiled and said,
 `You naughty little boy.   Spying on me!  Well,  you will be in a
position to watch me as much as you like...  soon.'  As she tugged
me to my feet,  I felt that I wanted to escape more than ever, but
I followed her quietly.

 Her cottage was deep in the woods,  far  from the village and the
barley-fields that surrounded it.  The trees that grew here seemed
bigger and the foliage darker than the forestry that Tybalt, Jonah
and I frequented.  Some of them seemed twisted into unusual poses,
as if  they had once been alive  and had  somehow been frozen into
those agonised poses.   I became aware  firstly  of  a deep,  rich
odour,  the smell of fresh earth after an autumn rain,  mixed with
the  sharp tang  of pine needles,  and then  I  heard  her singing
softly:

    `We'll wait in stone circles
     'till the force comes through,
     Lines join in faint discord
     As the Stormwatch brews...'

 I had been following a couple of yards behind her,  and there was
just  enough light  to see  that the  back of her  skirt  had been
dipped in the pond and was clinging to the outline of her hips and
her behind.  With nothing else particularly interesting to look at
as I followed her,  deep in some mindless trance,  I  gazed at the
feminine sway of her rear  as she stepped lightly along the uneven
track.   I began to feel  an unfamiliar stirring  in the pit of my
stomach, or possibly a bit lower.
 She stopped at a clearing a few yards from her cottage. Through a
window,  I could see part of a large four-poster bed, some clothes
draped  over one  of  the  posts.   Around me,  the trees had been
cleared  to leave a circle about twenty yards across in the middle
of the forest, outside her bedroom window.
 She led me over towards the middle of the circle.  She cast about
for a few moments,  as if seeking the exact centre,  then she drew
her dagger, closed her eyes, muttered something and let it drop to
the ground.  It stuck in the soft earth, point first.  She glanced
down, noted where it had hit,  pulled it out and dug her heel into
the spot a couple of times.   With each stroke, as she dug deeper,
my fear increased.   When she had  gouged out  a pit  about a foot
across, she stepped back and nodded with satisfaction.  She turned
to face me and a cold shock ran through me.
 `Jermayn,' she murmured,  `come here.  Kneel down.'  I did so, my
knees  trembling  with  barely suppressed rebellion.   She kneeled
with me,  and  took  my  hands  in hers.   She gazed into my eyes,
smiled warmly,  and  some of my fear  evaporated.  She put one arm
around my neck, drew me closer and kissed me.
 This was the first time that I'd been close to a girl; I'd always
wondered what the fascination was...  I found that I could move my
arms,  so I  held her to me  and returned the kiss.   That strange
feeling  which  was  centered around  my  groin intensified as she
rubbed  her  free  hand  down  my stomach and between my legs.  My
breathing  grew  deeper  as  she  undid  the front of my pants and
grasped  my  penis  in her  fist.   When  her lips weren't pressed
against mine, she was whispering in some strange language that had
a  lot of words like `achad' and `khad'ulu';  I began to feel very
strange,  in that my breathing seemed to be slowing down,  and yet
as  her  hand moved slowly but insistently,  there  was  a nervous
warmth  in  the  pit of my stomach that  was  slowly  growing more
intense.
 Then,  I  felt  a  pressure  building  up  within me,  which grew
stronger  as  she pressed her lips against mine and squeezed me in
her fist.   My eyes opened wide in panic as she forced my erection
downwards,  rubbing her hand up and down my shaft rapidly, forcing
her tongue between my lips.  She seemed to be tracing some sort of
pattern on my tongue with hers.  I felt a sudden flow of warmth to
my groin,  the  muscles  along  my  back  and  around  my buttocks
contracted sharply,  and the warmth  seemed to rush out of me.   A
slow  shock-wave of pleasure surged up my insides,  bringing a hot
flush to my face,  and my vision blurred.  Despite my paralysis, I
managed to gasp with the sensation.  Anya held my erection pointed
downwards,  into the hole.   After a few moments, she released her
hold on me and stood up.  `Very good, Jermayn.  Now, stand up.'  I
felt dizzy and somewhat drained,  but with her help,  I  staggered
upright.  I stumbled,  and put one bare foot in the hole.  A spasm
of  agony  shot up my leg,  like cramp,  and  I  cried  out.   She
released me,  and I would have fallen back, but my foot was firmly
fixed in the hole and my leg had stiffened.   It turned numb,  and
the  pain  shot down my other leg and up through my stomach at the
same time.  I don't mind admitting that I screamed then;  the pain
was  terrible.   She  suddenly  took my hands and drew my arms up.
The pain shot up between my shoulders and seemed to pierce the top
of my skull.   I  saw  my  splayed-out  fingers suddenly turn dark
brown.   As my shoulders stiffened and turned numb,  I  managed to
face forwards again,  to see a  branch grow from my chest and poke
up,  mimicking my arms.  My head was forced back, my vision dimmed
and I lost all feeling.

 I  regained a sort of  consciousness  later.  I couldn't tell how
long it had been.   I was able to sense everything around  me in a
dim fashion; it was strange to be able to see in all directions at
once.   The  numbness  (and,  thank  the  gods, the pain also) had
faded,  and now I had a vague sense of my own position.    My arms
had thickened,  my fingers had grown longer,  and in some horrible
fashion, my head had become two bifurcated branches.  It was a bit
like leaning to one side  -  except  I  felt that I was leaning to
both  sides  at  once.   A soft breeze blew through my leaves.   I
could sense the sun rising behind me and to the left,  and I began
my first twelve-hour-long inhalation.

 A few days later,  she emerged from her cottage.   I  could sense
her vaguely, even hear and understand her when she spoke to me.  I
got an impression that she had some glittering metal implements in
her hands.   Then,  I felt a sharp pain down between where my legs
used to be,  as she hacked away at the branch that grew from where
my erection had been.   She carved the branch  and filed it with a
flat piece of sandstone,  until she had fashioned it into a smooth
protruberance  with  a  rounded  end.   Although  the  rest of the
details were blurred,  I  plainly saw her crooked grin as she hung
onto  the  branch  that grew from my chest and then slowly lowered
herself.  Repeatedly.

 She visits me every few days, knowing full well that I can't feel
anything.  I can hear her gasps and moans,  even sense the way she
shudders  as she hangs onto my branch.  I'd ignore her altogether,
but it's so damned boring, being a tree.


and again:



               gratuitously  rude  text  alert

               w    a    r    n    i    n    g


    `...superior fire-power, combined with, in the revision B
    firmware, an extensive neural-network pattern recognition
    storage/retrieval system, makes ED-209-B, `the' urban law
    enforcement solution...'

    OCP advertising brochure

   `...here he comes now,'  breathed Genesis.   his companions shrank
back slightly  behind the dumpster.   rivulets of muck  that ran from
the holes in the rusted corners of the huge metal bin  gleamed as the
ED-209-B's  lights  swept  the  alleyway,   searching  for  potential
offenders.   Genesis  whistled  the  signal to Kely,   who was hidden
behind a set of water pipes  that  ran up the length of the building.
she stepped out  just as the ED-209-B turned to leave.   the sound of
her footsteps made him pause,  and with gyros whirring, he turned and
stepped  into  the  alleyway.   his  xenon  lamps  bathed  her  in  a
blue-white glare momentarily, before he switched to ultraviolet.   he
assessed her `miscreant potential',  decided that she wasn't breaking
the law,  and  was about to depart  when she  produced something from
underneath her flak jacket.  it was a cylinder, about three inches in
diameter, twenty inches long, painted black on one side, with regular
bar-code  markings  in  ultraviolet-reflecting  paint  on  the other.
ED-209-B  quickly  recognised  the  bar-code;  it  was a cannister of
`HarXene 23',  a  powerful  chemical  explosive favoured by terrorist
groups.  the machine instantly hunkered down with hissing pneumatics,
lowering his  centre of gravity and presenting a shallower profile to
any potential blast.
   `Put down  your weapon.   You have  twenty seconds to comply,' the
machine grated in his barely understandable synthesised voice.   this
was the part that Kely hated.  she counted a careful fifteen seconds,
and then rotated the cylinder so that the matte-black, non-reflective
surface  showed.    ED-209-B paused,   and cautiously lifted from his
defensive crouch.    he waited for about ten seconds,  then turned to
leave.   Kely turned the cylinder again, and again, ED-209-B crouched
with  pneumatic  squeaks,  and issued his warning.    another fifteen
seconds.
   and so on, for almost three hours.

   `was it slower that time?' ivo muttered to genesis.
   `i think so... look!'  ED-209-B's batteries had been low when they
had  set  this  trap  up,  and  he had finally reached the point when
recharging  had  become  a  higher priority than catching a potential
terrorist.
   `Do not leave the vicinity,' he growled, `you have been tagged for
further surveillance.  this is your only warning.'  he punctuated the
threat with a sampled Alsatian-growl,   and turned to leave.   at the
alleyway entrance,  genesis' compatriots had set up a mock-recharging
station.  the red flashing light was completely authentic, though; it
had to be,  otherwise  ED-209-B  wouldn't recognise it.   the machine
stumped up to  the station,  settled down into the recharging cradle,
and beeped its  `commence recharging' command.   the mockup responded
with  a  very  plausible  imitation  of  the `station out of service'
signal.   ED-209-B paused briefly, and then got up.  he turned a slow
one-eighty  degrees,  and  spotted  the other mock-recharging station
that  genesis  had  hurriedly  set  up at the other end of the alley.
with noticeably slower steps, he tramped the length of the alley, sat
down in the cradle,  and signalled for a recharge.  this station also
beeped `out of service'.   ED-209-B got up, turned a slow one-eighty,
spotted the first recharging station...

   and so on...

   until half-past-four in the morning, when ED-209-B finally ran out
of  juice.   just  before  shutting  down  completely,  he locked his
twin-turret machine guns down,  so that potential miscreants couldn't
break  them open  for the  ammunition.    bullets,  however, were not
exactly  what  genesis  and his friends were after.   Kely cautiously
approached the machine, knocked on his leading edge.
   `anybody home?' she giggled.   genesis had shoved aside one of the
mock-recharging stations  and was  backing a small electric loader up
the alley.   together,  they tipped Ed-209-B backwards into the tray,
covered him with a tarpaulin, and whirred off.

   Ed-209-B stood  under the bright lights of the AnarchArtist's work
room,  rear maintenance plate removed,  a mass of leads dangling from
banks  of  packed  circuitry.   his  twin  guns had been detached and
stacked  in  the  corner,  the  ammunition  removed  for  sale to the
`BananaLand Arts Irridentist' movement.
   genesis  and  ivo were arguing about the disassembly of Ed-209-B's
code.  ivo pointed to a block of hexadecimal digits, `4E71', repeated
halfway down the page.
   `i tell you,  it's some sort of jump-table.   it just looks like a
series of NOPs in the listing, 'cos the code isn't contiguous.'
   `well,  okay,  although  i still think that they stuck them in for
some sort of timing loop.'  ivo snorted cynically.
   `what  sort  of  asshole  depends on a bank of NOPs for timing?  i
mean,  what  happens  when  you port the code to a faster processor?'
genesis  grinned,  raising  an  index finger to illustrate his point.
   `i thought you knew,  that  you have to be  an asshole to code for
OCP.   it's in the job specs.'  the door slammed open, and Kely burst
in, waving a sheaf of printout.
   `never  fear,  Camden's  here!,'  she  proclaimed.   `hot  off the
presses...   original   documentation,   stolen   from   right  under
Jonesy-babes'  cocaine-powdered  nose!'   genesis and ivo grabbed the
printout,  and  began  sorting  the  pages  into  areas  of interest.
   `gyro  assimilation...  nah,  that's,  what's-it-called, that, um,
recoil/ranging actuator differentiation...  there!   that's where the
Motivation and Restriction codes get filtered through the Situational
Engine, and - what's that?  Christ, Kely... that thing would've blown
yer fuckin' head off as soon as look at you  - see that bit of code?'
ivo  was  grinning.   Kely looked at the printout,  and  turned pale.
genesis  slapped ivo  on the back,  and said  with  forced joviality,
   `next  time,  you  can  do  the  song-and-dance  in  front  of the
double-barrelled motherfucker.'  Kely grinned.
   `by  the  time  we've finished with him, Eddie-baby'll be entirely
single-barrelled.'   she shoved a disk of pirated code into their PC,
and  moved around to the front of ED-209-B.   she began to unbolt the
plate that covered the servos between its legs.

   later that morning: genesis clicked on the `play' gadget. ED-209-B
said, in a husky voice,
   `Ohh... bay...bee...'
   `nahh, 's too slow, and you can hear the anti-aliasing a mile off.
Up the playback rate to twenty K... okay, again.'
   `Ohh, bay-bee!'   in  addition,  genesis made the droid wiggle his
ass.  Kely smiled.
   `I'd buy that for a dollar,' she murmured.

   they  had  moved their work-benches out and had three videocameras
set up under the lights.   ivo focussed two of them on the end of the
brass bed that Kely and genesis had wheeled in, strapped on the third
camera,  adjusting  its  Steady-Cam  balancing  weights.  he waved it
around,  checking  the  autofocus.   he  nodded  to  genesis, who was
manning ED-209-B's hastily dummied-up control console.
   Kely  was  wearing  nothing  except  a  tattered shirt, spotted in
jungle-camouflage  green,  and  a  Mao cap with a forlorn single twig
poking  out.   she looked the very caricature of the urban terrorist.
she was handcuffed to the end of the brass bed.
   genesis counted down:
   `three,  two,  one...  okay,'  he  continued  in  a  parody of the
serious, concerned news-reader's voice:  `in today's violent society,
we  here  at  OCP have to deal firmly with terrorists...'  he pressed
some keys on his console, and ED-209-B stumped into shot behind Kely.
A  huge rubber penis had been attached to the plate between his legs.
it  waved comically as the droid sidled up to Kely,  who was cowering
in  mock-fear.   another key press,  and  the penis  inflated  with a
sultry hiss.
   `oh, MY!' Kely squeaked.
   `Oh,  bAY-BEE!' ED-209-B replied.  it nudged the penis between her
legs,  and  began  to  thrust rhythmically.   as ivo dollied in for a
close-up, genesis cued some music, the theme from a currently popular
news show.   it  didn't quite  drown out the squeaking of bed-springs
and Kely's put-on gasps.
   it was then that ED-209-B spotted something in the monitor ivo had
set up for Kely's benefit.  it was a cylindrical something, that kept
appearing  and  disappearing  between  the  suspect's  thighs...   he
thrust  forward  -  there  it was again.   something triggered in the
faded  neural-network of  ED-209-B's pattern-recognition system.   he
suddenly  crouched  down,  angling  the  tip  of  the  penis upwards.
   `r-r-r-t- your weapon.   you have twenty- b-z-z-z-z-t'  Kely, ever
the  improvisationalist,  hitched her behind up,  and settled down on
the end of the rubber penis.
   `come on baby,  do it -'  and suddenly,  ED-209-B  thrust  forward
again,  propelling  Kely  over  the end of the bed.   her hands still
cuffed to the bedstead,  ED-209-B  began shaking  like  an epileptic,
pushing  the end of its dick in and out at a frantic rate.   her hair
flying  in all directions,  Kely's gasps weren't put-on any more,  as
ED-209-B  pumped away like mad,  standing up on his toes,  emitting a
grinding buzz  that was part scrambled audio-sample,  part electronic
shriek  of lust.   ivo backed off slightly,  framed his camera's view
around  the  tableaux  of  Kely  cuffed  to the end of the brass bed,
suspended  on  the  end of ED-209-B's  swollen dick,  just as he gave
a  final  thrust,  flipping Kely right over,  forwards onto her back,
and,  shuddering in some  digital epiphany,  ED-209-B spurted about a
gallon  of bright-green  machine-oil out of the end of his dick.  ivo
took a  close-up  of the oil  running  over Kely's face  and down her
breasts, genesis superimposed the familiar OCP logo, and said, as the
music faded,

   `O... C... P.  we know how to do it.'

nikolai kingsley 1991
not (c)opyright... who'd
steal this schlock anyway?


 Saturday morning.  Little else to do, so i shifted Eva Schwartz - my
volkswagon - out from under the carport, into the back yard, and gave
her a wash and a polish.
 i didn't really need a car...  after i bought Eva,  that brought the
family's auto total to five,  including Maximilian the Hillman and my
sister's  Morry Minor  -  five cars  between the four of us.   It was
ridiculous, but that's just the way it happened, so the least i could
do was to take proper care of Eva.
 i didn't start thinking of  Eva as a `her',  until after the guys at
Bug Heaven had worked her over, transforming her from a drab mustard-
yellow 76 Superbug  into a  sleek black  convertible goth-mobile.   i
used to  zoom down the  Nepean highway  late at night,  full of cough
syrup,  with the top down  and the  Sisters of Mercy's `Vision Thing'
blaring from the stereo.  It suited my temperament at the time.... it
still does,  depending  on the  occasion...  but  i'm getting off the
track of the story.
 i put on a tape of Michael Brooks' `Hybrid' album - perfect music to
lose ones' self in  while working  -  and  began to  sponge the first
layers  of  grime  off  with warm water.   First,  over  the smoothly
curving bonnet (again,  wishing that the 76 Superbug had a `VW' badge
on it  -  i wanted to  replace it with one of my own design,  perhaps
with the  `Throbbing Gristle'  flash-symbol,  or a silver pentagram),
then down the  sleek sides,  running the  warm water  over the wheel-
hubs, around and over the turbo fin at the back.  i carefully removed
the  dirt   that  had  adhered  to  the  personalised  number-plates-
`GOTHIC'-  and  dutifully  attended  to the headlamps.   i rinsed the
sudsy warmth off  with  cups of cold water  (imagining that she would
flinch at its touch), and then started applying the wax.
 This was something which  i  was never really fond of.   Not that it
was  too much like hard work  -  i always had time for Eva  -  simply
because with even a thin layer of wax, she looked drab, almost dusty,
as if she had been  sitting in the basement of some automotive museum
waiting to be discovered  by a  team of  archaeologists from the 22nd
century.  i repressed my distaste and worked on, until her previously
glossy surfaces  were  completely covered  in a thin layer of wax.  i
stood back for a moment  (this had become a ritual),  closed my eyes,
muttered   "Om Mane Padme Hm,  Hail  the  Jewel  In  the  Lotus,  The
Breakthrough   of   Seeing   the  Absolute  in  the  Relative  Beyond
Individuality,  Time and Space"  and opened my eyes again.  There she
sat,  enmired in the  mucky  grey  stuff...  i could almost sense her
desire to be clean again. i got to work.
 This is where it began to get strange.
 As i  leaned over the bonnet  to  reach the area  at the base of the
windscreen,  i brushed against  the  indicator-lamp  (which protruded
from the wheel-hub) with my groin, and i felt a familiar sensation. i
paused for a moment,  and the feeling went away.  the tape playing on
the  stereo chose  this moment  to  finish,  change  sides  and begin
playing  the  Cocteau  Twins'  `Tiny  Dynamine'.   i  stood  back and
regarded Eva levelly.   The headlamps seemed to be looking back at me
(i'm sure it had  something to do with  the traces of wax left on the
wheel-hubs)  with  a  degree  of amusement.   Unconcerned if my nosey
neighbor was watching over the fence,  i wagged my finger at her, and
said,  "Now  you  just stop  that,  Eva."   The moment passed,  and i
cautiously resumed polishing.
 Working  around  the back,  vigorously rubbing the  chamois over the
curves of her rear-wheel hubs, i discovered that i had an erection. i
suddenly stopped polishing and stepped back... she rocked slightly on
her suspension, as if she were a girl saucily wiggling her ass at me.
i waited for the tingling sensation in my crotch to subside, which it
did... eventually.
 i went inside,  looking for  a cassette with  something really silly
on it,  to try and break the mood... what happened to all my tapes of
`They Might Be Giants'  and  `The  Butthole Surfers'?   Then  i asked
myself: Why try and change this mood?  the answer: because it's sick.
 That's  remarkably  narrow-minded of you,  i  thought as i went back
into the yard.   Remember: the normal is that which no-one ever quite
is.   "Great... Markoff Chaney-isms.   Now look,  Eva:  i'll continue
polishing only if you behave."   She sat there,  radiating a sense of
hurt innocence,  as  if  she  was  saying,  "It's  none  of my doing,
buster...  if you can't control your libido,  then  don't take it out
on me!"  i sighed and resumed polishing.
 Now,  Eva's  suspension  was  good...  not  as loose as a Citren's,
but... no,  i wasn't imagining it: she was swaying again as i removed
the last vestiges of wax from the bonnet.  While i don't want to give
the  impression that the subject  dominates  my thinking,  i couldn't
help thinking that the rhythm was reminiscent of coition.
 i spotted  a  patch of unpolished wax on the far side of the bonnet,
and rather than move around to the other side and reach it easily,  i
stretched over the front of the car.   With a click, the bonnet catch
released itself,  throwing me against the windscreen.   Eva rocked on
her suspension, which squeaked as if she was enjoying a good joke.
 "Eva." i murmured levelly.   The squeaking stopped.  "Thank you."  i
slid down  the left-hand side,  and the end of the aerial (which was,
for no good reason,  connected to the stereo tape deck) poked into my
behind  painfully.   "OW!   Now,  what was that for?"   She  remained
silent.   "Okay.  Be that way.  See if i care."  While the bonnet was
up,  i  perfunctorily  checked the oil level  -  it was within proper
limits - and decided to take her for a spin,  to fill the petrol tank
and check the air pressure on her tyres.
 i got behind the wheel,  made sure she was in neutral,  and tried to
start her.   Twin lamps  lit up on  the dashboard,  but  nothing else
happened.  i sighed,  tried again.  Nothing.  i returned the ignition
key to the `off' position,  tapped my fingers on  the steering wheel.
the hurt feeling  that she projected was still there.  i twiddled the
crucifix and rosary beads that dangled from her rear-view mirror, and
began, self-consciously,
 "Eva,  look,  i... i'm sorry."  (the  sensation  that she was turned
away from me  with her arms folded - even though i was sitting inside
her  -  mitigated somewhat)  "i didn't know this meant as much to you
as  it seems to."   At this,  a  feeling of  genuine  warmth  flooded
through me.   "Come on,  let's  go  get you some petrol."  Of course,
after this,  she started immediately,  and we edged out of the narrow
driveway and onto the open road.
 We stopped,  twenty minutes later,  at  one  of  those old-fashioned
petrol stations  - a pair of old dogs asleep under the sandwich board
that advertised  `super: 6-.4'  (the middle numeral having fallen off
from repeated price-changes),  petrol pumps  that  didn't use digital
displays...  the sort of petrol station that you'd imagine was run by
someone called `Zeke' or `Duke'.   There was even an old Coke machine
(that didn't have Diet Coke) next to the door.
 It was a self-serve station, so i got out and removed the cap on the
tank.  Ordinarily, i'd have to balance the fuel-nozzle on the edge of
the hole - something about the way it curved into the tank fooled the
more  modern pumps  into thinking that the tank was full.   These old
pumps weren't that smart, so i slid the nozzle all the way in.  Did i
hear a squeak?   There was only the occasional whoosh as another car
flew by on the nearby highway.
 The pump clicked as the fuel flowed into her.  i waited attentively,
knowing that she would  only need about fifteen dollar's worth before
reaching satiation.   Right on cue,   as the meter clocked up fifteen
dollars,  she gave a delicate shudder,  and  i could smell the petrol
backing up the line.   i rattled the nozzle  to  shake the last drops
out,  replaced it  in the side of the pump,  and  tenderly wiped away
some stray drops of fuel with a paper towel.
 i  dropped  fifteen  dollars  on  the  counter inside the station (i
didn't want to wake Zeke,  or Duke,  or whatever his name was) and we
hit the road again.
 We were up in the  hills around  Mount Martha,  that section of road
that  winds around  over the bay,  and  she was  taking  the  corners
somewhat faster  than i'd  normally dare to.   i  gave  the brakes an
experimental  tap  or  two... she responded,  decelerating to a safer
speed,  but as soon as we came to a short stretch without any curves,
she sped up again.   i called out over the rushing sound of the wind,
 "Eva!  Calm down, please?  You're making me nervous!"  She responded
by swerving onto the wrong side of the road for a moment.  i wrestled
with the  steering wheel until we were safely on the left side of the
intermittently  appearing  white  line.   Suddenly,  it was as if the
steering  column  had  come  loose...  the  wheel  dropped about five
inches, until it was resting in my lap.  i desperately tried to shove
it back  into  position,  but she resisted wilfully.   The next curve
came up and i awkwardly steered into it,  ignoring the feeling of the
steering wheel  rubbing against my crotch.   There  was another curve
after that one, turning the other way, which i barely negotiated by a
superhuman  effort.    It was  only after making it safely around the
second curve  that i thought to  try and  slow  down.   There  was  a
truck-stop at the side of the road ahead,  and i managed to steer her
into it and screech to a halt,  turning through ninety degrees  as we
did so.   i gasped as  the shock of  how close to the edge  we'd been
became apparent.
 "i suppose you think that's supposed to excite me?"   i tried to tug
the  steering  wheel  out of  my lap,  but she resisted,  pushing  it
against my stomach,  pressing me back into the seat.   Her suspension
creaked slightly as the wheel turned a few degrees to the left... and
then back to the right, rubbing against me playfully.  "Okay... okay,
let's continue this somewhere more private, hey?"   Only then did the
steering wheel lift from my lap.
 It was  twilight  in the parking lot  at  the Sorrento back-beach...
there  were  a  few `sin-bins'  containing  coupled  surfers,  gently
rocking to and fro in the soft fading light.   Eva drove us up to the
end  of the parking  lot,  a discreet distance  from the others,  and
there she had her way with me.   I let her  drive  us  home,  curling
myself up in the back seat.


====================================================================
generic blow-job!                                kelanie Camden 1991
simply do the following:
find all occurrences of XXXX and replace them with your name
find all occurrences of YYYY and replace them with
                             the name of your favourite bbs
====================================================================

        `... it's all a matter of the mechanics of the situation...'

                               - Genesis P. Orridge, `Heathen Earth'

 She tapped softly on the door.  From inside came a mutter that
seemed to convey an impression of assent, so she opened the door a
fraction and peered in.
 The room was almost entirely dark.  A faint glow came from the
screen of the PC, which was busy attack-dialing YYYY.  A stronger
light was cast by the green LED of the hard disk drive; this
revealed the noble features of XXXX, eyes closed in transcendental
rapture, one finger resting over the `escape' key, the other paused
by the space bar.  She entered the room, stepped over the piles of
`Granta', `Rolling stone', `New Scientist' magazines and partially
disassembled Vespas and Harley-Davidsons, threw her arms around his
shoulders and hugged him.
 `XXXX, I made it! Nineteen hours on the bus, we were hi-jacked by
the Jehovah's Witnesses just outside of Bordertown...'
 `Mnnnnph.'  XXXX grunted, not taking his eyes from the screen.
 `I had to climb out of the back window and throw myself out of a
bus moving at one hundred and fifteen kilometres an hour...' she
continued, tenderly touching a graze on her shoulder.
 `Mnnnph.'
 `I had to hitch a ride with a Motorcycle gang, half of them wanted
to rape me and the other half wanted to tie me to the front of an EH
Holden as a hood ornament and I escaped, after a punch-up started
over who was going to go first...'
 `Mnnph.'
 She bent down, nibbling his ear-lobe while stroking his cheek with
her other hand.  He moved his head slightly so that he could still
see the screen.  She sighed and kneeled down, running her hand down
his muscular arm, which tensed slightly.  She immediately withdrew,
and sat back on her haunches for a moment, glancing about the room
at the hundreds of empty beer cans, wrinkling her nose at the faint
but unmistakable aroma of Cannabis Sativa.
 `XXXX, aren't you glad to see me?'
 `Mnph.'  Her eyes lit up with joy on hearing this, and she grabbed
his right foot, tugging him around in his swivel chair.   He managed
to keep his eyes on the screen and one hand on the keyboard as she
slowly pushed his legs apart and then moved in to kneel between his
knees.  As she gently tugged at his fly with her teeth, she heard
the modem's faint screech as XXXX finally got through to YYYY.  He
turned the chair back, and she shuffled awkwardly to follow him,
eventually taking up a position underneath his desk.
 She undid the pentacle-shaped brass button of his jeans and tugged
them down, stroking the outline of his hip as she uncovered it.  She
peeled his underpants down and he deigned to lift his behind long
enough for her to slide his pants down around his ankles.  She
placed her hands around his waist and slowly shifted him forward,
until he was sitting on the edge of the chair.  He hiccoughed twice,
and her heart swelled with admiration; most men would be
paralytically sprawled on the floor after the amount of beer that he
had consumed!
 She grasped his penis in her fist, gently squeezed, and was
rewarded with the sight of it swelling slightly.   She squeezed
again, drawing the foreskin back so the she could take the head of
his penis into her mouth.  By alternating pressure, first squeezing
the base of his shaft with her hand and then sucking on the head,
she managed to coax him towards a state which approached full
arousal.  She then drew him forward in the chair a few inches more,
and bending his penis downwards so that it pointed straight out,
parallel to the chair, she slowly drew it as far as she could into
her mouth.  She paused there for a moment, nose pressed into his
pubic hair, her fingers interlaced behind his back, relishing the
way that his pulsing erection slowly enlarged, pressing her tongue
down and poking against the back of the roof of her mouth.  He
sighed as she drew back, raking her teeth along the length of his
shaft as she withdrew, catching the head in her lips and playfully
tickling the hole at the end with her tongue.  XXXX made a drawn-out
`ahhhhhhh' sound and arched his back slightly as the head popped out
of her mouth, glistening with saliva.  She squeezed the base again,
and daintily touched her tongue to the head, tasting the pearl of
fluid that had gathered there; she then kissed the end, applying
pressure to the hole as her tongue explored it again.
 XXXX slipped forward a few more inches, spreading his legs slightly
as she encircled the head of his penis with her thumb and
forefinger, lifting it up so that she could run her tongue and lips
along the throbbing underside of his erection, tracing the patterns
of the veins which stood out in sharp relief, gently kissing a trail
all the way down to his balls.  Nuzzling the soft flesh which
enclosed his testicles which were swollen and aching with lust, she
playfully plucked a few pubic hairs from his groin while squeezing
the head of his penis with her other hand, stretching it.  She
softly kissed first one testicle, then the other, applying slightly
more pressure each time until she was sucking them both into her
mouth, holding them delicately between her teeth and then drawing
back until XXXX moaned.  She let them pop out, released her grip on
the head of his penis and took it in her mouth again, running her
tongue back and forth along the underside of the head, again
wrapping her lips around the rim and sucking like a vacuum-cleaner.
XXXX was making involuntary thrusting motions with his hips and
softly moaning in time with the squeezes that she was applying to
the base of his penis.  Suddenly, he arched his back, thrusting
himself forward, further into her mouth.  She delicately applied her
back teeth to the head, taking extreme care to apply pressure and to
refrain from biting as she firmly grasped his shaft with her right
hand, her thumb reaching along the base as he began to quiver with
the tentative beginnings of orgasm.  His breathing suddenly grew
deeper, and he stopped thrusting, his thigh muscles taut against her
cheeks, and she knew that this was the moment.  She pressed firmly
into the base of his penis with her thumb just as he came, squeezing
his erection so that the head swelled within her mouth.  He gave a
gasp of shock as the fluid coursed through him, only to be stopped
by the cruel pressure she had applied.  Slowly, painfully, she let
her grip slide up his shaft, allowing the fluid to course a few
centimetres further each time, while XXXX writhed in an agony of
unspent passion.  Eventually, she had her fingers wrapped tightly
just behind the head of his penis, which was still held firmly
between her lips.  She pressed down just behind the rim with her
lips, and carefully released her grip - the pulsing tide of fluid
was still held at bay.  She unbuttoned her denim jacket and shirt,
exposing her breasts, and carefully backed up until XXXX's penis was
stretched straight out, swollen like an overinflated tyre, the end
held in her mouth.  Her jaw quivering with the effort of holding
back his ejaculation, she gripped the base again, glanced at his
face, and when he made eye contact, she whipped her head back, his
engorged member flying up and butting against her throat, spurting
fluid as she squeezed again.  Streams of pearly semen shot out,
coating her collarbone.  She smeared the warm viscidity into her
throat and onto her breasts, rubbing it over her nipples as it
cooled in the night air.
 There was a click from the modem.
 `Oh shit,' muttered XXXX. `Inactivity timeout.'
====================================================================


  He  looks about  the  lobby  of  the building.  There is no-one
about,  so he darts over to the elevator,  gets in and pushes the
button  for the  top floor.   As  the doors hiss shut,  he cannot
resist stroking the rubber door-guards.
  The  trip to the top is over almost before he realises it.   He
reaches up  and  loosens the cable  running into  the back of the
surveillance camera.  If a security guard should bother to check,
he will see nothing untoward.   He then pushes the button for the
floor  immediately  below.   The doors hiss shut again,  and once
more  his attention  is  drawn to the  smooth  black rubber lips.
  Half-way down,  between floors, he pushes the stop button.  The
elevator jerks to a stop, the squeaking sounds gradually diminish
as  the dampers  compensate for the rocking motion.  In the quiet
that  follows the fading squeaks,  he thinks  he can hear someone
snickering  at  him.   He  listens,  head  cocked  to  one  side.
Nothing.
  One finger still on the stop button,  he reaches over,  inserts
two fingers  between  the elevator door-guards,  forces the doors
apart.    Once the doors are open slightly,  he releases the stop
button.  With  one hand  keeping  the doors open,  he  undoes the
front of his jeans, drops his pants and exposes his erection.  He
moves up to the door,  pokes his penis in between the doors,  and
carefully allows them to  close on it.   The  door-guards  softly
enfold him,  and as they  close  around his throbbing dick,  they
sense it as an obstruction, open slightly and try to close again.
  He smiles  as the doors slowly close.   He had been  trying out
elevators  all over town,  almost getting arrested  for  indecent
exposure  in Nauru House,  but  there were  very few elevators in
Melbourne  that would allow him this pleasure...  he had narrowed
it down to  two particular models installed by Johns and Waygood.
  The doors make a grating sound, and almost close on him; he has
to  thrust  forward   before   they  retreat  with  a  delightful
shuddering  feeling.  Again,  the   doors  try  to  close  on the
obstruction,  slowly  squeezing his  penis  between the twin soft
rubber lips.   He begins to  thrust  rhythmically as the elevator
decides  that it is safe to proceed down to  the next floor.   As
his thrusts grow more excited, the doors seperate again, stopping
the elevator with a wonderful jolting feeling,  almost as  if the
elevator was humping him in return for his attention.   His hands
clutch at  the smooth metal of the doors  in ecstasy.   Once  the
jiggling has settled, the doors slowly press inwards again, until
they are squeezing his dick  into a slot about half an inch wide.
He withdraws  to make another stroke,  the  doors  close over the
head  of  his  penis   and  the  elevator  decides  to  move  on,
hesitantly, as if it is not entirely sure if the door is clear or
not.
 He realises that his dick is caught, and he tries to tug it free
with no success.   He can't reach the stop button,  either; he is
utterly at the mercy of the lift.   He frantically tries to prise
the  doors  open,  but  they  have  locked  somehow in the narrow
tolerance  between   the  point  at  which   the  doors  consider
themselves fully closed and the point at which the rubber sensors
register  an obstruction.  He tugs again,  until the pain becomes
too much,  and he tries,  ineffectively,  to lose his erection by
sheer will-power.  He can no longer tell which floor he's on; the
emergency  telephone  is  ringing,  but  he can't  reach it.   He
decides to try and make the best of it,  and  pushes forward with
all his might.   His dick slips through the door-guards,  and the
head is now caught in the lips on the outside of the door.  He is
pressed firmly up against the door now, writhing as he approaches
climax, when suddenly the elevator hits bottom.  The doors spring
open,  and he ejaculates in relief as the pressure is lifted.  He
leans there,  arms resting on the doors, erect penis poking up at
a forty-five degree angle, spurting fluid into the air.  He opens
his  eyes  and sees  five security guards,  seven police,  twenty
firemen and a `Hinch at Seven' camera crew.  He smiles.



Nimyf-a-Tel

 "...the printed word and the paper it's printed on
     (not worth anything)"

 Barry Andrews/Shriekback, `Lines from the Library'

 Genesis had received one of Kely's typically cryptic
mailmessages that morning: `Am trapped in the Syndaine State
Library. Please read me'. So he went down to the Simulation
bay, plugged himself in, stuck his credit card in the slot.
Reality faded and was replaced by the communal electronic
fantasy-world of Syndaine.

 The Syndaine State Library was located just north of the Market
at Nimyf-a-Tel, which, according to the available documentation,
had been built around an asteroid that had landed at the
crossroads of five common trading routes. This asteroid had
originally orbited just outside the Syndaine system's cometary
halo, but when the plural Demons Bandahrue discovered that its
orbital components matched some complex numerological quotient of
theirs, they caused it to be carved into their own likenesses,
and arranged for it to be dropped on Syndaine, near the library,
as a monument to themselves. Rather than travel around it, the
inhabitants of the area had moved two nearby markets into the
complex nickel-iron stonework, and (perhaps due to the influences
of the Demons Bandahrue) the market at Nimyf-a-Tel had
flourished.

 Genesis hadn't logged in there for a while, and was slightly
disoriented at first, as he had arrived in a dark alleyway,
facing the wall. He turned, located the exit, and stepped out
into Second Avenue. He noted with satisfaction that he had
retained the settings that he had left the system with last time:
he was in the shape of a tall, relatively unmodified human male,
with black hair, three fingers (and a thumb) on each hand,
metallic hooves instead of feet and the short horns that Kely had
thought so much of sprouting from his temples. He was wearing
the coal-black sarariman's business suit that he had taken from
the body of an alien accountant he had duelled with last time.
Unbalanced ledgers at twenty paces.

 Second Avenue hadn't changed at all since he had been here last;
the way was lit by flickering red light which came from the
burning, crucified bodies of those who had upload/download ratios
less than one. The gigantic soldiers of the Syndaine System,
clad in smoked-lexan body armour, strolled up and down the
avenue, occasionally dragging another hapless victim to his or
her allotted position. Much more infrequently they would turn
off the flames and release someone. Genesis had been up there
once; when he had first entered the system, he had made the
mistake of uploading without downloading, and the system had
interpreted the figure `9.45 gigabytes divided by zero' as a
number less than one, and so the next time he got on, they were
waiting for him. It was less painful than it appeared, and was
more an inconvenience than anything else; the screams and groans
were mostly sound-effects.

 `Sir! I beg of you, carry a message to Barker's Tavern! There
 are friends there, of the Parkry, who will - a-aarhh!'

 `Kr-rih! Kohr-burr koor-Chyeh-diy!' (this from a plateau
 Bythian, with nails driven through its shell)

 `Tovarisch! Mozhno buitye, shto vyy umyuete dayetye nyeskolko
 Megabityi?'

Effective sound effects, nonetheless.
 Reaching the intersections of Second and Third Avenues, Genesis
realised that he had got turned around again (as usual), that he
was on the south side of Nimyf-a-Tel and would have to either go
back along the way he had come or go straight through the centre
of the main marketplace. He chose the latter, and started along
the maze of twisty, little passages, all alike except for the
strange shops set into their walls. The shelves of one stall he
had not seen before, with a banner proclaiming, in twisting
Syndainin-native, `Parkry Circumcision' were lined with what
appeared to be living mantis heads about the size of televisions;
he saw a prospective customer front up to the stall, undo the
front of his trousers and move up to one of the heads. Genesis
passed the stall with the sound of clacking jaws and a shrill
scream ringing in his ears. There was a plump eunuch dressed in
silks and holding a wicked-looking scimitar, standing outside a
round stone door. He looked puzzled, and was muttering, `Duh,
open... sarsparilla? Open, uh... septuagenarian? Saddlesoap?'
Further down what was marked at various points as `Turdburglar
Lane', the stonework grew more convoluted, joining overhead to
form archways from which dangled vines and the occasional Ylurian
cocoon, one of which had a still-living person inside, wet
outlines softened by the glistening translucent fibers. He could
hear faint moans of pain coming from within as whoever was inside
writhed while being slowly consumed by the Ylury. He had just
passed one of Nimyf-a-Tel's numerous brothels, waving to a
reptilian girl with glittering red scales that he knew slightly
when he rounded the corner of the lane and was in the market
square (or, to be more accurate, market triangle, as Nimyf-a-Tel
was bordered on three sides).

 As always, the wealth of visual, aural and olfactory sensation
overwhelmed him at first. He resolutely strode past a stall which
had ancient books stacked taller than the Moridani shopkeeper
tending them, past a seemingly haphazard arrangement of glass
bowls presided over by three chittering Parkry, who occasionally
moved handfuls of what appeared to be wriggling human fingers
from one bowl to another. A delicious smell of roasted cashews
drifted from behind a tepee-like stall lined with tattooed human
skins, outside which stood an ancient Moridani, holding a bunch
of balloons. Genesis realised with a start that the balloons
were small children, still living, inflated to almost spherical
proportions. The Moridani wore a Sony DiscMan, which was playing
a track from Skinny Puppy's `ViviSect VI' album into an antique
ghetto blaster at his feet. Genesis exchanged a ten-kilobyte
token for a grotesquely overinflated four-year-old girl with a
string attached to her tongue.
 `Come along, my dear,' he said, gently tugging on the string.
She stared at him, eyes wide in horror, and squeaked
unintelligibly.
 He emerged from the convoluted clutter of the center market, and
started along a winding path, down the slight hill that had been
raised by the asteroid's fall to the Syndaine State Library, a
sprawling building in the old style, fluted grey stone columns
and wide stained glass windows more reminiscent of a church than
anything else. The steps leading up to the main doors were just
large enough to make the going uncomfortable. He showed his
library card to the dummy at the counter; the entire building was
staffed by dummies, because the Sysop was too lazy to generate
the characters for thirty or more real people for something like
a library, preferring to devote his attention to the market and
attendant brothels.
 `I'm afraid that you'll have to leave your pet at the counter,
ser.' the dummy said through the cloth that covered its head,
nodding its head at the balloon. Genesis looked offended.
 `This happens to be my little sister, you electronic
special-effect. I'm looking for some Enid Blyton books for her.'
The balloon squeaked in agreement. The dummy managed to convey
apologetic embarrassment by lowering its head slightly, and waved
them through. Genesis glanced at the soldiers, wielding
cattle-prods, mounted into the walls on either side of the doors,
and entered.
 He faced the thirty-metre-tall stacks that ranged for at least a
kilometre around him, narrowed his eyes as he spotted the
catalogue terminal. He logged in:

      CITY OF SYNDAINE on the 19 OCT 2061 at 12:26:56

             INTIMATE COMPUTER SYSTEM Rev 170S+
             ==================================

 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 ++   You are logged in to the Libraries System   (LIB) ++
 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 Note: backups are done from 8:30 PM onwards.

 Logon please:SYNPAC

           Welcome to SYNDAINE STATE LIBRARY
          Your automated catalogue, by DYNOX.

 For assistance press "?" then the key labeled "<Return>".


          19 OCT 61 SYNDAINE CITY LIBRARIES 12:26PM
                   PUBLIC ACCESS CATALOGUE

 Welcome to the online catalogue system.
 You can search by any of the methods listed below --
 Enter the number of the type of search you want:

             1. AUTHOR search
             2. TITLE search
             3. SUBJECT search
             4. CALL # SEARCH (EL)
             5. SERIES search
             6. Review Patron Record
             7. Quit searching
             Examples:

             SCHISMATRIX (Single word search)
             BOOKS BLOOD (Multiple word search)
             NECRONOM? (For words starting with NECRONOM...)

             Title Search: KELY CAMDEN

             KELY CAMDEN
             Searching ...              Running total

             KELY                      NOT FOUND
             CAMDEN                    4

 It took him only three minutes to establish that if Kely was in
here somewhere, she wasn't in the catalogue, which meant that
no-one else would have borrowed her. He breathed a sigh of
relief as he sauntered through the stacks on the first and second
floors, wondering where to start looking. `If we can assume that
this was done by someone who has it in for her, then they will
know that I'm the only one who will come to get her. So they
would put her where I wouldn't be likely to look. Or they might
employ reverse psychology, put her where I would be certain to
look.' His balloon squeaked twice. `Of course, you're right, if
they had done that and I wasn't looking for her, I might find her
anyway... so, where? Back to the first option, I suppose.' After
scanning the single fourth-floor stack devoted to the works of
Dorothy Dunnet, he found nothing except an allergy to dust.
`Crap,' he muttered, `what would Aleister Crowley do in a case
like this?' Balloon squeaked again. Genesis nodded.

 In the reference section on the ground floor, opening the
monstrous nine-hundredth edition of Webster's Absolutely Complete
and Final Encyclopedia of Everything Imaginable at random,
Genesis closed his eyes, pointed at the page and looked at the
word: `CRYSTAL'. Eyes shut, he turned to another page, pointed
again:
     `EXPRESS'.  again:
     `PAY'.      again:
     `PER'BACH'. once more, to fit the Law of Fives:
     `GEIGER'.

 He found her on the fifth floor, between an a3-sized volume of
Giger and a paperback issue of Bruce Sterling's `Crystal
Express'. He carefully drew her from the shelf, and a soft
slapping sound walked off to his right as hundreds of books fell,
filling the two-inch gap that she had left. She was bound in a
smooth, soft, pale-peach- coloured material, unlabeled except for
the initials `K C' on the spine in a dark, almost black red.
Stroking her cover, he realised that she was bound in human skin.
Slowly, as if he were defusing a bomb, he opened her cover, read
her first two lines, and quickly closed her, shutting his eyes.
He breathed deeply, almost falling off the small step-ladder. He
got down and made his way down to the dummy staffing the desk on
that floor.
 `I'd like to borrow this, please.' The dummy examined the book.
 `This isn't one of ours. No barcode. Where did you find it?'
 `She was on the top shelf, stack 7A75F, between an a3-sized -'
 `-volume of Giger and the Sterling paperback, yes, I know the
spot. Hum, well, it's not from the reserved stack, so I suppose
you can borrow it... one moment...' Genesis started as the dummy
held the book against the imprinter. There was a hiss, the faint
stench of burned skin, and the dummy returned the book, with a
barcode burned into its spine. `You can check this out on the
ground floor.'

 Genesis lay on his bed in his room above the Suteriik Kitchen,
reading the book while listening to This Mortal Coil's `Filigree
and Shadow'. The book was written entirely in twisted,
Druillet-like symbols that made his eyes cross; he had to stop
every few minutes and shake his head to clear it. Even so,
meaning was filtering into his backbrain, the runes interpreted
by some pre-literate section of his mind still outside the
electronic simulation he was experiencing. He was about a third
of the way through the book when he noticed a faintly glowing
figure sitting at the foot of his bed. He squinted at it, and it
faded. He shook his head vigorously, and kept reading. Half way
through the book, he looked up again, and it was back, more
clearly defined.
 It was Kely.
 As he watched, it faded slightly, but the outline remained. He
frowned; what was happening here was that the book had encoded
routines that caused the brain to generate a complete
personality-entry in the electronic fantasyworld. That sort of
thing was illegal, as it was considered to be in the grey area
between neuroprogramming and bioelectronic preference-mapping;
whoever had done this obviously had little respect for the law.
He kept reading.
 The last page had a diagram on it, which his eyes began to trace
automatically. It spiraled inwards, drawing his attention in
faster and faster. The path weaved in and out, now shifting
clockwise... the room seemed to be spinning... suddenly the room
was filled with soft white light, like fog under stadium
spotlights. When it faded, Kely was there, lying in a corner,
unconscious. He picked her up, laid her out on the bed, and went
down to the kitchen to get some coffee (he could have generated
it spontaneously, but the Suteriik was noted for its coffee,
which, even for electronically simulated coffee, was
exceptional).
 When he returned, she had awoken, and was rubbing her eyes as if
she had been asleep for a week. They kissed, and he used some
two-K tokens to generate some clothes for her. She sneezed
twice, and as he drew an armored windcheater past her shoulders,
he noted a barcode burned into her back, between her
shoulder-blades. He touched it lightly, withdrawing his finger
when she hissed,
 `Oww! Anyway, you took your own sweet time in finding me!'
 `Well, next time, get yourself checked in properly. That way,
you'll be in the catalogue. So, who was it this time? Let me
guess... Avalon?'
 `It was Alannah Savaj. She's still pissed off because I shopped
her to the Sysop of TreWorld, for lifting my pig-blimp genomes.
She got kicked off there, and she's been annoying me in minor
ways for weeks.'
 `Well, this is hardly minor... you could have died in there.'
 `So, what do you think we should do about it? I don't really
want to spend the rest of my time on here exchanging "jokes" with
her... she's a raving nut-case.' Genesis stood, and noticed a
book poking out from underneath the bed. He retrieved it, opened
it. The pages were blank.
 `I think it's time we talked to the Sysop.'

 The Anarch's palace was some twenty megabytes west of
Nimyf-a-tel, on a separate disk drive, so Genesis hailed a taxi
from the roof of the Suteriik Kitchen. It arrived a scant thirty
seconds after he placed the call, a gargoyle the size of a
double-decker bus. They climbed the jagged scales over its ribs,
and up its spine to a point just behind the dense muscles that
supported its wings. Its reptilian head swivelled around on a
long serpentine neck, milky membranes flicking over emerald eyes.
 `Good afternoon, my name's Ivo. Where'yuh headed?' Genesis
smiled. It was interesting to note that the Sysop had finally
worked out a credible way of representing human speech coming
from a reptile's mouth.
 `Well, it's such a nice day, we'd thought we'd pop over to the
Anarch's palace and say `hi' to Tjerzibashjian.' The taxi's eyes
narrowed; he muttered, `Hang on' and commenced beating his
forty-foot wings.

 The Anarch's palace looked more like a concrete tower-block than
the standard Disney representation of a palace. The ground floor,
in fact, looked decidedly seedy, and only the presence of six
warrior-caste Parkry, lounging about playing `Leech' on a truly
ancient XT, indicated its importance in the simulation. This was
an area that nobody hacked into.
 There was no reception area, no secretaries' desk. There was
only a single elevator door, with a button labeled `PAGE SYSOP'.
Kely pressed it. After about twenty seconds, there was a `ding'
sound, and the doors opened. They got in. The lights weren't
working inside, and their faces were lit only by the dim radiance
of the floor indicator, which must have been a joke by the Sysop,
as it changed at random instead of moving sequentially. They had
been in the lift for about three minutes, moving up and down
aimlessly, when Genesis picked up the emergency phone and said
sarcastically,
 `Come on, Tjerzibashjian, we ain't got all day.' There was a
faint snicker from the receiver, and the lift stopped.
 The doors opened on an infinite plain, deep azure sky directly
overhead fading to a pale eggshell at the horizon, the floor
marked in a checkered black-and-red pattern. Overhead was a
large mirrored sphere. They watched the distorted images of
their reflected figures expand as they approached it. `Could you
drift down a bit, Tjerzy? We're gonna get stiff necks from
looking up at this angle.' The sphere drifted down until its base
was touching the checkered floor.
 `Yeah, so whaddaya want awready? I'm busy.'
 `What's the big idea, letting Alannah Savaj lock Kely into being
a book? I thought you'd removed all those sort of passive-form
loopholes from the System.' The sphere rippled in embarrassment.
 `Shit, so had I. Well, I'll round 'Lannah up, next time she gets
on, ask her how she did it, and close that option off. You know,
that girl is beginning to be a twenty-two megahertz pain in the
ass.' Kely gnawed on a thumb-nail, and suggested,
 `Well, since you're so busy, how's about you give us temporary
assistant Sysop privileges, and we'll sort her out for you?'
Genesis snorted, and was about to suggest that Kely not waste her
time, when to his surprise, Tjerzibashjian agreed. Genesis
half-expected him to do the whole magical-cold-white-light
routine, but the sphere merely rippled again, and over the sound
of distant address registers incrementing, Tjerzibashjian quoted
Bugs Bunny:
 `Ickety Ackety Oop, oh-oh-squeak, ah-ah-flop, and all that crap,
Okay, you're both assistant Sysops. Don't fuck anything up,
okay? I'll be keeping an eye on you.'

 They were flying over Nimyf-a-Tel, invisible to all (except
Tjerzibashjian), deciding on the form of their revenge. Genesis
held out his hand, and a puzzle-box covered with ornate designs
in bronze appeared on the flat of his palm. Kely smiled, but
said,
 `No, she's awake to that trick. What I had in mind was something
really base, ignoble, revolting, disgusting, you know, what with
her being such a stuck-up elitist.'
 `How about drowning her in a vat of her own excrement? Or maybe
somebody elses'?'
 `Not bad, but not painful enough.' Genesis held up his index
finger, smiled.
 `Okay, try this sequence on for size...' He generated a
closed-field simulation, and they watched as:

     Alannah-Savaj  was  nursing  a Kahlua Brownie and
     checking out the guys  in  the Lylesburg House of
     Ill Repute, when she felt an inexplicable urge to
     visit the lavatory.
     `What  the  hell?  I  didn't  know  they even had
     toilets  in Simulation.  Hey,  Narcisse!  Where's
     the ladies' room?'
     `Upstairs,   down the end of the hallway,  on the
     left.   you can't miss-'  She was already halfway
     up the creaking stairs,  pausing  only to flick a
     padded  brassiere  off the banister.  She reveled
     in the thought  that  every male in the place was
     tracking  her  superbly-rounded  behind  with his
     eyes.  The  sound  of  the cheap honky-tonk piano
     faded as she approached the toilets,  absorbed by
     the shin-deep shag pile carpets, and was replaced
     by the faint sounds of bestial grunts and sensual
     moans  coming from behind the locked doors around
     her.
     She bolted the door behind her,  lifted her white
     lace  dress  up  over her head and sat down.  The
     seat  was  rather  wide,  she  thought,   as  she
     balanced on the edge; it was almost as large as a
     manhole.  She  felt  a  sudden  pang  through her
     bowels,  and  then let go with a rush.  `That's a
     relief,'  she  sighed,  leaning  back  and almost
     falling  in.  `Whoah!'  She  grabbed at the large
     white towel hanging on a rack next to the toilet,
     missed,  and  fell back  into the bowl.  She  was
     stuck,  her arms pointing almost straight up, her
     thighs  pressed  against her breasts,  bare  feet
     waving  daintily  in  the  air.  `Hell  piss fuck
     hell!'  she  snarled,  wriggling  to try and work
     herself  up  slightly,  with  the result that she
     slipped further down.

(`We could leave her like that,' Kely remarked.
 `It gets better,' Genesis replied.)

     She kicked her legs,  but her feet couldn't reach
     the  edge of the toilet bowl,  and  her arms were
     firmly  caught.  She  tried  to  unfold and lever
     herself  out by pure charisma,  but slipped a few
     centimetres  further  down when she relaxed.  Her
     eyes  widened  when  her  behind touched the cold
     water  at  the bottom  of the bowl.  She suddenly
     became aware of the stench of sewage, and heard a
     faint gurgling sound deep below. She wrinkled her
     nose  hesitantly,  and  suddenly  a  gush of foul
     water  shot  up,  splashing  up  her back and the
     insides of  her thighs.  She shrieked in disgust,
     and redoubled her efforts to escape.   She paused
     and her eyes widened in astonishment as she heard
     something   scraping  along  the  inside  of  the
     outflow-pipe  below  her.  `Uh-oh.' she murmured.
     She  was  still  for  a  moment, and the scraping
     sound  stopped.   Then,  something  touched  her,
     which  made  her shriek again and almost gave her
     the  impetus to leap out of bowl,  but not quite.
     She  kicked  her feet frantically as a large hand
     explored her, stroking her genitals; she screamed
     when  it   stuck   two  fingers  up  her  behind,
     withdrew,  and  then suddenly its entire hand was
     thrust up her ass. She could hear pounding on the
     door  over  her  screams  as another hand reached
     from the depths of the bowl, snaked itself around
     her  waist,  and  tugged  her  further down.  Her
     knees  were  now pressed into her face,  and  the
     foul water had risen to the level of her chin, as
     she heard someone outside breaking the door down.
     The  hand up her  ass  clenched into a fist,  and
     dragged her further down.  It was trying to force
     her  around  the  s-bend,  but  she wouldn't fit.
     Narcisse  had  appeared  above,  and  was tugging
     ineffectually at her feet.  With halting efforts,
     she  was  slowly,  agonisingly  pulled  into  the
     s-bend, her pelvis cracking, her ribs snapping in
     pairs   as  she  was   dragged  down.   She  lost
     consciousness,  gagging  with the stench of shit,
     cloudy  brown  water  filling  her ears. Narcisse
     sighed, closed the lid and flushed.

 `Well, it's appropriate, but I don't know if we're allowed to do
that. It might physically kill her.' Genesis passed the sequence
to a safety evaluation routine, which responded almost
immediately:
 `74% probability of external-body fatality. Contraindicated.'
 `Well, that's out. How about-' Genesis was interrupted by a
pinging tone from the login monitor they had set up. `She's
logged in. Hey - did you see that Moridani balloon-seller in the
market...'

 Alannah was dozing in a stable at the back of the Suteriik,
snuggled in the hay between a sweaty percheron stallion and a
dummy which was a mirror-image copy of her. A feeling of warm
well-being washed through her, and she tried to stretch
languidly, only to find that she couldn't move. In alarm, she
ran her custom diagnostic routine, which reported no interference
at the standard level.
 `Oh, great, Tjerzibashjian's finally discovered the backdoor I
wormed into his stats file,' she thought. She heard someone
approach from behind, saw a massive shadow fall over the side of
her horse. She felt arms slip under her waist and knees,
glimpsed a broad, spatulate three-fingered hand that appeared to
be made of greasy grey-brown plastic, and she was lifted almost
two metres into the air. Her mirror-dummy stirred, awoke and
stared up at her in shock. Alannah took the opportunity to view
from the dummy's position, and saw herself in the arms of a huge
warrior Parkry, with bronze patterns etched into its carapace,
which was lit from behind by red torchlight. Its barbed jaws
opened and closed reflexively, and a thread of saliva drooled
onto her face. Alannah tried to log out, but there was an
override in place. The dummy shuddered sympathetically, and then
vanished in a hissing haze of static. The Parkry carried her
outside. It was about ten o'clock in the evening.
 Nobody in the market seemed too concerned about a two-and-a-half
metre tall Parkry warrior carrying a naked girl around,
occasionally ducking to avoid the overhead stonework. It was a
common sight, apparently. The Parkry carried her to the tent of
the balloon-seller, chittered loudly. A flap drew back. The
aged Moridani appeared, murmuring a greeting in slightly accented
plateau Bythian. The Parkry handed her over, and the Moridani
took her inside, limbs creaking with age.
 The tent was lit by a cluster of silvery glowing spheres
tethered at the apex. The room was mainly taken up with a long
copper bathtub, filled with what appeared to be raspberry jelly.
The Moridani carefully placed her in it, avoiding contact with
the thick stuff, and gently pushed her down into it with the
rounded end of a ceremonial staff. Just before she went under,
she glimpsed two figures in the shadows. One was holding a pale
peach-coloured book, and then she knew.
 The raspberry jelly-stuff felt cool at first, but it began to
itch after a few moments. It seeped into her ears and nostrils;
the Moridani opened her mouth with the end of the staff, and it
slopped in over her tongue and teeth, slithered down her throat.
It had no taste. At the other end, it insinuated itself into her
privates as if it were alive. She felt some physical control
returning then, and she tried to struggle out of the tub. As she
writhed, the stuff began to burn, and pour itself down her
throat, swelling her stomach painfully. She tried to scream,
started thrashing about. The Moridani held her under with the
end if its staff, and the last sensations she felt before losing
consciousness in a haze of heat were the feeling of cool air on
her rounded belly as it protruded above the surface and the
convulsive rush of jelly forcing its way down her swollen throat
and up into her rectum.
 `Then we will leave her as she is for one of, how is it spoken?
howar? No, one of `hour'. And then we will, from the bath,
remove her again.' The old Moridani closed its eyes and pursed
its lips in the Moridani equivalent of a satisfied smile. It
rested one long-fingered hand on a green helium cylinder, with a
long rubber hose attached to the valve. The thrashing in the tub
stopped after a few minutes.

 When the hour was up, Kely allocated a space for a sensory
recording in her private workspace, keyed it to Alannah's ID and
started recording. The Moridani carefully threaded a belt
underneath Alannah's arms, and lifted her from the tub. Her arms
and legs drooped bonelessly, and she began to sag like an empty
sack as the jelly seeped out of her. He held her over the tub
until most of it had drained out, then lifted her onto a
workbench, and began wiping her down with a bright blue chamois.
 `She looks rather flat. What happened to her internal organs?'
Genesis asked. By way of response, the Moridani pointed to the
tub of jelly. Genesis silently mouthed, `Oh.' Alannah's head
was deformed by the softening of her skull, but her eyes were
open and aware. The Moridani took a tub of thick white paste
from a shelf, poked some in each ear, up each nostril, up her
vagina, and the rest down her throat. Her tongue wagged
senselessly. He then flopped her over on her stomach and dragged
the helium cylinder over. When he was sure that the paste had
set, he stuck the hose up her ass, and opened the valve slowly.
Her eyes widened, and she began to assume a more human shape as
the gas filled her with a soft hissing sound. Her arms and legs
poked out stiffly, her head tilted back, and her mouth gaped. She
made a sort of `k-k-k' noise as the Moridani, at Kely's
insistence, overinflated her to junoesque proportions.
 `Not more,' the Moridani said, `If we should, her seals will not
remain so.' Even so, she was swollen like a bald racing tyre
about to burst. Genesis tapped her stomach, stroked the tight
skin between her painfully expanded breasts, tweaked a nipple. It
squeaked like rubber. He smiled, bent down and kissed her on the
forehead.
 `What we need now is something like a Macy's Parade, maybe fly
her down First Avenue.' Kely giggled.
 `Hey, let's take her back to the Suteriik, rent her out to the
Sthelane, and see how long she lasts before somebody bursts her.'
Alannah's eyes widened and she made a vigorous `k-k-k' noise to
convey her opinion of that particular idea. `Oh, I'm sorry, I
didn't know that you'd done it with a Sthelane before.' The
Moridani clamped something like a wire-stripping tool over the
end of the hose where it disappeared between Alannah's bulging
buttocks, clicked it and sealed off the hose. He poked the seal
into her, like an inverted belly-button, with a hollow-sounding
pop that made her shudder. When he released her, she drifted
slowly upwards, feet first, until her toes were brushing the roof
of the tent. Kely reached up, hooked her index finger into
Alannah's mouth and drew her down. The Moridani clipped small
lead weights to her ear-rings until her weight reached
equilibrium and she was just light enough to remain suspended in
the warm air inside the tent.
 `She is now yours,' he announced with the satisfied air of
Moridani pride in workmanship. Genesis snapped his fingers in
annoyance.
 `Damn, we forgot to ask her about the passive-form loop-hole.
Tjerzibashjian's gonna be pissed off.'
 `Well, she's not really in any position to take advantage of it
again. Hang on - I'll poke around in her private workspace, see
if she left any notes behind.' Drifting along the floor, her
legs splayed out and waving in the air, Alannah's eyes narrowed
when she heard this.
 Kely opened a remote window into Alannah's area, stuck her arm
in and rummaged about. `Yecch - I hate to think what I've just
put my hand in... okay, usage log.' She retrieved an ancient,
tattered parchment scroll, unwound a few feet, and examined it,
with Genesis looking over her shoulder. The first line they read
trapped their attention like ball bearings to a magnet.
Helplessly, they read four feet of convoluted image- and
behavioral-modification code, and when they reached the last
line, Kely dropped the scroll. The remote window into Alannah's
workspace snapped shut. They stood there for a moment,
blank-eyed, while their minds compiled the neurologically-
LHARC-ed code they had just read.
 Kely began to change first. Her skin faded to the colour of
premium-bond photocopy paper; her short dark hair twisted and
writhed until it reached her shoulders, shimmered through a dozen
shades and finally settled on a pale spun-gold colour. Her
windcheater bulged behind her shoulders, and two large dove's
wings burst through the plated material, fluttered outwards,
almost filling the small tent. They stretched, quivered
spasmodically, and folded neatly behind her. Meanwhile, Genesis'
skin had darkened to a burnished copper-red. His hooves remained
unchanged, but his ankles twisted, snapped into different shape,
folding his feet forward. A tail had snaked out of the back of
his pants, ending in an arrow-shaped barb. The pupils of his
eyes had become slitted like a cat's. Together, they stumbled
out of the tent, followed by the uncomprehending Moridani
balloon-seller.
 At the first relatively open space they found in the market,
they turned to face each other, and tore their clothes off. They
regarded each other blankly for a moment, then leapt together,
and began coupling like things possessed. His demonic grunts and
her angelic sighs drew a small crowd, which gradually dispersed
after a few minutes as they slowed down. They stopped, locked
together, and with a barely noticeable click, they froze. Their
skins gradually darkened in the night air, until all that
remained was a crudely detailed monument cast in black iron.

 Later that evening, the Moridani sold Alannah to a plump eunuch
dressed in silks, carrying a scimitar in one hand and a basket
filled with jewels in the other.
 `Open, SESAME!' it exclaimed, grinning.


kelanie camden & nikolai kingsley
December 1990


Mark waddell plays a joke
(beta test version)

kelanie entered the cavernous classroom, chose a seat towards the
rear third of the room, put on her Walkman headphones and turned
on the tape.  She was early for the Inka Princess' lecture on
`QuickEd and Quantum ThermoGodDamnics', and she didn't want to
have to suffer the inane bullshit of her classmates, particularly
Alannah Savaj, who had chosen a seat next to hers.  kelanie's
peripheral vision afforded a view of Alannah's mouth moving as
she said something predictably snide and cutting; all kelanie
heard, from her Walkman, was:

   `desperate
    deranged
    talking in my sleep again
    eyes twitch
    retain
    a sentimental
    something'
   (Skinny Puppy, `Addiction')

which suited her fine.  Then, a golden glow of light down the
front of the theatre announced the arrival of the Princess of
Inka.  kelanie turned the tape off.
 `... and besides which, he's OB-viously as gay as a treefull of
parrots...' Alannah assured her.  kelanie rolled her eyes up in
despair.  She opened her notebook, thumbed through pages of
cryptic scribble until she found blank lines, and as Inka began
speaking in calm, clear tones, they all started writing.
 Except Alannah, who had apparently lifted a MiniScribe pixie
from some curio shop.  It was about two inches tall, had large
trumpet-like ears and a long thin tail tipped in carbon.  It
perched on the edge of Alannah's desk, both ears straining to
catch every nuance of Inka's lovely voice (crawl crawl), as its
tail whipped across the page, writing the notes out in a passable
imitation of Alannah's rounded script, even down to the
exaggerated loops which passed for the dots she placed over the
letter `i'. Alannah soon got bored with this, and took to drawing
pentagrams around the borders of the page with daggers stuck in
them. Then, a student came in late, and sat in the vacant seat in
front of Alannah.  kelanie, busy writing, didn't notice at first,
but after a while, she noted that Alannah had stopped absently
humming her favourite tune, `Freddy Krueger', by S.O.D., and she
looked up to see what was going on.
 Alannah was gazing intently at the behind of the guy sitting in
front of them.  kelanie realised with a shock that it was Mark
Waddell!
 `Hang on,' she thought, `That can't be Mark... he's chained up
in my closet...'  Nevertheless... it appeared to be Mark, or at
least his behind!
 Alannah noticed kelanie's attention, grinned wickedly and
extended her leg, stroking Mark's behind with the tip of her
jack-booted toe. He twitched slightly but did not turn around.
 `Hey, Mark baby, got somethin' for ya...' Alannah whispered,
twisting her foot in a peculiar way.  Four inches of razor-sharp
scalpel appeared from the toe of her boot with a `snick' sound.
 With balletic delicacy, she sliced the back of the waistband of
his jeans, and cut a patch out of the back of his pants, exposing
underwear made of `chaolon', a material formed of the raw stuff
of entropy, which shimmered and phased through hundreds of
different patterns each second.  Alannah then, with surgical
precision (and almost no sound except a quiet r-r-rip which
barely rose above the muted scratching of pens and quills and the
tapping of laptop computer keyboards around them) removed the
back of Mark's underpants.  Kelanie racked her brains for a
simple spell that she could use to divert Alannah long enough for
Mark to get his pants together again, but she could think of
nothing while Alannah retracted the scalpel back into her boot,
which she then unclasped and removed, revealing a dainty foot
with purple-painted toenails. She extended her leg again and
slipped her foot under Mark's buttocks.  He quivered again, but
didn't leap out of his seat as Alannah expected him to.  She
giggled and wiggled her foot from side to side.
 `Alannah.. stop it!' Kelanie whispered.  Alannah was about to
frame a suitably crushing rejoinder when Mark sat up slightly in
his seat, allowing Alannah to slip her foot underneath him.  He
then sat down on her foot.  Alannah giggled again, rather loudly
this time, and a few nearby students looked up to see what was
happening.  The MiniScribe pixie wrote `hee hee hee hee' in the
margins of the page.  What happened next occurred in such a short
frame of time that Kelanie had to mentally play it back at half
speed later, to catch what had happened...
 The only thing Kelanie could compare it to was the scene in John
Carpenter's remake of `The Thing', where the alien had split down
the middle and bitten someone's head off... Mark (or whatever it
was) leaned forward in his seat slightly, his cute behind split
like a pair of huge jaws, and then clamped down on Alannah's
foot.  Kelanie's eyes widened as she saw rows of serrated
shark-teeth sink into Alannah's leg.  The Princess of Inka paused
in her lecture as Alannah shrieked in agony, writhing in her seat
as the Mark-Thing's rear mouth chewed its way up her shin.  It
seemed to have almost doubled in size, a head the size of a
toilet-bowl perched on shoulders almost two metres wide. It got
out of its seat, waddling awkwardly towards the door, dragging
Alannah by the leg.  After a few moments, the screams had faded
and the lecture continued.

   *             *              *              *              *

 After the lecture, kelanie dropped in to the Suteriik to grab a
snack, and found the Mark-Thing sitting at a table, daintily
eating one of those little Fruche-Yoghurts.  She recognised it
then.
 `Mark!  I see you finished building your Golem.' She sat down
opposite the Golem, who reguarded her with dully gleaming eyes
and a feral grin.
 `Yes,' It grunted in a voice almost three octaves lower than
hers, `and I can control it without leaving your closet.  Oh, if
you're wondering what happened to Alannah...'  Here it gave a
basso belch, and it dropped a blood-stained Reebok onto the
table.  It whistled a tune that kelanie recognised as Rod
Stewart's `Footloose and Fancy Free'.  Old Granny, the owner of
the Suteriik, came over and said sternly,
 `Please keep your feet off the table!'
 `It's not my foot, Granny.' the Golem replied.
 `Oh, that's okay then.'

             :-)    konets    (-:


In Support of J.R.R.Tolkien's Suppressed Paedophilia

      `Still,  the girl is thin,'  Lord Uls  pointed  out.
      `For  adequacy and advantage,  a female needs proper
      amplitude.'   Duke Cypris  gave qualified agreement.
      `A learned Moor  has worked out  the  exact formula,
      though I forget the numbers;  so many  square inches
      of skin to so many hands in height.  The effect must
      be sumptuous but neither expansive nor rotund.'
      `Quite so.  That would be  carrying the doctrine too
      far.'
                   - Jack Vance, `Lyonesse:Madouc'

 Gargamon,  King of the Trolls, sat down heavily (unavoidable in his
case)  on his throne,  sighed deeply  while rubbing his crotch,  and
then clapped his hands for his Vizier, the inestimable Kargoon.  The
grotesque  (grotesque  even by  troll  standards)  Vizier  bowed low
before the throne,  swept his arm around  in an  extravagant gesture
(extravagant, for a troll, that is), and grunted,
 `How may this servant fulfill his duties, Lord?'   Gargamon  spoke,
in the basso rumbling that was the mark of his dynasty.
 `I'm sick of  poking those trollops in the Royal Harem.   I want an
elf.'   Kargoon looked up sharply.  `And not just any old elf wench.
I want a little girl,  say,  about fourteen... blonde hair... a cute
little elf maiden for my bed tonight.  And make sure you find ALL of
her weapons this time!'  he snarled,  stroking the badly-healed scar
that ran down the side of his large,  lumpy nose.  `Either that,  or
make sure that  she's securely bound.'   Kargoon nodded,  bowed even
lower and backed out of the throne room.  Once through the doors, he
muttered to himself,
 `Shite and onions.  That old pervert is getting worse every minute!
What next,  the Queen of the Elves  herself?'   He strolled down the
torchlit corridor  that led from  the  throne room  to  the Slaver's
Quarters,  hands clasped behind his back,  occasionally  pausing  to
kick  one of the human servants  out of his way.   `Hmmmn yes,  it's
only a short step from prepubescent elves,  to sheep,  and thence to
rabbits...'  He stopped at the huge iron-bound doors of the Slaver's
Quarters,  and rapped five times with his staff.   There was a short
delay - not long enough to be annoying,  but just long enough to say
`I know that you're the King's confidant, Kargoon,  but don't forget
who supplies him with his toys.' - and then the doors began to part.
Impatiently,  Kargoon  kicked them open,  hoping to fetch  Bargeld a
cruel blow,  but the short,  almost dwarven troll was  too quick for
him.
 `Ha ha haaaaaa!  Missed me!' he chortled,  hopping from one foot to
the other in glee.  By way of answer, Kargoon whacked him across the
head  with his staff,  which  bonged on Bargeld's  metal  skull-cap,
making the Slave-master's head ring like a carillon.
 `The King wants an elf.'   Kargoon began without any preliminaries.
`Female.   Fourteen years old.   What have you got?'  Bargeld rubbed
his  resonating head  with his left hand,  stroked his chin with the
claw that substituted for his right  and stared off into space, deep
in concentration.   While he was completely absorbed  in doing this,
Kargoon  looked over  the cages in the Slaver's Quarters.   Pickings
were slim; a few bedraggled humans, an old nag of a centaur, a were-
jaguar  with fleas  and  something  that  resembled a  ten-foot-tall
shaved ape  that  sat in the  corner  of its cell,  making `ook ook'
noises.
 `Oooh,  nah,'  Bargeld opined,  examining  a  rough sheet of  paper
marked with  the cryptic symbols  he employed to keep a tally of his
slaves, being as he was illiterate even by the undemanding standards
of the Trolls.   `Ever since  the Elves  beat us  at  the  Battle of
Kirkweed Pass, there hasn't been much of a market in elves.  If it's
really important,  I can  arrange an  elf-napping for you,  but I'll
need a  signed order from the King,  along with  an Order number,  a
Work Group,  a Cost Code,  and a  Risk  Evaluation  report  from the
Tactical/Diplomatic  Bureau,  as  well  as  -  ack!'  Kargoon pushed
Bargeld  up against the damp rock wall of the cells,  with his staff
across the smaller troll's throat.
 `Listen,  short-arse.  I'll be back after lunch.  If you don't have
a fourteen-year-old elf for the King to poke by then,  you are going
to be in serious trouble.   And if you want an idea of what "serious
trouble" entails,  just pop up  to the  battlements and say hello to
Battle-Captain Hirnsage.   He's the one  impaled  on the flag-pole.'
With that,  Kargoon allowed the  Slave-master to  drop to the floor,
and stalked out, slamming the doors behind him as usual.

                *       *       *       *       *

 Making his way to  the banquet hall,  Kargoon's  ponderous brow was
furrowed  with the effort of thought.   It did no good to intimidate
the Slave-master (even if it did make him feel better); there simply
were no elves to be had,  given the  current political  climate.  He
would have to sort this out by himself.
 He sat at  the end of the  banquet table,  swept the remains of the
previous diner's meal onto the floor,  and smashed his staff against
the table a few times,  shouting,  `FOOD!   FOOOOOD!'.   A  harried-
looking  human male  stumbled out of  the kitchen,  burdened  with a
black iron platter the  size of a bath-tub, which held an assortment
of greasy, smoking haunches fresh from the ovens.   He dropped it in
front of  Kargoon,  who absently swiped at him  with his staff,  and
tucked into the meat.  While he tore strips of rancid flesh from the
heavy bone  grasped in  his right hand,  he  scraped  the  inch-long
fingernails of the other hand against the platter,  making a hackle-
raising  screeching   sound  which   soothed  him  as  he  made  the
unaccustomed effort of concentrating on his problem.   He considered
visiting the witch in the nearby human village with a view to having
a simulacrum made up,  but then  recalled that the humans had burned
her for stealing babies which she sold to the elves as changelings.
 `Stupid bloody humans.' he muttered.  He then considered stealing a
human girl from the village and  slicing her ears open at the top...
he  discarded this idea  when  he  realised  that  even with magical
assistance, her ears wouldn't heal before the evening.  And besides,
once  the King got stuck into her,  he'd  notice  the  difference...
elven girls  had an  unusual anatomy,  able to  accommodate even the
unfeasably large generative member of King Gargamon.   A nasty smile
crossed his coarse features  as he  remembered  what was left of the
last human girl that the King had put it to.
 Someone put their hands  over his eyes from behind,  and grunted in
strangely-accented Trollish,
 `Guess  who?'   Kargoon's  response  was  to  push  his chair  back
suddenly,  which  would  have caught any troll  a  nasty blow to the
shins;   whoever it was jumped nimbly,  keeping their hands over his
eyes, landing on his broad shoulders and giggling.   He gave a deep,
rumbling sigh,  reached back  and  easily picked up Mariy,  a  young
human  female  who  was something like  fourteenth  under-apprentice
assistant cook,  and a barely tolerated nuisance.   He placed her on
the table  next to the platter,  which was  filled with bones coated
with cold grease, and examined her.
 She was about the right age,  but her hair was short,  shag-cut and
that unusual bronze colour that some humans had.   She  stood on the
table,  hands on her slight hips,  regarding him with  a mischievous
gleam  in  her  eye.   `Wanna see my  new magic trick?'  she  piped.
Kargoon remembered then that she had aspirations to be a witch.   He
raised his eyes in exasperation and said,
 `Not unless there is an easy way of preventing it.'  She pouted and
replied in a hurt tone,
 `Well,  I am going to show you anyway.   I've been  working on this
for  weeks.'   She  sat  down  on  the table,  crossed her legs (and
Kargoon found  his attention  straying to  the smooth expanse of leg
she displayed),  closed her eyes and  hummed something in one of the
High Tongues.   She  made a  complicated pass  with both hands;  the
humming rose in pitch;  she clapped her hands;  there was a flash of
golden light,  and when the after-image had  faded from his watering
eyes, Kargoon beheld an Elf-maiden sitting where Mariy had been. His
eyes  widened  in  surprise,  and  then  narrowed  again  in  crafty
anticipation.   The elf-maiden grinned,  and said  in Mariy's voice,
 `Isn't that neat?  The effect lasts for an hour, but I can't change
into anything else until  that hour  is up,  and I have to  wait for
four hours afterwards  before  I  can do it again.'   Kargoon smiled
slowly.
 `That is very impressive, Mariy, my dear.  Now, I would like you to
take a message to Bargeld Slave-master.'   His smile  broadened when
he saw her expression  at this news;  Bargeld  had a taste for young
human girls  and  had probably laid a lewd hand  (or claw - whatever
Bargeld had at the time)  on  her  previously.   He  took a scrap of
parchment from his pouch,  and scrawled  in  Pre-Knophritic Trollish
runes (which he knew Mariy could read but not understand):
 "Bargeld: Here is your girl elf.   Arrange an audience for her with
Bjerin Alchemist and myself, one hour before sunset.  Be there also.
Kargoon, Viz."  He handed her the parchment, and said gravely,
 `Take this and read it out to the Slave-master; return then to your
quarters.   You are relieved of  your regular duties for the rest of
the  day.   Do not  practice any  more  magic  today;  this  is very
important.  You could soon be moving up in the world, my dear.'  and
he gave her  his most  pleasant smile  (which  still  looked  pretty
revolting,  with grotesque fangs  denting his upper lip  and tapping
against his nose-ring).   She  accepted  the  parchment,  bowed  and
jumped off the table.   His gaze followed her  lithe form as she ran
off.   He wondered if  the King would  object to  him  having  a  go
afterwards.

                 *       *       *       *       *

 `He's late, as usual.'  grumbled Bargeld, sitting on a stool at the
end  of the  table in the  War Room;  the  only  one  available that
evening,  the other conference rooms  being taken up with the King's
`Looks Like We Beat The Snot Out Of The Humans - Again' celebration.
Bjerin,  a tall,  nervous Troll with  battle-axe ear-rings, muttered
something placating and took another toke of the foul-smelling herbs
in his pipe.   Mariy,  dressed in her  shapeless grey kitchen-smock,
sat  quietly  in the corner,  puzzling  over  the  message  she  had
delivered  for Kargoon  (she had memorised it).   Bargeld hopped off
the stool and scuttled towards the door,  which suddenly swung open,
catching him a  violent blow on the head  and  knocking him  off his
feet.  Kargoon stood in the open doorway, seething.
 `You stupid bastard... next time you hold a conference,  be as good
as to  tell me  which room it's in?   I've been through  just  about
every room  in the palace  except the privies.'  Bjerin snickered at
this,  quickly sobering  his  expression when Kargoon glared at him,
and saying,
 `That  would  have  been the first place  I'd've  looked.'  Kargoon
regarded him balefully.
 `I can imagine.  All right, let's get this show on the road.  Girl!
Front and centre!'  Mariy jumped up,  smoothed her smock,  and stood
to attention before Kargoon.  He stalked around her, eyeing her like
a  general inspecting his troops before a battle,  prodding her with
his staff.  `This magic trick you showed me... how much control over
the details of the transformation do you have?  Such as, hair colour
and the like?'  Mariy replied proudly,
 `Complete control, my Lord.   I can even make myself as tall as you
if I want,  or as short as the Slave-master.' she said,  pointing to
Bargeld as he sat on the floor, rubbing his head.
 `I'm not "short",'  he snarled,  "I'm just...  not tall."   Kargoon
took a parchment from his pouch, unrolled it and held it up for her.
It showed an artist's impression of Lysa-Ryed, the young daughter of
the Elven King.
 `Can you  duplicate  her?'  Kargoon asked.  `Here and now?'   Mariy
swallowed nervously, took the parchment and glanced at it.
 `I - I think so,  given a  few moments to study this.' she replied.
Kargoon waved his hand.
 `Take your time.   We don't have the time to  correct any mistakes,
so I want you to get it right first off.'  Mariy sat down, carefully
examining the parchment.  She tore a fragment off one corner, chewed
it  thoughtfully.   She  hummed  the  incantation,  made the passes,
clapped her hands.   Kargoon had the foresight to avert his eyes and
thus avoided the blinding flash,  but Bjerin and Bargeld were not so
lucky; the latter more so, his dizziness suddenly becoming a full-on
headache.   Kargoon regarded Mariy's new form with interest.  It was
the  Elven Princess  down to  the smallest details,  her  delicately
pointed ear-tips  poking through  masses of flowing blonde hair.  He
admired  the budding breasts  which  pressed  against  the  front of
Mariy's kitchen smock.
 `Very nice,'  he murmured, signalling Bjerin, who was still rubbing
his eyes from the effects of the flash. `Bjerin?  If you will.'  The
Alchemist  stepped forward  and  pressed  a  damp sponge against the
Mariy's mouth for a moment.   She maintained a  look of surprise for
three breaths,  then rolled her eyes up  and collapsed to the floor.
Kargoon stepped forward and caught her.  Consulting the twenty-four-
hourglass,  he noted the time and told Bargeld,  `Now, to the King's
Private chambers.  We have but an hour.'

                 *       *       *       *       *

 Gargamon beheld the  shapely form which was trussed securely to the
four  corner-posts  of his bed,  resting  face-down  on  the matted,
malodorous furs.   He grasped her foot,  ran  a filthily-clawed hand
down the  lissome length of her leg,  stroked the thigh, pinched her
buttock.
 `Okay,  get the hell out.'  he growled to Kargoon and Bargeld,  who
cowered  near  the  doorway.   Kargoon  tugged  at the collar of his
tunic, and said imprecariously,
 `May  I  remind  my  Lord  that the duration of this enchantment is
limited to the  space of one hour,  after  which  the  original form
will-'
 `GET OUT!   OUT  OUT  OUT!' Gargamon bellowed, throwing a pillow at
the pair,  wishing he had something a bit more weighty, like a mace.
They ducked,  fleeing the Private Chambers.  The Troll King returned
his hungry attention to the pseudo-elf-maiden, drooling slightly.

 `What do you  suppose will happen  when  the  hour  is up?' Bargeld
said, holding up a pair of his fur leggings, regarding them and then
tossing them aside.
 `I imagine she'll resume her human form,  with a resulting decrease
in the dimensions,  flexibility  and general accomodatory properties
of  various orifices.'   Kargoon  glanced  about for  the case which
contained his razor-sharp letter opener, spotted it and placed it in
his sack.   Bargeld nodded,  folding up his rank-smelling collection
of  undergarments and  pushing them into  a chest already overpacked
with his other personal belongings.
 `Could be painful,  particularly  if he's right inside her when she
does it.'  Kargoon winced at the thought, and then, as he packed his
collection of  Elven thigh-bone nose-flutes before fleeing the Troll
Kings' domain, said thoughtfully,
 `Mind you, some might enjoy that sort of thing.'
 `Serves the old pervert right.' Bargeld snickered.

 Gargamon was, indeed, buried almost to the hilt.  He kneeled on the
end  of  his  bed,  grunting  hoarsely  as  he thrust,  the bedposts
creaking as the ropes were strained to their limits.  He ignored the
whimpering noises that came faintly from underneath the pile of furs
that covered  Mariy's head,  subsuming them  in the halting rhythmic
grunts that,  together with the creaking bedposts,  became an almost
martial  marching tune  (the King  being in a military frame of mind
after the evening's celebrations).   He drew back,  relishing in the
slick  feel  of elven  labia  over  his warty,  knobbed member,  and
slowly,  cruelly,  entered  again.    This thrust elicited a wail of
distress  from  her,  prompting Gargamon to  lean over  and  paw her
tender breasts with his leather-tough hands, saying:
 `Now, now, my only!  What cause for distress?  As the human empire
is  on its knees,  I will have  plenty  of time to attend you!'  He
withdrew,  loosened the  ropes  at  her hands,  untied  her feet and
whipped the furs from over her head.   He grasped her waist,  turned
her over so that  her arms were crossed over awkwardly.   She glared
at him,  still slightly dazed from the fumes  Bjerin had drugged her
with,  mouth working at the gag  that had been fixed into her mouth.
He smiled fondly,  taking the ropes  attached to her feet  in either
hand and drawing them back.   Her eyes widened in panic as he ground
his hips forward,  lifting the ropes around and  over his shoulders,
her knees tucked under his arms.   The  broad head  of  his erection
pushed at her entrance for a moment,  and then haltingly slid in, to
the  accompaniment of  her muffled cries  of distress.   He  gyrated
wildly,  eyes half closed,  shaking the bed and emitting pleasurable
moans of such volume that  he didn't notice her hiccough  and sudden
silence.   He also failed to see her  pale  tresses take on a copper
lustre and  he entirely missed  seeing the  pointed tips of her ears
twitching.  Her hour was almost past, and the spell was beginning to
fade.
 Gargamon's  rampant thrusts  began to decrease in frequency,  while
increasing  in  passion.   His  fanged  mouth  opened  in   ecstatic
epiphany; a Troll Orgasm is such an infrequent thing that the trolls
learn to experience them to their fullest,  and as Gargamon's moment
drew near,  he  became of a  sensation  of  constriction  around his
member.   He  thrust once more,  shaking the bed and  roaring louder
than  a wounded basilisk  as his  rancid semen  shot up his  twisted
shaft  and  pumped  into  Mariy,  whose form was  quivering with the
suppressed  magical  energy  of  transformation.   He  leaned  back,
lifting her hindquarters from the bed,  the ropes crossing her hands
snapping  simultaneously.   She balanced precariously  on the end of
his rigid shaft,  impaled much in the same fashion as Battle-captain
Hirnsage was  (if not  on a marginally more comfortable instrument).
The outlines of her body  wavered as if viewed through the haze of a
kitchen fire  as  her vagina began to return  to  human proportions;
the motion  squeezed  Gargamon's  erection  painfully  as she pushed
herself inexorably upwards,  sliding on the foul lubrication that he
had imparted to her.   She sat for a moment on the broad head of his
penis,  then slipped off,  gasping,  to fall in the  puddle of fluid
that had  accumulated beneath.  Gargamon kneeled there for a moment,
his turgid lance held over her like a victorious battle-standard.
He laughed, regarding her in admiration and removed her gag.
 `You elves!   Is there nothing to which you won't stoop in order to
engage one's desires?'   Mariy lay there for a moment, then realised
that this was to her advantage;  Gargamon had  often taken  elves as
his personal favorites.  Kargoon had been belatedly right.
 `My Lord.' she murmured in Elvish, smiling sweetly.

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