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Archive-name: Fantasy/forgers.txt


Archive-title: Forgers Retreat and Other Stories

         `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


 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'


 `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


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


 `Well,  she  turned  me  into a newt!' We sighed, waiting for the


 `... 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


    `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


 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

   ` 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


   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


   `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.


 `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...'


 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.


  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


 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.


 "...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


 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


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


 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




 ++   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 "".


                   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


             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


     `EXPRESS'.  again:

     `PAY'.      again:

     `PER'BACH'. once more, to fit the Law of Fives:


 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


 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


 `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


 `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


     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


 `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


 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


 `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


 `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


 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:



    talking in my sleep again

    eyes twitch


    a sentimental


   (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


 `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


 `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


                   - 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


 `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'


 `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


 `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


                 *       *       *       *       *

 `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


 `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


 `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


 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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