Message-ID: <1623eli$9706241754@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.kom Subject: Nurse Jones Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: The THC Adult Text Archive: NRSJONES.TXT (226 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. BEFORE YOU EMAIL ME, Please see the footer for important information. Visit http://vvv.com/files/Authors/Tom/wwwmy/acd.html ========================================================================== Nurse Jones steps out into the sun from behind a crumbling concrete wall and plants her boots well apart in the dirt. She's wearing fatigues, the shirt sleeves torn off at the shoulders, buttonless, knotted above a rock-hard midriff. Taking her time, she shakes her pack, checking the napalm level in the canister and hikes up the shoulder strap, shifting her breasts inside the worn fatigues. A bead of sweat starts it's journey downward from the hollow at the base of her throat, plowing a furrow through grime and dust. A wooden match shifts from one side of her mouth to the other and she spits expertly in the dust at her feet. Her boots used to be brown leather. One of them has duct tape wrapped around the toe, and her pants leg is ripped, revealing a brown muscled thigh steaked with sweat and dirt. Life in v-town has been tough since The Fall. She has a smudge on one cheek, and a ring through one nostril. A steel ring. Like I said: tough. Her gloves have the fingers cut off, revealing dirty nails. She runs one hand through her matted, short cropped hair and waits, impassive, looking down the decaying road. Knee-high clumps of dusty grey-brown grass are growing through the cracked asphalt. Blank and expressionless aviator sunglasses reflect a cloudless sky. -*- A breeze stirs her hair. Her head turns a fraction of an inch and her nostrils dilate. She senses something. Not yet, but soon. A faint sound, felt rather than heard, like distant thunder. Her face doesn't look like it has ever smiled, but if you looked closely you could almost see her lip curl. She knows she's picked the right spot to wait. The thunder grows. At the end of the ruined street there is a crunch of broken glass underfoot; a ragged figure staggers around the corner, sees the Nurse, and stops. He looks back up the street; a cloud of dust can be seen over the jagged tops of the broken concrete buildings. He looks back at the Nurse, back up the street. The thunder is louder. He decides, and runs toward the Nurse, stumbling over the cracked and crumbling asphalt. The thunder resolves to become the pounding of hooves. The clanking of weaponry can be heard. The lone figure nears the Nurse and slows to a staggering walk, uncertain, looking back over his shoulder. "You gotta help me," he croaks, his lips cracked and dry. His shirt is torn and he limps. One shoe is missing. She says nothing. He can see himself reflected in the glasses. The wooden match shifts again. Suddenly the earth shakes as a tidal wave of armored horsemen pour through a side alley onto the main street. The lead horseman reins to a halt, his horse rearing, and scans the road for his quarry. The other horses clatter onto the street behind him, bringing a cloud of dust. The horses are tired, panting, their flanks heaving. The leader sees his prey and wheels his huge horse. One by one, the riders spot the two figures at the far end of the street, and one by one, the ragged metallic scrape of sword against scabbard echos down the sunbaked concrete canyon. Spurs jingle, and they move forward at a trot, a rolling, unstoppable, clanking, armored steel wave, filling the street from side to side. The lone fugitive scrambles to hide behind the Nurse and looks over her shoulder at the horsemen reining to a halt in front of her. He whines, "They're gonna kill me. You gotta stop 'em." She turns her back to the horsemen and faces the lone figure. The horses move forward at a walk to stand close behind her, snorting and stamping their hooves. The dust begins to settle. Swords rest across saddle pommels, and the riders look down, towering behind the diminutive female figure in fatigues. The ragged fugitive looks up, squinting against the sun behind the armored riders, and realizes for the first time that they are huge. Seeing them in the distance, he hadn't realized because the horses, too, are enormous creatures. Their hooves alone are as big as his head. The lead horseman has a dirty rag tied around the end of his lance. It was once a scarf. He speaks, his voice sounding as though it hasn't been used in a long time. "You're a hard man to reach, Mr. Nain. Or is it Rich?" The ragged stranger stood, swaying, mouth open, looking from face to face. At the use of his first name, he smiled uncertainly, a glimmer of hope crossing his face like a furtive stray dog crossing an alley. Another rider spoke. The shape of her dented steel breastplate revealed her to be a woman of heroic proportions. "Dick will do." One of the riders in back sniggered. There was a sharp clank and the sniggering stopped. A crow cawed in the distance. "Who are you people?" the fugitive quavered. The lead horseman scratched absently at the four days growth on his neck. He lifted his lance and pointed it down at the fugitive, resting it on the right shoulder of the Nurse. A faint breeze stirred the dirty scarf hanging just behind the point of the lance. "Meet Nurse Jones." The fugitive's attention focused on the woman that he had hoped would protect him. "You're her?" He backed away from her and looked to the sides for cover, somewhere to run. Anywhere. The nurse slid her hand slowly up the lance to where it rested on her shoulder. Her left hand stayed on the flamethrower nozzle at her hip. The riders watched without moving. "You can't hurt me," the fugitive said, unable to take his eyes from the tiny half-gloved hand resting on the battered lance. "I got rights...." "Yeah," rasped the mounted armored woman, disgusted. "Virtual rights." She spat. The horse next to her shied away. She had something brown and shrivelled tied to the hilt of her sword. It had human hair hanging from it. A second glance, and you could see she was beautiful, under all the armor. Comprehension dawned on the ragged man's face. "You're the people from ASB...!" He was staring in horrified facination at the necklace worn by the woman. "Those are human fingers," he said, paling. "You cut off somebody's fingers...!" The horsewoman looked as though she was too tired to be offended. She said nothing. One of the riders in front leaned forward in his saddle, dusty leather creaking. He looked down at the cowering fugitive. "Nah. She only takes middle fingers from left hands. Don't worry sonny, those folks just hadda find another way to say good mornin' to her." The hand he rested on his left knee was missing a finger. Another snigger in the back row was ended by another sharp clank. A second rider spoke. He was big, even among these. "We're wasting time. Let's do it." The woman backhanded him without turning her head to aim. "You're always in a hurry," she rasped. The rider wiped a trickle of blood from his lip with a dirty thumb and grinned at her. It was not a pretty sight. "Later," he said. The ragged fugitive looked up, puzzled. "You let a woman top you...?" Snigger, clank. The armored woman shook her head patiently, almost sadly, as though she were dealing with a child. "I'm the bottom," she said, and paused. "You're right, Moon. Let's do it." The fugitive's shoulders slumped as he realized he was out of his depth. "But I got rights ... there are laws ... you people can't..." he faltered and stopped, took a step back. The wind stopped blowing and the dusty street was silent. Even the horses were still, watching. An insect rattled in the dry weeds. Finally, the Nurse spoke, her voice so soft that at first it sounded like a whisper. "I knew a Richard once ..." She took the wooden match from the corner of her mouth and toyed with it between her fingers, watching the fugitive. The Nain creature sank to his knees, broken, babbling to himself. "Whadda ya say, Nurse," one of the riders said, "he looks like he's had it." Another hoarse voice said, "Toast 'im, Jones." She paused, considering, for nearly a full minute, immobile, impassive, her blank sunglasses revealing nothing. The riders waited. The ragged man realized his life was in her hands. His face became a study in fear and uncertainty. He looked up at her, searching her face for a hint of sympathy, mercy, pity. Anything. The nurse held the match poised, ready to strike against her thumbnail. The ragged man stopped breathing, his entire being focused on the head of the match. The faintest trace of a smile played at the corner of the nurse's mouth, and for just a second she let the man dare to hope. "Let's find out..." the match flared to life, "...if this is a carbon based life form." -*- Nurse Jones, who could put up with it, or fight back, but given a choice between two evils, she always picks the one she hasn't tried yet. Snigger. Clank. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Archivist Notes: (1) Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the archive is available on CD. Please email adultarc@tommys.spydernet.kom to trigger an autoresponder that will tell you how to get the whole thing on CD-ROM. Change the anti-spam .kom to .com or it will bounce! (2) I didn't write any of the stories in the THC archive. I am not the author of this story. If you are the author and wish it removed from the archive or properly attributed, please email tommy@tommys.spydernet.kom (again, change the spam-resistant .kom to .com) with the particulars and I will take care of it. I respect copyrights and will always comply with the wishes of authors *when those wishes are communicated to me*. Please understand that I don't always get stories with bylines intact. (3) The total THC adult text archive is over 10,000 text files in number. This makes maintenance and screening exceedingly difficult. I am aware that some stories are incomplete, and I am also aware that some stories are excellent while others are crap. However I don't need these to be pointed out to me. Please refrain from emailing comments of this kind. (4) YES this is a real archive, it can be found on my dialup BBS at 250-361-4549. Adult verification is in effect. And while NO there is no FTP site or web page or telnet address, YES all three are coming in January 1998 or sooner... but for now, this newsgroup is the sole means by which I share the archive with the net.public. (5) I apologize for the length of this footer, but I get so much repetitive email that a micro-FAQ attached to each textfile seems the only solution... -=( Tommy )=- aka BSFH, "Bastard Sysop from Hell" (grin) THC BBS +1 250 361 4549 Visit http://vvv.com/files/Authors/Tom/wwwmy/acd.html -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /