Message-ID: <7408eli$9803311952@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: jaypee Subject: An Invitation to Chaos NC MF and more Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <3521166A.456D@KIVA.NET> An Invitation to Chaos NC MF and more by Joy Paine Here is an invitation, if it is accepted by the moderator, to an adventure that may end either in chaos or a lot of fun. Or it may never end at all. The following is the opening of a story that was published in one of the lesser reading lists. I am very unlikely to finish it, so I offer it as a roux which you may use to concoct your own gravy. I suggest one rule, to confine the chaos a bit -- identify your contribution in a way that will enable readers to fit pieces together in the order that you intended. My suggestion would be to tag your piece with some message like: Harry's episode number One; to follow Joy's episode One. If you don't like Harry's number One, post your own suggestion for a chapter to take its place. For the sake of author joining the game in the middle, I would suggest that the above preface be included with each of your submissions. HONEYMOON HORROR by Joy Paine Joy's episode One - the beginning Author's note: This is not an indictment of an old and honorable religion. It is not an indictment of Religion itself. It IS an indictment of those who abuse the power that they exercise by posing as spokespersons for a religion, in order to pervert the forms of that religion for their own base ends. I have seen it happen; you have seen it happen. In many centuries, in many countries, and masquerading as many religions. Pray to your own god that we will not see more of it. Now to the story . . . Eva stood alone in the small room, naked and shivering. She had to stand, because the interrogation room was bare of all furniture. As bare as Eva herself was. Actually, the temperature was quite comfortable. Her trembling was from fear, rather than from cold. Fear of the unknown, and of the half-known. Very few men had ever returned from a session with the dreaded Secret Police, and those that had returned had been broken in body and in spirit, unable and unwilling to talk about the atrocities that their scars and deformities bore mute testimony to. Yes, very few men had returned from those torture sessions. And no women at all. Eva had been on her honeymoon when she was arrested. She knew that the resort hotel to which her bridegroom had taken her had been condemned by her country's fanatical leader, as condoning -- even encouraging -- public behavior that was contrary to his own interpretation of the laws of his ancient religion. But the resort was a private one, open only to paying guests who went there by mutual consent, and she and her young husband felt that they were doing no harm by enjoying their country's benign sunshine in such private surroundings. Eva and the other five women who had been singled out for special attention had been at the swimming pool when the raid took place. And she noted, somewhat cynically, that the six chosen victims were not those who were dressed in the most revealing costumes. Rather, they were the ones with the most attractive bodies -- the most enticingly tapering thighs, the most gloriously rounded figures. She had always been proud of her body, ever since it had ripened into the luscious curves of young womanhood. She had taken very good care of that body, maintaining a strict regimen of diet and exercise, and making sure that every square inch that the law permitted was covered by a healthy tan. She knew that her husband was turned on by that tan, and by the small areas of untanned skin that made it look as if she were wearing a white bikini. But only her husband -- and only after he became her husband -- and a few of her intimate women friends ever saw those parts of her. And her doctor, of course. The police came in boldly; their submachine guns at the ready. All of the hotel's guests, and the staff, had been rounded up and forced into the hotel's dining room, where they were made to watch a robed judge hold a "trial" of Eva and her five fellow victims, and of their escorts. Some trial! she recalled bitterly. None of the accused had been allowed to speak, nor had there been any testimony against them. "Your own shameless conduct bears testimony to the fact that you have put yourselves outside the laws of our religion," the judge had intoned. "You men will be executed summarily, while the women will be taken to prison, to undergo a punishment more fitting for their sex." And that was it. While the guards held the crowd helpless at gunpoint, each of the men was shot, right in front of his loved one. A single pistol shot in the pit of the stomach, not immediately fatal; but they would be denied medical attention while they died slowly, in great agony. And then the male staff and guests, and some of the less attractive women, were locked in the hotel cellar, while the soldiers took the rest of the women (and a few men) to other places for their amusement. Various other places, but mostly to the bedrooms. Eva could hear the screams of the women as she and the five other widows were herded into the waiting patrol wagon. One of her guards chuckled. "They are the lucky ones," he taunted Eva. When she arrived at the interrogation center, Eva had been unceremoniously stripped of her bathing costume -- to the delight of the guards, who took advantage of the procedure to do a little "private enterprise" pawing and pinching -- and given a very thorough medical examination. While they were waiting for the results of the laboratory tests, she was taken to the showers, where she was required -- under the supervision of a woman who looked like a wrestler -- to bathe and shampoo thoroughly, to blow-dry her hair and comb it neatly. And then she was given an enema, and her body was perfumed. "Those infidel Americans," the guard said, "maintain that cleanliness is next to godliness. We do not subscribe to any such sacrilege, of course, but we do insist on certain personal standards during your stay here." And then she was taken to the interrogation room. The officer who came in was old enough to have reached a position of some authority with the police -- old enough to have earned the right to be first to interrogate his quota of the incoming women -- but still young enough to be stirred by the sight of that beautiful naked body. Especially when he knew that that lovely body was going to be completely at his mercy for the next few hours. Or days. Or . . . who knows? he thought hungrily. Sometimes they last for months, although he knew that his own interest would have switched to some new prisoner in that time. But there would still be someone to look after this fragile flower's needs, even though she would, in all probability, be nowhere nearly so beautiful by that time. But there would always be someone, as long as she breathed. Or sometimes even longer . . . "Ah well," he murmured. "How small a part of time they share, Who are so wondrous sweet and fair." He bowed to Eva, in mock gallantry. "Good evening, my dear. I have the good fortune to be in charge of the initial phases of your torture. And I think that it might save both of us some trouble if we understood one thing from the beginning. While your sentence requires that you endure a great deal of pain -- and other unpleasantness -- during your stay with us, you will soon realize that torment comes in various degrees. And for this reason you will find it to your advantage to obey instantly any instruction you will be given. We will tolerate no resistance, no defiance, no delay. If you remember this rule, you may save yourself a great deal of agony. Or at least postpone the day when that agony will inevitably arrive," he added as an afterthought. "Do you understand?" She understood only too well. "Yes, sir," she murmured. "Call me Master," the man barked. "Yes, Master." "Of course," he went on, "sometimes we will deliberately goad you into disobedience -- give you an order that you are physically unable to obey, for instance, or one that you are psychologically not ready to accept -- just to give us an excuse to increase the severity of your punishment. After all, we do deserve a little fun, in a demanding job like this." He gave her a few moments to digest the horrifying thought. "And my first order is that you stand up straight, with your hands at your sides, so that I can get a good look at that lovely body." Unconsciously, Eva had been trying to shield her nudity from her captor's lustful gaze, crossing her arms and legs in a sort of September Morn crouch. And he had been enjoying the proof that her modesty was being outraged. But now it was time for action . . . By a supreme effort of will, Eva obeyed the man's order, seeing his gaze go immediately -- as she had known full well it would -- to her bosom and her crotch. He walked over to her, put his hand on her shrinking shoulder with surprising gentleness, stroked it down her back to her waist. "A very lovely body," he crooned, his hands following his words as he continued "and I'm sure that it will give us many hours of supreme delight. These nicely rounded buttocks, the full tapered thighs, the firm high breasts . . ." His hand paused for a moment, squeezing gently, toying with her nipple. Then a warning squeeze, brief but painful, as Eva tried to shrink away from his touch. "You will soon learn," he went on, "that my torments tend to concentrate on the tits." He punctuated the change in mood that followed his shift to the more vulgar words by squeezing brutally, first one breast, then the other. Then both, his arms circling her from behind, pressing her back against his belly and his aroused maleness, holding her while her feet beat out a little dance of pain, and she sent scream after scream echoing against the little room's unpitying walls. Finally, he released her. "And there are many delightful torments for the cunt, too," he went on, as if there had been no interruption. "No, don't squirm like that. The little treasure should be just about here . . . there it is." His thrusting finger, without any lubrication, hurt like fire as it made its insulting invasion. He held it there while he went on with his monologue. "Of course, any cunt at all is good for torture. They all respond equally to the whips, and the pins, and the electric shocks, and the branding irons. And any woman can be taught -- and persuaded -- to fuck most satisfactorily, regardless of what her cunt looks like. But a pair of tits and an ass should look just like yours, in order to give the most exquisite response under torture." -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |