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Message-ID: <36632asstr$1022454605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: david@f-e-mail.com (David Shaw)
Subject: {ASSM} RP: "THE BOYS FROM BELTEGUESE" (fantasy: M+/F: nc) By David Shaw
Date: Sun, 26 May 2002 19:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d



"THE BOYS FROM BELTEGUESE" (fantasy: M+/F: nc)

By

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY


I was getting ready to quit for the day when Dan Baldwin phoned and
asked me to stop by his office. Dan's the feature editors on the
'Record' and writing features articles are the kind of job that a
cadet reporter loves to get. So, I went to see him.

"Hi, Judith. Sit down. Are you still eager find a good story all to
yourself?"

Dan's a nice old guy, well into his thirties, but I'm sure he moves
the chair in his office before I go in there to get the best possible
view of my legs. Not that I mind. Firstly because I quite like Dan;
secondly, because he sometimes does me favors; and finally, because I
became leer-proof after my first week in the newspaper business.

"Sure. Have you got something interesting?"

He shrugged: "I've got something that I'm about 99 per cent sure is a
waste of time. But there's still that one percent of possibility in
it. I can't spend money following it up, there's too many more
important things to do. But I thought I'd mention it to you and see if
you wanted to check it out in your own time."

"OK, what's the story?"

"It's not really a story, just an odd situation. There's a place up in
the mountains called Lake Constitution. I had an e-mail a couple of
days ago from a guy called Scott Schneider who runs the local store up
there. He says a mansion at the lake has been taken over by some kind
of religious studies group. They keep themselves very much to
themselves, right down to high security fences and guard dogs in the
woods. 

"In fact the place they have is called 'Hyde's Island' and the mansion
is a miniature castle built by a gangster back in the thirties. Jake
'Toe Cutter' Hyde that was, from New Jersey. He was in retirement then
but it seemed he wasn't retired enough to suit some people. Anyway,
that's ancient history now. What's sparked my interest is the
possibility that this religious group at Lake Constitution might be
another sect in the making. They certainly seem to have something to
hide."

I wasn't sure what to say, so I scratched the back of my calf. That
was enough to keep Dan quiet and contemplative as I tried hard to
think of an intelligent comment and as he tried hard not to let his
eyes roam too obviously over the same area as my fingers.

"What's Scott's interest in this, Dan? These people aren't bothering
him, are they?"

He shrugged: "Oh, I guess he's hoping we'll run with the story the way
he's giving it to us, play up the mystery angle and maybe get a few
more tourists visiting the Lake out of curiosity. But I want some hard
facts before I publish anything."

"Do we really want to know about a bunch of religious maniacs anyway?"
I asked.

"Judith, sect stories are a journalistic minefield. Most of the time
they're as boring as hell and then you suddenly find yourself with a
Waco on your hands and everybody wanting to know how come the local
press completely missed out on what was brewing up in their own back
yard. I'd certainly like to know a little more about these people on
Hyde's Island but I can't afford the time or the budget to send
anybody up there on what information I've got right now."

"So?" 

"So, if you should develop a desire to spend a day or so sightseeing
around the Lake, and you should happen to find out something which
would develop into a real story, maybe you can get to write it. But
right now, the paper won't give you a dollar or a minute of company
time to dig any deeper. It's up to you whether you bother to take a
look."

"OK," I stood up. "Perhaps I can go out there this weekend."

I noticed that Dan was fiddling with his marriage ring, as if hoping
it would suddenly disappear -- for a weekend, anyway.

"If you want to, Judith, that's fine, but this has nothing to do with
the paper yet, so don't go getting us involved. No fronting up to the
local law waving your press card around, and definitely no contact
with this religious studies group on the basis that you're
representing the 'Record' in any way. You drift in, you drift in, and
coax the information out of the locals the easy way."

"And what's the easy way?"

"In your case, finding the local bar and then sitting on the highest
stool in your shortest skirt. Then just let your legs do the talking
while you listen to the local guys and see if you can pump them: or
vice versa, if you're in the mood."

"Dan, that's a very sexist remark." I leaned far enough over his desk
to let him catch a glimpse of my tightly packed bustier. "But since
I'm a pretty sexy lady I won't complain."

Dan gulped, looked away and flicked his hand at me: "On your way, gal.
Go and dangle your lures up at the Lake. And listen, make sure you
keep your cell phone handy and call me if anything at all happens.
Anything, anytime at all." Dan twisted his lips in self depreciation,
as though the idea I might ever need him was only a joke. "It's just
that I always get nervous whenever any of our people get within any
distance at all of these religious types. You never know when they're
liable to turn violent." 

"You mean like Pope Urban's speech which began the First Crusade to
the Holy Land?"

He smiled and ran his hair through his close cropped hair. He has a
nice smile sometimes, our Mr Baldwin, even for smart assed history
grads.

"Let's just say I'd be happier if you took one of your boyfriends with
you."

I looked back around the door: "Do you want me to take all of them? I
could save you a seat at the back of the bus, if you'd like."

He shook his head, grinning again: "I'm not a team player, I guess."

"Not even if I wear my cheerleader's outfit?"

"One day, Judith, it's a remark like that which is going to get you
into serious trouble."

I grinned and left Dan stewing nicely. If only I'd known how good a
prophet he was I'd have been hiding underneath his desk, screaming.

The Saturday morning started as roughly as my car. The old Civic
coughed out black smoke when it finally started, then settled for an
interesting shade of gray emissions to match the weather. Rain leaked
down from clouds pressing against each other for room in the dim sky.
My head ached, I hadn't had enough sleep and for two pins or a pair of
strong arms I'd have stayed in bed. Since nobody was around to offer
either pins or a pinfall, I settled for a flask of black coffee and
Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' on the CD player as I left the city
behind.

Most times I like the mountains, especially when I can get to see
them. This time they were all above the clouds. It was more like
instrument flying than driving: regular bursts of raindrops
splattering across the windscreen,  shiny wet tarmac continually
disappearing around hairpin bends and dripping tree branches clawing
at the mist patches sliding down the steep slopes. I wondered if I
could get a egg-and-bacon burger somewhere in lieu of breakfast. 

By the time the 'WELCOME TO LAKE CONSTITUTION' sign sidled up out of
the damp vapor I definitely had a grumbling stomach to match my
discontented mind -- this was all a waste of my time and my money. A
row of mock log-cabin type frontages appeared, most with verandahs and
all of them heavy on well trimmed lawns. Holiday homes, resort homes,
retirement homes, and many of them providing homes for garden gnomes
with fishing rods. About as peaceful and dull a community as you could
find this side of the pearly gates. 

Scott Schneider matched his community. He was probably the most
unstressed man I'd met in months. Mid forties, square-shouldered, trim
waistline, neat mustache, casual clothes, faded tattoos on his arms
and pleasant manners. He came across to me as the sort of guy other
guys would call for good advice if their wife had just left them or
they had a chevvy engine they wanted to rebuild. His own wife matched
him in quiet good looks and self confidence. Dark haired, wide around
the hips, a smile of welcome as genuine as Scott's, introduced as
Diane. One of the first things I found out about Diane was that she
cooked an excellent burger. I felt a lot better about things by the
time they both sat down with me. Scott poured out the coffee and I got
out my notebook.

"OK, Scott, maybe you could set the scene by telling me something
about these religious studies people?"

He reached over to a stand which had some tourist maps on it. It also
carried a lot of postcards with mottos like: "Old fishermen never die
-- they just smell that way" and "Old golfers never die -- they just
lose their balls". Lake Constitution was that kind of a community.

Scott opened the map and turned it around to show it to me. He rested
a finger on the village and then moved it around the edge of the lake,
to where a blob of land stood almost clear of the shore, connected to
it only by a thin strip of land.

"This is what we call Hyde's Island. It's about a mile and a half
north east from here. It's not really a island as you can see. There's
this tongue of land to it across the lake. A private road runs over it
to the island, with a high security fence which has been put across
the tongue at the narrowest point, where it's about two hundred yards
wide."

"A high security fence?" I asked. "How secure?"

"Very secure. Ten feet high, bent over at the top, and covered with
razor wire," Scott replied. "It stretches from one side of the
peninsular to the other, right down to the shorelines, and the only
break in it is the gate where the road goes through it. The gate is
permanently locked and with a sign on it saying the whole area is the
private property of the Priscillian Religious Studies Group."

"Spell that, please," I requested and Scott took a piece of folded
paper from his shirt pocket. 

"It's on there."

"What's this?"

"As soon as that sign went up, a month ago, I typed 'Priscillian' into
an internet search engine. This is what I got back."

I felt a bit chagrined. At one time it was the reporter who had the
facilities to do the research which impressed the reportees. Now
everybody knows everything. So I read the printout myself:

'Priscillian:-
 
Born 340 AD, died Spain 385, Trier, Belgica, Gaul [now in Germany].	
Early Christian bishop who was the first heretic to receive capital
punishment. A rigorous ascetic, he founded Priscillianism, an
unorthodox doctrine that persisted into the 6th century. Priscillian
taught that angels and human souls emanated from the Godhead, that
bodies were created by the devil, and that human souls were joined to
bodies as a punishment for sins. He was executed in 384 AD by the
Roman Emperor Magnus Maximus on grounds of sorcery. Thereafter
Priscillianism as an organized cult disappeared.'

I put the paper down and sipped on my coffee. "So we're talking about
somebody setting up a center to study a set of religious beliefs last
heard of over fourteen hundred years ago. That's a hell of a long time
to wait for a comeback -- or even a second coming."

"Maybe somebody left them some money over the centuries at compound
interest," Diane remarked. "That island and the house on it are worth
millions and I've heard said that it was a cash down sale, no
haggling."

I felt I was having difficulty in touching bottom on this one. "So how
much contact do you have with these Priscillians -- you and the other
locals?"

"None at all," Scott said. "They don't shop here, they don't drink
here, they don't visit here and they don't even hire anybody around
the Lake as cleaners or gardeners. All we see is an occasional vehicle
going out or coming back from the island sometimes. But where they're
from and who they are, we don't know."

"Scott, could I go and take a look at this island without making
myself too noticeable?"

"Sure. Just follow the road around the lake until you see the Hyde
island turnoff -- it's sign posted. There are pine trees on both sides
of the road right up to the island. You can walk through them as far
as the fence line. Then you won't be going any further, I guarantee
that."

"Yes ... " I kept on looking at the map. "Just suppose I got hold of a
boat and landed on the island itself? As anybody else done that
recently?"

"Nobody has landed on the actual island from the lake since about
1933, when Toe-Cutter Hyde turned it into a small scale Alcatraz. The
walls all around the shoreline are twenty feet high and topped with
broken glass. He was a man with a lot of enemies. Most of them
nicknamed 'Lurch'."

"Mmmm ... OK, but what about the piece of land on the other side of
the fence? Between the fence and the house. Is there anything to stop
me from going ashore there?"

"Only the pack of very shy and sensitive Rottweilers that run loose in
that area."

I was stunned: "You're joking!"

"Nope -- and neither are those dogs."

"What the hell is it with these Priscillians? Are they expecting the
FBI to come around with tanks?"

"That's what I was trying to explain to your newspaper, Judith.
There's something heavy going down around here but we can't get a
handle on it. Maybe you can."

Well, it was a pious hope but I couldn't see any chance of it
happening. If the locals couldn't find out anything about the
Priscillians I couldn't see any way I could turn up something fresh in
one day. Certainly not as a mere cadet reporter under orders not to
make any fuss. 

Then, as I was driving along the road around the lake, I had an idea.
I'd never yet heard of any company doing any kind of major work
without leaving some kind of advertisement on it -- a company name and
contact number at least. If I walked the length of the fence I might
be able to get a lead on the construction company that had put it up.
It wouldn't be much but at least it would be something to take back to
Dan.

I found the turnoff easily enough, drove on a little further and
parked the Honda away from the road, carefully checking the ground
first to make sure I wasn't going to get bogged down. Then I put on a
old windbreaker and slung a pair of mini-binoculars around my neck,
trying to look like a member of the Audobon Society. As a matter of
fact I am a wild life observer in my spare time. I often use the
glasses on the beach for hunk-spotting and butt-rating. Then I put my
Nikon Coolpix in my pocket and the ace reporter was ready for
anything. Or so she thought.

I walked back to the turnoff and followed the road through the pines,
fifty yards over on the left from the tarmac. It was still a gray day,
still overcast, with droplets of water ready to fall off the branches
and bushes at the slightest disturbance. There were plenty of fallen
branches as well, so I had to keep zig-zagging to get past the
obstacles. Whenever possible I favored my left side, until I saw the
surface of the lake and knew I was out onto the peninsula. Then I
swung left again until I was against the water's edge. The peninsula
curved over towards the side I was on and Hyde's Island was clearly
visible about a quarter of a mile away. I looked at it through the
binoculars.

Scott was quite right in his description. The whole island covered
about ten acres and as far as I could see it had a wall right around
that would have done credit to Berlin at the height of the cold war.
Behind the wall were the upper windows and steep roofs of a mock
Gothic monstrosity adorned with turrets and domes. Most incredible of
all, the whole place was a weird pink color. Xanadu meets Rosebud --
Citizen Kane would have loved it. Personally, I thought it looked like
a Disney World version of Herman Goering's hunting lodge.

How the hell had Hyde gotten permission to build such a monstrosity? I
guessed that a few county officials had been offered a choice between
picking up some easy dollars in bribes or getting on the wrong side of
a man called the Toe-Cutter. It's amazing how influential some
nicknames can be. Well, if all else failed maybe the US government
could be persuaded to bomb the place flat on aesthetic grounds -- it
didn't seem as if the Priscillians were committing any other offences
against the public weal.

I started walking again, following the side of the lake as closely as
I could, knowing the fence couldn't be far away. I certainly wasn't
likely to miss it, not from Scott's description. Nor did I, the silver
strands showed up well before I got to the clearing which had been cut
across the peninsula with the fence in the middle of it. About five
yards of forest had been cut back on each side of the row of concrete
based steel posts. In between the posts were panels of steel mesh with
strands of razor wire woven through them like grapevines growing on a
trellis. The whole thing looked strong enough to stop a herd of
charging elephants and vicious enough to keep out a crowd of British
soccer fans.

Being conscientious, I started my inspection at the shoreline,
surprised to find that the fence extended well out into the lake
waters. No expense spared here on security. What the hell, maybe it
was a recovery clinic for Hollywood stars. Even the paparazzi would
have a tough time getting in here. Already I was sure my bright idea
had turned out to be a dumb one. The people who'd organized this place
wouldn't have left any useful phone numbers lying around. But here I
was, so at least I'd go through the motions.

I walked alongside the edge of the cleared area, following the fence
towards the road. And then I walked straight into a miracle.

The thing was, I had to keep looking down at where I was putting my
feet because of the old branches and puddles that I was stepping
around. And just before I put my foot down on a patch of bare mud I
noticed there were footprints already in it -- and the first one was
only an inch or so away from the fence. Just as if somebody had walked
through a gate which wasn't there!

Well, you know how it is -- whenever you need an Indian tracker pronto
you can never find a Tonto. So I did the best I could myself in trying
to make sense out of it all. Some things I could make a rough guess
about. The foot prints had been left by somebody wearing trainers,
apparently brand new ones. The feet inside them seemed about the same
size as mine. The prints were slowly dissolving back into the mud, but
they surely hadn't been there very long to be still visible. They must
have been made the day before at the latest, or so I figured. And,
most interestingly, the first set of prints were no deeper in the mud
than the following ones. No indication at all of an impact landing. 

An impact landing! I looked up at the top of the fence and laughed at
myself. A kangeroo on steroids couldn't have leapt over that obstacle.
So there couldn't possibly be any matching footprints on the other
side of the fence, could there?

Well, of course there couldn't be, but I had a look anyway, standing
as close to the fence as I could with each of my feet astride the
footprint. The mud patch extended back underneath the fence, a tiny
trickle of water as wide as a fingernail running underneath the mesh,
and within stepping distance, another footprint right up against the
fence!

A joke! It had to be a practical joke by somebody with the strangest
sense of humor in all the world!

I was so absorbed in trying to make sense of this that I never even
saw what was happening, not until I heard a threatening growl from
somewhere around my knees. I looked up and on the other side of the
fence a set of pure white teeth snapped together in a bite big enough
to have taken my hand off in one go. The black eyes above the killing
machine jaws were as merciless as a shark's. The Rottweiler was sixty
pounds of bristling aggression, desperate to haul me down as prey for
the rest of the pack bursting out from under the trees. I shrieked and
fled for my life, fence or no fence.

It's strange how things come together though, because that was also
the same moment that I'm proudest of in my life. Although I was
terrified I kept my wits enough to thoroughly trample over the trainer
prints before I turned and ran into the trees. If somebody came along
to investigate the barking dogs at least they wouldn't see anything
but my footprints. And with any luck at all the pack of Rottweilers
now jumping up and down by the fence would mess up the prints on the
other side as well. I didn't know if those things mattered, but I
suddenly thought they might.

I also kept enough of my senses to know that I must try to follow the
footprints as far as I could. One look at all the pine needles on the
forest floor and I was downhearted. It didn't seem like much of a
chance.

Yet I was wrong. Whoever had been wearing the trainers, they seemed to
walk this way a lot. Enough to make a faint path anyway, and, thank
God, one which travelled in a dead straight line. Because of those two
pieces of good luck I was able to keep moving in the right direction.
Not very quickly, but staying -- literally -- on the right track.
Until I saw a mound of earth dead ahead, well overgrown with bushes
and clumps of grass.

About ten yards long and three wide, obviously man made, though many
years ago and long abandoned. Then it crossed my mind that perhaps it
was a pre-electric ice house, dug out as a store for lake ice during
the summer. That was why the earth was piled on top of it like a
wartime bunker, to provide the maximum of insulation, here in the
shade of the deep forest. So could somebody have an interest in coming
here nowadays?

It seemed not, for I could find no sign of an entrance, not when I
walked around it. But a casual look wasn't enough for me, not with the
memory of those footprints tormenting my curiosity. And when I started
probing the ground around the mound with my pen, I soon found that at
one end there were a layer of planks covered over with leaf mould and
fallen needles. I had to dig at the planks with my fingers, ruining my
nails doing it, but I eventually managed to lift three out, making a
big enough gap to drop into. It was like going into a tunnel and I
cursed because I'd have to go back to my car to get a torch. But then
I found a big upright neon-tube torch, apparently brand new. It was
standing at the corner of the entrance and it proved beyond doubt that
somebody came here regularly. I switched it on and crawled inside to
explore.

The first thing I found was that there was room enough to stand up in.
The walls and ceilings were made of planks, still in reasonably good
condition. They seemed to be anyway, and I sure hoped they were,
because I didn't want to get buried in a collapsed dugout. Then I
moved around with the torch and found old plastic crates turned upside
down for seats, a couple of stained mattresses and a rickety old fold
up table covered in stacks of magazines. Porno magazines, very well
thumbed magazines, and when I opened the pages I found out that the
mattresses weren't the only things in the ice house which had had
bodily fluids spilt on them. 

It seemed that what I'd found was a kind of clubhouse for adolescent
boys, and all of them obviously obsessed by the usual obsession of
adolescent boys -- sex. Another plastic crate had piles of cutout
pictures in it of assorted fucking and there was another table at the
end of the room, a whole lot of crumpled tissues dropped around it
onto the dirt floor. Scattered across the top of the table were sheets
of newspaper sprinkled with specks of soil freshly fallen from between
the overhead planking. I held the torch over the table and my eye was
caught by a small article which had been highlighted with slashed
textra marks around it. The article was brief and concise, about a
very, very famous Hollywood actress who'd had to cease work suddenly
because of high stress levels. Which sounded familiar enough because
I'd handled exactly the same news release at the 'Record' only three
or four days ago. And when I checked the date on the paper I was
right, it was only three days old.

I couldn't understand the way the evidence was pointing. This
particular lady's main attribute was the biggest set of tits in
Hollywood but the mere mention of her name in a newspaper didn't seem
enough to motivate a circle jerk. 

I shuffled the newspaper pages around and suddenly found a picture
underneath them, a very high quality color A3 printout secured to the
table top with pieces of ducting tape. And in the center of the photo
was the very same actress that the newspaper article was written
about. The last time I had seen her she'd been hosting a top music
award show on TV in a low cut dress: Robin Williams had described the
view it provided the drooling males of America as the grandest canyon
of them all. The audience had applauded madly and the actress -- let's
call her Ms X -- had coyly pretended she hadn't realized she was
displaying more tit flesh than a queue at mammography clinic.

That time she'd been perfectly in control of the situation. This time
she wasn't.  This time she was lying on her back on top of a padded
bench, her hands behind her head, each wrist held down. And if the
expression of horrified surprise on her face was make believe then she
had far more acting ability in her than she'd ever shown in any of her
movies. 

And I'd been thinking about papperazzi! This shot alone would stiffen
every prick in the country, if only somebody was game enough to
publish it. It couldn't be real though; it had to be a masterpiece of
digital fakery. A product of the same mindset which had set up those
footprints at the fence to make it look as if somebody had walked
through the mesh and razor wire where there was no opening.

I kept on saying that to myself as I looked at the photograph. The
detail was so fine I could see faint wrinkle lines around Ms X's eyes
which made her look a lot older than she did on the movies or on a TV
screen. Probably covered by makeup whenever she appeared in front of a
camera, even in her famous bathing suit.

Then I realized the implication of what I was thinking: nobody making
up a fake face on a graphics program would bother to invent a detail
like that. Which meant ... it was real? For God's sake, could this
really have happened? But how could a gang of young boys have gotten
these pictures? Unless they had taken them themselves? Which was
impossible, they'd never get past her security protection: not unless
they could walk through walls and fences ... 

My mind seized up like a locked computer program, going through the
futile routine of looking at the article again and again even though I
knew exactly what it said. 

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, I went back to the picture and
picked up on the details. It had come off a top quality printer, I was
sure, so the original shot had probably been taken with a digital
camera. The hands holding down Ms X's wrists were certainly male,
though the fingers appeared remarkably long and tapering. The padded
bench top the actress was being pinned down on looked like a massage
table. A detail which seemed confirmed by Ms X's dress and appearance.
She was wearing some kind of an exercise suit, a light red colored
track suit with darker red stripes patterned vertically into it and a
belt tied with a knot around the waist. A full length zip secured it
from neck to crotch, although the zip was pulled down far enough to
reveal a hint of Ms X's huge teats. The hood on top of the suit was
also pulled back to reveal a damp mass of wet hair and lines of sweat
trickling down the sides of her shocked face. Which at least explained
the lack of makeup over those wrinkle lines.

At a guess, I'd have said that the exercise suit was rubberized and Ms
X had been working and sweating away in it, fighting the daily battle
to keep her superb figure when she'd been rudely interrupted. Well, if
it wasn't a rude interruption yet I was certain it soon became one.
Held down and heaving like a stranded whale as she was, it was highly
unlikely any bunch of guys lucky enough to have a tight grip on one of
the most wanted bodies in the world would pass up the chance to
fulfill the ultimate wet dream.

Oh, but hell, that was what it was, surely? A horny dream. Just a
piece of wishful dreaming by some young guys playing computer games
with a hard core porn picture and a movie star's facial image?

My brain cells were short circuiting every which way but my eyes were
still working and no way could I not have lifted the sheets of
newspaper from the table top and looked underneath them.

There were three rows of the same kind of color printouts, all taped
to the table top. Each of them featured X's face and, increasingly,
her figure. Judging by the number of hands on her there were four guys
around the table grabbing at whatever they could, plus whoever was
using the camera. Somebody with shaking hands, anyway, because some of
the pics were blurred. But that was no surprise, because what had been
going on in front of the lens was every high school boy's wet dream
come true.

Especially like a dream in that things didn't seem to happen sometimes
the way they should in real life. But those aberrations were later on
in the sequence. At first, what I saw is what I'd expected. The long
fingers pulling down the zip on the front of the exercise suit, then
easing the thin rubber covering away from the white cups of a sports
bra with thumb width adjustment buckles on each wide strap, like a
parachute harness -- and apparently built to the same strength
specifications. And no wonder, because these cups started out where DD
size finished: I'm a big girl myself and proud of it but as far as
this woman's bosom was concerned God had shown a total lack of
artistic restraint.

The impression from the photos was that the boys themselves couldn't
believe that the cups were for real. Their fingers stroked the massive
cones, heads bent low over them for closer looks. And then I began to
get an even clearer understanding of the singer's totally dumbfounded
expression. It wasn't only the assault, it was the appearance of the
boys. They all looked different, yet somehow very much the same. 

Light skinned, dark skinned, three Caucasians, one Hispanic, an
African. But the faces were all triangular shaped, with hooded eyes
and high cheekbones. Not peculiarities enough to stand out in a crowd,
not if each boy was alone, but together they told an unmistakable
story of a shared parent -- a father, it must have been, because they
all seemed about the same age. 

I pinched the palm of my hand and looked around the scummy interior of
the ice store to get back in touch with reality. At least I could
explain the gang's obvious relationship easily enough. These boys must
be Priscillians and Dan Baldwin's suspicions about it being a sect
were probably right. And all these religious sects seemed to center
around the male founder's divine right to bed as many of the female
members as he wanted to. It looked like this sect must have been
around for at least fifteen years and that whoever started it was a
man with a lot of sexual drive. Overdrive was probably a better word,
judging by the size of his family, and it seemed to be an inherited
trait.

And then, suddenly, from one shot to the next, the exercise suit
disappeared. In one picture it was there, unzipped all the way, but
still on Ms X, her arms and legs inside it, the belt knotted around
her waist, ends hanging free. In the next shot the suit had gone and
all that was left on her body was a tiny pair of blue panties and the
sports bra -- and the belt that was still tied around her waist.

I couldn't understand it. With that belt left in place it would have
been twice as difficult to peel the exercise suit off Ms X's body.
Taking the belt off first would have been the logical way to start
stripping her. So if they did take the belt off, why would the guys
bother to put it back on again? And would they knot it again with
exactly the same kind of knot?

Then I noticed that her exercise shoes are still on her feet as well.
Yet dragging the close fitting suit down over them must have been
almost impossible. They'd taken her shoes off and then put them back
on again? Just to see how they looked on an otherwise naked movie
star? No way!

Again and again I looked at the two shots, comparing them. Then I
noticed the large bead of sweat close to Ms X's right eye in the last
shot with the suit on. In the first shot without the suit that same
bead of sweat was still there, in almost exactly the same place. And
Ms X's mouth is gaping open in astonishment. So is mine. Because in
the next shot a forefinger reaches down and touches the top of the
left bra cup -- in the next shot another finger from a different hand
rests on the other cup -- in the third shot the bra has also
disappeared and the two finger tips are gently rubbing the singer's
bared nipples!

When I saw this I almost dropped the torch. Compared to what I was
looking at here those Rottweilers back at the fence suddenly seemed
like playful puppies. For either I don't know Jack or else this is
heavy, heavy duty shit, and no wonder Ms X is being treated for
stress, never mind what else has happened to her. Just looking at the
shots I've seen so far has put me on the edge of a nervous breakdown
of my own. I ran my fingers over the camera in my pocket and knew I
would have to use it to photograph these photographs. Without that
proof to keep looking at I'd be doubting my own sanity as soon as I'd
left this crazy place. 

On the next row of shots groups of faces came together again, meetings
of brothers -- half brothers. Not only are some of the facial
expressions shared, there even seems to be a kind of empathy between
them as they handle the massive bared udders, squeezing each one so
the nipples are held high for waiting mouths to eagerly suckle. One of
the boys has a length of elastic which he keeps snapping against the
swollen nipples whenever he gets a clear shot: it's a hell of a way to
treat a pair of tits insured for a million bucks apiece. For a crazy
second I imagined the scene at Lloyd's of London when the underwriters
read the insurance claim on this incident. I'm even giggling at the
thought but I stop it when I think I hear something moving outside the
ice store.

I waited and I waited, but I didn't hear anything else except my
pounding heart, and finally I looked at the shots again. They're as
unreal as ever. These dudes aren't worried about being caught, they're
cool, they're so cool they smile at each other like they're smoking
joints behind the gymn at a high school instead of mauling a major,
major film star. How can that be? If these pictures are for real then
this woman must have had security guards nearby, and if they come
storming in these young delinquents will be hamburger meat. 

But it's Ms X's biggest assets which are the fast food item here and
she's not getting any help from anybody. None of the boys seem at all
sympathetic to her. It's that kind of shared mindset again that I
sense between them: they're in the groove, they're doing exactly what
they want to do and nobody else matters at all. Instead of being
frightened of being discovered they seem to be doing everything they
can to make their victim yell out at the top of her voice!

It's power I'm seeing here, and the power of a pack of young males
over one trapped woman is only the least part of it. Either I'm mad
enough to be institutionalized or these guys seem able to make things
disappear -- and re-appear too, maybe, because there sure wasn't any
hole left in that fence where the footprints had crossed it. Not one
big enough for a Rottweiler to get through, anyway.

I shook my head as if I'd been punched, trapped in a contradiction
between plain sense and plain sight. Things couldn't be the way they
looked, so these photos must be faked. And this whole setup must be
some kind of strange joke staged for anybody who comes snooping around
the Priscillians. But if it's a joke, how did this group of religious
nuts arrange that report about Ms X in the paper? I know that's not a
fake because the Record itself ran it -- for Christ's sake, it was me
that took it off the wire!

I can't find a way through the mental maze my logic is hopelessly lost
inside. I don't know whether I've stumbled into something a quantum
jump beyond incredible or whether maybe somebody is watching me on a
surveillance camera and laughing fit to bust. And then I realized my
arms were crossed in front of my body and I was gently rubbing my own
nipples. I also realized I was more turned on by the pictures on the
table than just about anything I'd ever seen in my life.

Maybe it was because I was inwardly convinced now that it really was
Ms X I was looking at on the shots. How often you get to see a movie
star being set up for a real live gangbang? And every girl wonders
about how she'd feel if she was in that kind of a situation: suppose
it was me on that bench, suppose it was me that was held down and
stripped off, suppose it was me who was having her tits played with
and sucked on, being made hot and ready for the first of her impatient
lovers?

Yes, for me that was a turn on too, but what was absolutely grabbing
me was a fantasy I'd had ever since I reached puberty. A fantasy about
the Greek myths and about how Gods like Zeus had come down among
mortals to pleasure himself with their woman. What must it have felt
like for a beautiful Greek girl to suddenly find herself being a fuck
toy for a bunch of pleasure seeking immortals visiting from Mount
Olympus? To be the slave of demi-gods with divine powers who could
punish or pleasure beyond limit at a whim?

Yes, it was a dream because there are no gods in real life. Some good
looking guys sure, a few I'd even gone down on my knees for, but none
I'd ever felt like worshipping. Perhaps I hadn't found the right sect
myself to join, or the right leader. But maybe that was changing,
because either I was a total moron or here was a gang of teenage boys
with genuine supernatural powers. 

OK, maybe it was a crazy thought but I had enough evidence on those
shots to make the idea seem plausible, and how much more evidence does
anybody need to justify a sexual fantasy? True or faked, I wanted time
to study all the photos for every detail in them. Even if they were
digital trickery they were still an incredible discovery. If they were
true ... if they were true then fate had handed me a chance that would
never come again in a thousand lifetimes. Overnight I could become the
most famous journalist in history!

But this wasn't a place I should be lingering in. It seemed like I'd
been here for hours already, and what if somebody had come to check on
those noisy dogs, or saw my car near the road? Yes, it was time to be
out of here. I needed time to think and plan. After I'd done what I
needed to do.

The first chores were the easy ones. Taking flash photos of the inside
of the ice house, then checking if there was any other photos anything
like the ones on the table. If there were, I couldn't find them,
everything else was strictly commercial type porn. Then I picked up a
few of the crumpled tissues off the floor. If these guys were anywhere
as near as strange as I suspected their DNA should be real
interesting. The thought did cross my mind that I'd collected sperm
samples before, but this was the first time I'd ever carried them home
in my pocket. Maybe I should tell that to Dan and watch him start
panting. 

The hard part was trying to photograph the shots of Ms X with my
camera. As good as it was, and even with the flash and the macro lens
setting, when I looked through the display screen I knew that what I
was getting was well below the quality of the originals. So that left
me staring down at the table with a multiple choice question. Take
none of the below? Take one of the below? Take all of the below?

Take none of them and nobody back at the Record would believe what I
was telling them. The second hand shots out of my own camera would
never carry the conviction that one of the originals photos would.

Take one of them and my story would be more convincing, but then the
owners of the pictures would know beyond doubt that somebody had been
here. Somebody who had been here and seen all the pictures. Somebody
who'd also picked up the tissues with the traces of cum from their own
cocks which linked them straight into a rape case guaranteed to send
the media totally apeshit if word about it leaked out. 

Which meant at least that the jerkoffs couldn't be anymore upset if I
took all their pictures instead of just one. And not only would I have
all of them to prove what I was claiming, I might even be able to do
better. I might be able to use the shots of Ms X's ravishment and the
used tissues as payment for hard information. Information which I
could use to write and authenticate my own story, whatever the hell it
eventually turned out to be. 

Oh yes, who could resist trying for a deal like that? And as for the
mightily endowed and muchly abused Ms X, well, fuck her again as far
as I cared. She'd made enough money to buy half the real estate in
California by cock teasing millions and millions of guys with her
bustline -- if she'd finally ended getting bust for it herself, that
was her problem.

What with my shaky hands and  broken fingernails it seemed to take
forever to peel the pieces of tape away from the pictures and put them
in my pockets. I didn't waste time looking at them closely, but
although they weren't any great displays of photographic talent they
were brilliantly graphic in content. Ms X had been totally fucked
every which way and it seemed that the usual opening routine was to
have her holding her tits together -- with a lot of other helping
hands -- for a guy to rub his cock between them while she licked his
ass. No doubt about it, when I had all the shots of her performance
stowed away in my pockets I had the makings of a real X file. More of
an XXXX file, really.

The one problem left, of course, was that I had no way of getting in
touch with this gang. And they had no way of getting in touch with me
either. And I sure didn't intend leaving them my phone number or
address.

OK, that was easily solved. In the old days it could be a bad move to
give your phone number to a guy: he might be great to look at but a
pain in the ass if he turned out to be a loser and wouldn't leave you
alone. But give him an anonymous email address and he can pitch his
woo as much as he likes without knowing a thing more about you than
what you look like. Which is how come I can pick and choose my guys
like Britney Spears; it's because I hand out f-e-mail cards to
anything in pants which takes my fancy. Collecting men for fun and
profit at two cents a shot is a great hobby once you learn to be one
of the hunters instead of the hunted, but I never thought I'd go
trawling for mutants -- well, not outside San Francisco, anyway.

I left one of my cards on the middle of the table, with my first name
written on it and one of my Hotmail addresses. Then, on impulse, I
picked it up again and scrawled a few words on the back: "What you
people need now is a real woman!" I put it down again and secured it
top and bottom with pieces of tape I'd lifted from Ms X's photos. In
one of the dark corners of the ice store I could almost imagine the
ghostly figure of Dan Baldwin shaking his head sadly at yet another
example of my impudence and inprudence. The poor old guy was right: I
am a born prick teaser.

So, it was time to go. I'd done everything my sense of journalistic
duty had ordered me to do and now I was off duty and out of here.
Maybe Scully would have handled the situation better but I'd done the
best I could. At least I was careful enough to remember to wipe my
fingerprints off the torch before I put it back. Then I replaced the
planks and covered them up again.

The dripping forest was darker than I expected, as though I'd spent
hours inside the ice store. When I looked at my watch I was shocked to
realize that the waning daylight was no passing illusion. I'd spent
over two hours down in the dugout, and the one thing you could surely
say about them was that I hadn't been bored, not once. Frightened yes,
but not as frightened as I was now, feeling like Little Red Riding
Hood scurrying away from a B&E job on the Wolf's den. If ever I came
back here I was coming with some serious back up, and I'd never before
been so glad to see the Honda.

Even when I was inside the car in familiar surroundings my nerves were
stretched taut in case I got bogged in the wet ground. But it didn't
happen and very soon I was driving back the way I'd come. Driving
dangerously, to be truthful, because my mind was so full of what I'd
found that I could hardly spare the attention needed to steer safely
along an empty road. Not only was I excited, I was tired, more tired
than I'd been for a long, long time. If I tried to make the long drive
back down out of the mountains right now I was going to be a major
danger to myself and anybody else on the road.

There was a motel in the middle of the township with the "VACANCIES"
sign illuminated. I booked a cabin and hit the bed for a late siesta.
But first of all I put all the photos and tissues in an envelope and
made sure the receptionist locked them in the motel safe. My last
thoughts before I dropped off was that I'd better find time to say
goodbye to Scott and Diane before I left -- I might need their help
again. But I certainly didn't want to spend much time with them: the
temptation to talk about what I'd found might be more than I could
resist.

Two hours solid sleep and I felt fine again. Well, physically I felt
fine. Mentally, I was still off balance. A great big crack seemed to
have opened in the way the world was supposed to be and that was hard
to accept. In many ways I'd be happy to be proved a fool and have done
with it, but those photos took more explaining than I could come up
with. I guess I must have stood underneath a hot shower for about ten
minutes just thinking about alternative plans. Call Dan now? Put the
photos on his desk on Monday morning? Tell Scott and Diane? Hire some
muscle and stakeout that ice store?

No, all those gallons of steaming water didn't wash away my previous
decision: keep the evidence to myself, stay quiet and let the gang
contact me quietly through the untraceable email back-channel. The one
thing I was sure of was that they would contact me and that they would
have to do a deal in return for the evidence I had on them. The
greatest story in history and mine, all mine!

I was as hungry as a fashion model and eager for the one stiff drink I
could allow myself before driving -- and that wasn't the only stiff
thing I would have welcomed. Ms X's enforced dancing-with-cocks
routine was still stirring up my basic instincts, not to mention the
excellent chance that I was likely to be a millionaire very, very
soon. Any good looking guy who made a pass at me tonight might be
luckier than he expected. And since there was a bar and grill complex
in the motel it was time to open the emergency allure kit. 

Of course I'd only bought the bare necessities into the mountains with
me. Just a simple silver and sequined mini skirt and matching top with
plenty of bare midriff on show and high heeled shoes. That outfit and
a generous splash of Fleur D'Rocaille should keep the wolves at the
door. I squinted into the mirror with half closed eyes as I applied my
makeup, trying to convince myself yet again that I really do look a
lot like Lauren Bacall. It would be nice to find a guy who'd tell me
that but none of the boys I date have ever heard of her.

I'd thought Lake Constitution was a quiet place but there weren't many
vacant slots in the parking lot outside the bar and grill. And the
waitress's smile flickered like a power outage when I asked for a
non-smoking table for one. I could see why, the bar room had two big
TV screens in it and one look at the crowd in there was enough to
remind me it was Super Bowl Saturday. She asked me if I minded
sharing, I said 'no' and ended up sharing a booth with two other new
arrivals. Two powerfully built Rhine maidens who politely switched
from German to near perfect English as I joined them.

Well, both of them were from Berlin really, on holiday and driving a
hired Winbago around the tourist areas. Hanna and her sister, Muni.
They looked more Spanish than German, both wearing stretch pants over
muscular skiers' legs which neatly connected their taut butts to two
pairs of high heeled boots. Each sister had wavy dark hair and brown
eyes. Muni was wearing a light sweater but Hanna had accentuated her
cowhide boots with a frilly white shirt. She gave the impression she
would be out on the dance floor at the drop of a sombrero, clicking
her heels and clapping her hands above her head. Perhaps they thought
they were in Texas. Anyway, the three of us together were soon getting
as much attention as each of the six foot by six foot TV screens.
Something we were well aware of as we chatted over drinks, examined
the menu and looked around the room.

It was a nice old fashioned sort of place. Dark green floral wallpaper
offset by dark wooden paneling with highly polished brass light
fittings. Waitresses in green shirts and khaki slacks weaved their way
around the tables with piled up plates and platters. Plenty of hunks
over in the bar room as well, munching wings, knocking back brews and
getting cricks in their necks from trying to divide their attention
between the NFL and our table. A couple of the guys deserved second
looks themselves, but first things first. A healthy girl has healthy
appetites, and one of them is eating. In exchange for a glass of
Merlot from the German girls' bottle I helped them through the
intricacies of an American menu. We'd just about agreed on Manhattan
Frisbees for the entree course when I noticed Muni was looking out of
the booth, half smiling but in a puzzled manner. I turned my neck: two
boys were standing close to the booth, staring intently at us as if we
were museum exhibits.

One Caucasian, one Hispanic. Triangular shaped faces, with hooded eyes
and high cheekbones. Watching us: watching me. I can't help giving an
involuntary start. Then I looked down at the place mat, my stomach
churning. I scrabbled for the menu and pretended to be reading it
again. For the first time I was suddenly very aware of my broken
nails. I'm even more aware of the boys stepping up close to the booth.
I looked up again. They were both lean, middle height, moving
gracefully, smiling. Looking at my hands. It's useless to try to hide
them under the menu, useless and much too late.

"Well, Ms Judith Stynes, I do believe. And so this must be your
property."

It was the Caucasian one speaking to me. He sounded as self assured as
he looked. I stared at him and at the envelope he handed to me. I took
it and saw that it looked exactly like the one that should be in the
motel safe. I looked again and read my name and room number written on
it and the attached receipt and date stamp. It was without doubt the
envelope I'd seen locked away in the massive old fashioned safe behind
the reception desk.

"Take a look inside, Judith. Let me know if everything's there."

He tipped the envelope over the middle of the table. One end had
already been ripped off and the photo's of Ms X spilled out over the
place mats and the cutlery. The photos, but not the tissues. The
German girls are trying to understand what is happening. Each of them
picks up one of the photos and Muni says something in her own language
which indicates astonishment as she recognizes the female face on the
pictures. 

Hanna answers: "Ja, Hollywood gruppenfick!"

Then she points to a male face on the photo she holding and tilts it
over so Muni can see. It is the Hispanic guy. He grins, bows slightly,
then sits down beside her. Hanna's face began to look as startled as
Ms X's. My own must have been very much the same as the Caucasian sat
down beside me, squeezing me up against Muni.

"What are your friends' names, Judith?" he asked me. His voice is
almost quiet, no sign of any emotions. As though we're not worth any.

"Hanna and Muni. We've just met."

"Are you telling me they weren't with you this afternoon on your
little fact finding expedition?"

It's like an old man talking to a slightly naughty child, a bored old
man inside a young boy's body. My skin creeps.

"That's right." 

"From the way they're staring at those snap shots I can believe
they've never seen them before. Hey, Hanna, Muni."

The Deutsch Madchen were comparing photos and giggling. Then they
looked at the guys with obvious respect. "Ladies, hi. I'm Alpha and
this is Delta. Over there are the rest of the gang; Beta, Gamma and
Epsilon."

We all look. It's true. From different directions three other boys are
slowly making their way towards us. Boys with faces we can see on the
photos dropped across the table. Faces suckling on the biggest pair of
tits ever half seen on the Grand Ole Oprey show. Muni and Hanna
exchanged sentences in words I didn't understand but which I can
easily translate -- what the fuck is going on here? It's about as far
as my mental processes have gotten as well.

"Alpha, Delta?" Muni asked. "Is that not Greek letters -- the Greek
alphabet?"

"You're a smart girl, Muni. But I think we can do without you two for
a little while." 

He nodded over the table to his friend again and suddenly I'm slumping
sideways, into the empty space where Muni was. I'm sitting in the
booth with two guys and nobody else. No Muni, no Hanna, but a picture
that Hanna was holding in her hand flutters down onto the table. And
now I know for sure I've gone mad. Especially when I hear the slap of
imploding air as it rushes in to fill the empty voids where the girls'
bodies were. Alpha smiles at me.

"Nice to meet you, Judith." He takes out the card I left on the table
in the ice-store and pushes it between the cleavage at the top of my
halter as if he was dropping a postcard into a mail box. "You're
right. We do need a real woman -- again. And now we've found you we
can put on a real show between us, right here, right now."

I didn't know for a fact that I was in deeper shit than I could ever
imagine -- but that's the way I'd have bet.

"Who -- who are you guys?"

It's dark skinned Delta who answers -- with a grin: "Us? We're the
boys from Belteguese."

By now a lot of diners have totally lost interest in the big game on
the two giant TV  screens. They're staring at the boys with the oddly
alike faces and going through the same kind of reasoning I've already
experienced when I saw their photos. Well, that's what most of them
are doing. There are a couple of tables nearby where the occupants are
desperately trying to believe that somehow they weren't watching us
when Hanna and Muni got up and walked out. Even though they know they
saw two human beings suddenly and quietly stop existing, their minds
refuse to accept it -- and I know exactly how they feel.

"Belteguese?"

"It's a star -- Alpha Orionis. In the Orion nebula. An orange
supergiant. One of the brightest stars in the sky. Four hundred and
twenty five light years away. The Arabs call it the hand of al-jauza
-- we call it home."

"Home? You're aliens!"

Delta is enjoying himself: "Well, personally I was born and raised in
Nebraska, which is pretty well off the planet, I admit." 

He waves his hand around to indicate the other boys sitting down at
the booth. They're taking up all the seating space on the three
benches around the table, pushing me into the middle of the center
one, Alpha beside me on one side, Delta on the other. I suddenly
realize one of the white dudes has a face I haven't seen before: he
must have been the one pointing the camera at Ms X. There's always one
in every group, the poor schmuck who does the chores first and gets to
the fun last. Even when you're a superman you can still be small
potatoes. But this is no time for philosophy.

"Nebraska? Then what the hell is this talk about Belteguese?"

"Well, we think that's where Dad came from. You've heard all the talk
about crashed alien space ships?"

I nodded, dumbly.

"It's a load of crap. All the government has ever found is one alien
body underneath a moving glacier on Ross island in the Antarctic. A
body that had been under the ice for maybe a hundred and sixty
thousand years. Nobody would ever have known it was there except for a
huge magnetic anomaly it was throwing off."

"A magnetic anomaly. Like in ... "

All the boys around the table grin at me. "That's right. If the
geophysicists at McMurdo base had never read '2001' they might not
have taken much notice of that anomaly. I think Mr Clarke would be
very pleased to know his story was a direct lead in to the discovery
of an alien artifact. Even if it was only some kind of bracelet with
the ability to twist magnetic lines of force and an engraved star
chart with Belteguese in the center of it."

"But ... ?"

"Oh yes, and there was the body I mentioned. Wearing the bracelet. One
well preserved body that certainly wasn't homo sapiens but wasn't so
far away that cloning was impossible. Our father."

"You were cloned?"

"I told you, Judith, we're the boys from Belteguese. The ice boys."

I'm stunned, I'm blown away -- and I was thinking I was maybe onto a
big story! Jesus Christ!

A real big fellow with lots of muscle underneath his casual shirt came
over from a table across the walkway.

"Who are you guys, and where the hell are the two girls that were just
here? What's going on?" 

He's staring at the photo stuck halfway down my cleavage. He knows
it's been put there to humiliate me and he can't understand why I'm so
frightened that I'm afraid to remove it.

The Afro boy sitting at the end of the table looks up at the intruder
and points a finger at him: "You've heard of David Copperfield? Well,
we do a magic show like his. The girls are part of our act and they're
rehearsing right now. But you can have a sneak preview of what we do."

The big guy gasped and grabbed at the top of his pants as they started
to slip down. The belt loops are empty. A key ring that was hanging
from his belt fell down, hit his knee and dropped to the floor. As
suddenly as it had disappeared the belt is back. The guy's hands jerk
away from it as though he's had an electric shock. The Afro boy picks
up the keys and gives them back to the big guy.

"Here, stick around and watch the rest of the show. It's real cool, I
promise."

The guy took the keys as though he'd never seen them before, then
shook his head and backed away as if he was a dog encountering a
rattlesnake. Whatever happened to me from now on I knew this was one
knight in shining armor who wouldn't be coming back on another rescue
mission.

"How can that be?" I ask. I'm asking anybody who is willing to answer
me and I desperately need some kind of an answer.

"You want to write our story, Judith?" Delta asks. "You really want to
know it all? Because you must have figured out by now that we're
government property. All that shit about Priscillian studies is just a
front for the organization that's been hand rearing us ever since we
were born. Hell, our mothers are on bigger pensions than the President
gets when he retires. And we're supposed to be the biggest secret
there ever has been."

That statement knocks me flat: "A secret! Is this the way you keep
things secret?" With one hand I hold up a photo of the Queen of the
rednecks getting it up her big red ass and the other hand I wave
towards the crowd of people staring into our booth.

Delta grins: "I guess we've finally decided to come out of the closet.
There comes a time in a guy's life when he needs to cut loose and
there isn't much in the way of good looking girls on Hyde's Island.
See, what the government geeks never really understood was that dear
old Dad might have looked halfway human but he must surely have had
some abilities that you humans don't."

'You humans' -- I didn't like the way Delta had said that. 

"They've spent billions of dollars looking for his ship but we're
beginning to think that maybe Dad somehow got here without one. We've
been thinking that ever since we found that the five of us could play
with quantum mechanic rules up here in the big world. We don't exactly
know how we do it, but we can, and that's good enough."

"Yeah," Delta said. "They raised us separately, then decided to put us
all together in one place to see what happened. But they didn't
realize we could talk to each other in a way their bugs couldn't pick
up."

I scrabbled for my bag and pulled out my notebook and pencil: God, it
was like being caught in a shower of gold bricks -- I'd probably get
hit on the head real soon but look at what riches were lying around
waiting to be picked up!

"You only found out about each other recently?"

"Yeah, a couple of months ago. When they brought us all here," Alpha
explained. "We've each of us lived like choirboys ever since we can
remember. No contact with outsiders: it was the same here. Locked up
and treated like rats in a lab experiment. But when we came together
things began happening that those government assholes didn't know
about. We found out things from each other. Like that we could just
switch things on and off when we wanted to."

"Like Hanna and Muni you mean? And like the fence? You could make it
disappear and then come back? How is that possible?"

Delta chuckled as he watched me scribbling frantically in shorthand.
"You know anything about quantum mechanics, Judith?"

I shook my head: "I don't even read Popular Mechanics." It didn't get
a laugh.

"OK, imagine a radioactive atom decays and emits an electron. Down at
the quantum level a wave representing the electron spreads out in all
directions, like ripple in a pond. As a quantum effect the electron
can be considered to be anywhere on that wave, although up here in the
real world it's impossible to have something in more than one place at
any one time. But when the wave reaches an atom which is hit by the
electron the quantum effect wave collapses like a pricked soap bubble
and all the other possibilities of the electron's existence disappear
at the same time."

I'd stopped writing because I was totally confused. The Afro guy cut
in: "It's like throwing a brick in the Atlantic ocean at New York and
the brick disappears, but there's a wave made in the sea which keeps
going. Someplace, maybe in Spain, the wave hits the beach and the same
brick re-appears on the sand over there on the other side of the
ocean. When it does the wave disappears. What we're saying is that
everything at all exists because the probability wave around it stays
collapsed. We've found a way of recreating any object's wave and just
shunting it away out of existence, until we bring it back again -- if
we want it back, of course."

His hands held up a knife and fork, crossed. "See, I'm going to shove
these back in the sea." He tapped the implements together and before
the noise had died away the knife and fork were gone. Not in a shimmer
of light, not like in a Startrek transporter, but just plain gone. My
stomach felt like a vat of acid.

"And the government guys who are supposed to be looking after you.
They don't know anything about this?"

Delta grinned, displaying pure white teeth: "How could they know?
They're not around anymore."

Somebody had started churning that acid up with an egg beater: "You
mean ... you pushed them back into the sea as well?"

Alpha shrugged his shoulders: "It's cool -- we feed the dogs and wash
our own dishes. But I guess we won't want to stick around here much
longer."

I began scribbling again, and asking questions: "So what happened once
you'd got rid of the guards?"

"We found a CIA security map of the area. The ice house was on it,
together with a note that a bunch of local kids went there sometimes.
Seeing as the scientists used to call us the ice boys as a joke we
thought we'd take a look at it as soon as we were free to go for a
walk. We sure got a surprise when we found out what the kids had
stashed away in there. We read the magazines and looked at the fucking
and suddenly we realized there was a lot more interesting ways to have
sex than cloning. So we took the ice house over for our own use."

"Oh God! The kids?"

"Are fine. All we did is to frighten them off with a few harmless
little tricks. They won't come back again."

All of the dudes around the table smiled briefly. It's uncanny, like a
collection of puppets being worked by a master controller. I wonder if
they've got genuine telepathic powers. Another of the white ones taps
the back of my hand. "What are you thinking, Judith? That when any of
us is fucking you, the others will be along for the ride?"

I'm dumbfounded, stunned, my throat is as dry as centuries old dust,
and the guy who's just spoken hands me a glass of water as though he
knows about my thirst as well as I do: "I'm Beta, in case you're
getting confused."

The black one grins: "I'm Epsilon, and I've got the biggest cock here,
but you'll have to wait for it, Ms Reporter. Gamma was the last one to
get his turn with our star turn, so he goes first with you." He points
at the guy with the face that wasn't on the pictures. The boy is
looking me over as if I was a second hand auto with a bad paint job
and a 'Dirt Cheap Today!' sale sticker.

I swallow half the glass of water in one gulp and see that the big guy
and his girl are whispering to each other, heads close together over
their half eaten food on their plates. They both appear very nervous
and keep glancing at our table.

"Not taking notes, now Judith?" Alpha mockingly asked. "Well, we'll
save you some research time in case you're wondering about these
snapshots. The singer has a little private hideaway out in the woods
where she gets away from it all. Just her and a boyfriend and a couple
of bodyguards. It was all written up on the CIA security zone map
because her place was near to Hyde's Island. So we went and paid her a
neighborly visit last weekend. Just her though -- she sure didn't need
her boyfriend while we were there and we certainly didn't want her
body being guarded. I guess there was a lot of confusion afterwards
though, when we brought her guys back. They didn't know any time had
passed at all, not until they saw the mess we'd made of their
Hollywood legend and looked at their watches." 

"But ... but the government still don't know that you've started
busting loose?"

Alpha shook his head: "We bring the head honcho back every day to make
his regular phone calls to his bosses. The day he tries anything funny
we'll pop him like a soap bubble and don't bring him back again, not
ever. And he knows it -- it's a kind of difficult situation to be in.
Like yours, Judith."

"Mine?"

"Well hell, we've told you a lot of our little secrets. Maybe we'd be
smart to send you where your friends have gone -- into limboland."

"No! Please!," I begged: I knew now for sure that any one of them
could snuff me out like a candle if he wanted to.

"Well, you have been a naughty girl. And that remark you left on your
card, that wasn't really nice. You're a tease, young Judith." Alpha's
fingers tapped the scattered photos on the table top. "Like this big
titted show off was. But it's time the world found out about us and
you may as well tell the story as anyone else. But there's a price to
pay. I guess you can guess what it is?"

He holds up one of the photos, and so do each of the others, as if on
signal I can't detect. Every face is smiling at me over the images. 

"You're all going to fuck me, aren't you?"

"Here and now, Judith, here and now. In front of everybody in this
room." Delta confirms my fears without seeming to care much one way or
the other. The other boys are still smiling. All except the black,
Epsilon. He turns and flicks a picture of Ms X's gangbang like a
playing card onto the big guy's table.

"There you go, folks. Send it to the lady and maybe she'll autograph
it for you."

The couple stare at the photo for a second, astonished, before getting
to their feet as nervous as deer seeing a lion padding towards them:
they're getting set to do some serious running and I wish I was going
with them. Gamma sniggers and looks around at the watchers at all the
other nearby tables. He goes through the stage magicians' routine of
pulling his sleeves back from his wrists to show there's nothing
hidden up them. Then as the big guy's partner stands up, he flicks his
fingers at her, twice, like a kid playing at being a conjurer. The
well rounded blonde gives a little shriek and suddenly her figure
doesn't look nearly so good. Her boobs are sagging, her hips seem
wider and her hands are patting at the side of her tightened dress
like a man suddenly missing his wallet. 

Only I and her know for sure that what she's suddenly missing is all
her underwear -- well, her, me, and this bunch of superpowered
assholes sharing a quiet joke at her shock and embarrassment. Already
I can see my dreams falling into ruin. I was going to be the reporter
who told the world about first contact, but instead I'm slated to tell
the human race we're going to be ruled by a bunch of power mad
teenagers happy to rape and hurt for the fun of it. These aren't
visiting Gods from Olympus, this bunch are going nowhere and they're
five little monsters rapidly turning into uncontrollable Caligulas and
Neros. And if you don't know anything about history you've no idea at
all how bad that can get. But it looked like I was going to become one
of the early object lessons.

Gamma opens his mouth for the first time: "Let's get on with it. I
want to teach this little slut her lesson about stealing other
people's property."

Alpha shrugs his shoulders: "Sure, but there's no rush. I think we
could use a couple of good stage assistants. How about making some
room here?"

There was movement around the table, though Alpha and Delta stayed
where they were, on either side of me on the back seat. Epsilon stood
up. Beta and Gamma slid down the side benches leaving two empty gaps
at the inside corner seats.

"One more question," I asked quickly. "How did you know I was around,
and how did you follow me?"

Alpha sniggered: "Half the trees in that piece of forest have got
motion detectors and video cameras on them. But none of it meant shit
-- as soon as you saw these pictures we heard you coming on heat. Boy,
you were sure getting steamed up, hey?"

"You -- what?"

It was like one of those silent drill movements that military display
teams use: each one of them reached up at the same second and tapped
their forehead. It wasn't a silent movement though, it was
communication on a level where I couldn't operate. Not wittingly,
anyway. But the deal seemed to be that whenever Judith felt like
getting her ashes hauled every male Belteguesian within miles could
hear her libido howling for sex. So much for personal privacy: no
wonder the alien bastards were smiling like lottery winners all the
time.

"We had the road blocked both ways long before you drove away. But
when you stopped off in town we decided to let you freshen up and
relax before we dropped by. But the receptionist told us about your
letter -- if she hadn't we'd just have kept fading more air out of her
lungs. So then we faded her and the safe. And here we all are
together."

"Not quite all," Delta said. "Let's have the side dishes back again."

He clicked his fingers and Hanna and Muni were sitting in the places
that had been empty. It took both of them a second or two to realize
that somehow they'd been moved around the table without knowing how or
remembering a thing about it.

"It's OK, girls," Delta said. "We do a magic show and we just made you
disappear for a while. But we can make other things disappear as well.
Like this." 

He nodded towards Hanna and she gave a little shriek before her hands
flew underneath the table as she stared down the side of the table,
totally bemused. Muni asked something, in German, and Delta laughed.
"Your sister's problem is that she's just found out she's naked from
the waist down. Like you are now."

Muni's generous mouth opens in a rictus of disbelief at his statement.
And then she too has her arms pushed down between her body and the
table top as she slaps her palms on her naked cunt. I can see the
whites of her eyes as they roll back.

"Mein Gott! Only in America could this happen!" she gasps in awe.
Meanwhile Beta and Gamma are sliding underneath the table like seals
off a rock. 

"Put your hands back on the table, girls, both of you. Hands on the
table and legs wide apart. Otherwise the rest of your clothing will go
as well."

The Germans do as they're told. They put their hands on the table top
and stare at each other's disbelieving faces, then gasp as the boys do
whatever it is they're doing. If they're licking Hanna's and Muni's
pussies I'm surprised -- it's more consideration from them as lovers
than I'd expected.

A couple of crowd controller types are starting across the room to our
table, eager to show off their strength to these smart assed school
kids causing a disturbance. Delta sees them and his thin lips sneer:
both hulking men are suddenly gone as if they were figures on a
whiteboard which has just been wiped clean. And about the same time as
they vanish so does my mini dress, tights and panties. 

Everything underneath the table has gone except my shoes. I remember
how the gang left Ms X's shoes on as well. But I'd have happily
changed her predicament she was in for the one I'm stuck with right
now. Alpha's left hand is on my right leg, Delta's right hand on my
left leg, their fingers rubbing and moving higher. Epsilon grins at me
and ducks down out of sight. I wonder if he'll be able to squeeze
between the other two boys to give me head. I've never been licked by
a black guy before but it looks as if that's going to be the least of
my new experiences tonight. 

I reach out and lightly scratch the two boys at the backs of their
necks as I feel their fingers start stroking me. Resistance or shyness
is not an option -- like every girl in ancient Greece knew, you don't
try and argue with the Gods, especially when they want a fuck. All the
people who can see into our booth are watching, getting a good idea of
what's happening, the men mostly grinning, some of the women
pretending to be offended but none of them able to conceal their
interest. 

I wonder what Dan Baldwin would say if he could see what was happening
to me -- and then I wonder what happily married Dan Baldwin would do
to me if he had the power that these boys have? Well, I know what he'd
do, he'd screw me, just like these guys are going to. Only he probably
wouldn't do me by the numbers in front of an audience like a whore in
an Amsterdam live sex club.

I feel more skin brushing between my opened thighs, skin and hair, and
then a warm, wet tongue slurping away at where the other guys are
holding me open. I show my appreciation at Epsilon's skill: it seems
as if it's not only these boy's fingers which are long and tapered,
and the sounds I'm making are echoed around the table as Muni and then
Hanna also start quietly grunting. What they don't know is that they
needn't have bothered because these guys are hot linked straight into
our minds: they're feeding off our fears and rising sexual excitement
like leeches growing fat on stolen blood.

One of the waitresses has stopped in her tracks next to our table.
She's good at her job, strong and skilful, carrying three full plates
at once, though this time they're swaying around a lot more than they
usually do as she stares at us, her mouth agape. She's pretty old,
mid-thirties maybe, with tied back blonde hair and a tired look on her
face, but with a figure that should please any man looking for comfort
instead of speed. She's clearly angry at the way we're messing up the
restaurant's well oiled routine. The boys smile at her while I moan
like a trainee ghost as Epsilon really rattles my chain with his
licking. That guy can use his tongue like a hundred and twenty pound
hummingbird -- I think I could get to like being alienated. The
waitress walks towards us, red faced as she gets ready to tell us off.

The lights go out, for a second, flick back on again and the waitress
is still there and the plates are still swaying in her hands. They're
not the only things that are swaying too, because her shirt and bra no
longer exist -- not in this universe, anyway. But her sagging tits are
still alive and  well tanned on top, white below, speckled with moles
and with extra large nipples on them. She gasps and the plates wobble
around wildly as those big pink tips nearly land in the gravy. Give
the girl her due though, she has enough respect for her employer's
carpet to keep hold of the plates and carry them with her as she
rushed back towards the kitchen. A bunch of guys further down the room
whistled and cheered in appreciation as she went by with her
appetizers on display and all ajiggle. Delta and Alpha chuckled, the
first genuine laughter I thought I'd heard from either one of them.
And then Alpha slapped his hand on top of the table.

"OK, show time!"

The guys begin emerging. Epsilon clasps his hands together over his
head in a boxer's salute as some of the watching guys cheer him. None
of them understands what's happening but as entertainment value it
looks like we're stomping all over the Super Bowl. Epsilon grabs Hanna
by the hand to fetch her out of the booth and she cowers back in fear
until she realizes she's suddenly fully dressed again.

"Don't worry about it, girls, it's all part of a magic show we're
putting on and you're going to help us -- come on."

As I stand up it seems like the room is as big as Central Park and has
a million pairs of eyes in it, all concentrated on us. There's a small
dais at one end of the room, a bandstand maybe. It's only a few feet
across and as we all step up onto it seems crowded. But the boys are
standing in a line at the back, except Alpha. He watches as the guys
line up like a barber shop quartet with us girls in a line in front of
them. Most of the diners haven't yet seen the crazy things that have
been happening; they're looking at us like we're the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir and we're going to be coming around for donations after the
performance. I envy them their last brief moments of happy ignorance

"What's happening?" Muni asks me in a dazed whisper. 

I have a good memory for languages: "I'm going to be gruppenficked."

She gasps: "Here?"

"Ja!"

"What about us -- we can run away?"

"I don't think so, Muni"

Alpha stands up in front of us, as casual in his public appearance as
a professional actor. Just as casually, he waves a hand at one of the
TV screens and it goes blank, with play right on the ten yard line.
There are yells of protest from the bar, renewed in numbers and
strength as the boy repeats his hand movement and the second set goes
down. The loudest and angriest NFL fan gets up on a chair and shakes
his fist at the dais. One of the legs on the chair disappears and the
protester jumps down quickly from the wobbling piece of furniture
looking bemused. So do the rest of the crowd at the bar and the
catcalls suddenly stop. Alpha calls out in a high pitched and clear
voice

"Ladies, Gentlemen and Beings, we are the Ice Boys, and we can put
anything we like into cold storage. We hope you enjoy the little show
we're going to put on for you tonight. First of all, I demonstrate to
you the truth of the old Chinese saying that many hands make light not
work."

Again, it's like a drill movement by soldiers, Alpha clapping his
hands at the same split second as all the boys behind us do the same.
Every light in the room goes out and it's as dark as the bottom of a
disused coal mine. Then the lights spring straight back to life again,
and I'm naked from the waist up. It happens so fast that the cheers
are already coming out of the bar before I can get my hands over my
nipples -- and that fucking photo is still sticking to the sweating
skin in my cleavage. An embarrassment which is driven lower on my
priority list as I'm pinched extremely hard on both cheeks of my ass
from behind.

I yelp, I instinctively put my hands down and behind me and there are
more cheers, not just from the bar but right around the room now as I
find I'm shaking my uncovered boobs at the crowd. At least I have the
satisfaction of seeing one guy at the back leap up with a yell and
begin furiously mopping his crotch. Somebody must have spilt something
hot on him: 'Waiter, I've got soup in my fly!'

It's odd what you think about as the roof falls in on top of you. But
before I could get my hands back up again there was another
synchronized clap from the Belteguese and it was dark again. 

Not only was it dark but I was decent again. The lights came on again
and this time I had my hands up but it was Hanna and Muni who were
huddling up with their hands raised over their uncovered tits. Both of
them seemed determined to hang onto them as well, until the lights
flickered on and off in a second, and came on to show the sisters now
dressed from the waist up but with only their boots on from the waist
down. Not that I was able to sympathize much because all I had myself
was my top; everywhere south of that was pure skin, shoes excepted. My
hands were flailing around like a stockmarket trader in a sharply
rising market.

The way it was going, you'd think we'd all rehearsed this for months.
The boys were beating out a regular rhythm with their hands, the room
lights going off and on with an almost strobe like effect, and
clothing vanishing, re-appearing, vanishing again. Then we ended up
mostly naked, with our panties springing back into existence around
our ankles, so we were effectively hobbled, and with hands delivering
stinging slaps from behind in each of the dark seconds, so that Hanna,
Muni and I have our hands rubbing our bottoms whenever the light
shines again. 

The cheers have stopped now, even the dumbest guy in the room has
realized that this isn't any kind of an act and that something very,
very weird is occurring. This feeling is reinforced when Alpha begins
selecting tables at random and displaying the diners around each one
stark naked during each of the quick bursts of light. None of the
customers wants to move while they're nude and nobody else wants to do
anything to draw attention to themselves. They all sense that
uncontrollable and uncaged evil is flapping its black wings and the
cops who can stopi it haven't even been born yet.

Then the lights come on again and stay on. I'm wearing nothing but my
shoes. These guys have a real footwear fetish. Of course Hanna and
Muni still have their boots on, and, to surprise, their complete set
of underwear as well. Our wrists are all behind our backs, being held
there by the boys. Alpha makes a mock bow to the crowd.

"Folks, a big hand please for Ms Judith Stynes. Girls, bring her out."

He beckons to Hanna and Muni. Both of them are so frightened now
they'd jump off a cliff if he told them to. They take my arms and walk
me forward to the edge of the dais. My bare breasts flop around as I
move and I feel as if they're as big as Ms X's -- hell, they feel as
big as camel's humps.

"Folks, Judith is a hot shot reporter from a big city paper, 'The
Record' and later on she's got a big story to tell you all, the
biggest you'll ever hear. But right now she's going to put on a little
cabaret show, with some help from the audience. Let's see, now."

Alpha walked along the nearest tables, and then waved his hand over
it. Everything vanishes; cutlery, place mats, plates, tablecloth. The
group sitting around the table gape at the bare wooden top.

"Don't worry, folks, it's all done with mirrors. Now watch what
happens."

I'm grabbed by the boys and put down on the table on my back. There
are three middle aged woman and two men sitting at the table, each of
them staring down at me. They're well dressed professional types,
bewildered and frightened. The boys are standing behind them, their
hands resting on their shoulders, defying them to do anything at their
peril. One of the women seems to be collecting her courage to say
something, but there's nothing useful to be said. Except what I
whisper to her, and her friends.

"It's OK, it's OK.! Do whatever they tell you and keep quiet."

"Listen in, folks," Alpha calls, "I want a nice big crowd around this
table to watch the action and anybody with a camera had better get
here fast. I'd be real disappointed if nobody has a video. There's
going to be a lot more scenes here tonight nobody will ever believe
unless they see them."

The boys whisper to Hanna and Muni. Epsilon and Gamma help the girls
lift up my legs and then leave them to keep holding them apart. The
Germans press up against the back of my knees and hold my ankles over
their shoulders as fresh faces appear around the table, all looking
nervously at each other.  It's as if they're all passengers on the
Titanic and nobody is really able to believe the sight of the rising
seawater.

Hanna and Muni keep looking at each other. Maybe they're not
telepathic and neither am I, but I know they're thinking that once the
gang has gotten bored with me they're soon going to consider the
amusement value of fucking two sisters side by side and up and down.

My skin is sticking to the table. Alpha laughs and tells the men
sitting at the table to suck my nipples. He stands close to my legs
and starts rubbing his long fingers against my cunt. The women are
watching what the men are doing to me without protest, although one of
them is holding my hand as if to comfort me. I can't believe that
asshole walking sideways around the chairs with a video camera has the
nerve to be grinning at me as he swings the lens up and down my body.
Maybe he won't be smiling before the night's over, no human here is
any safer than a puff of wind in a gale. 

The other halfbreed aliens gather alongside Alpha, he kneels down and
starts licking me again and my tips harden inside the mouths of the
two respectable gentleman who are having me as their unexpected
entree. The German girls are also getting close attention from the two
boys each has close behind her, especially from the hands roaming over
their trim Teutonic tails. They both keep holding me tightly as the
hands move out all over them. Alpha stands up. Only now he's naked and
his cock looks totally human -- and he uses it like every other male
I've ever met in a close encounter of the usual kind. The head thrusts
into me, further and further, and my muscles are gripping it as it
spreads them open. 

I call out to the watching faces, to the camera, to the men sucking
me, to the woman holding my hand, but really to Alpha. Every other
face is a blur but not his, each detail of it is getting etched on my
memory as he makes me his. It looks like poor old Gamma is at the back
of the queue again, and in the meantime I'm being fucked by a young
God who holds the world in his hands. Suddenly I can feel his mind
plunging as deeply into my inner being as his shaft is into my loins:
it fits as smoothly as his cock does in my cunt and all I want to do
forever more is to worship him body and soul. 

But even as I blissfully submit to my lord's power I can't stop
wondering  how many more clones the government geeks made from that
frozen Belteguese body. And whether the rest of us are all going to be
slaves for ever more.

THE END

(Enjoyed this story? You might like the illustrated ones even more --
stop by at www.f-e-mail.com sometime)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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