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Message-ID: <48209asstr$1087049403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Virgosun" <virgosun@internode.on.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Saskia's Pride 1/4 {virgosun} (mf rom fsolo mutant)
Lines: 453
Date: Sat, 12 Jun 2004 10:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "saskiaspride01.txt" begin>

SASKIA'S PRIDE (Part 1 of 4, Fsolo)

by virgosun (c) 2004
**************************

"You don't know how lucky you are, miss," said the 
minder as he ushered me upstairs.

"Saskia, if you don't mind, Allen," I declared. I am 
over 21, after all, and in spite of some of the choices 
I have made, I've been around and seen a bit. "Miss" is 
for young girls still dwelling under their parents' 
roof. Sure he was being polite, but I believe in 
equality.

"My pardon." The agent was above all a diplomat, and he 
was more concerned with getting me to the appointed 
meeting on time. Our shoes squeaked on rich but worn 
woollen carpet, and ancient ceiling fans did nothing to 
dispel the heat that had risen through the hotel to this 
second floor. "Use the time he spares you well. He's 
normally too busy to talk to the press, and our comments 
for the media are more usually released through my 
office." His pale, fishy face wore a slight frown of 
puzzlement at his superior's actions, and irritation. 
Nobody likes being cut out of the circuit.

I smiled thinly, a little cocky. "Sometimes one-on-one 
interviews are necessary if someone wishes to raise the 
profile of their organisation. Perhaps he decided my 
publication was the best target audience for what he 
wants to achieve?"

"Indeed," Allen harrumphed, as though an upstart like me 
had a hide lecturing him on spin. A neat and dapper 
little man, he was wearing a trendy turquoise suit far 
too heavy for the middle-western heat. Dabbing his 
glistening brow with a silk kerchief, he consulted a 
slim gold watch. He paused theatrically before one of 
the doors, head tilted as though awaiting some divine 
prompt before knocking lightly. Someone inside 
acknowledged, so he opened the door a fraction, pressed 
his face to the gap, then announced, "Saskia Limarre as 
arranged, Chairman. Listol University Press."

A deep voice murmured assent. Allen offered me a 
patronising look and pushed the door open. I favoured 
him with no particular expression as I glided past; it 
was the Big Cheese I was here to talk to, not his 
mouthpiece.

The room was as comfortable as the richest hotel suite 
in a small agricultural town could be expected to be, 
kind of old-world and somewhat worn. It took a while to 
adapt to the lighting. The door faced the room's single 
window, where sizzling white daylight was framed by 
drapes, making a brilliant line that forced my pupils to 
contract. My eyes found it almost painful to adapt to 
the contrast, and the rest of the furnishings were 
thrown into darkness. 

A large man was getting up from behind a desk and 
heading my way. I am quite tall and match most men - it 
had been easy to look down on Allen - but this fellow 
towered over me like a granite skyscraper.

"Thank you, Allen. Ms. Limarre? Welcome. I am Martin 
Stone." Now that I heard his voice clearly, something in 
me couldn't help but sigh. It was deep and velvety, the 
kind of voice you could listen to for hours. Even if a 
man were ugly and wizened, with a voice like Mr. Stone's 
he would not want for lovers. It was little wonder Stone 
was a community leader. Given the hypnotic power of his 
speech and the thrill it sent through me, I resolved to 
keep objectivity at a maximum and not be seduced.

He had also given me the thoroughly modern title Ms. 
Some women hate that, but not me. I am tall - imposing - 
and my features are "striking" rather than "pretty", so 
I've always looked older than my years. Allen had read 
my age from my press card. Martin had looked at me, 
spotlighted by the light from the window, and already 
made assessments while I was still having trouble seeing 
him clearly. This was definitely a formidable character, 
someone to be reckoned with.

I wasn't about to yield up too much of my own power. 
I've interviewed authoritarian figures before: local 
politicians, university deans and the like. Young 
journos like me don't pick up the Ebardsen Award and 
scholarship for nothing!  I put my hand forward in the 
masculine manner, which rattles a lot of men, and at the 
same time I turned side-on to the light. My vision was 
adapting, and now I could see his immediate and stunning 
uniqueness amidst other human beings. His mutation.

I'd only seen a few blurred black and white photos of 
him before this. He was popularly called "The Muscle" 
because of his titanic physical strength, and the fact 
that you can see every muscle in his body. He looked 
like one of those illustrations you see in an anatomy 
book illustrating the muscles, because his skin is 
transparent, completely see-through.

In person he was absolutely astounding to behold. I was 
so determined not to show amazement that I thought my 
face would crack, and I locked my attention on his; 
tried to get my bearings on the features we normally 
look at when meeting a stranger, the eyes, mouth and 
nose. He was shovel-jawed, and his eyes were set deeply 
beneath heavy browbones, where they glittered like dark 
sapphires. There was no way to guess his age, for the 
transparency of his skin made blemishes and creases 
impossible to see. I knew from research he was in his 
mid-thirties.

"Pleased to meet you," I said smoothly. Locking onto 
those eyes was unsettling too, for they had a 
penetrating quality, a knowingness. That gaze said he 
read my professional cool for the mask it was, and could 
see me going, _ohh man will you look at that!_ 
underneath. I ended up watching his mouth. He gave a 
brief, reserved smile, and the hand that quickly and 
belatedly squeezed mine was very warm. The handshake had 
made him stop and think. "I appreciate you are a very 
busy man, and Allen has stressed to me the fact that you 
don't often do interviews. So thank you, very much, for 
your time."

"Well, there has always been curiosity about my 
organisation, and there is only so much we can impart 
with generalised media statements. Would you care for a 
cool drink while your interview goes along?" He did not 
indicate the mini-bar; rather, a large crystal ewer of 
iced water garnished with lemon and mint leaves. "Or 
would you prefer something more robust? Name your 
desire."

I nodded. "Thank you, water would be fine." He poured 
two long glasses, handing me one before gesturing to a 
couple of wicker chairs.

Time to start. How would this leader go at speaking on 
behalf of his community? Setting down the water on a 
coffee-table to one side, I pulled out my trusty 
notebook and pen. Shorthand's my natural second 
language, I can do it in my sleep. Make some light yet 
pertinent conversation beforehand to get a handle on 
some of his likes and dislikes; ask him what he had 
called me here to listen to and take notes, then pick 
over that again and flesh it out, and listen for the 
parts where the script stalled or turned sharply, the 
points of leverage to deeper meaning. I took my 
journalism seriously. As a student of foreign cultures 
and minority groups, viewpoints outside the mainstream 
of society fascinated me.

He made no comment of his own while I got ready, just 
lowered himself into his seat and crossed his ankles 
with leisurely grace, and sipped from his glass. "You're 
not a drinker, Mr. Stone?" I asked, "or is it simply too 
early in the day?"

"I have no objection to alcohol under the right 
circumstances, no grand moral opposition to it, but for 
reasons of health and fitness I am a non-drinker." He 
patted his stomach; it sounded as solid as a block of 
reinforced concrete. "Addles the mind, and far too 
dehydrating for a day like this. Now, where will I 
start?"

Straight down to business. He wasn't the chatty type, 
which was going to make adding human interest to the 
article difficult. He spoke for the whole hour on "his 
people", the Enabled; mutant and gifted progeny of four 
immigrant families who, by their extraordinary 
differences, stood apart from any nation-state and 
mainstream society. He spoke of the fear and hostility 
some of the more grotesque Enabled mutations provoked. 
He spoke of the emotional support that living with 
fellow Enabled gave, the strengthening and acceptance 
that counterbalanced public misgivings. He spoke of his 
desire to earn the respect of the "regular people" 
through the Enabled working as a team to improve the lot 
of regulars, through technology and innovation. He cited 
examples of Enabled making discoveries, or conducting 
themselves heroically during natural disaster rescues, 
or apprehending criminals that had formerly eluded 
capture. Not once did he mention himself, except in his 
role as co-ordinator of Enabled activities and authority 
within the group.

I wanted more than that. Rhetoric and dry facts need to 
be lubricated with something more personal if an article 
is to be readable. A grand view of utopia is fine, but a 
closeup gives contrast and thus much better interest. I 
ran my tongue over my front teeth - he was going to be a 
tough nut to crack, but I relished the challenge!

So I tried to draw him out on the topic of ugliness - 
had he himself attracted discriminatory comments with 
his bizarre looks? He blinked and tilted his head as 
though he didn't understand the question, then went on 
to describe some of the taunts other grotesque Enabled 
had endured, such as the shapeless Polymorph, and the 
Basilisk with his green-scaled hide. Either he was 
indeed supersensitive about his looks, or he genuinely 
didn't understand I was asking about him. Either way it 
was a first-class evasion.

It was the best kind of interview. On one level, two 
people sitting in composed, formal and attentive 
attitudes of discussion; on another, I was scything the 
air with my rapier-mind, seeking to pierce the thick and 
battlescarred armour of an old champion. His own blade 
was heavier, stronger, and turned my light and pointed 
one with ease - God help anyone if he used it in anger, 
it had a keen edge and would cleave stone in two.

I got nowhere near him.

Add to that, those parts of me that will not be ruled by 
reason were kicking up a fuss and making a distraction. 
_Look at his legs!_ they whispered. _Look at the 
definition in his shoulders! I'd pay good money to see 
his stomach and back!_ I have a dreadful weakness for 
toning and musculature, I'm sorry - it flies in the face 
of my idea that all men should be treated as equal, be 
they scrawny, Mr. Average or that most numerous kind, 
the slightly bulgy lost-my-waistline type. No, I care 
for my health and if a man wants to impress me, he's got 
to care for his body. Muscles get me, and boy there was 
a nice set sitting there, annoyingly covered by full-
length clothing!

Coupled with that piercing quality of his gaze, I found 
it hard to match his intensity, and even my trained eye 
began to falter. By the end of the interview he had worn 
me down, and I was gazing more at the way his thighs 
flared out from his knees, their relaxed bulk and smooth 
curves than meeting his eyes. The highlight on the 
slightly-clinging fabric of his trousers emphasised 
their grace. 

I took notes, tried for the scarce openings in dialogue, 
but failed. Before long, Allen was tapping at the door 
and harrumphing. My time with Martin Stone was up.

"Allen, if you will, five minutes more to wrap up," said 
Martin easily. His underling withdrew with a hassled 
frown. The Enabled leader then stood, counting off major 
points on long fingers as he recapped. His hands were 
extraordinary sculptures of iridescent tendons over deep 
rose flesh, laced by fine threads of veins.

"Do you have fingerprints?" was my last, impulsive 
question. He paused, and a half-smile curved his lips.

"As a matter of fact, I do. This is relevant?"

"Not at all," I demurred. "I was just curious. You'll 
have the draft of my article within two days." Rising, I 
snapped my briefcase shut. He nodded, appreciating my 
efficacy and businesslike manner, and made a gentlemanly 
gesture toward the door.

"Thank you, Ms Limarre. It has been a pleasure, and I 
look forward to seeing what you come up with." He nodded 
courteously as I left. 

Allen offered to show me back to the foyer, but I 
thanked him and assured him I could find my own way out. 
I headed briskly away, already planning the layout of my 
story, while he fussed covertly to his boss.

"Late? It's you who criticises _me_ when things get 
behind schedule!" I overheard Allen complain.

***

There was more legwork to do before I cranked up the 
portable typewriter. Kennarthen is a smallish country 
town, with plenty of anecdotal resources. Of course, the 
Enabled stories they could tell were manifold; my focus 
was on the leader, Martin.

I bought a coffee spiral from Crabtrees' Deli, and 
inquired about the price of smoked ham at Norrises 
Butchery. Collected a local paper from Schaffer's. There 
was plenty to know about many of the Enabled, and even a 
few threads of gold on The Muscle. Nobody knew him 
especially well. He was a quiet man who seldom ventured 
out. He worked hard at keeping the community running 
smoothly. Married young, divorced, one child; the ex 
left town, so I would not be able to catch her at this 
time.

In the afternoon, I went for a swim at the municipal 
pool and strung together twenty laps; then hit the 
keyboard. With the air-con roaring and keys clattering, 
I started assembling information hunched over the 
bedside table in my motel room, notes laid out across 
the bed in logical order, at least to my eye.

History - four families of inbreds, deformities, 
Enabled. Vilified for their differences, attacked. 
Bonding together, finding strength in numbers. Forming 
an ethos of using their Enabled skills to help society, 
so that society in return would learn to respect and 
value them for their contributions. Founded a commune 
with a high-technology workshop and laboratory so that 
they could push the limits of technical innovation. A 
centre for medical research as they continue to explore 
their unique genetics down through the generations. A 
compound where they can live as a community supportive 
of each other. Possession of the most potent 
supercomputer the world has ever known, an ongoing quest 
to create artificial intelligence.

They were a community within the greater community, 
similar to the hippy culture, the gypsies, the gays, the 
goths, or at the other end of the scale the niche 
religions. What was different was the level of 
organisation they had for such a small community. They 
had a clear vision statement and goal - the "continuing 
service of care for the greater public" and "to provide 
an environment in which young people with abnormalities 
may grow and develop in security, making the most of 
their Enabled skills" as Martin had put it. Their 
community now numbered in the region of four hundred 
individuals of all ages and constituted a suburb on the 
town's western side, centred around their surveillance 
tower.

There was a story lurking there for the engineering and 
architecture specialty magazines in itself. But mine was 
the human angle. I stopped writing only to sleep, and 
set my alarm for early; in the morning I swam as soon as 
the pool opened, then worked through the hottest hours 
of the day.

But there's only so much mental work that can be done in 
one stretch. In the afternoon I changed into trainers, 
snug shorts and a tank top and went for a run. With most 
of my notes now typed up, the bed was clear of paper. On 
my return from the hot asphalt outside, I flung myself 
on the mattress, catching my breath.

After a while I sat up, resting my elbows on parted 
knees, head drooping, breathing deeply and relaxing. I 
keep my hair tightly knotted in a bun most of the time, 
out of the way. It's long and thin and I seldom have 
time to do much else with it, especially when there's 
running and swimming to take up my leisure time. Pulling 
out the pins, I shook my hair free and scratched where 
the sweat crawled amidst the roots. I pried my footwear 
off and tossed it safely across the room. My socks 
seemed to emit steam. Time for a shower. But first...

As I pulled my top off over my head, the breeze from the 
air-conditioner chilled the sweat already cooling in my 
bra. My nipples jumped to attention. I felt good, 
invigorated, my work almost done; the door was locked 
and the blinds drawn against the heat. So, what the 
hell?

The body is a wonderful biological mechanism, especially 
when it's kept in tune. I knew long ago I was never 
going to be "pretty", so the best thing to do would be 
to make the most of what I had; to care for it, so that 
it would care for me. An automobile is a crude analogy, 
but illustrates how the body can be performance-tuned, 
controlled and guided, and be the source of a great deal 
of pride and pleasure.

I raided the closet for all the pillows the room could 
spare, then heaped them on the bed and pulled up a 
double-fistful of sheet. There are times when a girl on 
her own has to make her own fun. When I'd twisted, 
rolled and bunched the fabric into a firm-ish sausage I 
laid it on the top of the pillow-mound, then happily 
straddled it, peeling my sodden bra off and throwing it 
away.

Stimulus - response - pleasure. It's a simple mechanism, 
and I'd never understood what the great fuss was about 
when in my teens at school. So it was sex, big deal - if 
you experimented with it on your own time you pretty 
soon worked out what it felt like without having to go 
through the drama of dating. There were more important 
things to focus on, like finding a scene to belong to 
before looking at details like mating for life. It 
wasn't that I didn't like men; on the contrary, I love 
male companionship and camaraderie, and I admire their 
natural strength. It's all a question of priorities, and 
the mating game's one where every player has the right 
to be very, very careful in the selection process. Be 
friends first, that's what I say.

I rocked and bounced on my knees on the bedding, 
grinding my pelvis against that delightful lump. My 
breathing deepened as my body stretched out again, 
exulting in a different kind of workout. The bed began 
to creak rhythmically, and I didn't bother stopping to 
take off my shorts, sliding in my own juices. The next 
time I was in Aphraeos, I promised I would get myself 
one of those vibrators - in the moment before the shocks 
of pleasure came, leaving me panting as I slumped to the 
cushions. No expectations, no obligations. Nothing more 
to do but take a shower, then get on and type up the 
final draft for Martin's approval.

Resting awhile, I didn't get up right away. My crotch 
still tingled around a lump of cloth, as my mind strayed 
to the man I had interviewed. The way subtle curves in 
the shape of his clothing had hinted at a truly superb 
body beneath. If I were completely honest with myself, I 
would have to admit I'd not only looked at his thighs, 
but that smoothly-sculpted bump just above where they 
met. Nothing obtrusive, smooth and relaxed, distinctly 
masculine; everything in proportion. Only glimpsed on 
the periphery, of course. My clitoris pinged. This 
wasn't over yet.

This time I discarded the rest of my clothing before 
mounting the pillows a second time. Eyes shut, I added a 
welcome new image to my library of sexual fantasies as I 
wondered what lay beneath Martin Stone's clothing. If 
his skin was transparent, his genitals would look 
strange indeed - like what? The anatomical sketches of 
skinless men never showed genitals, just an ambiguous 
white space. What must he look like?

The very thought pulled my trigger. Orgasm zinged 
through me like a snapped tendon, pleasure wrenching a 
mew from my throat. I'd barely had to move, this second 
time, just think; now I dropped to the wet, tangled 
bedclothes, spent.

It was definitely time for that shower.
<1st attachment end>


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