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Message-ID: <48210asstr$1087049404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Virgosun" <virgosun@internode.on.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Saskia's Pride 2/4 {virgosun} (mf rom nosex)
Lines: 617
Date: Sat, 12 Jun 2004 10:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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<1st attachment, "saskiaspride02.txt" begin>

SASKIA'S PRIDE (Part 2 of 4, nosex)

by virgosun (c) 2004

***

I was packing my few necessities, getting things in 
order and ready to leave, when the telephone rang. I 
hadn't expected any response to my article before 
arriving back in Listol. The caller could have been 
anyone, from my editor to my mother.

"Hello, Saskia? Martin Stone here."

My heart raced with surprise and pleasure. "Oh yes, yes, 
of course. I left the manuscript for the report with 
Allen this morning."

"I know," he cut me off warmly, "and I will say this, it 
was excellent. I was hoping to catch you before you left 
to discuss a few minor alterations, although on the 
whole you've done a tremendous job, and I thank you. 
Tell me, have you visited our tower yet?"

Allen had met me at the railway station and driven me 
through the streets of the Enabled people's suburb, then 
through the security wall and past the base of the high 
iron column without stopping. The tower was two hundred 
feet tall, the top of its Observation Deck bristling 
with antennae which could pick up signals from far 
beyond the horizon. It was whispered secret agencies 
within the government benefited from intelligence 
gathered by the Enabled, scratching them back in turn 
with quiet payments. "All in the name of our security - 
we have to watch our backs," Martin had said in the 
interview. "When people take a natural disliking to you, 
you cannot be too careful."

Allen made it clear I had no business being on Enabled 
ground. With polite but pointed words he had declared 
I'd better not indulge myself in any sensationalist 
media tricks such as snooping around. So I'd made sure 
the article mentioned how insular the Enabled folk were, 
due to a sense of vulnerability in spite of their 
superhuman capacities.

"Allen gave me a quick look around on the afternoon I 
arrived."

"Ah, of course, the Allen tour." A touch of laughter 
made Martin's velvet voice thrum. "Since I am pleased 
with your portrayal of us in this article, I'm prepared 
to give you a closer look at the Enabled in operation."

I needed no further encouragement. If necessary, my rail 
ticket could be postponed. "Thanks, that would be 
fantastic!"

Allen was sent to collect me, and cautioned me not to 
take photos even though I had no camera with me. "I'm a 
journalist, Allen, not a photographer; the pictures your 
office supplies will be more than adequate," I assured 
him. 

He drove us to the gate in the solid concrete wall that 
surrounded the Enabled's research buildings; a large 
blue and white sign pronounced the complex ENCOMM. "It 
stands for Enabled Communications," Allen explained. Of 
course they would have secrets; trade secrets, 
commercially-based research. Universities up and down 
the East Coast were already talking about ENCOMM; that 
was how the Enabled community had come to my attention.

Martin met us on the shallow, broad staircase that led 
to the basement structures of the tower. When I paused 
to crane my neck back, mouth open in awe at the might of 
the project, a smile warmed his exotic features. As 
before, he was dressed in long clothing, protecting 
vulnerable tissues from solar radiation. Allen was 
thanked and dismissed.

Martin Stone was set to impress me.

There were many things ENCOMM wanted to achieve. They 
wanted to send a rocket to the moon. They wanted to send 
a submarine to the deepest parts of the ocean. They 
wanted a world-wide network of wireless communication, 
and "smart" computers that could run entire cities, 
taking the guesswork out of economics. They would build 
robots that could take the drudgery out of hard manual 
labour, even make it a thing of the past; robots that 
could work in hazardous conditions such as near furnaces 
and deep underground in mines. When I beheld what had 
already been developed by ENCOMM, I was an instant 
convert.

Just beyond the vestibule of the building we entered was 
a circular chamber little more than five yards wide. 
This was the interior of the tower proper, with no 
ceiling overhead for almost two hundred feet. A wide 
staircase twined about the inside wall, but Martin had a 
different mode of transport in mind. He stepped onto a 
disc some three yards across in the very centre of the 
chamber, and raised a hand toward me in invitation. 
"Come! As this is your first time, you may feel the need 
to hold on to something."

My unflappability was being tested. When I stepped onto 
the disc beside him, I could feel a fine buzzing 
vibration through the soles of my sandals. His hand was 
hot to touch, smooth and strong as stone, and he 
presented his arm in a quite old-fashioned manner. At 
first I was a little taken aback, but recalled the 
custom and linked my arm over his, and he squeezed my 
hand firmly. "All right?" he asked, humour creasing his 
eyes; a knowingness, a challenge. I couldn't be sure 
what to prepare for, and nodded.

"Brain," Martin announced to the open air, "I believe we 
are ready."

With that, the disc we stood upon rose into the air. "We 
should put a handrail around this gadget," he mused, 
"but all the regular personnel here are used to it as 
is. One day."

My ears crackled as we flew up the tower. I did not  
smile or show any emotion; I was not supposed to be 
easily impressed. But it was hard not to be. My hand 
tightened its hold involuntarily; my cheek twitched. He 
steadied me by the pressure of his arm - and what a 
well-fleshed arm it was - against mine. But there was 
far more around me to notice than my host's physicality, 
at least for the moment. Two hundred feet straight up, 
on a tiny platform? If the Enabled rode this 
unperturbed, so should I.

We finally reached an aperture in the ceiling, and the 
disc docked smoothly. Martin let me go as soon as we 
arrived on the Observation Deck. Even the most mundane 
of agricultural plains country is transformed by 
altitude, becoming a panorama of patchwork in subtle 
earth shades softened by distance toward the horizon. 
The imposing lookout hills that flank the town were 
reduced to rumples; the more impressive range, to the 
north, a bluish border between land and sky. Who could 
not feel commanding from up here, master of their 
destiny?

There were cities in the world with futuristic towers 
already, architectural statements, boasts of wealth and 
status - and there was _this_ tower, in the middle of 
nowhere, daring the rest of society to look down on the 
misfits who had built it. "The idea was my 
grandfather's," said Martin grandly as he escorted me 
around the 360-degree view, past technicians working at 
consoles with dials, oscilloscopes and meters. "In his 
original view, though, it was a fortress rather than a 
research laboratory or communications hub. I think we 
have managed to evolve since then."

I ran my hand along one of the computer cabinets. It 
hummed minutely. The technical boys back at the 
Engineering faculty were going to have to hear about 
this! "Is that what it's about, Mr. Stone, the ongoing 
evolution of the human race?"

"Of course. The Enabled represent the cutting edge of 
evolution, and we should maximise the gains."

"You spoke to a 'brain' when we set off on the lift." I 
indicated another cabinet, with a glass face behind 
which banks of lights winked, and tape spools turned. 
"Is that what your computer is called?"

Before Martin could answer, a mild and pleasant voice 
lighter than his spoke, seemingly from thin air. 
"Indeed, that is the name people here have seen fit to 
give me, and I take it as my own."

I looked at Martin, raised brows a concession to my 
startlement. He was smiling thinly, a light crease 
visible over the cartilage of his forehead where his 
brows gathered in a frown. "And now the Brain is 
boasting, I think," the ENCOMM supremo rumbled. "Yes, 
the Brain oversees and correlates all the data we 
receive. He is the pinnacle of our computer science 
studies conducted over the past thirty years."

"My pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Limarre," 
said the Brain urbanely. "Or should I say, Saskia, as I 
am reliably informed you prefer. If it's first name 
terms one would prefer, then it would seem I should be 
known as The. Mr. T. Brain, T for The, as in The Brain." 
If it were possible for a voice to broadcast a cheeky 
grin, that was how the Brain came across.

"Computers," I said archly, concealing my shock behind 
arrogance, "are not supposed to have a sense of humour!"

"All for ease of human-machine interaction," the Brain 
explained mildly. I suspected rather cynically that 
there was a man sitting in an office somewhere far 
below, watching me on a cathode screen and speaking into 
a microphone. I could glimpse fat bunches of cords bound 
into plaited cable feeding from the backs of machine 
cabinets, whorled and disappearing into casings that fed 
conduits running into the tower's skin, and wanted to 
believe in the magic of high science. If the Brain truly 
was a machine, these people would reach the moon before 
I grew old.

"This," I breathed, "must be just the tip of the 
iceberg!"

Martin tilted his head, broad face neutral and 
unreadable. "Thank you, Brain.  Now that you have 
introduced yourself, you may resume your regular 
duties."

We returned to the ground-level buildings where I was 
granted a quick on-foot tour of some of the rest of the 
facilities. There was a small school populated by 
children, some of whom had obvious deformities, others 
who appeared normal but undoubtedly had secret abilities 
well beyond the human norm. There was an on-site canteen 
where ENCOMM staff, both nondescript and extraordinary, 
took snacks and meals. Martin was greeted with respect. 
It was I who attracted the outright stares; I who was 
the outsider. Finally, he showed me to his personal 
command centre, along a corridor faced with office 
doors.

The room was orderly, if busy with documents and folders 
laid out neatly. A narrow window looked out on shady 
greenery, and there was little in the way of personal 
decorations or adornments. There was a sturdy bar 
affixed across one corner where I suspected a restless 
man might perform a few chin-ups, and a weighty-looking 
set of dumbbells resting on the floor; a full-length 
mirror, and on his desk a monogrammed gold writing set. 
A wall of library shelves carried texts on politics, 
philosophy, medicine, and physical culture. On another 
wall was something else I had hoped to see - a poster 
photograph of him posing in dark blue trunks, his 
extraordinary body on display.

My article was at centre stage on the desk. Over paper 
cups of chilled water from an office-style cooler, we 
discussed some minor changes. He responded to a couple 
of phone calls during this time, relaxing in this, his 
natural environment. During one such interruption, I 
rose and stretched my back, then walked to the chinning 
bar and closed my hands around it experimentally. "This 
is how you unwind?" I asked when he hung up, tensing my 
arms.

Martin smiled and uncoiled himself from his chair, 
crossing the room to pick up one of the dumbbells as 
though it were as light as styrofoam. "My excess 
energies go into self-maintenance. Although strength is 
my natural gift, a certain level of discipline must be 
maintained to exact the most from my Enabled ability. 
Your article speaks in praise of our healthy lifestyles 
policy here at ENCOMM. I don't doubt you appreciate the 
importance of exercise."

"I couldn't agree more. For me, exercise and relaxation 
go hand in hand."

"You have a personal regime? You have the look of an 
endurance athlete to me." His eyes focused to a keen, 
discerning look that sent a thrill up my neck as he 
examined my body.

"Running, swimming and yoga, mainly," I shrugged. "And I 
like running hurdles. You would be much more into power 
work, I expect."

"Power?" He gave an enigmatic smile and spread his 
hands, then sobered. "My Enabled capacity means power 
isn't really an issue, I have all the power I need. My 
training is for aesthetics as much as fitness. Body 
sculpting is my main interest."

"Most impressive," I conceded, nodding at the poster.

"Thank you." He accepted the compliment with a gracious 
nod. "Since Nature has given me this rather unique 
showcase body, it would be scandalous for me not to 
flaunt it." There was something of a challenge in his 
eyes, as though he wished me to disagree. Like the rest 
of the world, I should have thought him grotesque, 
hideous, a sideshow freak. But I have never subscribed 
to the rest of the world's opinion. I like to form my 
own. And far from finding him gruesome, I was finding 
Martin increasingly attractive.

"Muscles on display, of course. What else do you do to 
unwind?"

"Exercise, especially in one's own company, is 
sufficient as a meditative experience," Martin shrugged, 
setting down the weight and turning to the table again.

"You mean you don't kick back and have a chat or a spa 
after a workout, nothing like that? Hang out with a few 
friends?"

He shuffled papers. "There's always work to do, and I'm 
glad of it. Running ENCOMM is a labour of love, and I 
enjoy my work - my work is play, really. I have no 
social life, it's irrelevant. This," and he tapped his 
desk lightly, "is what's most important to me."

Martin Stone had come from somewhere. He hadn't always 
been the manager. He'd found the time to get married, 
then divorced. "Has that always been the case?" I asked.

He paused in sliding my report into a folder, and placed 
his hands deliberately on the tabletop. When he raised 
his eyes to mine, I couldn't help but draw a breath at 
the intensity. Those hooded sapphires in a scarlet face 
could melt lead.

"Always," he said, very softly. "Not many people 
understand the true nature of devotion, of duty, of 
being true to one's heart. My heart is in the destiny of 
the Enabled, and everything else comes a very poor 
second. Everything."

I would not flinch, although my heart hammered. "It's a 
foolish person who allows emotional concerns to cloud 
their judgement," I said. "Especially when the destiny 
of a community is in his hands."

Martin's face relaxed, the fire in his eyes easing, and 
he gave a slight nod. "I see you understand."

Part of me, the professional within, cheered and crowed. 
_This is more like it!_ I had managed to slip a gimlet 
past his guard. Dare I risk his displeasure again? Of 
course! "You have a son, don't you?"

"He's in school, which is where he belongs. His mother 
is no longer around, that's no secret; I am well 
supported by my brother and sister and their families in 
his upbringing. I am fully conversant with the joys and 
frustrations of family life and of raising a child. I 
manage to combine these aspects of my life with my 
ENCOMM work adequately. This leaves me with little time 
to fritter on social pursuits beyond immediate family 
matters." He raised a fingertip pale with ligamentous 
tissue, and pointed at me. "You must have some 
experience of being in a long-term relationship, Saskia. 
You are attached? Unattached? Is it any of my business?"

I cocked my head curiously. Of course he would counter-
attack. It occurred to me then that he had overestimated 
my age. "I have been in a number of liaisons, but 
nothing lasting, no."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because, quite frankly, I walked away as soon as my 
lovers expected me to provide them with attention and 
gratification on demand. Once they started expecting 
food, sex and babies as their divine right, that was 
that. I have needs other than those. I'll not be one to 
define myself by who my husband is, what his job is, and 
how many children I have."

"Yet you would ask those questions of me, my social 
life, my marital status. Who do you write for, 
EveryWoman's Daily?" He raised a hairless eyebrow 
expectantly.

Touche. I told myself I wasn't fazed. "You are the one 
who desires publicity," I countered, although the 
disparaging remark about womens' gossip magazines stuck 
in my craw.

"How any man could mistake you for the maternal type is 
a mystery to me," Martin said, shaking his head as he 
looked down at my report. The smile spreading across his 
lips was genuine, no forced sociability smirk, and was 
surprisingly infectious. I was smiling too, even before 
I realised it.

I had reason to smile again, as we wrapped up our 
meeting. "Depending on how this article is received," 
said Martin thoughtfully, "would you consider writing 
for ENCOMM again?"

He caught me off-guard. I'd been taking a few notes in 
the margin, while that less reasonable fraction of my 
mind was noticing how his shoulders moved beneath the 
fabric of his shirt. "Why, yes, it would be a pleasure, 
thank you." He sat up and pushed his chair back, 
catching my eye as he rose to his full height. There had 
not been much eye contact as we studied the text, so 
when it happened it was breathtaking. Damn, he shouldn't 
be able to do that to me!

Worse, he said nothing, just reamed my eyes with his. 
Just as I was coming up with a few superficial words to 
break the intensity, a ghost of a smile tugged the 
corner of his mouth.

"I don't repel you at all, do I?"

I faced him squarely, although my heart was rattling. 
"On the contrary, you are quite an attractive man, and 
very distinctive."

"Distinctive," he nodded agreeably. "I like that."

"In fact," I pressed, "it's a shame you keep a 
masterpiece like that," and I nodded at the poster, 
"under wraps."

His smile broadened. "Thank you. Generally, while I'm 
indoors and working I don't cover up quite so much, and 
I find a leotard much more comfortable. These clothes 
are more for going outdoors, in public. They render me 
less noticeable, and they keep the sun off. Sunburn does 
dreadful things to my complexion and capillaries." His 
eyes lingered upon mine.

"I guess you have an entire portfolio? Allen would have 
those pictures available?" The word _leotard_ had sent a 
thrill through parts of me that should have been 
disconnected at a business meeting. I smoothed my vest.

"The best of them, yes. I'd hate to see your article 
choked with Muscle shots, though, it might detract from 
the main topic."

"Oh, of course," I agreed. "A small one could be used as 
an inset...that'd be down to the Layout people anyway." 
I gathered my case, glancing at an elegant, square-faced 
wall clock. Martin thanked me for my work, and summoned 
Allen. I would make my train with minutes to spare.

***

As weeks passed, I put the ENCOMM article behind me as 
another job done. It had been an intriguing place with 
fascinating people, but now the rest of the world 
awaited exploration. Yet somehow, as I researched my 
next assignment, my mind kept straying back to the 
tower, the Enabled, and to Martin Stone.

Although I hadn't asked Allen for any extra photos, a 
week after I returned, a heavy-duty mailer arrived on my 
desk. The glossy photos that spilled out were a private 
delight, in which Martin displayed his uniquely 
beautiful body. Wherever the muscles were thick and 
rounded, he was the deep scarlet of living blood, given 
shape and definition by sheaths of pearlescent sinew. 
His wrists and ankles were naturally taped with bands of 
silvery tendon. The bony surfaces that anchored his 
muscles - hands and feet, knees, elbows, skull - made 
ivory contrasts with his dark rose flesh.

No student of the body beautiful could argue with his 
tone and grace. He wasn't over-worked and grotesque but 
in perfect balance, from the wedges of his latissmus 
down to the neat gluteals hinted at beneath blue trunks 
that matched the colour of his eyes. His legs were 
sinuous sculptures, the thick quads I had admired 
revealed in taut glory. His transparent skin also showed 
there wasn't a scrap of fat to be found on him anywhere.

Each of the photos had been signed, and the signature 
wasn't part of the photograph but had been added later. 
The imprint in the surface was carven by a strong hand. 
Of course he would be proud of himself - he had a lot to 
be proud of. Where is the point in false modesty?

With the package had come a brief but sincere 
handwritten note.

_To Saskia, in appreciation of your sterling effort on 
your article about the Enabled. I have taken the liberty 
of including a personal gift, since you took an 
interest, an interest I appreciate deeply. These are for 
you, not your article, and I hope they serve as a 
memento of your ENCOMM visit. Regards, Martin Stone._ 

I couldn't help smiling every time I re-read that note. 
His gesture had, somehow, lit warm flutters inside, and 
came as a genuine surprise. Of course I responded, and 
before long we were exchanging letters regularly.

At first our letters were short and businesslike, but we 
always answered each other. He praised my work on the 
article, and averred the way was clear for me to do some 
followup work. I would be welcome to return to ENCOMM. 
He had an eye out for my latest reports and articles - 
and even apologised for the gossip magazine slur that I 
had almost - but not quite - forgotten. He inquired as 
to my latest travels, especially when I encountered 
minority groups - who were they, and how did they live? 
I took to sending him postcards from exotic locations.

In turn, I asked after the Enabled, and how the latest 
research projects were faring. I asked after his son. 
Often, I looked through the photos Martin had sent me. 
To see them was to evoke not only admiration of his 
physical beauty, but deeper impressions, for I had not 
actually seen him undressed. They brought back his 
voice, and those hypnotic, discerning eyes. In the 
photos, I could see the splendid arm that I had touched, 
the strength I had so briefly felt.

I prided myself on a certain honesty. However cynical I 
may be, there was no happier a sight than a new envelope 
mailed from Kennarthen on my desk. On one level, we were 
becoming friends. On another, he meant something else 
entirely. 

During subsequent travels, I had indeed passed through 
Aphraeos. In that land of complete sexual liberalism, I 
entered a store the size of a small supermarket. Down 
every aisle, there were boundless ways to enhance the 
human sexual experience, all for sale at competitive 
prices.

This was heady enough, even for someone as well-
travelled as I. Costumes of leather, rubber, vinyl 
glistening wetly; rack upon rack of books and magazines 
with one overriding theme in common; custom departments 
for everything from chromed steel manacles and nipple 
clamps, to the softest feather boas and sheerest 
underwear. Masks of iron, masks of velvet.

There was something droll about the title of the "Toy 
Section", and I made my way in with a smile. I had 
promised myself something special, and the more I 
considered my purchase, the better I knew what I wanted. 
Man-shaped, but a specific colour. Deep, vibrant claret. 
My friends from the Faculty of Medicine assured me that 
the rush of blood at arousal would render him an 
extraordinary shade, dark, even purplish.

Every shade of the dildo rainbow was here to be found, 
and I was able to make a purchase that went some way 
toward releasing my sexual tensions. Somehow, I needed 
to masturbate more often than before, and it was 
thinking of Martin that usually set things off.

My body and mind were locked in ceaseless, pointless 
combat. I had a pen-friend, and I wondered what it would 
be like to have sex with him. _Pointless speculation_, 
said my brain. _Who cares, if it feels good_, said my 
body. It was fun to wonder how he dealt with the sexual 
aspect of his life. Did he have a secret lover tucked 
away somewhere? Or did he truly exercise alone, toning 
and trimming that gorgeous body? I imagined him peeling 
off his leotard before the full-length mirror in the 
privacy of his office, and rubbing his body with oil in 
long, languid strokes until he glistened. Perhaps his 
caresses would waken deep pleasures and hungers, and 
with hands already soft and slippery he would stroke a 
neglected part of his body to throbbing, pulsing life. 
Would he remember my face as he did so?

We didn't phone each other. I had seen how busy his 
phone was at ENCOMM, and I doubted he had much use for 
it for socialising. He just didn't socialise. And me, I 
was everywhere, at lectures, on research, training, 
seldom near a regular phone point.

"In the near future," Martin wrote to me, "we will have 
instant, wireless communication with each other no 
matter where in the world we may be. We will have homes 
with miniature Brains that will be in constant 
communication. For the moment, the humble pen and paper 
must suffice.

"I only hope you don't hold me in contempt for 
vicariously travelling with you. The needs of ENCOMM and 
my people keep me, by necessity, here in this office. 
While this is the place I love to be, I appreciate the 
eyes and ears you lend me in the greater world." 

I smiled as I read. Our letters were becoming gradually 
longer, each of us having more to say, no longer 
interviewing as such but simply conversing. Then I 
looked around. I was stuck in a cab in gridlock in 
tropical Dicot, one of the most crowded and filthy 
cities in the world. People here thought nothing of 
wearing masks to filter the air. _You wouldn't want to 
be here, Martin - right now I don't want to be here!_

I had learned from his letters that his son's name was 
Simon, and his ex-wife was one Rachel Jarratt. The 
journalist in me wanted to go through city phonebooks 
and attempt to track her down. The rest of my collective 
impulses just wanted to get to the rail terminus as 
quickly as possible. Almost a year after my first 
article on ENCOMM, there was a follow-up article to 
write.
<1st attachment end>


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