Message-ID: <50822asstr$1111986604@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <news@google.com> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Path: o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: "Shadowloup" <shadowloup@hotmail.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <1111976472.880047.315280@o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com> Mime-Version: 1.0 NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 28 Mar 2005 02:21:16 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com; posting-host=64.12.116.197; posting-account=DKRltgwAAADqFv4yspxqKCDz0KGwRr_h X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 27 Mar 2005 18:21:12 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} Dr. Screw Return of the Screw - Chapter 2 (sci fi, mf, aliens, humor) Lines: 198 Date: Mon, 28 Mar 2005 00:10:04 -0500 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 X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2005/50822> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: hoisingr, dennyw Greetings. You must be physically and metaphysically old enough to read this. I'm sure your children are fine, I just have no wish to raise them. Anyone other than ASSTR who wishes to use this story for whatever purpose should contact me, since I can actually prove I wrote it. Everyone else, please enjoy. Constructive feedback is always welcome. If you like it, please visit my website at www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Shadowloup/www. Chapter 2 Byzantium III floated lazily near the intersection of three folds of hyperspace at the ass end of the universe. Looking like a cylinder with a slight weight problem, it rotated slowly in the everlasting night. This Rotation provided the station's denizens with enough artificial gravity to live, work and perform their mating rituals. And if the gravity failed to facilitate those rituals, then the thousands of orgasmic engineers who prowled the station were available to lend helping hands, flippers or tentacles, for a nominal fee. Because of this, and Byzantium III's lonely, distant locale, space prospectors referred to it as their "last, best chance for piece of ass." But now ByzantIum III was flirting with respectability The few diplomAtic missions operating on the station had recently been contacted by a strange new alien race, the Whorelons. These beings were a complete mystery, refusing to meet face-to-face or even exchange holographic images. What the Whorelons did want was to meet with the nearest superpowered civilization, the Confederation. So the ByzaNtium III diplomats were pleased to liaise between the two races. Their efforts now bore fruit. The Whorelons agreed to attend a diplomatic conference, and the Confederation had gotten off its ass and actually sent a diplomatic mission to the station. To celebrate, Byzantium III planned to do what it did best; throw a mind-bending party. DelegationS for most of the major races were already onboard the station. In fact, they currently congregated in Byzantium III's largest, most ornate hall. It was 100 cubic yards of empty space in a place where empty, habitable space was rare. On the walls were three-dimensional holographic representations of the outside space, which gave the confined area an illusion of being even larger. In reality, the guests stood on the outer hull of the ship, with nothing separating them from inky vacuum but a few feet of steel. Ignorance of tHe precariousness of their party was very blissful to the ambassadors, who mingled, partook of a vast variety of alien foods, and chattered excitedly. Even by Byzantium III standards, this was going to be quite a party. FrigAdier Jonathan "Leftwing" Stewart, the head of Byzantium III's Security Force, was ecstatic. And his middle name, awarded to him because he was so conservative as to be in danger of wrapping around to become a liberal, was an indicator that he was not usually ecstatic. For days he had walked around with an uncharacteristic smile beneath his laser-thin black moustache. He had even complimented several underlings, thus adding to the palpable tension. His unDerling, Sergeant Dennis Bainter was equally pleased. After a month of leading an investigation into the recently thwarted Dildek invasion, he was eager for something completely different. Plus, whenever the Frigadier was happy, so was the convivial, clean cut Bainter. BOth men nodded their heads in approval as they watched the gaily colored bunting hanging across the reception hall change colors. It read "Greetings" in several languages, then "Welcome to Byzantium III". Though they could not see it, the same characters fluoresced in both the ultra-violet and infra-red portions of the spectrum. There had been a debate over Whether this bunting should be removed after someone remembered the very tragic fate of Byzantium I during a different diplomatic soiree. At that one, the Kelnoiree race had attended. Alas, no one had realized that, in their culture, buntings represented proclamations of war. Byzantium I's demise had been swift. But not as swift as that which befell Byzantium II, which had run afoul of some sort of love struck interstellar creature which had copulated with the station until its destruction. Standing near Bainter was his new girLfriend, the tall, elegant blond Bambi. Formerly an orgasmic engineer, she had recently become Byzantium III's official orgasmic engineer licenser, thanks to her connections with Bainter. She had also started the catering company which had been hired for this diplomatic party, also thanks to Bainter. She gave Bainter a smile, then examined the main serving table, testing the fOod, checking the cooking and dish placements, reviewing the place cards, and flittering about like a terrestrial butterfly. Bambi had abUsed her connections a bit further to get her friend and roommate Alexis invited to the soiree as a representative of Byzantium III's business community. The shorter, darker, but no less shaPely Alexis was not convinced that her appearance at this meeting would increase the patronage of her porn shop. Alexis's club, previously known as the legendary Porno Palace, had been severely damaged during the Dildek invasion,. She had rebuilt it, and re-christened it as the Kitty-cat Club. Alexis wore a new pink blouse, which may have been one size too small, over her proud bust. She also wore her trademark black spandex bike pants, which now seemed two sizes too small. She held a drink her left hand while trying to pull those pants out of the crack of her rump with her right, while shielding her maneuver from the cameras. She did not care for the numerous news cameras which floated about like droning insects. Seeing Alexis ill at ease and out of sorts, standing towards the back of the room, interacting with few others, Bambi flitted over. "Are you OK?" she asked her friend. "I have no idea what I'm doing here," Alexis said. "This is your area of expertise." "Nonsense. Just look at all those cameras. There's the Byzantium News Network, Al-Jizzeata, Foxylady News. They're just looking for interesting things to shoot. And one of the most interesting is you, a self-made business woman and busty entrepreneur to boot." "These aren't my people," Alexis said. Bambi eyed a large, ponderous ambassadorial creature of the Maloderon race, a species which resembled fat, dwarflike, tail-less whales with pendulous noses and flat feet, who communicated primarily through smell. "These are not exactly my people either," Bambi said. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the officers from the Confederation Ship Roberty Lee. The men entered the hall to deafening applause. Captain James T. Turk looked resplendent in his gray stripped Confederation uniform, a boyish shock of unruly hair played on his forehead. Behind him stood Snotty, McElroy and Splock, all equally well-dressed. Snotty toted a black plastic case. Farther back stood two other men, one dressed in an Hawaiian shirt, the other a short, portly, bespectacled man with crinkly hair. The Frigadier and Bambi approached Turk. Bambi carried a lei made from condoms donated by Alexis, which she laid around Turk's neck, saying "Welcome to Byzantium III. Turk eyed Bambi's ass with intent, the lei giving him many a nasty idea. Before he could think of a suitable comeback, the Frigadier was pumping his hand in the ancient earthen welcome. "Welcome to Byzantium III," the Frigadier said, leading Turk away from Bambi and towards a podium decked so many microphones it resembled a mini-missile launcher. The floating cameras followed like a hoard of flies. One buzzed a bit too close to the Frigadier, nearly knocking off his dress cap. While Turk searched forlornly for one last vision of Bambi's lost ass, the Frigadier stood behind the microphone and began the banal incantation to start the party. "Ladies and gentle beings, we are here today to celebrate a ..." Fearing the Frigadier might actually be attempting some sort of mind-control experiment via boredom, Alexis turned her mind off and tuned out the incessant chattering. It was just in time for her to see a familiar Hawaiian-shirt clad man slink towards the exit. Alexis ran after him, grabbing a piece of shrimp from a platter as she passed. "Hey, you!" she shouted. She threw the entree at him, striking him in the back of his head. "You bastard! You never said goodbye. You never write. You never..." Alexis stared with growing horror as the stranger turned to face her. It was not the mysterious Time Fnord Doc. It looked a bit like him, but wasn't. He, like Doc, had a powerful yet goofy grin, which he leveled at Alexis. "Hiya, babe," the man said. "If you really wanted to get to know me, a simple hello would have been great." His voice had a laid back, self-confident air, with just a hint of smarminess. His eyes were equally self confident to the point of possible insanity. "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else." "Well, I'm glad I'm not that guy. I'm just little old George Metesky of the CIA." The man pointed his finger as though it were a gun, his thumb the hammer. "Gotta run, babe. My government is collapsing." With that and a smile, he turned and left. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>| | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+