mpmst1@unix.cis.pitt.edu (Michael P. Metlay) (01/07/91)
[ Many of you have enjoyed the Bandit series that was posted recently. It is indeed strange that this part of it - the Prologue - hasn't shown up until after the rest has appeared. Nevertheless, it seems to stand (sic) on its own. Enjoy. - yereverlovinmoderator ] Hello, alt.sex folx. In response to the many requests for erotica on the newsgroup, and the favorable responses I've gotten for my offer to post SF and/or serial erotica, I've decided to post a part of a series of stories I work on from time to time, involving a number of recurring characters over a wide span of time and place. It isn't SF, precisely, but as you'll see, it isn't rooted in reality either. It's, well, DIFFERENT. In the meantime, join the gang in the Eastern Habitat at Arcadia University, a small performing-arts school at the intersection of two state highways somewhere in the United States. This work is copyright 1989 metlay, and is in the public domain for all forms of reproduction and distribution SAVE those involving sale of this material. All persons, places and events in this story series are FICTIONAL, dammit, so please stop asking me for the location of Arcadia or for Mary Magdalene's phone number! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- PROLOGUE: It has a mind of its own Late winter 1982 The room was bathed in fanned rays of yellow light, the glare of the streetlight outside the window only partially shuttered out by the Venetian blinds. It wasn't a terribly cluttered or fancy room; bunk bed at one end, desk at the other, two closets and chests of drawers, mirror, and bookshelves. The walls were grey cinderblock, and the floor was institutional brown tile, a choice of a practical rather than esthetic nature. But that wasn't to say that the room had no character; far from it. It wasn't easy for a lowly teenager to make a dent in the Establishment's effort to create anonymous conformity, but it could be done. The center of the floor was covered by a huge Persian rug, and the walls were adorned with Roger Dean landscapes: here an ethereal stone staircase over a cloudy sky, there a desert island floating in the clouds, and over there a huge mesa, a lake at its top, sheeting down water on all sides. And there weren't many other rooms in the building that would have had furniture like that next to the desk: a keyboard stand with a small synthesizer, a pair of boxy guitar amps, a beautiful old Les Paul on a stand, and a hideously-customized old Rickenbacker bass beside it, a sort of "American Gothic" with guitars instead of the old farmer and his wife. The bunk bed was occupied, top and bottom, and gentle breathing could be heard from both of the beds. Up top, two bodies were intertwined under the thick blanket, sleeping the sleep of the beloved. Down below, a single body was stretched out and gently snoring, head thrown back on the thick pillow, arms and legs akimbo. Suddenly, a tiny rustling motion came from beneath the blanket on the lower bunk. A small, moving lump appeared under the blanket, slowly and laboriously moving across to the edge of the bed. At the edge, it hesitated, trembling, then cautiously nosed out from under the covers. The Bandit's penis was going exploring. It looked to the left and right, carefully sniffing the air for anything out of the ordinary and listening for any strange sound that might mean trouble. Satisfied at last, it gathered itself carefully, and jumped lightly down onto the carpet, glans first. It was an undignified way to land, that was for certain, but it knew from experience that it was a hell of a lot nicer than landing on its balls. It scrambled upright and immediately scurried to the protection of the bass on its stand, in case someone might see it. It paused for a minute or two, waiting anxiously for that fatal gasp or scream in the darkness. None came. Relieved, the Bandit's penis began to explore its surroundings in somewhat greater comfort. It paused to lovingly stroke the bottom of the bass with its head, luxuriating in the feel of the cool, smooth lacquered wood against its skin. God, it loved that instrument! It always wished that the Bandit would play it naked one of these days, so it could feel the bass's body resonating against it without the Bandit's thrice-damned pants in the way. The insistent throb of the deep, powerful notes was so erotic, and there it was, stuffed into a pair of BVDs while the Bandit got to have all the fun! Sometimes life just wasn't fair. The Les Paul was nearby, gleaming black in the night. The Bandit's penis gazed up at it a bit fearfully, and wondered if Zero's penis felt the same way about the guitar that it did about the bass. It would have to ask, someday, but frankly it doubted if it had the courage to put forth the question. The Bandit's penis was terrified of Zero's. So was every other penis in the building. Or anywhere else on the campus, for that matter. The Bandit's penis shivered at the thought of meeting it out here in the dark.... The penis looked up at the synthesizer, and wondered at the flat black metal of its base. It was a strange one, that box. It shrieked, moaned, wailed and thundered. A lot like Diva when she was coming, actually. The Bandit's penis chuckled at that one; Diva made him laugh more often than not. Diva. The Bandit's penis turned around and squinted up through the dim light at the upper bunk. There, perilously near the edge, was a blanketed back, wide and gently curved, and a generous pair of buttocks clearly outlined beneath the fabric. Zero was a lucky guy, that was for sure. She was smart, talented, friendly...well, to most people. The Bandit's penis shrank a bit as she thought of the looks Diva gave the Bandit. Why doesn't she like him, it wondered. He sure likes her well enough. Hmm, maybe that's the problem. Well, it's not my place to advise him on such things. Onward! The Bandit's penis sauntered under the music stand, and clambered into the closet. There was the Bandit's old laundry bag, smelling of sweat, and dirt, and.... Suddenly the penis stopped, stiffening, and sniffed deeply at the bag. Good Lord above, it thought, there's a pair of panties in there! Now who in the heck-- Oh. Right. Silly of me. The Bandit's penis wilted completely and slumped into a dejected heap. Oh, damn, it wailed, why'd I have to find those? She probably put them in there to be cleaned, the last night they slept together, and he hasn't given them back yet. Damn! It thought miserably of the wonderful warm nights through the winter that the Bandit had spent with Teenie, before she'd broken up with him and left him alone and cold and miserable and horny and frustrated and.... it could remember every inch of her, her long lustrous black hair with the glorious red highlights that took her forever to comb, her wonderful firm lips that the Bandit wasn't allowed to kiss too hard because she'd be too sore to play the clarinet, her beautiful breasts with their rosy-pink nipples and virtually nothing else to them, her slim, tight torso with the razor-sharp hip bones, her-- The Bandit's penis sat up again. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that she left after all, it decided. The Bandit can do better. I hope. It hopped down from the closet and waddled comically along the wall, past the dressers and mirror and back toward the bed. Ah, it's wonderful to get out and about in the cool and quiet of night! Pity the poor female, whose privates never get out to see the world and get a bit of exercise. It did a few somersaults, just for fun, and rolled over to the foot of the bed. The first faint light of the rising sun was starting to tinge the stark yellow of the lights outside, and it glanced at the luminous dial of the alarm clock nearby to see what time it was. It read 6:57. The Bandit's penis was glad it didn't have any vocal cords, because it would've screamed blue murder right then. Three minutes to seven? Dear GOD! Frantically it waddled over to the end of the bed, cursing the pain in its balls. A lot like walking on sore feet, it supposed. Really sore feet, that is. The bedclothes were loose and dangling almost to the floor, as usual; fortunately the Bandit was a pretty sloppy hand at making beds. It strained upward, and just managed to hook itself in the little cusp of the partially- tucked blanket. With a mighty heave, it levered itself up to the level of the matress. For a split second, it lost its balance, and teetered on the edge of the bed, visions of a long fall right onto its balls playing grotesquely in its terrified imagination, but it recovered itself with a desperate lunge and lay panting for a few moments. The lump under the covers quickly shuffled up the length of the bed, between the sprawlingly spread legs, and stopped. For perhaps a half minute, all was still. Then the alarm clock began to blare heavy metal music at an ungodly volume, silenced a moment later by a groggily-aimed fist smashing down on the SNOOZE button. The Bandit remained frozen in midreach for a moment, body half raised from the matress, then collapsed back into bed. Above him, he heard a moan, a light kiss, indecipherable whispers. Then a pair of shapely legs appeared over the edge of the bed, followed by a meaty but well-rounded pair of buttocks, demurely clad in purple panties. With a graceless thump, Diva dropped to the carpet and hastily began to dress. She didn't turn around; the Bandit was watching her, and she knew he was watching her, and what was worst, HE knew that she knew that he was watching her and that wasn't stopping him. Another pair of legs, much skinnier and covered with hair, appeared at the foot of the bed, and ingerly turned around, hunting for footing. Zero climbed down to floor level, muttering, "Morning, Bandit. Sleep well?" "No," the Bandit responded. "Not at all." He scratched his groin and swung his legs out from under the covers, smacking his lips distastefully at the awful layer of perdition in his mouth. He blinked, trying to remember the fragments of something very near, yet too nebulous to touch. "I'm never going to sleep on a full stomach again," he vowed wearily. "Pizza with mushrooms and onions gives you the WEIRDEST dreams!" -- Mail rec.arts.erotica submissions to erotica@telly.on.ca. Most software will automatically mail your postings to that address.