Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: Payback (F, statues, double penetration)
Date: 29 Sep 1995 21:54:01 GMT

			     The Payback

	Syndaine is a Virtual Reality system, one that
	allows hundreds of people to interact in a
	wholly ficticious, computer-generated fantasy
	where anything is possible, even instances that
	have the appearance of sorcery. there are,
	however, rules. and it isn't free.

	Once, she had taken a strong disliking to the way that the
Sysop of Syndaine had required her to pay for her time on the
Simulation system; gradually, she had come to enjoy it and even to
look forward to it. She had been paying the usual way - with Work-Hour
Credits from her bank account - until Tasche-Schinereyf (the Sysop)
had made his unusual offer.

	She had been pottering around the office for half an hour,
convincing herself that none of the multitude of mundane tasks sitting
in the in-tray were so pressing that they couldn't wait until
tomorrow. The last of them rationalised away, she set her terminal to
answer her mail and she left for the Simulation Bay.

	She moved past the ranked couches, each with a still figure
lying on it, connected to the Syndaine computer by a ninety-pin
terminal cable attached to a socket behind the ear, found an empty
couch and logged in.

	The muted air-conditioned hush of the Simulation Bay was
replaced by the babble of dozens of alien languages, the hum of
information commerce as hundreds of simulated people traded
information which, in Syndaine, had physical reality. She had arrived
in the middle of the market at Nimyf-a-Tel, surrounded by simulated
book-stalls, food-retailers, prostitutes, mercenaries and hawkers of
more dubious wares. She made her way through the press of the crowd
(it was _always_ crowded on here; if there weren't enough real people
in Simulation to support the illusion, the operating system generated
some more), making her way to the taxi ranks on Second Avenue.

	Not for the first or last time, she wished that the Sysop
would standardise on taxis; as she gazed down Second Avenue, she had
difficulty telling which of the bizarre forms were transport and which
were details of the environment, like park benches or trees. She
tentatively approached something like a two-metre-wide jelly- fish,
and was about to prod it and enquire about fares when she spotted a
Pegasus, dropping off a Bythian, two ranks up.

	She hurried over before the winged horse could fly off,
raising her hand. It saw her, ducked its head and kneeled down,
allowing her to climb on its back. she settled down, grasping the bony
shoulder- blades from which depended the three-metre-span wings, pure
white, oversized dove's feathers spreading out as it stretched. She
had read somewhere, once, that to be able to fly a Pegasus would need
wings so large that they would drape over it like a tent and would
require a pure sugar diet to supply the required energy; in
Simulation, such rules of proportion were waived, as the effect was
considered worthwhile.

	`Take me to the top of the world,' she whispered. The Pegasus
ducked its head again, its long, silky mane drifting about its head
like a cloud of smoke; it then slowly spread its wings, bent its hind
legs, crouching for takeoff; with one mighty thrust and a perfectly-
timed leap, they were airborne, the wings beating with greater speed
than she had thought possible for an animal of that size.

	She wove her fingers into the Pegasus's mane nervously; from
this altitude, it was possible to gain an idea of the general topology
of Syndaine; an attitude which she found somewhat disturbing, as the
shape simply defied explanation. It was something like a toroid, if
one discounted the spire in the middle, which joined the toroid-shape
somewhere below the surface of a circular, annular river. A similar
spire depended from the `ceiling' of the simulation (which was, today,
lost amidst fluffy grey-white clouds), leaving a gap of about five
metres between stalactite and stalagmite. This was her destination.

	By the time they had arrived, she was panic-stricken, her arms
tight around the Pegasus's neck, eyes squeezed shut. He had to stamp
one of his forehooves a couple of times before she realised that they
had landed, and that it was safe to dismount. Shaking, she slid from
his back, almost too preoccupied with controlling her fear to remember
to pay for the journey. She recovered slightly, managing a nervous
laugh.

	`I'm sorry... I usually travel up here in a covered vehicle.'
She held the credit-button implanted in her wrist against a similar
contact mounted on the Pegasus's shoulder, and credits were
electronically exchanged. The Pegasus lowered its long-lashed eyelids,
snorted, took a couple of steps run-up and flew off. She turned to
face the round platform that was mounted on the apex of Syndaine.

	It was formed into a slight bowl, a shallow depression about
half a meter in depth, twenty metres across. In the center were two
statues, standing less than half a metre apart; smooth, almost
featureless, powerfully-muscled males, over two metres tall, each with
a broad pair of wings outspread, the wing-tips touching the floor
three metres behind them. They appeared to be carved from bright red
ceramic; as she watched, they rippled, like glass containers filled
with swirling liquids, and within moments, they had reformed into
sharp-edged blue crystal, like methane-ice. She approached them,
stripping off her sari, regarding the razor-sharp edges, imagining
that touching them would be like kissing a bowl full of broken glass.
She put her head back and stared up at the flat tip of the spire
suspended above her. A huge eye, brilliant green with myriad points of
light drifting through the deep blackness of the pupil, stared
impassively down at her. She watched it for almost a minute before
being able to detect the slight pulsating change in the pupil's
diameter which indicated that it was alive and staring back at her.
She grinned at it.

	The statues hadn't changed; she folded her arms and waited.
About a minute later, thousands of shades of blue swirled within them,
as if disappearing down a plug-hole, to be replaced by a smooth, milky
green jade. She approached the nearest statue, traced the outline of
its hip; it was as smooth and frictionless as wet glass; faintly
resilient, like the semi-rigid plastic that drink bottles were made
from; cooler than the temperate surrounding air. She positioned
herself between them, glanced up at the eye above,and winked. It
winked back, momentarily being obscured by glossy black lids.

	She reached out to the statue in front of her, put her hands
around the back of its neck, drew it closer. It flexed, bending at the
waist; she pressed her lips against the smooth, featureless jade curve
of its face, kissed it; reached down to caress the staff which emerged
smoothly from the juncture of its thighs, like a piston- shaft
emerging from an engine. She squeezed the base, and it deformed
slightly, the tip bulging out like a balloon; it retained that shape
momentarily, slowly resuming the original test-tube-like form,
continuing to grow until it protruded almost forty centimetres into
the air. Her breathing grew deeper as she ran one hand over the curves
of the rippling muscles presented before her, the other sliding down
her belly to slip three fingers in between the flushed lips of her
sex.

	The statue moved, holding its hands out to her; she stood on
the tips of her toes, resting her hands on its shoulders as it grasped
her hips, lifting her up, holding her poised over the end of its
shaft. She arched her back, angling herself to present a shallower
profile, and it delicately pressed the fist-sized head to her swollen
lips, allowing her to spread her legs slightly and wriggle down over
the end, slowly taking it into her. She gasped as it entered; the
shaft had developed a series of ridges along the top which rubbed
against her in a breathtaking fashion. The milky-green colours
swirled, were suddenly shot through with streaks of crimson, as if an
artery had burst within. She felt a surge of warmth as it was remade
in what looked like red-hot molten glass, fortunately at a bearable
temperature; still, decidedly hot, as it pressed itself forward into
her again.

	She clutched at its shoulders, trying to get a firm grip on
the slick substance; obligingly, two finger-wide slots formed, which
she grasped gratefully, allowing her to apply better leverage. The
second statue, behind her, had leaned forward and grasped her waist,
placing its crudely-detailed hands just above the other statue's.

	She felt the slippery end of its erection pressing between her
buttocks; she wiggled her hips, conscious of the pulsing shaft that
impaled her from the front, and the second statue slowly pressed its
slick length into her rear. As the two statues began to thrust
rhythmically and yet slightly out of synchronisation, she couldn't
help but think of a mechanical model she'd once seen, a brass and
steel contraption, powered by steam, all wheels, pulleys and
pistons... she couldn't remember what it was for, but it had an
unbalanced, irregular motion very much like the one that her body was
exhibiting at the moment. She closed her eyes, gently rocking back and
forth on the twin pillars, occasionally gritting her teeth as their
movements aligned themselves to induce peaks of sensual pleasure. She
threw her head back, opened her eyes and looked up; the eye was
watching her intently.

	`I... hope you're... capturing this... Tasche,' she gasped
between thrusts. She looked down, saw the glowing red face in front of
her darken to the colour of dried blood, then further until she was
pressed between two brawny angels carved from black ice. They moved
closer, pressing her body between their broad chests and washboard-
ribbed bellies, their wings slowly curving around to touch the tips
together. Taking a firm hold of the hand-grips, she began to thrust
forward and back, the hands of the angel-statue in front sliding down
to hold her thighs, her breasts flattened against its smooth chest.

	She felt a gathering warmth in the pit of her stomach, fluids
dripping from her crotch, her nipples rubbing rhythmically against the
statue; the shaft that was smoothly sliding in and out of her rear
changed shape slightly, developing shallow corrugations that deepened
with each thrust, until it was being forced in and dragged out again
with halting, almost painful deliberation. The ridges that ran along
the top of the column thrust between her swollen lips deepened also,
each one flicking against her clitoris as they passed. Her breathing
grew even more halting as she felt herself mount the edge of orgasm;
the statues blithely and unconcernedly thrust on, leaving her to try
and regulate her motion as much as she could and steer towards her
goal.

	She reached climax, shaking in the statues' grip, eyes
squeezed shut, mouth opened in an involuntary, silent scream; the
statues simultaneously shoved themselves in as far as possible, her
wet muscles squeezing the shafts in sharp spasms, gradually slowing
until the last contraction came, held her in momentary ecstasy, and
passed. She collapsed into the statues' arms, breathing like a
marathon runner who'd just surpassed all of her previous best efforts.

	The statues chose this moment to change again, their surfaces
swirling through half-a-dozen colours, settling on a mottled wet-
concrete grey; at the same time, acquiring the abrasive texture of
low-grade sandpaper. Her eyes widened with the sensation of having two
giant nail-files thrust into her; nipples scraping against the chest
of the statue which she was slumped against. Not daring to move, she
waited, still breathing deeply, and a minute later the statues changed
again, taking on a jungle-green colour and the tactile properties of
wet rubber.

	She levered herself off the ribbed protrusion that had been
plunged, to the hilt, into her ass; pushed away from the knobbed
prominence before her, accompanied by the squeaking sounds of wet
flesh against rubber. She addressed the ocular apparition overhead
sternly: `I think... that little episode would cover two months'
access. Easily.'

	Tasche-Schinereyf didn't argue.