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It Has A Mind Of Its Own
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Please note that this piece is copyright 1989 metlay, and that permission is
hereby given for free distribution on the alt.sex newsgroup and in the public
domain from there, but that reproduction for purposes of sale is prohibited.
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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!"
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