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Probe
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.
PROBE
by
E.Victor Kiff
@ 1991
Chapter One
First Sighting
The sudden storm had been startling; sharp and violent, rolling
over the hills to the north and east and coming down upon them in
the breath of a moment. For an hour or more, it had flung its fury
upon the land and river and the usually quiet little creek, rip-
ping the undergrowth from the already rain sodden ground and turn-
ing ancient trees that had stood for well over a hundred years
into kindling. At times, as the storm surrounded them, the wind
had driven straight ahead and the crescendo of its passing became
like a tortured scream throught the trees; then it would swirl and
eddy, blowing confused, chasing itself into a tighter and still
tighter maelstrom of sound and rain and thunder. Battering the
little cabin that crouched beneath the relative shelter of the
oaks, birch, and fir trees, and the hill that rose above and
behind it.
And then almost as quickly as it had come: it was gone. But
the dark night skies remained as cloud streaked and stained as
before as brief showers passed over them. Even, now, a good three
hours after the storms passing, the waters of the river and of the
deep water creek which fed the river, remained troubled, expect-
ant, tossing the little sailboat lying at an uneasy anchor in the
creek, this way and that. In another three hours, dawn would come.
But for now, with no moon to lift and fill the silence, there was
only the total blackness of night and the metallic sound of hal-
yards banging against metal stays, and the incessant dripping of
water from water soaked leaves and fallen trees, the murmur of the
stream that ran close upon the cabin and the voice of the rising
creek itself.
A match flared in the darkness, then was gone. Its sound un-
natural in the silence. In its brief light, the framework of a
door was imprinted upon the darkness and within its boundaries, a
darkish man whose eyes caught the glint of yellow from the flame
and reflected the light like two tiny moons reflect the suns rays.
"Nat?"
His name was Nathianel. Nate, to friends and enemies alike--
Nat, to the woman who's voice came out of the darkness behind him.
If the light from the match had remained for a moment longer than
it had, and had he been facing her, he was certain she would have
been surprised by the look of wonder on his face, for in his mind
he was back in the research shack, staring into the unearthly
bluish light of a radio scope which painted something that should
not have been there. Had not been there when he had begun his
initial search for the pleasure yaght enroute to the capitol and
carrying a most human bit of cargo that he had waited for with
trepedation. But abruptly there when he had twisted controls to
increase the scopes sensitivity, appearing dim, nearly indis-
cernable, masked by the stronger return of the ship he had
searched for and appearing almost as a ghost.
He swore silently to himself. So much had not been done,
could not be done; was not done and he was not certain why. He
could have radioed in his first observations, irregardless of what
he thought he had seen. But the sighting had been too brief. And
although he had re-run the calculations that would mask the star
field patterns and present him with a clearer contact, he had
neglected, still, to make any kind of call for a kind of indepen-
dent verification, just glared at the screen as if it were lying
to him. When he had finally broken his stupor, moved to reset the
scope, make the call, the screen had become a hash of signals
generated by the storm and they had had to race back to the cabin.
But once they were safe, the storm beating down everything around
them, he had continued to hold back and not make any kind of
contact. Wasting time. Even then, despite the storm, he could have
gotten through to someone, but, and he smiled at the thought, then
other things had come up and the call had been further delayed.
And now it was impossible as he stared out into the blackness,
marking the sounds from the boat over there to his left, the
stream that ran behind and curved around the house on its way down
to the creek. They had no power. The storm had probably blown a
fuse or something had parted in the wind and he was no longer sure
that he wanted to make any kind of report. Unsure that if what he
had seen were real, that the knowledge was in fact something that
should be shared with others at that moment.
"Nat?"
He finally stirred, looking back over his shoulder into the
darkness of the cabin. "Storms gone. Should clear up in a couple a
hours or so," he said absently. Unwilling at that moment to devote
more attention to Millie. "Then we can go if you want."
"Do you think the boat's okay?"
He chuckled under his breath. "It had better be, it'll be
damned difficult to get out of here."
"Then don't you suppose you should check the radio?"
"I can do that later. Preferably when there's more light; see
the antenna. Dawn will be here pretty soon, anyway."
Millie did not immediately answer. Then she said quietly,
"And the end of it."
No, not now, Millie, he thought. I don't really want to visit
this discussion again, one they had been having over a course of a
few years. "Perhaps, not," he remarked instead, trying to
forestall it. "We can talk about it some more," he said finally.
"A little later per--"
"I like it here. Its.."
"I know. I do too. It's just not practical."
"It could be."
He nodded.
"Well don't you think so, Nat?"
"Yes," he said quickly into the night, forgetting that she
could not see him. Not even an outline of him because the one
emergency light they had, even the remnants of the fire, had long
ago gone out. Damned fuse, he thought ruefully. "I guess-- it
could be."
"Then--"
"Later, Millie. Please. I need to think."
"About me?" There was laughter in her voice.
"No," he said over his shoulder, "definitely not about you.
Not now, at any rate. But," he said with a leer, "I will and you'd
better be ready."
The bedcovers rustled. "I am." Her voice became huskier. "I'm
wet already."
"Millie," he sighed, "later, all right?."
She said nothing for a long moment and he he was afraid this
might be the overture to an argument, something he neither wanted
or needed at the moment. He heard her sigh. "All right, Nat. I'm
sorry."
Oh, for the love of the Great Being, he said to himself. If
only she would simply understand. Accept for the moment. But then
how could she. She was not really a member of the Council, just an
adjunct to it. And although the two of them were connected, each
together, professionally...spiritually, there was no provision for
telling someone outside the Council of its workings or interests.
But more to the point, he needed to try to understand the signifi-
cance of what he had or thought he had seen with relation to the
Council. The adjuncts, everyone else, would perhaps understand its
significance, but there were wider implications: to himself, to
the Council. To everyone, he realized with a start. And so he had
to ponder the connectives, determine if he in fact should radio in
what he had seen. He pursed his lips, considering. Nodded his
head. If he did, that would in fact mean the end to all this. But
only if what I think I saw is actually there.
"Night, Nat."
"Umm."
The bed squeaked as she settled herself.
He looked uselessly over his shoulder in her direction,
initially smiling, then feeling a grin crease his face as he
thought of her. Warming, stirring beneath his robe. No, he said to
himself severely, that for later as he pulled on the pipe. The
thing was dead, never having gotten a chance to burn. Could he
chance it? Perhaps not, but, he would do it anyway. Perhaps if he
were particularly careful, cupped the fame so the light would not
disturb her...
"You might as well light it."
"What?"
"You might as well light the damned thing. You'll be happier
and at least I'll know where you are."
"I thought you were going back to sleep."
"You didn't hear me then."
"Hear you? what in the world do you mean? I heard you
before."
"I said that I was ready for you again."
"Millie," he started, hesitated, searching for the right
words. Then discarded the half truths he was about to utter for
what he really wanted to say. "I want you too." He stopped. The
words seemed trite. "I want you, also," he said again, "but..."
She chuckled, the sound coming from deep in her chest. "Why
do you people always insist in trying to find an excuse."
"I'm not trying to find an excuse, I--"
"Yes, you are. And its ridiculous. I don't care-- well I do
care-- but I know you've things on your mind. So think about them,
then come to me when you're done." A pause: " Provided it isn't
too long."
They both chuckled. Then he added mockingly,"Just what do you
mean, YOU people?"
"Never mind. Don't be long."
"It won't be."
She growled at him, laughed.
Nathianel shook his head. Smiled. Playing with me, just as
before. And how she played. She was... was...
This is not helping, he muttered, straightening, but sagging
again, seeing, experiencing the sensations again in his mind of
what had been...The rain pelting them, stinging like needles as
they stumbled, slid, nearly fell their way into the cabin and
stood there at the window looking out at the fearful storm.
Millie was not tall. Nor was she incredibly beautiful at that
moment, looking more like a drowned animal than a woman, dark hair
streaming down her face, her clothing molded tightly to her
slender body.
As the door slammed closed behind them, she had gotten them
both towels, tossed him one, then draping the thing over her head
so her face were hidden for a moment, began rubbing her hair
vigorously. He had followed suit, but more sedately.
That damned shirt she wore, he said to himself under his
breath. It hid nothing. The soft lace of her bra, moving as she
had moved as they tumbled down the hill, had incited her nipples
into small hard kernels that rose and fell with her breathing.
They were like beacons, now, drawing his eyes to them each time a
fold of the towel brushed away from eyes as he rubbed his hair and
he could see. And then there was the rest of her. Her light
coloured shorts, like the shirt, just vaguely hid the skimpy white
panties she wore, a band of material that stretched across her
hips and narrowed like a triangle to her centre. He supposed some
would have said she were hippy. So be it. He liked what he saw.
"Is that a gun in yer pocket," she quipped, "or are you just
happy to see me." He laughed at the tired old saying. Still, as
trite as it was, it served, as it seemed she was not the only one
the rain had revealed.
"Let me get out of these things," she said. "You go make your
notes and I'll fix us something."
"Good. I'll get a fire going, burn off the chill."
She waved her hand as she retreated to the bedroom.
Uncomfortable in his wet clothes, he stripped off his shirt,
draped it across a stool, leaving on his undershirt, then bent to
the task of starting a fire in the hearth. In a minute, he had it
started, watched as the kindling caught, held, and then finally
ignite the slightly larger logs. When he was satisfied, he stood
with a grunt as Millie emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing
her old housecoat. Basa, he murmured, I hate that thing.
"Fires going."
Millie went to the stove and kneeled down, getting a pot from
within the stove. "How's soup sound?"
"Sounds good."
"We've got some bread left from last night." She turned
towards him. "If you'd remembered to bring the rest of the stuff
from the boat, I probably could have made something else."
"Soup 'il be fine."
"Okay." She smiled and turned back to the stove.
He crossed over to the desk amidst the clanging of pots
and pans and kitchen utensils, but did not sit down. The sky
pulled his attention. It was dark out there, amidst the rain, but
even further away, the sky was blacker. A gust of wind pressed
against the cabin and it creaked. The old fir tree he had known
since he started coming here some ten years earlier, was swinging
wildly, as the storm tore at it from every direction. It looked as
if they would be in for a bit of a blow. He glanced back at
Millie. She was totally absorbed, only looking up now and again,
when the wind chose that moment to rise and shake the cabin.
She was paring some kind of vegetable. Taking short, quick,
staccato like, strokes. Then she put the knife down and walked
over to the cupboard, reached up and brought down some can of
something or other, then came back to the stove, her small breasts
moving, vibrating. It almost looked as she were not wearing
anything; no halter or bra to restrain their movements. As if she
had only taken the time to strip the shorts, socks, and wet
underthings away and thrown that damned housecoat on to cover her-
self. Basa, I hate that damned thing. But he admitted to himself,
that every time she wore the thing, his imagination would begin to
work over time imagining that which was underneath. Even now he
could feel the heat of his own beginning erection.
Notes. I need to get down what I saw. But he thought to
himself, no. There was a time to explore and question things, and
a time to explore and question others, and he knew which time this
was.
He crossed towards her. "Soup smells good."
"Umm," she just said as she continued stirring the pot.
Little beads of sweat were on her scalp as he stepped up
close to her, put his arms around her, and hugged her closely.
"That feels good," she said. "I love you."
"Love you, too," he murmured as he opened one hand and
captured a breast through the housecoat.
"What are you trying to do," she questioned mockingly.
He did not answer. He continued to kneed her breast with his
hands, savoring the feeling of the skin beneath the housecoat as
his other hand moved down her flank, feeling the bones of her rib
cage. Going lower, still lower, encountering the top of her
panties, and going still lower.
"You're going to cause me to bur-- ".
The words were lost in her sudden intake of breath as he
pressed the palm of his hand against her mound of venus and a
single finger moved the length of the opening between her legs
through the house coat. Moved quickly, the first time, then
slower, agonizingly slower once again, teasing her unmercifully.
Millie moved back and pressed herself tightly against him,
grinding herself against his erection.
He stroked her again as she adjusted her legs to offer him
more access to herself. Then he moved his hand away. But not from
her body. Just shifted his attention lower, to her leg, while his
upper hand continued to press and caress, and feel and circle her
breast through the cloth of the house coat.
She seemed to sigh as she said. "What are you trying to do to
me? The soup will burn."
The slight, circular movement of his hand on her breast had
succeeded in doing two things. The nipple of one had grown nearly
rock hard, while the other had only responded half heartedly, as
if somewhat putout because it had been neglected. He grinned to
himself that soon, he would fix that. The other was that the
buttons of her housecoat had become undone. So now, he reached
within the folds of the cloth and gently, almost secretively in
his touch, fondled the other breast and its nipple as Millie's
breathing caught once again in her throat. The centre point of her
breast rose as he nuzzled her neck, kissed her ear, then let his
tongue slide across her skin. Millie seemed to shiver.
The hand on her leg had not been still. It caressed her in
ever widening circles. Always slowly, but sometimes jerkily. And
while circling, he would sometimes press gently, then not, making
it seem as if his touch had somehow disappeared. Then harder,
establishing a rhythmic counterpart to his strokes and touches
higher up. And caught within the rhythm of touches and movements,
Millie moved, her breathing deepening, as the motions became
quicker, pressing harder against him and exciting him so that his
own measured and controlled breathing had become ragged.
"The...the...s..soup," she managed to breath.
"Screw it," he said into her ear as he kissed her neck,
touched the risen nipple of her breast, pressed the inside of her
thigh with a finger which slid up and up and up, bringing with it
the housecoat.
Somehow, his hand caught the hem of the thing, was able to
slip beneath the house coat to press against the side of her
thigh, then move to within the confines of her underthings,to move
amidst the triangle of downy hair, then down and within. Then to
press and stroke the dampness within.
Millie had long since stopped stirring the soup. But she
still grasped the ladle. Now, she let loose of the thing, reached
down for the control on the butane stove, twisted it off as Nate's
fingers and hand moved within her and on her. Touching her.
Pressing parts of her skin and inner soul that sent little shocks
and spasms through her. She could not escape. Did not want to
escape. But Nate's movements within her, her movements against
him, the feel of his cock pressing hard against her as her hips
and ass moved crazily against him, only drove her higher. And she
could tell from Nate's tortured breathing, that he was similarly
effected.
He wanted to be in her. But he thought-- if feeling at that
moment could be considered as thought-- that, no. It was too soon.
The kettle needed to be boiling over.
She moaned. The sound came from within as she reached behind,
him, felt the wetness of his pants from the rain, then moved her
hands sideways between them and grasped has cock.
Abruptly he stopped teasing her breast, touching the so
sensitive nipples, squeezing them between his forefingers, or
tracing them with a fingernail, starting at the top of her chest
then tracing down the flesh to caress the bottom side of her
breast; touching her cunt, moving his fingers through the downy
silk of hair as he withdrew her moisture, used it to re-lubricate.
Rather than continuing with what he knew were his maddening touch-
ing of both breast and cunt, he drew his hand from beneath the
cloth of her panties and finished unbuttoning the housecoat while
her hands clawed at him, tugging at his belt and zipper, struggl-
ing to reach inside his clothing and touch and hold and fondle
him.
With his head and lips on her shoulder and neck, licking,
biting with playful nips, then sucking the skin into his mouth and
caressing with his tongue, his two hands shoved aside the folds of
the housecoat, held both breasts so that the lengthening nipples
protruded through his fingers. Like a gentle vice, his fingers
drew close together, capturing the two little nodules and Millie,
for a brief second, stopped her wild, clawing and gasped, moaned,
seemed to wilt before strength flowed back into her legs.
"Yes. Yes," she said as she nodded her head back, leaned it
against his shoulder as he continued to kiss her neck, her cheek,
sticking his tongue into the corner of her mouth, then sliding it
up to her ear.
Her chest was heaving. Rising higher, falling. Then rising
again in little jerks.
Slowly, almost agonizingly he hoped, his hands traced their
way down either side of her body as Millie's one hand and arm rose
up and pressed his head down against her shoulder and the other
was finally able to loosen the belt, draw the fastener of his
pants down, and reach inside. She still had not touched him, flesh
to flesh, but it would be only a matter of time and he felt
himself already at a boil; and still he wanted her to climb
higher. Basa, he wanted to be in her.
At her hips, his hands stopped, then both slid down the
crease of her legs, playing with the edge of her panties and skin,
capturing stray hairs that had escaped. He slid his fingers up and
down rhythmically, teasing her as Millie's hand moved aside the
cloth of his underwear and finally held him. It seemed awkward for
her; or perhaps it was what he did at that moment that made it
difficult for her. Both hands slid within the confines of the
panties and entered her. One finger found the lengthening bud of
her clitoris, the other entered her wetness then began to move in
and out of her, slowly, maddeningly so that it seemed she
involuntarily moved her hips while his finger pressed, pressed,
rubbed, stroked the bud of her cunt.
Her breath was tortured. Almost a gasp. Coming quickly. Her
lips parted. Her eyes closed. And it was almost as if he could see
the sensations of his hands coursing through her.
She tried to escape from his fingers. Moving her hips and
cunt back and forth, up and down; tried to turn so that she faced
him, but he held her. Tightly. Increased the rhythm of his finger
on her clit.
"Yes. Please," she sighed in his ear.
There was no more strength in her legs. He could feel her
wilting as she started to buck against him. Her breath coming
quicker, louder through her open lips.
Together, they sank to the floor. As they did so, he withdrew
his hands and pulled the coat from her shoulders, tossing it
aside. She took that moment to turn in his arms and face him, her
hands opening his pants and freeing his cock. Her hands were warm
on him and she leaned forward, kissing his chest. Catching his
nipple between her teeth, biting him gently.
Can I last, he wondered. Can I--
Her hand was stroking him, the touch firm, yet still light
the way he liked. And he could feel his own explosion building.
I can't. I-- "Ah," he moaned as her fingers stroked him.
Quickly, with short, small, movements. He moaned again. "I want to
be in you."
"Yes," she breathed, as his hands once again tore at her
panties, rolling the top down and away from her cunt, revealing
her to him. He reached forward, touched her breasts and nipples
with one hand, her cunt and clit with the other. Stroking.
Pressing.
"Now. Now," she murmured. "Now."
Yes, he answered within as he lay her down on the floor,
pulled the panties from her, then divested himself of his
clothes.
She looked up at him, her brown eyes burning, mouth slightly
parted. The twin mounds of her breasts had nearly disappeared, but
as he touched her cunt with his thumb, mashing the little button
of her centre, she moved, spasmodically, and her breasts moved like
rippling water. The sight drove him to a frenzy as he bent down,
caught a nipple between his lips, then alternately sucked, bit down
gently, then swirled his tongue around it.
Her hands were hot upon him. Stroking him harder. Quicker.
And within him, the fire was out of control. He wanted to be in
her now, feel her around him, caressing his cock with her wet,
damp heat. He blew across her nipple and her movements on his cock
faltered. He took that moment to lower himself between her legs.
"Guide me," he breathed. Nearly out of breath.
But he need not have said anything. All ready she was pulling
him, directing him to her entrance. Trying to insert him into
herself.
He pushed. Seemed to find some kind of obstruction. Didn't
care as he reared up, pressed forward again.
She moved her hips somehow. Shifted them and she opened and
he slid within her.
As he entered her he felt her legs rise up on either side of
him, then press against him.
She moved. Her cunt tightened, released him. Tightened again.
If I move, he moaned inwardly, I won't, can't last. Damn
that womans ass.
Millie moved her hips upwards and he surged forward into her,
deep, as he moved a hand from beside her head, inserted it between
their bodies, and touched her. Pressed. Pressed again. Pressed
still again as he matched with his finger and cock the thrust, the
momentary hold, the thrust of her hips and cunt.
Suddenly she stiffened. Lifting him up. Her legs tightened
and she moaned, her voice torn from her as she cried out softly.
He with drew his hand and thrust into her as her hands
grabbed his ass and seemed to be pulling him in deeper. While
around his cock, her cunt spasmed crazily until, all control lost,
he exploded within her in short, violent thrusts.
Then all was quiet between them, the only sound the quieting
rhythm of their breathing, the softening of two hearts racing, the
storm beyond the cabin.
They had lain that way for a few more seconds, a minute or
so; time really had no meaning. Her legs were wrapped tightly
around him, arms holding him, the two of then feeling the iron of
his erection diminishing. She had complained once, that he had a
tendency to withdraw from her too quickly, as if he needed to
sever the contact between them. And he admitted that that had been
true, but not because he wished to sever the touching, but because
he had worried that his weight might be too much upon her. She had
laughed, said, "If you get heavy, I'll tell you." So now he lay
within her, growing smaller until of its own volition his cock
with drew from her.
He looked down at her. Smiled. She returned his smile, looked
away for a moment, then back at him.
"I hate your damned housecoat, Millie."
Millie broke into laughter as she ran her fingers and hand up
and down his back. "Why do you think I wear it," she finally
managed.
"You-- " he started, then joined her in her laughter.
Yes, he considered, she could play. But one day. One day.
He cleared his throat as he glanced upwards into the
blackness of the sky and it was almost as if he could see the two
lights he had seen on the screen up at the shack in his minds
eye. Two targets... No, he amended, not targets, But in fact, that
was what they were. He just did not particularly like the word,
but it would suffice. Suffice for now.
One target-- object-- was where it should have been, where he
expected it to be. Indeed, he, chiefly, others of the Council,
secondarily, had been the cause of its very presence and of its
being there. In its unadorned way, it signaled change, an alter-
ation in things as they had been. Both exciting and fearful at the
same time. As it came closer, the presence aboard it would become
a kind of watchword among the people of the Syndicate.
What would I call you. Overlord? No, the council called it
the Designate, which translated to the 'Chosen One' in their minds.
And you were that, he mused. Chosen, designated, and in time,
designed to become something beyond what others were. A part of,
but separated from all; inviolate, autonomous, yet leashed to
both the Council, and by that, to everyone.
It seemed, was, an impossible task for him to do. But then,
he surmised, it had been as equally impossible to have found
someone who in essence belonged to no one and who would belong to
them all.
Why is it that I think of him as him? Does it mask something
with in me? No, he chided himself. Until they had found him, He
had simply been an it, with no distinction between man and woman.
If it had been a woman, then the task would have been equally as
impossible, so this was so much useless moralizing. Thank the
Being That Was, they no longer concerned themselves with that bit
of petty insanity.
But the other light...a measure of distance beyond. How far,
he did not know. But there, perhaps. That light, that if it were
real, in a place where it should not have been, meant...meant
what?
Unknown.
Nathaniel sighed, finally, and deliberately with a half
amused glance over his shoulder, relit the pipe. He used the match
to peer at Millie, but she had her back to him. She turned then,
long hair cascading over her shoulder as she looked. She
considered him, smiled, and nestled down beneath the coverlets.
The match flared out and the darkness returned, but there was
a barely perceptible lightening to the night sky to the south and
west.
Had it been there or hadn't it? Had he been looking at a
possible future? He did not know. Could not know. But it would
have to wait till the morrow when he could again search for it.
But for now, he wanted to create another future as he tapped the
burning coals from the pipe and padded noiselessly to the bed.
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