A Real Campaign
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Magic, Fiction, DomSub, Oral Sex, Anal Sex,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - It was just another play by email game. Then again, perhaps it was something more.
It was snowing outside, and thunder shook the windowpanes as David finished typing the last few words of the draft for the statement of claim. Just looking outside made him shudder, an icy feeling on his skin. It did not take much effort to decide that he might as well spend another hour or two working. For lawyers there was always more work, and much of it fell upon the shoulder of the junior attornies. Fortunately, most of it was rather interesting, or he would have found another line of work by now, David smiled to himself. The time passed fairly quickly in the empty, spacious office, for it was a Christian holiday of some sort. Though raised as a nominal jew, David had never much cared for religion, preferring the crisper, seductive logic of atheism. Faith to him was a crutch for those who did not have confidence in their own selves... and working through the holidays had certain financial benefits, too, he smiled softly. Bored with work for the moment, he looked outside, deciding that he had little interest in traveling through the eighth layer of hell, the abode of frozen souls, to get home. Might as well park here, on the couch. The only problem was, he was not in the least bit tired, nervous energy coursing through his thin frame. He'd never manage to fall asleep like this, and he'd decided, very deliberately, not to bring any book or dvd to work. Might as well check his personal e-mail, to see if there was a new turn in any of the play-by-email games he enjoyed. A minute's fiddling on his laptop, and the disappointing 'no new messages' greeted him. On the verge of closing the mail program, he paused, opening up the new pbem webpage from his favorites folder with a pair of clicks.
"Hmmmph," he raised a brow in surprise as he read the newest ad for players. "The one you've always been waiting for, the campaign of a lifetime," it read. "Send your dream character to firstname.lastname@example.org and you shall be astonished by the quality, imagination and danger. Full character sheet for a high level campaign, no background required. Time limit of eight hours from posting minute," was the part that surprised him. "Eight hours?" he muttered. That was ridiculous. Still... he didn't really have anything better to do. And what did high level mean? What rpg system, for that matter? There was no website mentioned, just an e-mail address. What the hell. He'd just send one of his favorite characters, after spending an hour or so buffing up the stats. It was difficult to find a truly fun pbem, with congenial and witty e-partners, but creating a character was always fun. So much fun that the slow pace of most games was frustrating. Ah, but which character? Frowning as he looked at the filenames, he tried to match them to 'dream character'. Dwarven war cleric? Nah, he smiled broadly, not exactly my idea of a dream. Same for that sneaky halfling backstabber, Stevie Nicklepate, or the gnomish professor and loremaster, Ereken Bearpolisher. Playing a great warrior would be fun, mowing through foes was always good, but this gm was looking for a dream character. That definitely meant a female. A beautiful female. An enchantress. Ahem, he rubbed his neat beard, there's nothing lovelier than an angel, and no more magical a class than the high sorcerer. Can't even open a door without resorting to telekinesis. So, an angelic type, crossed with human, and his fingers were typing with practiced efficiency and speed, filling the excel sheet with numbers and words. "So be it, dream lady. Now how shall we call you? So many choices. Let's use that randomizer I picked off that site... Leia? No thank you, I'll save that for Star Wars. Another L, I think. Lyralis?", he rolled the name on his tongue a few times, grinning. "Lyralis it is, dream lady, living enchantment."
A minute more, and the file was whisked away, fluttering across servers and fiber-optic lines to its destination. A news junky, he wanted to look at the CNN site, but an increasing (and up till now, ignored) pressure upon his bladder sent him running to the bathroom. Upon his return, a message was waiting, the header reading 'Accepted'. David blinked and opened it, wanting a look at the attachment. Wonder what, he had time to muse, and the screen went black, the world blacker, cutting him away in mid-thought.
Kim was elated, floating through cloud nine. Whatever that meant. Her application to Inha university in South Korea been accepted, and so quickly! Actually, she wan't levitating, she was running. Running full out, pushing herself to the utmost, pumping endorphins into her bloodstream, the ground truly seeming to float somewhere beneath her short legs. When she reached home, she was huffing and puffing enough to blow up a hurricane, for she'd not bothered to pace herself. A gymnast, martial artist and something of an acrobat, she was in great shape, but the heat within and the heavy clothes she wore combined with her exertions left her gasping.
She tumbled into the shower, taking a quick cool one rather than the usual long, hot shower she preferred, for she wanted her head and heart to cool down. Enthusiasm was all very fine, but it was time to determine her future, and she took that very seriously indeed. Booting up her computer, she quickly connected and began looking up the courses, what electives she had best take, and the requirements for a faster way to doctoral thesis. It was a matter of family honour, in a way. She'd read that, Hollywood movies and lotteries aside, it usually took a family five generations to rise on the socio-economic scale, and there was some sense to that. Finding out the exact average would a fascinating subject for a doctoral thesis, in fact, she grinned, were it not for the fact that she was interested in marine biology. Such is life, for we are all at sea, she giggled at her own pun. Here she was, the first of her family to enter a university, ever! And for that matter, on scholarship. It sent a tingle of accomplishment through her, before she returned to the material at hand, so to speak. With breaks for a meal and necessities, it took her a full four hours to look at everything she wanted, saving the data. A hesitant hand on the mouse finally turned to her favorites folder. I'll have some time for games now, with the finals over, she argued with herself. It was a losing proposition, naturally. She always lost those arguments.
"Eight hours limit?!? No real details?", she frowned at the screen and the pbem page. Might as well try it, she shrugged, and picking my dream character is simple, at least, she smiled. She'd always felt a strong affinity for the martial artist, so the monk was ideal. But an ordinary monk... perhaps not. Searching through the folder where she kept her role playing 'stuff', she looked for a template or variant she might want to include. Toward the end, 'The Vampire Lord' verily leaped from the list. A wicked grin crossed her lips, exposing pearly teeth in a vaguely threatening manner. Powerful, naughty, deadly and well nigh indestructible. It would certainly do.
Typing up the character sheet took quite a bit longer than she'd expected, but there were three more hours before the deadline expired. Wonder how serious he or she are about that time limit, she mused, as she looked at her bookshelf. Maia. One of the thickest books, by the author of Watership Down, one of her favorite books when she first learned English. Maia it is, she decided, but what will she look like? Like Maia? White-blond hair and all those charms? She looked at herself in the mirror, a small, pretty eurasian girl, pale and dark haired. Why not, she shrugged at herself. White-blond hair, but not all the charms. She had no particular interest in breasts that drooped, jiggled or otherwise restricted movement, however much the boys drooled over such things. With a flourish, she completed the character description and sent the file, before she left to take care of the small garden at the back of the house.
She returned to the computer, interested in spending the couple of hours before her parents returned from work on Ragnarok Online, when she noted that there was new mail for her. 'Accepted', it read, with an attachment. She scanned the sender address to ensure that it really was the gm, and not another annoying virus, and pressed enter. A hammer hit her, and the world went away.
Bill was bored. All his friends were busy, and the damnable storm kept him pent up. It was raining cats and dogs, though it sometime sounded as though the skies were vomiting the occasional elephant. The rp get-together was cancelled, as three of the guys were miserable sacks of snot and sneeze. No baseball, soccer meet, basketball or anything else worthwhile with such dreadful weather. No good, but maybe there'd be something new on the net, the great book of relics was supposed to come out soon, or already had. Turning on the computer, he groaned as the 'error reading drive C' message appeared. Only just restraining himself from kicking the recalcitrant machine, for fear that he might damage his foot, he rebooted. "Come on, you damned piece of junk, you can do it!", he stared at the blank screen in suspense. Great, the stupid thing was loading Windows. It took so much time that he stepped out for a coke, returning to find a very unwelcome message from his antivirus - the system was definitely tainted, bugged, viralled, junked. Seeing as it didn't work all that well normally, he wasn't especially discomfitted. There was obviously some sort of curse on him and his family line, probably because of that witch, grandfather's sister. The ugliest creature in creation, her cruelly hooked fingernails left your cheek bleeding for a week or three. The curse was upon the whole family, as his brother and parents didn't seem to have much luck with computers, either. Connecting, he immediately began to download the appropriate virus cleanser, having carefully written down the name of the bug, hoping there'd be some improvement after a deviralment. Or whatever you called it. While the program crept from two to three percent downloaded, he opened a new window, checking to see if there was anything interesting on the pbem page. Eight hours, his bushy black eyebrows rose in an inadvertent salute, what the fuck? Well, he had twenty more minutes, so he'd have to use a prepared character. The only suitable one was that neat albino drow elf he'd written up last month, Evanthe. A real nasty bitch of a killer, absolutely lethal, and a pity that dm thought she was somewhat too powerful... even if he was right, Bill grimaced. He'd really liked writing that background, amusing that it wasn't even needed here. Send, he pressed, and belched loudly. He went downstairs, heating up some leftover pizza, and the antivirus was at only 80%. On the other hand, he smiled, there was a mail titled 'Accepted', from the game master. Lovely! He opened the message so he could see the attachment, and darkness descended.
Mellanie sighed, staring at the grey, slushy street outside. It sometimes seemed as though winter in London was all rain and dreary greyness. Sunday morning and nothing to do, not even homework. Please god don't let mother start about diet, or father about exercise. Jumping to conclusions was more than enough strain for her. It was obvious - life was horrid and god hated her, or she wouldn't be so fat. Not to mention lonely. Thank heavens for computers! Without them, she'd have to read books for entertainment, and the books her parents considered proper for a teenager were beyond dull. They made Milton's Paradise Lost resemble the bible of the bored. Gaaah! She pulled on her dirty-blond hair, and sighed tragically again. It just wasn't fair. Well, no use crying about stuff. Should try to find Something to fill the Void of Nothingness of which her world consisted. Might as well gab a bit on the net and check her usual sites. Connection was quickly established, and two hours of mostly mindless 'conversation' passed in a flash. The newest post on the pbem page caught her attention, and she pursed her lips, narrowing her gray eyes in an attempt to understand what exactly she was supposed to send. Finally she shrugged, and sent along the most powerful version of her favorite character, the fire haired sun priestess Kylavria Turvar, cartoonish drawing attached. The reply knocked her out.
James was running, pausing every now and then to sneeze and shake the water off his dripping form. He really should have remembered his once-earnest and frequently uttered vow, never trust a weatherman, and brought an umbrella along. Or bothered to wear a coat, or sweater, or something more than a thin t-shirt with the superman logo. The bus station was nearly a mile from home, but he was in excellent shape, the heat from his exertions warding off the chill. Only just managing to dodge a fat woman carrying grocery bags, he crossed the street and fumbled for the keys. A string of curses was left unvoiced, because speaking was somewhat impaired when your breathing was ragged from exertion. Too many bloody keys. Slamming the door behind him, he took off his shirt with a single pull and shivered. Tossing it on the tiles, he shook off shoes and socks, and ran barefoot to his room. The heater was something of an antique, and quite a monstrosity to boot, but no one could argue that those ancient designers knew what they were about.
The wall to wall carpet in his room was soft and luxurious, and he quickly used the t-shirt he'd worn yesterday to dry himself. "Woof!" he breathed harshly, and shook his head. Satisfied that the water droplets hazard had been dealt with, he looked at the book his father had bought him yesterday, Peter Hamilton's "Pandora's Star". First then, to see if it was worth a look. A couple of minutes of browsing at Amazon.com were enough to conclude that he was going to read the book, if not right now.
Then the news, sports news, homework, downloading a couple of new tunes, a networked half life 2 game (which his team lost), replying to a few emails, all while chatting intermittently with friends. Though he didn't really have time to spare, he decided to check the pbem page, and his brows rose at the latest post. "Might as well give it a shot," he shrugged. Taran Hightower, a lordly warrior and master of weapons he'd first used when he was twelve, was still his favorite character. An hour later, a mere 15 minutes before the deadline presumably expired, he sent it off. Making a cheese sandwich, consuming it, and going to the bathroom didn't take very long, so he was quite surprised to have already received a reply of 'Accepted'. Clicking to open the attachment was the last thing he recalled.
"Shit!" Tom slammed his fist into the wall, "and double shit!"
Grounded for a fucking month! Suspended for a week... actually, that part wasn't too awful.
How the hell was he supposed to know that bitch had a senior for a brother, and what the fuck had he been supposed to do when that asshole brought a couple of friends along? Play chicken? So two of them were in the hospital. Big deal, he chuckled wryly. As the stupid English teacher was always saying, he bit his lip, enjoy at haste, repent at leisure. Or something of the sort. Shit. If the slut hadn't wanted her tits groped, she might have thought to bother and cover them. Damn well asking for it.
"What the hell am I gonna do for a bloody entire month anyway?" he looked at his room, and focused on the window. If it weren't for the damned bars, he'd simply be gone. But the idiot parentals had gone all security conscious, and there was just no way. Not without a pneumatic hammer or drill, anyway.
Bloody hell, he was going to have to survive on the computer or go berserk, like a damned geek. If only he had the connection speed, he could really have some fun, but the neanderthals wouldn't leave their precious dialup behind and pay for something worthwhile.
He tried reading for a while, but it just didn't work out. Harry Potter may have sold millions of copies, but it was the absolute pits. Magic, magic, magic. Hmm, that reminded him of years gone by, when he'd played rpgs. Was there something like that on the net? Something that catered to the low bandwidth crowd? MUDs were the first thing he found, and it kept his mind occupied for a couple of days. Until, naturally, he lost his character.
Rooting around his older brother's room, a fat moron who was thankfully studying a ways away, looking for porn anything, he found a thick stack of fairly new rpg books. Interesting enough, but the whole point was playing with other people. Solitaire, hearts and minsweeper, the secretaries' addictions, were starting to look attractive, when he thought of checking to see if there was a way to play on the net. Naturally, there was. Unfortunately, he couldn't find any chat based games that both had room for a newbie and attracted his interest, so as a last resort, he looked at pbems.
"Eight hours? Hmmm, might as well restart at the high end," he smiled rather viciously at the thought of what a powerful character could do. There were six hours or so left, which was plenty enough. Tom finally settled on a heavily powered up barbarian type character, so he could act properly uncivilized, with the shadowlord template. Selling your soul for immortality and the power of darkness sounded like fun. Slurping up the last of the beer, he sent the sheet and went off to take a piss.
When he returned, the 'Accepted' message was waiting in his mail queue. "Nice!" he smiled widely, "got in on my first try. Whoda figured. Well, let's see what the fucker wants to say," he pressed on the attachment, and the world spun away.
Ask me for anything but time, Gordon's lips twisted in irony. He couldn't quite recall the source of the words, for his memory had been playing tricks on him lately. Gordon wasn't sure just how much time he had left, but he doubted it was more than a year or two. He'd found that doctors were almost as mealymouthed as lawyers when you asked them for a specific number, and the estimates differed quite wildly.
When he'd been diagnosed with cancer, three years ago, he'd been hopeful. They'd found it early, the doctor said, so there was a real chance. But the operation had missed, and chemotherapy wasn't going too well either. His wife had turned colder years ago, and at least he'd had the satisfaction of a clean divorce when she'd distanced herself. The bitch had gotten almost nothing, for even her smooth talking lawyer hadn't been able to obfuscate the word Cancer. No matter how hard he'd tried. He'd willed everything to his one son, who was now working in India, of all places. A software engineer, he'd introduced Gordon to computers, and he'd taken to them with a vengeance.
The quote was Napoleon Bonaparte's, a search on Google informed him. He sniffed in suppressed laughter. "Appropriate enough words for a general, I suppose," he leaned back in his exceedingly comfortable chair, relaxing. His growing physical debility forced him to rely on a maid, and his friends and former coworkers were very uncomfortable seeing him like this. The few exceptions had little time to spare, and it would have been churlish of him to demand more.
That left him with the mindlessness of television, movies and the internet. He lacked the manual dexterity and quickness required for most netgames and the current fad of shoot-'em-up computer games, so he occupied his time with strategy, card games and pbems. Gordon avoided chats, for he was innately truthful and had little interest in pity or 'meeting' new people.
He spent the next hour looking up movies, especially the upcoming titles, and answering mail. Tired, he forced himself to eat something. His appetite had suffered a severe decline, and he'd lost 5 kilos before deciding that he simply had to set himself a feeding schedule. Returning to the computer, he checked for any new pbems that might prove worthwhile. Fantasy was invariably the last category he looked at, but he always looked at all of them.
"The one I've been waiting for, ha? Well, don't have that much lifetime left, so why not," he shrugged. A Tolkien fan, most of Gordon's characters were elves, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. He spent a few moments looking through his ready sheets, and picked Valarien Firstar, a young elven warmage of exceptional skill. Though he was more interesting in roleplaying than mowing through endless numbers of lemmings, high level and no background meant lots of conflict, most likely of an extreme nature. "Can't have him die on me too quickly," he frowned, and began powering up. He nearly lost track of the time, but managed to send the sheet with a few minutes to spare. There was little time to relax and stare at the ceiling, before the 'Accepted' reply appeared in his incoming tray. He deleted the three offers for Viagra, Credit and Sex-something, downloaded the message and clicked on the attachment, and then there was no time left at all.
The hum of the electric motor was barely noticable, but in the silence, a brief respite from the howl of the winds outside, it was all that Herb could hear. Insomnia was becoming more and more of a problem, the nightmares leaving so very little incentive to attempt the death of sleep. An inglorious traffic accident had ended what were to be his golden years, retirement with his beloved wife, after more than two decades of hard work and astonishing success in business. Now, withdrawn from the world, with the occasional help of a private nurse whose Spanish was much better than her
English, he occupied his time with the written word, with all the movies of the world, music and art and more. A state of the art retirment for a useless cripple. He smiled, remembering the first science fiction novel he'd read, after an enthusiastic review from an old friend who worked in the computer industry, Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash. Apart from the verbose sumerian crap, it was a gem of a novel, and had started him on reading speculative fiction, which he had once considered arrant nonsense. He couldn't quite forget the concept of Ng's idea of a wheelchair, a mobile fortress that housed a major security business and a pack of rat-things. But Herbert, though more than merely bright, just didn't have that much of a technological bent, and he'd lost his sense of purpose.
He shook his head, clearing away the introspection, and turned his head away from the glass wall that stood dark gray before him, with dusk soon to fall. The future seemed as gray and dreary.
His wife's best friend, Maria, had been supposed to pick him for a concert this evening, but she'd had to cancel. Some sort of better left unmentioned emergency with her daughter in college. Thus, he'd made no real plans for the evening, and unplanned time was something he tried to avoid these days. It left him too much time to think.
Going over his investments and making a few minor changes to reflect the current currency outlook took a couple of hours of strict concentration, and from there he went straight to the pbem page. He'd picked up on rpgs in college, and had been startled to realize just how much more there was to it these days. Nonetheless, picking things up again, though not quite where he'd left them twenty years ago, had been easy enough.
Looking at the top game advertisement, his brows rose in surprise. Tall claims were common enough, but this one required relatively little effort. Herb was always accused of being overly cerebral, and he'd reacted by playing - or rather, dramatically overplaying - the studious wizard. When he returned to rping, he found that he quite enjoyed playing the smartest guy around, and in truth, he usually was. Enar was the archmage of his choice for high powered games, and he did hope no numbskulls would ask if it was 'the gray' or 'the white'. Nonpolychromatic had become the standard reply by default.
Sending off the sheet was the work of a few seconds, and he settled back to watch a historical documentary. The alarm he'd set buzzed when the eight hour deadline was up, and he found a message titled 'Accepted' from the appropriate source. He clicked on it, and everything turned white.