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Author Topic: You are not you.. (Sci Fi.. Seeking writing partner)  (Read 430 times)

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Offline magikalTopic starter

You are not you.. (Sci Fi.. Seeking writing partner)
« on: December 12, 2010, 04:06:46 AM »
Here is the first post from a previous game. I worked on this with a partner but this is not my writing,
I'm looking for a writing partner who can write at least a paragraph reply.

Once we discuss things we can decide what category to put the game in. The character would be a genetically engineered, hyper-perfect and hyper-synthetic love machine who somehow retained her memory.

There will be a huge mystery that Angelina (my character) will need to figure out.

Please Private Message me if you are interested.

This will be a Play by Post game in the Forums.
M

------------------

The slow swirl of the ceiling fan above you, the slight breeze of salty sea air, the gasp of sensation from your lips as you shift only to feel silken sheets twisted over your hips rubbing over your mons.  All of these things stir you slowly from a dream of flying, of wings.  A dream of being anything anyone could desire, your flesh and spirit as malleable as a potter's clay before the fire.

Your head feels strange, as though it's floating even as your eyes flutter open.  Through the window, you can hear the sound of boats plying a body of water, and distant seagulls.  As you sit up slowly, hand to your now-throbbing forehead, the sound of a supersonic jet taking off in the distance rumbles through the room.  You can feel the slight vibrations in the bed, over the sheets and upon your skin.

You rise to your feet, gazing out the window.  Something's wrong here.  Where are you?  What is this place?  You aren't even sure who you are.  Your head spins as you stumble to the window.

"We call her Delilah," the voice in your head says, echoing slightly, "And no, she won't cut your hair, but she has other ways of leaving you weak.  If you want to know them all, that can most certainly be arranged, for a small fee."

That phrase, burned into your memory, said over and over again, so many times.  That voice, so smooth and silky, a salesman's voice pushing a product.  You remember hearing that voice, or one just like it, from an office, as papers were being pushed over across a walnut finished desk in front of you to sign.

The cool air on your bare skin sets a slight shudder through you.  You are naked.  You can feel your nipples draw taut, stiffening under the breeze's caress.  Your arm reaches up to cover them as you look out in confused wonder at the beauty of the ocean across from and below you.

Your other hand reaches down to cup your sex as the breeze tickles across you, setting a soft moan to your lips at the pleasure of the sensation.  Your fingers brush over the bare skin between your thighs.  Another soft moan escapes you as they do; the sensation of your fingertips over your vulva is almost maddening.

And then the voice, from the bed.  The man you don't remember going to bed with, the man you didn't realize was there until just now.

"Come back to bed, baby.  You look cold, let me warm you up."

The voice sends a wave of confusion through you, as well as desire.  Your labia begin to moisten and swell slightly under your fingertips at its sound.  As you begin to turn towards it, and the man, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window.

It's a reflection, and the sight of it captures you momentarily even more than the stirring desire in your loins or the familiarly evasive voice  of the man in the bed.

But it's not yours.

A stranger stares back at you in the window as a passing light in the sky illuminates the frame.

You aren't blond.  Your eyes aren't blue.  And you are definitely sure that your breasts aren't D cups, verging on double D.  Your lips have never been so lush, nor the color of rich plums.  And your tan has never been so even, so perfect and so... all over; even on the flat smooth hairless plain of your mons, as your fingers separate to allow your disbelieving eyes to take in all of you.

"Come on, Delilah, I want you," the man says from the bed.

As he says this, you feel a warm surge begin to flow through you from the very depths of your womb through your sex, spreading fast like a swelling wave throughout your body from this center.  Your mind begins to focus more upon the man with you, thinking of the night before, his hands upon your skin, his lips crushed to yours, his thick member pulsing with his desire buried deep within you.  The pleasure you gave him, which pleasured you in turn.

As you move to turn towards him, a smile curving over your lips at the memories of pleasure warming you, making you want more of it, your eyes light upon him.  The smile that was curving stops.

The man in the bed before you is someone who would never have inspired  desire in you before. But now, even as you look upon him, the sound of his voice reverberates through your flesh, making you warm and drawing small beads of perspiration to well from your pores and trickle delightfully down your skin.  You want him inside of you like nothing you've ever wanted before.

But your recognition of him is stunning.  A balding man in his middle ages, his body well-kept but still showing the signs of a lifestyle of excess.  His glasses are on the nightstand beside the bed; He sits up, expectantly.  The tan line on his left ring finger is obvious; you know to look there because you also know this man is married.  You know his wife, you've met his children.

This man is Mr. Stevens, an American biotech engineer for NewU.  He's been with the company for eight years, a devoted man and a research scientist.  His division is responsible for the creation of the Youth Project, which revitalizes aging cells and rejuvenates the recipient to a more youthful appearance.

You know all of these things about him, and more, because he's been your boss for the past three years!  Working from your home most days, you've been a member of the secretarial pool of his office answering calls or on some days in the office at the front desk.  There just wasn't as much money as you needed in it, and the bills kept on piling up.

Mama Sampson's kind face, looking up at you, moves through your head as memories of your family home force their way into your forebrain.  Sampson.

You aren't Delilah, your name is... Angelina Sampson
« Last Edit: December 12, 2010, 04:24:03 AM by magikal »