textfiles/sex/EROTICA/R/rpjudas.txt

From s_racer@primenet.com Thu 01 Jun 95 04:35:22
From: anon3ee6@nyx10.cs.du.edu (Tamara)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: REPOST:  Judas Kiss [comics, mf, nc?]
Date: 1 Jun 1995 20:10:09 -0600
Message-ID: <3qlru1$1sk@nyx10.cs.du.edu>

**Repost -- maybe the whole thing will post this time?**

What?  Another X-Men fanfic?  Not quite - none of the X-Men appear here, 
but two of my favorite Marvel Comics characters do - Sabretooth and his 
"personal assisstant" Birdy.  If you already know who they are, you can 
skip to the next paragraph, which details exactly when in the Marvel 
timeline this story occurs (as if it wouldn't be obvious from the story 
itself...)  Victor Creed, a.k.a. Sabretooth, is an assassin, a psychotic 
killer who has taken one of the few career paths open to psychokillers in 
these unenlightened times.  He was originally completely remorseless, but 
Marvel in its infinite wisdom has decided that major angst equals good 
storylines and therefore made Sabey into a killer with a conscience (I'm 
not *even* going into his connections with Wolverine, or various memory 
implants, or this, that and the other).  Birdy is a telepath, who Sabes 
keeps around to go into his brain and put it back together after his 
killing sprees, thus giving him a guilt-free violence high.  I *think* 
that's all the character background you need to go into this story.

The events in this story take place during the time covered by the 
four-issue Sabretooth limited series, recently reprinted as the graphic 
novel _Sabretooth:  Death Hunt_.  (Specifically, they take place between 
pages 12 and 13 of the graphic novel.) Overall in the Marvel timeline, 
this occurs after the events starting in _Wolverine_ #50 - concerning 
the re-formation of the "old team," their training and memory implants, 
and the discovery of Psi-Borg - and right before Sabes goes totally 
bezerkoid and ends up in the basement of the X-Mansion, trying to find 
some sort of peace.

OK - description - Sex.  M/f.    Any questions?

Standard disclaimer:  if you're under the age of majority in your home 
state/country, you should NOT be reading this.  Go outside and get some 
fresh air.

Sabretooth, Victor Creed, Birdy, etc., copyright Marvel Comics.  Used 
without any permission of any sort, for personal, vicarious reading 
pleasure only.  The story itself is copyright 1995 by me, Tamara 
Stephens.  Feel free to pass it around, but *without* changing it in any 
way.  And make sure to keep all this legal BS attached, or large people 
named "Guido" arrive at your house and reprogram your computer with a 
very large axe.  Got it?

A few more notes  (when will they end???):  The opening and the ending I 
took from the graphic novel, to give some sense of continuity.  The rest 
is all mine.  Thanks and appreciation to Garrett Faulkner (who also 
supplied the title) and Ben Wick, for their relentless 
houndi^H^H^H^Hgentle encouragement of my literary efforts.  Comments 
taken at anon3ee6@nyx10.cs.du.edu or an138978@anon.penet.fi.  Flames 
ignored.  (This mailreader is sometimes screwy:  I can't guarantee your 
message will get to me, but oh, well...)  On to the story:

                        SABRETOOTH:  JUDAS KISS
                             by Tamara Stephens
                 (additional dialogue by Larry Hama :-)
                 Inspired by and partially adapted from 
            the graphic novel _Sabretooth:  Death Hunt_
               Larry Hama, writer   Mark Texeira, artist

Birdy lies on the floor of the Jacuzzi room, stunned.  Just a few moments 
ago, Creed had grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and thrown her into 
the hot tub he was soaking in, splashing water everywhere, and commanded 
her to use her telepathic talent to perform her primary duty as his 
assistant -  hiding the monsters, covering up the guilt and disgust he 
felt about his killing, giving him the remorseless endorphin high he 
called the "glow."  Rummaging around deep in Creed's brain, she had 
stumbled upon deeply buried memories - memories from his childhood 
concerning the roots of his psychoses.  The next thing she knows is the 
explosion of pain from Creed's fist connecting with her head. 

"Don't be wastin' that good stuff on no phantoms out o' the past!  I need 
that glow, Birdy.  I need ya to take away the pain..."  He hoists his 
massive, well-built frame out of the Jacuzzi, grabs a towel, wraps it 
around his hips and starts out of the room.  He half-turns around on the 
stairs, speaks around his cigar.  "Get yer butt up to m'room, once you've 
finished cleaning up this mess."  He indicates the water-splashed room 
behind her with a jerk of his head and continues on up the staircase, 
adjusting the towel wrapped around his waist.

*Yeah, Boss.  Sure, Boss. Whatever you say, Boss.*  Birdy rolls to a 
sitting posture, shoots a sneer at Creed's retreating back.  She pulls 
off her thigh-high boots and defiantly pours what feels like several 
gallons of water from each boot onto the floor.  Creed's voice drifts 
back down the stairs.

"I heard that.  Just that much more to mop up, girl!"

He's right.  The small flutter of satisfaction isn't really worth it, but 
she's not willing to admit it.  She hauls herself up from the floor and 
surveys the room.  *This is the last night I'll ever have to do shit like 
this again,* she thinks.  *And the bastard up there doesn't even know 
it.*  One side of her full mouth twists up in a sardonic grin.  *Yes, 
I've sold you out, you son of a bitch.  Just a few more hours and you're 
outta here.*  She doesn't know what will happen to him after the strike 
team grabs him, and she tells herself she doesn't care.

Her close-fitting uniform is soggy and starting to feel clammy.  Birdy 
peels it off; the stretch fabric resisting her efforts like a wet 
swimsuit does.  She fights it for a moment and ends up rolling the tight 
cloth down her body, over her pale round breasts, down her abdomen, 
yanking it over her full hips, and finally down her legs and into a 
small, sad heap on the floor.  *Christ,* she thinks *it's bad enough that 
Wonder-Boy wants me to wear the damn boots, but I gotta have spray paint 
and shoulder pads for a uniform?*  Though she does concede the red and 
black jumpsuit  shows off her fit body and blond good looks to perfection.

Since the room, like herself, is still dripping wet, she does not bother 
to towel off before slogging over to the storage closet and dragging out 
the mop.  She attacks the floor, taking out her frustrations with her 
employer and reviewing in her mind the tasks she must perform tonight to 
hold up her end of the bargain she has made to betray Creed.  *One:  make 
sure his door is open.  Two, shut off the security programs.  Three, let 
the strike team through the gate.  Four, grab the cash and the hell out 
of the country...*

She picks up her sodden uniform and throws it in the laundry chute.  As 
she stores the mop away, she thinks that she will miss one thing - the 
danger.  It's what pulled her to work for Creed in the first place, 
rather than taking advantage of one of the many cushy opportunities 
available for highly-rated telepaths with few ethics and no scruples.  
The rush is what she craves - the endorphin-high flooding her brain when 
the bullets whistle past her ear, or the Mercedes edges past a hundred 
and ten on a blind curve, with the sirens just behind...

Her right hand drifts down the curve of her breast, slowing to circle her 
nipple.  It responds quickly, stiffening into a peak that she rolls 
between her thumb and two fingers as she savors the sensation.  Her other 
hand wanders over her flat belly, thumb tracing her navel, and descends 
into the soft blond triangle below.  She rakes her nails gently through 
the thatch and lightly tugs the hair as her arousal grows.  Her middle 
finger runs teasingly over the outer lips, not quite parting them, and 
she feels her cunt beginning to dampen.  She runs the hand she was 
caressing her breast with over her thigh and buttocks, feeling the warmth 
and softness of her skin.  The middle finger of her left hand now parts 
the folds it had been stroking, and sinks past the inner folds into her 
warm depths.  She eases it out, and circles her clit, feeling the button 
respond to the invitation -

Creed's roar disturbs her reverie, "I'm waiting, Birdy!  Ain't ya 
finished yet?"

She reluctantly drops her hands.  *No.  Just getting started, damn you...*

Birdy grabs a towel from the stack in the closet, swipes at the water 
left on her body and wraps it around herself.  She walks out the door, 
pausing to switch off the lights, and climbs the stairs towards his bedroom.

She passes throuh the reinforced steel door guarding the entrance into 
Creed's room, a testament to his business and his paranoia.  She slides 
her fingers over it as she passes, *this precaution won't help you one 
little bit tonight...,*  and approaches the bed.  Creed is already in it, 
and he stares at her with narrowed eyes.  One small instant of panic zips 
though Birdy's brain (*does he know?  how could he possibly know?*).  She 
allows herself a quick surface scan of his thoughts, and is relieved to 
find nothing present but his normal psychoses.

"Come here.  Take that off."  He indicates her towel.  She shrugs a 
shoulder, "Sure, Boss," unwraps and drops it into a small heap at her 
feet.  His eyes trace the generous curves of her body as she approaches 
the bed.  She returns the favor, knowing this is the last time she'll 
ever see him, running her eyes over his large, obsessively sculpted 
frame.  He is still smoking the end of his cigar - *I'll never have to 
smell those things again,* she thinks with satisfaction - and he takes 
it out of his mouth and puts it in an ashtray on the side table as she 
climbs onto the bed.  

He pulls aside the sheet, already tenting out by his anticipation, 
exposing his half-hard cock.  Although not yet ready, it is still quite 
formidable and in proportion with the rest of his body.  Birdy remembers 
her intimidation upon first seeing him, but with time and several 
journeys into his twisted psyche, she has learned contempt.  

He reaches out and seizes the base of her blond ponytail, roughly pulling 
her lips to his.  His tongue violates her mouth, claiming it, and her, as 
his own.  She can feel the sharp outlines of his pointed eyeteeth and the 
warmth of his breath on her cheek.  Both keep their eyes open, her wary 
blue eyes and his calculating green gaze locking.

He pulls her head away.  "Now get down here and do yer job."  His voice 
rumbles like thunder, bass tones resonating through her bones, and she 
lowers her head into his lap.  She can smell his musky scent as she 
gently takes the head of his semi-hard cock between her lips.  She runs 
the tip of her tongue lightly around the head, sensing its warmth, and 
takes it deeper into her mouth.  She wraps her hand around his shaft, 
feeling it respond to stimulation, and slowly pulls the skin down, 
allowing the head to emerge fully as the hood recedes.  

She has a familiar fleeting thought, *I suppose a healing factor isn't 
exactly convenient for circumcision-* but pushes it away and applies 
herself further as his hand tightens on the back of her head.  

She takes his cock out of her mouth and runs her tongue up and down the 
sensitive underside, and then around the head again.  Her body is 
beginning to respond as well and she can feel her nipples tightening and 
the dampness forming between her legs.  He is fully erect now; she 
nibbles lightly on the head as she runs her hand along his shaft.

Birdy is just getting into the rhythm of the motions, when he suddenly 
jerks her head up and off his cock.  "Enough of that."  He pushes her off 
of him, onto her back, and with one feline movement rolls on top between 
her thighs and pushes into her depths.  She shuts her eyes at the sudden 
intrusion, * - you'd think I'd be used to his size, after all this time, 
- * and waits the second it takes her body to adapt itself to him.  She 
focuses on the sensations of his cock as he drives deep into her, 
widening her passage with each successive stroke.

"Yeah, bitch, that's what you've been waiting for."

Birdy's eyes slit open and a sly grin crawls across her lips.  *If you 
only knew, motherfucker, if you only knew...*  She savors the thought, 
repeating it in time with his rhythmic thrusting.  Creed says, "This is 
why you ain't ever leaving, huh Birdy?  You ain't got the guts and you 
want this too much."  It's a familiar mantra, she tunes it out easily.

She feels the itch growing from a small tickle, slowly at first, then 
intensifying by fits and starts.  The tension spreads, rounding over her 
buttocks and crawling along her thighs.  Birdy knows if she tries to 
stand at this moment her knees will buckle, too overwhelmed by  sensation 
to support her weight.

The fizzy feeling escalates, and she pumps her hips up to meet his, no 
thought in her mind but the moment arriving.  His sardonic amusement 
filters around the edge of her consciousness but that, too, is familiar 
and easy to ignore.  Her awareness narrows to one point and then explodes 
out, as the climax overtakes her. The muscles in her thighs tighten and 
she drives her heels into the bed, lifting her hips.She throws her head 
back, gasping loudly through her teeth as successive waves of pleasure 
spark through her belly -

- and the moment is gone, almost as if it had never been, leaving only 
lassitude (where once was fire) -

Birdy draws in a deep, shaky breath as normal consciousness returns.  Her 
psi-sense pushes back into her awareness.  She can sense that Creed is 
approaching climax, and decides to go along for the ride.  Snaking a 
mental feeler through one of the cracks in his defenses, she drives 
through the red chaos she finds, past the monsters and the terror and the 
blood, over, around, and through, until she ferrets out the sexual center 
of his brain.  She has to slip past the white-hot threads of pain that 
are fused around and with her objective, but it is the work of a moment 
to weave through the tangle and dive spiraling into the sea that awaits.

She opens mental eyes and looks through his senses, overwhelmed by the 
sheer mass of sensory data available to him, whose mutant perceptions are 
immensly more acute than those of normal men.  It takes her a quick 
second to sort the confusion into discrete sensory impressions:  a scent, 
her scent, musky and beguiling, mingling with his own and other faint 
smells that drift through the air; the sound of his breath, slow and 
strong, accented by her shallower inhalations as he starts breathing 
faster, ascending the slope to climax; the feel of the sheets on his 
knees and forearms, her warmth and softness under his body, the snug fit 
of his cock within her tunnel and the contrast between her heat and the 
cooler air with every stroke.

His eyes are closed in anticipation of the moment, and Birdy has a 
fleeting thought that it is probably for the best - any more information 
and she might overload.  The thought disappears as she feels his muscles 
tense and the torrent sweeps her up.  Her body responds to the mental 
stimulation, sucking in the fire, rolling it through her mind. her 
breasts, her clitoris, building the momentum further and reflecting it 
back into his brain.  As the climax overtakes her, she momentarily loses 
her identity - who is who?

He cries out at the same moment as she, her legs tightly wrapped around 
his hips, his head thrown back and fingers digging into the bedclothes as 
his claws spring out, ripping the sheet.  She feels his flood deep in her 
belly; simultaneously she experiences his shuddering release.  This is as 
close to the "glow" that she gives him telepathically as he can get, and 
he can almost - but not quite - blank out the fear and the pain and the 
blood...

The rapture passes and she reels in her telepathic line.  The sudden 
damping down of sensation hits her hard and she has the disconcerting 
feeling of what it must be like to live head-blind, with only five meager 
senses to rely on.  The realization, as well as her double climax, 
exhausts her, and she falls back, panting heavily.

She hears his low rumbling laughter.  "I thought so.  You just can't get 
enough."

Reluctantly, she snaps back to life.  Sweat beads trickle down and around 
one full breast as she props herself up on her elbows and nonchalantly 
stares Creed full in his eyes.  "I faked it."

His lips twist in amusement.  "Bullshit.  Maybe you could fool a norm, 
but you don't forget I can smell and hear and feel more than any of those 
pathetic sons-of-bitches.  You can't hide the signs from me, and you 
can't mimic them good enough to fool me."

Birdy jerks her chin up, "Maybe I used my mind powers.  Maybe I slipped 
into your brain while you weren't paying attention and made you -"  She 
breaks off as his hand shoots out and fastens tightly around her throat.

"You almost went too far there, frail.  One day -"  His hand squeezes a 
warning, and then abruptly lets go.  She falls back, gasping, rubbing her 
newly bruised throat.  

Creed rolls off of her, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her roughly off 
the bed.  "Get out.  It's been a long day.  I don't want to see yer ugly 
face anymore tonight."  He seems to drop instantly into sleep, with the 
ease of the innocent and the damned.

She picks herself up off the carpet and retrieves her towel.  *You'll 
never have to see my ugly face again, Mr. Creed,* she thinks.  *And I'll 
never have to see your ugly mind again.*  She wraps the towel around her 
body, tucking the top corner in over her left breast, her mind reviewing 
the security codes that disable the mansion's defenses.

She stalks out of the bedroom, pulling the heavy steel door to, but not 
quite latching it, and starts down the stairs toward the main computer 
console and, she thinks, freedom.

Her apprehension grows as she nears the painting behind which the 
terminal is hidden, but it is not enough to stop her. The hinges of the
small panel the painting is mounted on squeak as she opens it, echoing
loudly in the quiet stillness of the mansion.  She freezes for a moment
and risks a small probe of Creed's surface thoughts.  *Good.  Sleep 
patterns.*  She pulls up the security program and types in the password, 
bringing up the main control screen.  

SECURITY SYSTEM
MAIN TOGGLE
*ON*  OFF

Her finger hovers over the key.  She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes 
and quickly stabs her finger.  The screen fills with the names of the 
"party favors" salted around the house, documenting each deactivation.

Outside, the waiting mercenaries hear the quiet "ka-chung" as the gate 
unlocks.  "Fire teams left and right!  Assault team takes the point!  
Security team covers any withdrawal!"  They enter swiftly.

Birdy quietly hurries to meet them, adjusting her towel. "It's okay - 
he's sound asleep."

The leader dismisses her.  "Just get out of the way.  We'll take over 
from here!"

Upstairs, in Creed's bedroom, green eyes suddenly slit open in response 
to something discerned, a noise perhaps, or a scent far beyond the reach 
of ordinary mortal senses...

"Huh?  Somebody's in my house!"  He rolls out of bed, alert, flexing his 
fingers and feeling his claws slide out of their sheaths.  A twisted 
smile slowly blossoms on his lips.

"Ya finally got the guts, huh, Birdy?  This is gonna be *fun*..."

                        *********************************

(Is Sabretooth captured?  Does he ever sink his claws into Birdy?  I'm 
not gonna tell you here, but if you wanna know, look for the graphic 
novel _Sabretooth:  Death Hunt_ by Larry Hama and Mark Texeira, on sale 
now at your local comic shop!  End of commercial.  :-)
-- 
{~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}*  oh hominids who long for much better times    *
{    tamara stephens     }*    remember king kong died for your crimes     *
{anon3ee6@nyx10.cs.du.edu}*and the whiskers you find on the brim of the hat*
{________________________}* may be all that is left of schroedinger's cat  *