"The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

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"The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Fri Jul 31, 2020 2:34 am

In all of the reading that I do, I've found a couple of professional stories involving SW and GTS themes. Enjoy please and thank you!


"THE BRIDGE" (or "MINNIE'S CREW")
A short (no pun intended) story in 8 parts
Some comments from the writer Piers Anthony:


"... This story was bounced at Nova, Playboy, Cavalier. F&SF, Knight and Evergreen Review. I had supposed that the sexy male mags would appreciate truly fantastic sex. I was wrong.

"Meanwhile, changes were occurring in the SF magazine circuit. Galaxy Publications had been bought out... and the new editor was Ejler Jakobsson. Ejler came to a writers' conference in my area, and I dropped in and met him on June 12, 1969. He wanted material. I was then mostly into novels, but I did have a couple of last year's provocative pieces still bouncing around. One was "Minnie's Crew." Somewhat warily I mentioned it. After all, new editor or not, Galaxy Publications was not your avant-garde publisher. Ejler wanted to see it. Okay, he had asked for it. I sent it. Within a week he phoned me, accepting it. A regular SF outfit was buying the story that had scared off the horny male mags! A special kind of history was in the making here. He retitled it, of course, as "The Bridge" and published it in Worlds of Tomorrow as the cover story. Yes, this time I even got my name on the cover, printed right under Minnie's pert breasts. No, I can't really argue with the new title, for once; my "Mini-screw" was a bit too cute.

"Reader, be advised: this just may be the wildest sex ever to see print in a conventional genre magazine."
Attachments
"Worlds of Tomorrow" cover -- Minnie
"Worlds of Tomorrow" cover -- Minnie
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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by SirLurkALot » Fri Jul 31, 2020 2:46 am

“Tall Troy’s on fire.”

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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Fri Jul 31, 2020 3:08 am

“Tall Troy’s on fire.”
:D

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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Sat Aug 01, 2020 1:36 am

1. Petite Dream-Girl

"Please." The voice was small but distinctly feminine and seemed to emanate inches from his ear. "Please, Mr. Fowler, please wake up."

"Burg to my friends," he muttered sleepily. He was one of those bachelors the men's magazines declined to acknowledge -- the kind that works for a living and sleeps alone. On weekends such as this he liked to sleep late in spite of an early bedtime. This was partly to get back at the alarm clock and partly because it made the day shorter. At the moment he was in that transitional state he sometimes achieved upon such lazy awakening -- in it he could hear and to a certain extent control intriguing dream dialogue.

"Please, Mr. Fowler. We only have an hour. Please look at me."

"Sure, honey," he murmured, eyes closed. The voice was absolutely lovely and remarkably convincing, as though a beautiful woman lay beside him. He had never before indulged in such a pleasant trance. But he knew that it would dissipate the moment he opened his eyes. All that shared his bedroom by daylight were dirty socks, clean shirts, a portable radio afflicted with intermittent static and last night's cold-slopped coffee. And, of course, the book he had read himself to sleep on. What was it? He couldn't remember.

Something soft touched his right ear.

He twitched his head aside, instantly alert. Light blinded him, forcing his eyes shut again. This had never been part of a dialogue! Had a moth gotten in?

He turned his head carefully and squinted.

Suddenly he remembered what he had been reading. It was a text from a night course in British poetry. He had signed up in the hope that he might meet his dream girl on the college campus, since he hadn't met her elsewhere. Unfortunately it developed that few women took night courses and those who did were mostly centenarian schoolteachers in for recency-of-credit. But he had discovered serendipitously that old-time verse was not entirely dull; indeed, it was as though the poets were men very like himself, bound by similar frustrations but with the wit to make them elegant. Andrew Marvell complained about his coy mistress (at least he had one); Lord Byron rhapsodized about a maid of Athens; Dante Gabriel Rossetti (always learn the full name, the professor admonished the class) commented on a goblet supposedly molded in the shape of the breast of Helen of Troy. That was the poem Burg had fallen asleep on: Troy Town.

Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen / (O Troy Town!) / Had two breasts of heavenly sheen / …

He couldn't remember the rest.

He had seen those two breasts, those images of man's desire. Supple yet voluptuous, firm yet perfect. Just now.

"That's not fair, Mr. Fowler. You didn't really look."

He opened his eyes fully. A doll stood on his pillow. A nine-inch high, gracefully woman-shaped figurine dressed in yellow. Its proportions were so accurately and lovingly rendered that the effect was rather like contemplating a real woman from a distance. This replica had everything. In fact, it was very like his fanciful ideal.

"I can explain," the doll said in that same delightful voice. "I thought you'd like to see me nude but since you shut your eyes again so quickly I decided --"

Burgess Fowler rolled off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He ran the sink full of cold water and dunked his face in it open-eyed. Then, absolutely awake, he performed certain other routine morning chores and returned in his pajamas to the bedroom.

"We have only fifty minutes left," she complained. "You're not being very cooperative, Mr. Fowler."

He sat down on the bed. "Troy Town!" He was not a swearing man ordinarily. "I don't touch drugs of any kind, so it isn't that. I drink only in moderation and never alone. I am not overtired and when I am I'm not much given to hallucinations. I --"

The doll stamped her little foot on the top sheet. Her heel made a pinpoint dent.

"The committee went to a great deal of trouble to locate you and learn your tastes and -- and get me here," she said. "You're wasting invaluable time, Mr. Fowler. Please listen to --"

Burg brought her to him with a sweep of his left hand. "Now, my little practical joke!" he said. "We'll see what makes you operate --"

She was not doll-like to the touch. His hand enclosed her torso and his thumb was aware of two singularly realistic breasts -- the same he had seen in the first bright glimpse? -- rising and falling under the dress while his palm felt the rondure of a sweet derriere. Her waist was lithe and narrow, her hips soft and broad. She was warm and she smelled of perfume -- a brand he could not name, but liked.

He set her down, disgruntled.

"You can't be alive."

She rearranged her apparel and combed the tangles out of her hair. Her tresses were the precise shade of brown he liked, curled in just-so.

"If you will only pay attention, Mr. Fowler!"

"I'm trying to -- but you're hard to believe at one sitting."

"I know I'm a little small for you but it was the best they could do. There is so little time. Please help me, Mr. Fowler."

Burg would still have dismissed her as some kind of a powered toy, except for the remembered feel of her body and her present too-human animation. A doll did not breathe, and certainly did not react as directly and specifically as she was doing. "All right, I'll help you, mini-girl whoever you are. Whatever you say your crew sent you for. What do you want?"

"I want," she said seriously, "to make love."

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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Sun Aug 02, 2020 12:58 am

2. Animate Senescence

The Council of Oomus foregathered in tired splendor. All of the scions of the leading lines were present: the ranking scientists, philosophers and economists of the world. Here in the temple of the ancients, within a chamber overlooking the effete surging of the Sea of Life, they harkened to momentous developments.

The chairman withdrew his perception from the demesnes of that waning Source and broadcast for attention. Once such a signal might have bathed the planet -- now it was barely sufficient to alert those nearest. The minds within the great old hall yielded courteously.

Please review the discussion of our last Assembly, the chairman thought.

The Recorder now projected his summary. At our last Assembly, three years ago, we received the report of the Committee on the State and Sadness of our World. We reluctantly accepted the verdict of our brothers: that our present misfortune is due to a condition of animate senescence. Unless rejuvenation occurs within our lifetime, the critical point will pass and our form of life, including the animation of all our world, will inexorably perish. Therefore we agreed to undertake radical measures and invest our remaining reserves in a project promising relief. This consists of negotiating and expediting an exchange with a world possessing a surplus of the animus we require.

An Economist interjected: Omission! We cannot permit specific communication with another realm, though extinction be the forfeit. So has our inviolable custom been; so it must remain.

Correction incorporated, the Recorder explained. The exchange was to be instituted in such a way that our identity is never betrayed, yet complete satisfaction rendered to the other party. Above all, it is our custom to be ethical. Yet satisfaction may be achieved in diverse ways. Such a program was instituted by an ad hoc Committee and the Assembly adjourned.

The Chairman thanked the Recorder. Then: What is the report of that duly constituted Expeditionary Committee?

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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Mon Aug 03, 2020 3:18 am

3. Courtship

"Mini-girl -- mind if I call you Minnie? There are things that I might do for you. and gladly," Burg said. "But making love is not among them. For that you need a man. A man your size, I mean."

"Oh, no, Mr. Fowler," she protested, laying a tiny hand on his little finger. "It must be you. They were very clear about that. You have just the right-I mean, I exist only for you. I love you."

There was, then, an ulterior motive of some sort. The crew that had sent her to him had a price for its service. He was not, however, obliged to accept it, since this was unsolicited merchandise. She could charm him as she wished, but that would be all. He was not going to pay any exorbitant fee for this doll, or sign any dubious documents.

The strange thing was that, whatever her secret, she did conform to his ideals of femininity. Had she been full-size, her measurements would have been about 36-24-36, or perhaps a trifle more generous, with all the other physical attributes congenial. More than that, there was an intangible charm about her, a symmetry of manner and proportion that evoked pleasure in the contemplation. Her attire complemented her features perfectly, and her face had just that quality of imperfect maturity he preferred. Even her little mannerisms, such as the conservative-yet exciting-way she put her slender fingers on him and the lift of her fine chin when she spoke-all of it was the kind of thing he had been searching for and had, in his not-so-secret heart, never expected to attain. For if such a woman were ever to appear before him, he could be certain she would be snapped up by a more wealthy, muscular or articulate male. Yet here she was.

And when she claimed to love him, he felt an adolescent thrill, square as he knew this reaction to be in an adult.

But...

"I feel complimented," he told her gently. "But I have to point out that there are sharp limits --"

"No. No limits. And we have only forty minutes. Please, Mr. Fowler, we have to get started." She sat down on the coverlet and removed her shoes. One thigh showed alluringly as her leg lifted.

He chucked her under the chin with a careful finger. "There has to be a misunderstanding, sweetheart. You're very pretty and I like you but-maybe you'd better tell me exactly what you mean by 'making love.'"

She stood up. She ran a hand down her side and her yellow dress fell open. She shrugged out of it, folded it meticulously (he liked that, too) and stood before him in bra and petticoat. She drew the petticoat over her head.

"I fear our definitions coincide," Burg said quickly. It was as though a real woman were baring herself and he wasn't used to it. "But-surely you see that it's impossible. Physically impossible. You and I -- well, it's impossible."

"No, it isn't," she said confidently, as she reached behind to unfasten the bra. "You're a man and I'm a woman and I love you." The bra came free, revealing that spectacular scale-model bosom. Then she dropped her panties.

Ah, yes -- complete and desirable in every respect.

And nine inches tall.

"Now it's your turn," she said.

"Look, Minnie-this is ridiculous. I can't --"

"Please, Mr. Fowler!" she urged him. "Get undressed."

"You don't understand --"

She dabbed her face with a handkerchief the size of a postage stamp. "You don't love me! You won't even give me a ch-chance!"

Feeling like both fool and heel, he removed his pajamas. Of all the ways to be spending a Saturday morning!

"Good," she said, looking him over demurely. "Now lie down."

He lay on his back next to her.

She trotted up and leaned against his chin. "You haven't shaved."

"I'll go take care of it right now," he said, grateful for the pretext to remove himself from this embarrassing charade.

"No -- there isn't time. Kiss me," she said, and leaned over his face to plant her full red lips against his mouth. Her breasts nudged his cheek and she had one bare foot braced in his ear, but the overall effect, oddly, was potent.

Then she climbed up a little more so that her breasts hung above his mouth. Suddenly some more of the poem popped into his mind. Queen Helen's commentary on her own physique.

Yea, for my bosom here I sue: / (O Troy Town!) / Thou must give it where 'tis due, / Give it there to the heart's desire. / Whom do I give my bosom to? / (O Troy's down, / Tall Troy's on fire!)

It was given to Burg. The breasts pressed down between his lips, their miniature nipples touching his tongue. He couldn't help warming to the sensual impact of her body.

He licked the heart's desire.

"You do want me, don't you?" she inquired.

What could he say? He was drinking from Helen's goblet and Tall Troy was on fire.

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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Tue Aug 04, 2020 12:03 am

4. Expedition

The Thoughtsman for the ad hoc Expeditionary Committee presented his report. We divided our mission into two prime areas of endeavor: first, the arrangements for the emissary to solicit a suitable exchange; second, the mechanical provisions for transfer of the shipment. Both areas had unique problems. We could not send one of our own number as emissary, for reasons hitherto discussed, so we formulated a matrix of suitable configuration and cultured it remotely to serve in lieu of direct confrontation. The proteins for the multicellular entity were garnered from the substances available on that world --

Several interjections: Multicellular entity? Why attempt such an unwieldy construction? Surely there is a less tedious way!

The Thoughtsman waited for the commentary to subside. Compatriots, our need is massive and immediate. We felt that our purpose would best be served by dealing with one of the larger species, one capable of delivering the entire shipment in a matter of hours. If our present, admittedly ambitious, scheme succeeds, we should have complete delivery by the terminus of this Assembly.

There was a complimentary aura of awe.

Then another protest: But at what price, Thoughtsman? We shall have to mortgage our entire resources for a thousand generations even to approach a fair exchange for such immediate service!

Not so, the Thoughtsman replied. We need only agree to mutually beneficial terms. In this case we believe our emissary will be able to give satisfactory value. Therefore the shipment should cost us nothing more than the effort of obtaining it.

But we cannot offer in exchange any information about ourselves or deriving from our researches! What else, apart from physical goods, could the emissary arrange for?

Love, the Thoughtsman replied.

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Re: "The Bridge" (or "Minnie's Crew")

Post by jeffrey-dallas » Wed Aug 05, 2020 1:44 am

5. Act of Love

Minnie trotted down Burg's chest, stomach and abdomen, her bare feet pattering ticklishly. When she reached the major bifurcation she kneeled in the brush, wrapped her arms about the cannon she found there, and pressed her resilient breasts against it.

Troy had never stood taller.

In the living room the clock chimed eight.

This abrupt reminder of the real world brought the weirdness of the situation home to him with renewed force. There was of course no mini-woman; he was lying steeped in his own concupiscence and he had better get up before he fouled the sheet. It had been a fabulous fantasy, ridiculous but exciting -- but there were limits.

"You'll have to sit up, Mr. Fowler," she said. "The angle is wrong, this way."

Burg lifted his head and saw her: a lushly naked woman straddling the canting trunk of a leaning beech tree as though it were a seesaw.

He sat up carefully, swinging his gross feet off the side of the bed while she clung to her support with arms and legs. He didn't know what to do except comply with her requests; the truth was too incredible to argue with.

"Give me your hand," she said.

He put out a hand and she braced herself against his thumb. She climbed just high enough to sit on the apex of the now-vertical stump, her slim legs coming down on either side. He could feel her smooth muscular buttocks and the moist warmth of her cleft as she squirmed around to seat herself firmly, facing him. Her waist was no larger than the purple hassock she bestrode.

She squirmed some more and the action was almost painfully titillating. He began to comprehend how physical intercourse could take place between them: her aperture, properly positioned, might match and seal over the vent in the hydrant.

Burg closed his eyes and let her proceed as she wished. Astonishingly, this enhanced the sensation; it felt as though she were gradually enclosing him. Tip, glans, stem, stage by stage. This was utterly impossible; Minnie's entire torso was hardly four inches long.

He felt the ejaculation coming on -- but that brought him to his senses again. So there was a doll-woman perched on the tower; accepting that much, the force of the incipient eruption would surely skewer her. That would not be funny at all. He remembered reading about one of the Nazi atrocities. They had taken one of the death-camp inmates, a young girl, forced the nozzle of a fire-hose into her vagina, tied it in place and turned the water on full force. That image made him recoil all over; it applied too specifically.

"Mr. Fowler!" Minnie cried.

Burg opened his eyes, then his mouth. The girl was squatting in his lap -– and tall Troy was into her a good three inches, yet her torso retained its original and delectable dimensions. It was as though his substance vanished once it penetrated her.

"Mr. Fowler -- you're shrinking."

So he was; that torture-image and now his amazement at what he saw had taken the starch from his ardor.

"Look, Minnie -- what if I should -- ?"

"We only have a few minutes," she said reproachfully. "You can't fail me now."

Detumescence continued, however, and her whole body tilted to one side as her support became jelly.

"But the -- where will it go?" he demanded academically. What did not come, could not go. "You'll be -- hurt."

She brought her knees together, putting pressure on the portion of him that remained within her. His flesh responded mechanically to the kneading of her well-formed limbs and began to grow again.

"Minnie, don't you know what happens when --"

"When the semen comes? Of course I know. And it has to be within five minutes or it's all wasted. Please, Mr. Fowler -- you have to help, you know."

He saw his member expanding enormously under this stimulation, pushing back into the space between her thighs. She bounced her body, taking in yet more of him. Penetration was back to three inches and still she flexed her legs and slid farther down the tower.

Burg made a last effort to get through to her intellectually before the automatic process took over. "Minnie, there's going to be a lot of-pressure. Are you sure you have -- room?"

"Do you love me?" she asked.

So even dream-girls had feminine foibles. "Yes, I -- I guess I do. It's crazy and backwards -- but I love you. You're my ideal, Minnie, in miniature."

"I'm so glad," she said, smiling. "And I love you, Burg." She was finally using his first name, as though his confession of love justified an intimacy of address that the prior circumstance had not. "And will you let me keep everything that comes?"

"It's a love offering," he said. "The truest kind. You can keep all you can hold, now and forever."

"Shake on it?" She proffered a doll-like hand.

He put out his right forefinger and she grasped the fingernail and tugged it solemnly up and down. They could not shake hands properly, he thought, but they could fornicate. What next?

"Then it's all right," she said. "Thank you, Burg."

And she straightened out both legs in an L-formation, scissored them wide and slid pneumatically down as though his manhood were a greased piston. Her dainty bottom landed warmly against his scrotum.

Her four-inch torso had absorbed him -- yet remained as slender and virginal as ever.

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