This story contains sex; if you have problem with that
or you are underage then by all means don't read it.

	"It matters not how strait the gate,
	How charged with punishments the scroll,
	I am the master of my fate:
	I am the captain of my soul."
	
		From the poem "Invictus"
		By William Ernest Henley

"Rock an' Roll"
By Quiet Savage

Part 1 - "Found at the Water's Edge"

	"Sex", said the female caller, "got your attention
don't I?"

	"Yes, but I not sure what that has to do with what
we're talking about here." Kate's voice came over the
radio.

	"Sex is power. Men are led around by that thing, they
need it, a girl can use that to get whatever her heart
desires."

	"I thank you for your insight", Kate said, "but I
think we'll be moving on"

	"Will you tell them to turn that off, Bruce." Eve
said from behind her dark shades. She looked sexy in
her 2 piece bathing suit, the top a tube the lower
made in the style of boy shorts with clip-ons to hold
up the leggings that encased her long lean legs; the
whole suit in a leopard skin print. All she was
missing was a set of Josie and the Pussycats sex
kitten ears. Beside her beach chair sat a pair of
black open toe marabou feather mules. Not the usual
beach shoes and the sand would really fuck them up but
that's the kind of world she lived in. Somehow, it
seemed amazing that she had escaped the horror of
white lipstick.

	She has accoutrements of an owned woman- on her wrist
was a bracelet held on by a small lock with a gold
chain connecting it to her wedding ring. There was a
gold toe ring. She had a silver tongue stud with a
gold ring around it and on her ass was a tattoo of
matching rings marked "Eve" and "Bruce."

	As if in response to her request she felt him sidle
up behind her and reach around, molesting her breasts
through her suit. So many things had changed since
that talk with Kate. Chief among these was the fact
that she realized that she did love her husband. It
was a frustrating angry unwelcome love, a feeling she
barely understood, call it codependence if you want,
but, it was a deep real feeling nonetheless. Her own
sexuality seemed so foreign to her now. Even though
her mind from time to time did drift to other men (or
for that matter women) she was devoted to her husband.
She had a very particular fetish- not heterosexual,
not homosexual but Bruceosexual. She was not without
her problems- she had the body of a female and she
enjoyed sex with her husband but for some reason she
still identified internally as a man. She had a bad
case of what they call in the biz "gender dysphoria."

	Bruce too was just as into her. Like somehow he had
put an order in for the perfect woman in some cosmic
register and got exactly what he wanted. And after a
few tweaks and mental adjustments the mind was perfect
too, at least from his point of view. She was loving,
affectionate, and loyal with good teeth and a shiny
coat. She was even a bit on the needy side in a way
that makes a fellow like Bruce feel wanted. The
unusual way that she had come to this life and body
may have helped as she didn't understand the intricate
ins and outs of the female mind. She only understood,
and could emulate, the surface details about how to be
a woman: how they act and look, how they put on their
makeup and such, but, not why they do it or how they
feel about it. To her a kiss was a kiss, a fuck a fuck
and a blow a blow. And not only was she alienated from
what once was her fellow man, by reason of human
sexuality, but also she lacked any comradery with her
new found fellow woman as even THEY KNEW and would not
accept her. Really the perfect woman, because, this
too drove her deeper into her dependence to Bruce.

	She hated leaving a child so young alone as they left
the beach but this was something that needed done,
after all it was her job. And as Bruce pushed her from
behind into the car her last memory was a blond tuff
of hair running on the beach and then she was lost in
the moment.

	His hands pushed up her top, exposing her breasts,
and accidentally caught a seam making an audible tare.
Bruce pushed her into the seat, his tongue invading
her mouth. One arm around him, her other arm pushed
down on the bathing suit, but taking off this beast
would not prove so easy, instead she pushed the whole
deal, suit and stockings, down her hips and legs
bringing her perfectly made man formed cunt into view.

	Now, anybody walking by could clearly see what was
going on, but, even if they stopped and gawked, eyes
pressed against the back window, all they would see
would be a husband and wife passionately making love;
because, there was no longer any evidence that she was
anything but a woman.

	Her clothing now around her ankles she pushed herself
against the side window spreading her knees apart,
offering herself to him. Hunching up behind her he
found his mark and entered. He pushed deep into her
allowing a second for her to feel the fullness of him
before retreating, then again and again and again
slamming into her with what seemed like little thought
for her. As the feeling built in her she began to
reciprocate pushing back into him to meet his thrusts,
proving her excitement, her need for a man and the
cock he provides. Soon she was working it, trying
desperately to achieve that elusive reward by giving
it to him.

	"You're a fucking animal", Bruce growled, "my pet
wife."

	But, it wasn't clear that she had heard him as she
used her body the way they had built it to be used.
The feeling inside her artificial cunt was sharp, she
was immensely aware of it and her own body. She could
feel each thrust in her. The beads of sweat forming on
her skin. His hands on her hips. The weight of her
breasts heaving with each stroke of her body. The car
a rock'en no one came a knock'en and she felt the now
familiar finish inside, being sprayed by Bruce's cock.

	She bit her lip in frustration. She had come so close
that time, so fucking close she could taste it, so
close to cuming herself.

	As he pulled up his shorts and began to exit the car
she mentioned her ripped top on the floor, Bruce
tossed her a roll of duct tape from the glove box. She
couldn't patch a ripped seam with duct tape!

	"Figure it out!" was all Bruce said.

	As they returned to their towel and beach umbrella,
two large silver "X" pasties over the nipples of her
enormous breasts she could hear the Kate show
continue.

	"Military force", the caller grunted, "it's the only
real power. It's what validates a nation and gives it
legitimacy. If a country makes treaties it can't back
up then it has no right to exist. It's like saying
you're a pacifist when you have yet to prove you can
win the fight."

	"Hmmm?" moaned Kate, "But is the military the power
itself? Or is it just a tool like a nail driving
hammer or a rotary cheese grader."

	The Kate Show, it was sweeping the nation. The
restless self-made millionaire had grown bored of just
buying expensive things for herself and now wanted
world influence. Her insane ramblings, once the
private stock of a handful of people, had gone
national and now it was said she had the ear of kings
and king makers, as well as her audience of millions.

	Not that she didn't have competition but they had a
way of... well... encountering problems. Like the
Working Class talk show host from the Wolf News
Network Kate framed up with a sexual harassment charge
to the tune of millions. Then there was the morning
radio "shock jock" that was taken off the air after
Kate's friends in the FCC had put fine after bogus
fine on him. Some were not dealt with so gingerly like
the big fat one that became an addict after he went to
old St. Bernard's and somehow was put on the wrong
pills.

	As her competition diminished her own ratings only
grew.

	Bruce returned to the blanket after finally doing
something about the show, the radio now blaring a
canned corporate pop song by a fem boy band. She
stared intently at the book trying to ignore the
staring eyes of the passing men (and also trying to
suppress her own increasing pleasure at being the
center of their attention), some laughing at her
"bathing suit." Bruce moved in asking her just what
was so interesting on the page.

	"It's just", she slowly started," I can't follow this
writer, she introduces some elements I don't
understand and here she adds the element of children
and that doesn't go anywhere."

	"And" she added, "some of these plot twists? This
writer really keeps you on your toes."

	"Some of us like our women in heels" Bruce joked. He
had to give her a little shake to get her to snicker
as well.

	Just then a distant thunder broke the calm of the
beach. All necks strained as two army helicopters came
flying up the beach, their angry wings beating the air
into submission. A mixed lot these two an old style
Super Cobra, some antique anachronism from a national
guard hanger or maybe a museum piece out for a joy
ride and a fresh new AH-64F-VTCAD Apache just off the
production line. It was not uncommon in these days for
the military to put on such a display of power. And
flying this low? This close to the beach? That's
clearly what they were doing.

	Just as they passed Bruce's towel the almost slow
cycling of machine guns was heard. And these gunners,
it seems, were putting on a show because it was a
constant stream of tracers.

	The choppers peeled off gaining altitude as they went
out to sea. Immediately two ropes fell from the
balcony and, as sirens blared in the distance, the
gunmen rappelled down and screamed away on generic
sport bikes.

	A few hours later Bruce, Adam and Eve wove their way
back into the hotel, past the troops with their body
armor, Uzi submachineguns and new bullpup rifles. Eve
was exiled to the bathroom as Bruce turned on the TV
to watch what he had already seen with his own eyes.
While this was not the first group of media savvy
revolutionaries it was the first so dedicated to
getting their exploits filmed and then broadcast.

	The revolution was going just swimmingly (from the
rebel's point of view at least), it started a year ago
on a Tuesday in grand over the top style. The first
attack went right to the belly of the beast- a few men
appeared on the street, using those planter barricades
outside the building as a foundation they laid a ramp.
Then a pick-up, its engine pumped up but still
straining under its load, came screaming down 10th
street. Launching itself off the ramp hundreds of
people in the J Edgar Hoover Building lost their lives
that day. And that was just the first of 12 attacks to
take place across the country within a four-hour
period.

	But things had settled down now. There were only one
or two attacks a week most of them small, like the one
Bruce and Eve witnessed. But, because of the media's
speed, omnipresence, and sensationalist nature each
attack, even a small one, seemed to the public as bad
as a stab to the eye. It was a fact the
revolutionaries were counting on to undercut the
collective will of the nation.

	Not that the signs of the revolution hadn't been
there before the attacks- raids on some gun stores in
Michigan, a running gun battle on the streets of
Pennsylvania, an armored truck robbery in California
to name a few.  But until the bombes went off and the
revolution was undeniable the public refused to blur
their eyes and really see what was going on.

	However, the truck and car bombs were not the first
mass indication of the revolution, because, in the
week leading up to Black Tuesday there was a series of
assassinations and murders. But, there was some
disconnect between the motives of the revolutionaries
and those of the assassins. It was pretty obvious by
this part of the story what the revolutionaries
wanted, however, the assassinations seemed more or
less random. Not directed at one group or type of
person, all kinds of people got it from low-level
street punks to the social elites. The standard line
had become to not see or even understand the
subtleties- it was all part of one movement and they
were all enemies of the state. But for Eve, sitting on
the beach with her cheap dollar store novel, knowledge
of the murders may have proved hopeful, because it
seems, some of those assassinations revolved around
her and her story. A fact she didn't know, after all,
girls don't read the papers.

To Be Continued...

Copyright 2005 Quiet Savage
Quietsavage@yahoo.com
/~qsavage/