BtDoDS

 


WARNING: Betwixt the Dilemmas of Dashington Station contains (numerous) graphic and extremely silly sex scenes. If you are not old enough to access pornographic material, in an area where accessing pornographic material is illegal, or are not prepared to encounter incredible clichés performed with unnecessary adverbs, then I advise you not to continue.

- Webmistress Niki

Betwixt the Dilemmas of Dashington Station

From out of the depths of a deep and dreamless sleep that is like the oceans of G’Hort XII, you wake to the surface of consciousness, like a whale does to breathe.

You are lying on a diagnostic holo-table in what appears, to your able mind, to be a well-equipped infirmary such as one might find on a space station. This impression is assisted by the sign over the exit which reads INFIRMARY: DASHINGTON SPACE STATION.

“O!” you exclaim! “Where am I?” And then, as a terrible awareness creeps over you like a chill would creep over you if you were to stick your dainty feet in a pool of ice water and then stand there for a while, “…. O! WHO am I?”

A small robot, emblazoned with a golden D in the middle of its conical head, opens its mouth unit. “You are in the Dashington Space Station Infirmary,” it says. “You have amnesia.” It proffers you a small space-mirror with its hand appendage.

You peer into its glimmering depths, and it reflects your image back at you, like a very small pond that is very still and also held vertically. You are a woman of some nineteen or twenty years, with startling silver eyes, tawny blonde hair that curls beguilingly to your shoulders, and skin the colour of a good cheese – maybe a Frellian swiss or J’hecklan camembert. When you smile at yourself, you see small, pearly teeth peeking from behind delicate pinkish lips.

A glance down your body is enough to assure you that your womanly attributes are ample, yet perky. You are clad in space-pyjamas woven from the finest xarbenian silk, and wear fuzzy slippers made from the hides of the elusive kwelfor rabbit.

Unfortunately, your beauty does not restore your lost memory!

“What shall I do!” you exclaim.

It was a rhetorical question, but the med-robot replies. “Please wait here for the Duke Dashington,” it instructs, and then rolls out the door on its mechano-wheels.

What shall you do?

1) You don’t know who you are, but you know you don’t like waiting for anyone, and the robot has left the door slightly ajar. You flee at once!

2) You swing off the holo-table and start exploring the room. Perhaps there is some further clue to your identity here!

3) You smooth down your space-pyjamas and wait demurely. A Duke! That sounds thrilling!

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