Teuser's Formula


Part 6




AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!



1.

Lynne glanced up at the hallway clock for the fifteenth time in twelve minutes. She'd told herself she'd wait half-an-hour to let Gary get his strength back. Twenty-six minutes had passed since then. The inexplicable yearning that dominated her thoughts had grown and grown throughout every single one of those one thousand five hundred and sixty seconds, to the point that she wasn't prepared to let it increase any further. Certainly not for another two hundred and forty interminable seconds.

Recovered or not, she wanted something from Gary and she wanted it now. She gently stroked her husband's cheek. "Ga-ry..." she cooed, softly. "Ga-ry..." a little louder now. "It's time to wake up..."

The only response was his uninterrupted, rhythmic breathing. It was shallower respiration than an hour ago, at a slightly faster tempo. Lynne did not register the change. "Come on Gary," she urged, her voice no longer hushed, her tone a little less gentle. "There's something I want to do for you..."

She moved her hand from his sandpaper like cheek, and carefully used her index finger to momentarily raise one of his eyelids, "Gary. Time to wake up." she repeated. But the eye she'd opened didn't look at her. It darted, quickly, from one side to the other and up and down, as if he were panicking. Lynne remembered reading something in one of her magazines about rapid eye motion, or something like that. It had something to do with dreams, she seemed to recall.

 

2.

He was no longer drowning in a sea of nude women. That phase of Gary's nightmare, where he was dragged down and down and down, pushed ever further from the cool, fresh air above the surface by a tide of endless, beautiful, female bodies, had passed. Now he was at the bottom of a pit, his back and his head pressed against rock.

He had been buried, alive, under a pile of writhing, naked women. He couldn't even move his arms or legs now, or raise his head, such was the weight of sexy flesh bearing down on him. And the pile of warm, smooth, fragrant bodies on top of him was still getting bigger.

He could feel the ever increasing force pressing down on him. He tried to scream for them to stop, to get off him, to let him out. But his voice was silent, muted by the mass of femininity engulfing him. He could neither move nor make a sound. He was, he realised in horror, utterly helpless.

 

3.

"Fifty-six year old male, found unconscious in an alley, suspected trauma to the groin area, breathing and pulse normal, no other signs of injury or illness." The paramedic listed off what he knew as he wheeled the trolley into the Accident and Emergency reception of the hospital.

"Do we know if he's taken anything?" asked the duty doctor preparing to take over.

"Apparently not. Bit of a big shot, it seems. His chauffeur should be here in a moment. He was around when it happened. Didn't see anything, though. Said the chap ran into the alley for a pee. Found him ten minutes later slumped on the ground like this."

"Thanks," said the doctor. He lifted the sheet covering the patient's lower half and winced involuntarily as he observed the bruising of the man's sexual organ.

"I know." the paramedic commented, agreeing with the non-verbal assessment. "You OK from here?" he asked.

"Yup, that's great. See you!" confirmed the doctor. Then turning to a nurse standing nearby he instructed "Put him in number 4, take his vitals." The paramedic was already headed out of the hospital towards his waiting ambulance.

 

4.

No question this was the best time to go to the gym. On a weekday, after the pre-work crowd were long gone. The lunch-time rush wasn't due for an hour or so. Claire put down her bag in the empty changing room, and removed her street clothes, swapping them for the sports bra, cycling shorts and trainers that she'd brought along in the holdall.

She knew that she had an attractive body and face, which is why she disliked the gym when it was crowded. Too many unwanted stares from creepy men. She didn't appreciate unsolicited attention. Stashing the bag which now contained her original outfit in a locker, she headed towards the equipment area.

There was a huge mirror at the entrance to the workout room. She caught a glimpse of herself as she walked past, and stopped dead in her tracks. She'd worn the same outfit last time she was here, but she didn't remember it looking quite so... so... flattering on her. She couldn't help but admire her own figure for a moment. Was her waist so flat when she was last here, about ten days ago? Or her bust so firm?

She remembered why she had come to the gym. It wasn't because she was getting out of shape - if anything, the mirror revealed the opposite. She wanted to test her strength. Her "new" strength. Weird things were happening to her. Strange compulsions to do strange - for her - things with strange men. And she seemed to have become massively stronger in the space of a day. Her reflection hinted at other subtle muscular changes too, especially her taut belly and her high, rounded chest.

Claire recalled the way she'd lifted her heavy bed back at the flat, and the way she had dented the metal hand rail coming out of the station earlier in the day. She was eager to test herself using equipment she was familiar with. Equipment that was clearly labelled with numbers she could use to measure her strength directly.

 

5.

Ivana had two distinct sets of clothes which she owned: the one for work which was all about attracting clients and offering men the promise of what they wanted, and the one for the rest of the time which was all about comfort, feeling good, and being herself. As she headed to the shopping centre with glove-man's money burning a hole in her pocket, she was deciding which wardrobe she was going to spend it on.

Buying work clothes was a financial investment. The hotter she made herself look in the eyes of men, the more money she could make renting her body out to them. On the other hand, she had the chance to spend the cash on something that was purely to please her, rather than perverted strangers like glove-man or the arsehole who had beaten her up in his car the other evening...

Thinking about glove-man, his fetish and his money made her recall how she'd left him, unconscious, stuffed into the locked cupboard under the stairs back home, along with her fat greasy landlord. She realised she should have been worried about what would happen when they came to and started trying to get out, but she dismissed that concern. Somehow, she felt, things weren't the same as they had been at the start of the week.

It wasn't just her strength that had changed. It was everything about her. She wasn't afraid any more. She wasn't afraid of what the two men in the cupboard might do to her. Or any man for that matter. She hadn't figured out a plan, yet she felt sure, certain even, that she would be able to deal with them. Once, that was, she had finished her shopping.

Ivana had decided. She was going to take her time, and use the money she'd taken to buy herself an expensive new outfit. She was going to spend it all on herself. Her private self.

 

6.

"He was bollock naked sitting on a bench in the laundrette! You should have seen the state of it!" cried Constable Forrest, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks, as he relayed the story in the police station canteen. "I swear it was bright blue, like a fucking smurf!"

"We should've put a johnny on the top of it," Sergeant Brown chimed in, "Then it would've looked exactly like a smurf!"

"Poor fucker." said Forrest, wiping his eye. "You gotta wonder how he ended up like that."

"You can find soon enough," Brown pointed out "when we interview him in the hospital. Might end up as an assault case. It's either that or we'll slap him with public indecency. Christ knows what I'm going to put on the report..."

The pair burst into laughter once again. Neither of them noticed the thirty year old man wearing a white shirt and leather jacket who entered the room.

"Sorry to break up the knitting circle, ladies," the new arrival called out. Brown and Forrest suppressed their laughter and turned to the source of the mockery. "Have either of you seen D.I. Thomas?"

"No, sir" Sergeant Brown answered, still chuckling.

"What's the big joke?" asked the man in the jacket.

"Call out we got this morning, sir," said Brown. "Half-naked geezer in a laundrette with his tackle hanging out."

"It was bright blue!" burst out Constable Forrest, "Like a smur-"

"Oh, grow up!" chided the interloper. "Some of us are trying to do a serious job, you know."

"Sorry, Detective Sergeant." Forrest apologised, formerly, to his superior.

"D.S. Finch?" The female voice addressing him directly made the jacketed man turn towards its source, a unformed woman of nearly twice his age, who had appeared in the doorway of the canteen.

"What's up, Rose?" Finch inquired.

"Message from D.I. Thomas. He's at St Dean's. Wants you over there A-sap."

"The hospital?"

"Yup."

"On my way," announced Finch, already halfway out of the room.

 

7.

Claire had used the leg-press machine many times before. It usually formed part of her workout circuit whenever she went to the gym. On her first visit, she'd been guided by a member of staff who'd introduced himself as her "personal trainer for the day", a service advertised as a special offer for new members that was really the management's tactic to ensure that newbies didn't injure themselves and then demand compensation.

She remembered that day, not for the advice and suggestions of the "trainer" but much more for the creepy way he'd repeatedly tried to check out her body whenever he thought she wasn't looking. "Just making sure you're working all the target muscles efficiently..." he had said, guiltily, when she had caught him staring intently at her profile as she got into the rhythm of her repetitions. She was relieved that the "personal trainer" was a one-off deal.

With the leg-press machine, he had used the excuse of trying to judge her weight to look her up and down. "You're about eight stone, right?" he'd asked. She wondered if he was trying to flatter her. The mere idea of his interest repulsed her.

"Eight stone nine," she corrected, deadpan.

"So that's..." she could see by the way he screwed up his face that the arithmetic was a struggle for him. "Creepy AND stupid," she thought to herself.

"...about 51 kilos." he finally concluded.

"54 actually," Claire had told him, managing to keep the contempt out of her voice.

"Right, so you should probably start at about..." More painful calculating... "sixty-five." The trainer pulled the pin out of the stack of weights, and repositioned it much nearer the top of the pile. "Try that," he said. "Let's see if you can manage a set of ten."

It was during that set of ten, which had taxed Claire enough to make her glad there wasn't an eleventh, that she had noticed his over-enthusiastic stare, prompting his "working all the target muscles efficiently" excuse.

She'd been back to the gym more than thirty times since then, and she always set the leg-press to sixty-five kilos before using it. That seemed to be enough to work her muscles without hurting. So, she inserted the pin in the correct slot, and sat down.

She was shocked by the ease with which she pushed back the pad with her feet. It was as if she had forgotten to select any resistance weight at all. After three effortless presses, she had to get up and check that she had set the machine correctly. When she saw the pin in its usual place, she became curious. Thinking about how easy her first three tries had felt, she adjusted the weight to eighty. But, again, she moved the foot pad without noticing any strain at all.

There was no-one else around, so she had no fear of being embarrassed or ridiculed for over-ambition. She moved the pin down to the socket labelled "200kg". This was the kind of setting used by guys. Not skinny guys, but the bigger, more muscular types. Experimentally, she began to press. Now, she could feel some resistance. But nothing like what she had experienced during her last visit when she had pressed sixty-five. She completed ten repetitions and felt as if she could easily do fifty more.

Claire was overcome by curiosity. She noticed that the maximum selectable weight was six hundred kilos, right at the bottom of the big stack of metal slabs. Realising that this was probably beyond the ability of anyone who had ever visited that gym, she pushed the pin in and nervously positioned herself to give it a try.

It was hard. She really had to strain to move the foot pad. But she pushed it back as far as it would go, once, twice, three times. She wondered if she could complete ten presses. By the sixth, she was beginning to tire noticeably. She could feel the sweat beginning to bead on her forehead and down her back. She gritted her teeth for the seventh.

 

8.

"Wake up Gary!" Lynne shouted, her patience now exhausted, allowing long-repressed anger to come to the fore. Sighing exasperatedly at the lack of response, she looked down in frustration at her husband's flaccid organ. She felt a burning sense of injustice, far stronger than at any other moment in her marriage. It simply wasn't fair. She wanted, no, she NEEDED to take him in her mouth, and he just was not co-operating.

She took his member in her right hand and began to fondle it gently with her thumb and fingers, hoping to stimulate it to life. There was a soft, barely audible moan from him that she chose to interpret as encouragement. It had always been Gary that had initiated intimacy in their relationship, so she had no routine for getting him in the mood. She continued to tenderly handle his penis as she considered how she might increase the slight effect her hand was achieving.

Thinking of how he would often grab her breasts, painfully squeezing as he brought his face up to them, making her sensitive skin sore by aggressively rubbing his stubbled chin and cheeks across her chest, she momentarily released her hold on his organ so that she could free her arms from her dressing robe. As soon as she could, she resumed her fondling, raising her body and twisting as she sat beside him, so that she could rest her large, bare breasts on his face.

Slowly, she dragged her hardening nipples across his cheeks. His rough, unshaven face would always leave her slightly reddened and irritated in the past but now it just felt great. She began to press herself into him as she rubbed her generous curves over his features, noticing that the warm flesh in her hand was becoming bigger and less flexible as she did so. Her fingers worked his shaft with more intensity. He groaned, long and piteously, like a desperate, exhausted, badly wounded animal.

Lynne adjusted her position, transferring onto her knees without breaking either the contact between her palm and his penis or between her breasts and his face. Now she could force her free left hand between the back of his head and the wall he was slumped against. She used that hand to push him towards her, holding him tight as she massaged his face with her chest. She felt the weakness of his moans as they were exhaled into her cleavage and it made her shudder with desire.

 

9.

In the dream, the pile of bodies seemed to shift for a moment. He felt a glimmer of hope that maybe he might be able to free himself, at least partially from the mass. But then another of the naked women had fallen, directly onto his face. He could feel her big, firm breasts pinning him down and a small part of his mind responded to the eroticism. That response seemed to bring pain from his groin, but when he tried to look and see why, his view was completely filled by the same large ripe mounds that were holding him down.

He couldn't help himself. The feel, the sight, the smell, the taste of those breasts turned him on. But the more aroused he became, the more the mysterious pain in his dick and his balls increased. At the same time, the chest pinning him was pushing more and more intently against him, pressing him harder and harder into the ground.

He felt his head being forced into the erotic cleavage between the two breasts, his face becoming lost in that sexy valley. He couldn't breathe! He was being suffocated by wonderful, soft femininity, powerless to resist or to escape from the overpowering flesh and the agonising arousal it was causing. And then, just as he believed he was about to die, the pressure of the breasts on his face eased. He gulped air. An instant later, an explosive sharp pain in his organ forced him, briefly, awake.

 

10.

Ivana admired her reflection in the full-length fitting room mirror. The designer top and jeans combination that she had chosen looked magnificent on her. The charcoal grey top showed off her neck and collar, but only a hint of the very top of her cleavage. It was just tight enough to offer a clue to the stunning shape of her chest. The jet black jeans clung to her tiny waist and her shapely behind but were sufficiently comfortable to allow easy, free movement. When she pulled on the gorgeous leather knee length boots over the top of the trousers, the look was complete.

The clothes were way out of her usual price-league, but glove-man's cash meant that was not a consideration. She looked classy, she thought. Sexy without looking like she sold sex for a living. It was the kind of outfit that a wealthy young woman might consider wearing on weekends to make her female friends jealous or to catch the eye of some rich banker or politician. Of course, it was the beauty of Ivana's body that made the clothes look so good, rather than the other way around, but the combination complimented her superbly.

She pulled back the curtain and stepped out of the tiny cubicle feeling more confident and in control than she could ever remember.

"Oh wow! That is so YOU." complimented the sales assistant, a skinny blonde woman who was a few years Ivana's junior. There was a subtle tone in the shop-worker's claim that didn't quite sit with the friendly, customer-flattering pitch. Ivana detected the hint of jealousy and delighted in it.

"We have some great bags that will go perfectly with that combination," the sales girl informed her, moving automatically into up-sell mode. Ivana had already done the sums in her head. She'd always been a competent mental mathematician, but the amazing physical changes that had brought her superhuman strength also seemed to have made doing calculations in her head significantly quicker. She'd come to spend the money she'd taken from glove-man's wallet, not her own and, although it was the boots that took the bulk of her large budget, she decided she really liked them.

"No thanks," Ivana said, firmly. "Just the top and the jeans and the boots." The supremely self-assured way she spoke left the assistant too intimidated to try and convince her otherwise. Ivana went back into the fitting-room to change back, emerging astonishingly quickly dressed in her original get-up with the new clothes in a stack ready to hand over for folding and bagging.

"That's three hundred and seventy-nine and ninety-seven pence," the sales-girl smiled as she read the till display. "How would you like to-" Ivana was already holding out eight crisp fifties. "Cool trick!" exclaimed the assistant, the jealousy now much more evident in her voice.

"Eh?" asked Ivana, genuinely perplexed.

"With the money," explained the shop-girl. "Making it appear like that..."

Ivana had opened her purse, grabbed the notes, closed her purse and offered the cash. She hadn't intended for her movements to be so quick that the young blonde woman had confused them for a magician's sleight-of-hand. Realising now what she had achieved, her sense of confidence and control grew even further. The two bags of new clothes and boots felt weightless in her right hand as she strode, almost regally, out of the shop.

 

11.

A draught of cold air from the open window tousled Teuser's hair as he snored, his cheek pressed against the table top, his good arm resting alongside. His dormant fingers pointed towards the big glass container, nearly full of colourless liquid, that was awaiting its creator's awakening. But Sam was still deep asleep.

The same gust of wind that had played with his hair also kicked up a few dead leaves down in the alley that ran alongside his block, lifting and twirling them, carrying them upwards, four, eight, then twelve feet into the air until they were dancing right outside Teuser's open window before gently letting them settle back onto the concrete below. The leaves landed silently beside a pair of scuffed, plain black laced-up shoes.

The wearer of the shoes did not notice the trio of dead leaves. She was looking elsewhere. Specifically, she was craning her neck up at the open first floor window. Her sparkling blue eyes moved downwards, following the metal drainpipe that led, at what she considered a very convenient angle, from just beneath the window, down the wall, almost to the ground.

"It'd be a piece of piss." she announced, giving her verdict in response to the question she had been asked a few moments before. Her companion chuckled and raised an eyebrow as if challenging her. Fred was tall for his age, and he looked faintly ridiculous in his school uniform. At six foot, and six months shy of his seventeenth birthday, he carried himself awkwardly, his wrists visible at the ends of his jacket sleeves and a length of black sock showing at the bottom of each of his trouser legs.

He'd known Kelly since they were both in primary school, and he was as comfortable in her company as he ever could be these days. Normally, he was a wreck whenever he was anywhere near an attractive girl, let alone one as gorgeous as Kelly had become. She was a whole head shorter than him, with long, straight, brown hair that often fell across one of her sparkling eyes. She had a cute nose, and gorgeous thick pouty lips that could also smile in a way that made almost all the boys in school lose the power of coherent speech.

Of course, what really made most of them lose the ability to talk normally in her presence was the spectacular way her chest had developed. She thought it funny the way she could walk down a corridor in school and spot the boys as they blushed and clutched their text books in an unnatural position in front of their groins. It wasn't just the boys. It was a couple of the girls too. And some of the teachers. She had noticed them seeming to struggle, their eyes desperately looking anywhere but at her body. The white buttoned school shirts they had to wear did little to hide her enthralling shape.

That's why she liked hanging with Fred. He was more like a brother to her than a schoolmate, and because of their long-standing pre-existing relationship, he seemed immune to her beauty. If it wasn't for the way he seemed to fall to pieces in the vicinity of other girls, she would have assumed he was homosexual. Regardless of that, they were the closest of friends, having grown up as neighbours, both with difficult home-lives, and they enjoyed each other's company.

This morning break time was typical for them both. They weren't supposed to leave the school grounds, but they always did. They weren't supposed to loiter in abandoned alleyways, out of sight of anyone walking on the street, but they usually did. They definitely weren't supposed to share a spliff, but that was pretty normal behaviour for them as well. The crushed butt currently lay under Kelly's left shoe.

Another thing they weren't supposed to do was break into people's homes and grab any cash or small items of value that they spotted lying around. But this, too, they had done several times in the past. It was an activity they practised more for the adrenaline thrill and the pleasure of getting away with a misdemeanour than for profit. Something to make the days more interesting.

And so, when Fred had spotted the open first-floor window and pointed it out to her, she'd known immediately what he was thinking. "There's no way I'd fit through that," Fred had observed. And then he had posed the question "Reckon you could climb up there?" And Kelly had told him that she believed she could do it easily.

"Let's see you, then," teased Fred, checking both ends of the alley to make sure they were unobserved.

"Alright," Kelly replied, flashing him her amazing smile.

 

12.

Gary was screaming. Only a low, barely audible rasp left his lips, but he was screaming with all his might. He was fully awake now, the pain from his penis completely overwhelming him. So intense was the agony, that he'd given up trying to plead with his wife to stop. All he could do was scream at the top of her head.

She had him in her mouth again. He could feel the warmth of her soft lips crushing his already bruised manhood as she rhythmically worked them up and down his fully upstanding length. Her tongue flicked out at him periodically, each contact feeling like a blow from a small hammer. Her teeth scraped along his most sensitive flesh, adding a further dimension to the constant hurt.

He wanted to grab her head and pull it away, to slap her and to yell into her face "What the hell are you doing to me? Stop it! Stop it now!" but he was incapable. Maybe if she looked up for a moment she would see the pain etched on his face and realise how much he was suffering. But she seemed determined not to let him slide out of her mouth even for a second. He could feel the way she was stretching his erect penis, pulling it away from his body in a way that terrified him.

How was she doing that? Surely not by sucking alone... surely it wasn't possible for anybody, let alone Lynne of all people, to suck that hard! He screamed one more time. A near-silent, useless cry. Tears, of rage, of hopelessness, of agony and of fear, formed in his eyes. And somewhere, deep in his aching, burning balls, a tiny orgasm began to crest.

It was as though he was on fire on the inside as his penis spasmed. She seemed to tighten her lips still further in response, and the sucking became so powerful he thought she was about to emasculate him. The sight of the back of her head rising and falling blurred in the tears. He felt himself losing consciousness, falling back into his nightmares. But this time, there was no sea of bodies, no pit in which he was being buried alive. There was just an endless, black void and he was falling into it.

 

13.

Barry took the last bite of his sandwich and threw the dregs of a little bottle of fruit juice down his neck. He loved days like this, when the manager was off and he was the only member of the gym staff. He especially liked the quiet times, like now, between the before-work rush and the lunch-hour stampede. He was seated in what was called the staff kitchen - although a small table, three chairs, a microwave oven, a miniscule fridge, a sink and a kettle hardly qualified for the title "kitchen" - his legs outstretched with his feet resting on a second chair.

The terms of his employment went to great lengths to specify his duty of care to customers, and in particular, the importance of never leaving the workout areas unattended whenever he was the sole "team member" on the premises. But, he reasoned, internally, who was here to make him follow the rules? No-one, that was who. He was in charge right now, and besides, hardly anyone ever came in at eleven a.m. on a weekday.

To confirm how right he was to ignore his employers' instructions, he glanced up at the closed-circuit television monitor mounted in the corner of the tiny kitchen. And that's when he realised that someone had come in at eleven a.m. that day. He recognised her immediately, despite the poor quality of the image on the screen.

That chick. The hot one, who he'd given a first-time tour when she'd joined a few months back. The one who'd totally bought it when he'd said he was ensuring she was working her muscles to maximum efficiency when he'd actually been checking her out. She really didn't have any muscles, maximum efficiency or whatever, but she did have a killer body. Barry suddenly decided that his employers were right after all, and he really did need to be out in the workout area.

 

14.

"Ten!" panted Claire, triumphantly, as she completed her second set of repetitions with the leg press set to well over half a metric tonne. The first ten presses had left her exhausted but, to her pleasant surprise, the aching in her thighs and her breathlessness had quickly vanished to the point that she decided to test herself all over again. She wanted to know if her rapid total recovery was as real as it had felt. It turned out that it was.

She was still catching her breath and marvelling at the way the burning sensation in the muscles of her legs was fading as if the hurt was evaporating into thin air. She opened her eyes to study her thighs and calves, amazed at what they apparently could do despite the fact that she could barely see any difference in them from two days ago. That's when she noticed the creepy guy sauntering in, giving her an overly-long look and then stopping in his tracks, right next to her.

 

15.

"Jimmy Swan?" asked the middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie.

"Yes, that's me." Jimmy had just walked in through the hospital entrance.

"Detective Inspector Thomas," the suit introduced himself, holding out his police identification. "You're Harry Williams' chauffeur. Is that right?"

"Yeah. Is Mr. Williams OK?"

"I'm waiting to find out," said Thomas, flatly. "In the meantime, I need you to tell me exactly what happened."

"Well, I didn't see very much..." Jimmy began as the D.I. took out a notepad and a portable voice recorder. The driver relayed the story exactly as he'd seen it. Or rather as he'd not seen it. How his boss had demanded that they pull over so that he could dash into the alley to pee. How he'd been reading the paper and hadn't realised how much time had passed. And how he'd then found Williams collapsed in a heap with his trousers down.

"And at no point did you see anyone else enter the alley?" the Detective Inspector asked, once Jimmy had finished.

"Like I said, I was reading the paper..."

"OK," said Thomas. "I'm going to need a few details from you." He took down Jimmy's address, and phone number. "We'll be back in touch," he told the chauffeur, uttering the words in a manner that was more threatening than reassuring.

It was all a little bit too suspicious. An extremely wealthy man accosted in a semi-secluded, but public space, while a nearby member of his staff conveniently saw nothing at all. The lines of enquiry were already beginning to form in D.I. Thomas' mind.

 

16.

Barry had been racking his brains for an excuse to strike up a conversation with the girl. But when he realised that she was completely out of breath having completed - he guessed, based on the way she had exclaimed the number ten - a set of leg-presses, he quickly deduced that she must've set the weight too high. He couldn't help but be turned on by the sight of such a beautiful young woman panting, and was delighted to be presented with an excuse to talk to her and show off his superior knowledge of the equipment.

He craned his neck to look over at the stack of weights to see what she had set. A look of utter confusion came over his face. He walked quickly over to the pile of metal slabs and bent his knees to examine it closely. "Um..." he said after a few moments which he'd used to confirm and re-confirm what his eyes were reporting, "Sorry, I need to ask you to move. I think this machine is faulty."

The girl seemed to have recovered her breath already. He stared at her gorgeous body as she stood up. "I guess you set it to the max because it wasn't offering any resistance," Barry said, trying to prove his expertise. Obviously, the weights had somehow become disconnected. He studied the steel ropes of the mechanism, perplexed that he couldn't spot anything out of place. Taking the pin out, he replaced it in the hole labelled "180kg". That was more more than he would normally select for himself, but he wanted to impress the girl with his strength.

He sat down to test the machine. Immediately, he regretted choosing such a high setting. It was a real struggle for him to push the footplate back. He fought to keep the strain from his face, but he couldn't help grunting.

"Looks like it's fine," the girl observed, contemptuously. "Probably best if you just leave me to get on with it by myself."

Barry was stung, both by the dismissal, and the tone with which it had been delivered. There was a degree of anger as he snapped back "Well, something's obviously wrong with it. No way you can press six hundred K."

"I'm stronger than I look," Claire told him, disinterestedly.

"Not that strong!" Barry replied, with a forced laugh.

He got up and walked around to the weight adjustment pin. He thought he had figured it out. For some reason that he couldn't yet work out, putting the pin at the bottom of the stack disconnected all the weights. He was going to prove his point, show that he was right, that he was, of course, much stronger than her, and much more knowledgeable about exercise equipment. And she, he hoped, would be so impressed she'd agree to go on a date with him. He placed the pin three-quarters of the way down the pile, at 480kg.

Before he could stand up again, the girl sat down on the press, and unfussily began to push the plate with her feet. Barry gasped as the huge pile of weights above the pin rose quickly and smoothly in response. She completed the press, letting the stack settle smoothly back into place with a satisfied grin on her face. "Easy!" she announced

Something was clearly wrong with the machine, but, for the life of him, he couldn't work it out. "Let me try," he demanded, getting more than a little annoyed.

"Whatever," said the girl, getting up.

"Christ, she's hot," Barry thought as she moved, trying to steal a furtive glance at her lovely chest. He felt his lower body begin to respond to her appeal and panicked, realising that his tracksuit wouldn't conceal his arousal if much more blood was pumped into his member. Her back was turned now, much to his relief. She seemed to be walking away. He stopped himself from staring at her taut, swinging rear because he knew that if he did, the tenting of his trousers would become impossible to hide.

He sat down in the leg-press once more, planted his feet and... And nothing. The plate did not move at all. He pushed harder, but still, nothing. He gritted his teeth, groaning as he put everything he had into his legs. He could feel the sweat trickling down his face. His knees started to tremble. But he was unable to move the thing. He gave up, gasping for breath and shaking his head. Then, a thought occurred to him. It was so obvious, he wondered why he hadn't realised before.

Eventually, when he had recovered sufficiently, he called over to the beautiful girl "OK. Very good. You got me. Where's the hidden camera?"

 

17.

Lynne ran her tongue over her lips, just in case any of Gary's ejaculation had escaped her mouth. She was disappointed to find that it hadn't. In fact, the whole thing had been a little bit of a let-down. He'd hardly produced anything at all, certainly compared to the first two times. She looked down at his rapidly shrinking penis to see if anything else had leaked out, but it was dry. Dry and almost jet black. Was that bruising, she wondered, or perhaps -

Her train of thought was broken by the exhilarating and increasingly familiar feeling of delicious warmth building in her belly and then spreading outwards, like ink on blotting paper, into the rest of her body. She closed her eyes in near-ecstacy as the warmth expanded within her, moving outwards through her torso first, into her shoulder-blades and her breasts, filling them with a wonderful sensation of energy that tingled delightfully as it reached her nipples. The ripples spread, up her neck into her head and on into each strand of her hair, down her thighs and legs and her arms, through each toe and finger, reaching every last part of her body.

She felt amazing. "Thank you Gary!" she exclaimed in genuine gratitude. There was no response from her husband. His eyes were closed. He was breathing, but she could only tell when she looked closely at him. His chest was barely moving at all.

"Gary?" she called. He did not even moan, so she gently shook his shoulder. His head flopped about wildly, as if she was violently rocking him. She thought nothing of it, attributing his floppy state to a deep sleep. "Gary... come on... you can't sleep here, love. Let me help you to bed..."

Lynne carefully inserted her hand under his right arm. She knew she couldn't move him, but she hoped that he'd feel her tender tug on his armpit and would move his legs in response so she could help guide him upstairs to their bed. At first, she thought her plan was working exactly as intended. He seemed to rise guided by her hand. Then she noticed that his eyes were still closed and his legs weren't straight, his feet bent as if they were just resting on the floor. "Gary?" No answer. "Gary, can you walk?" Nothing.

"Maybe," she thought, "if I help him to straighten out a bit more, he'll find his feet." Carefully, she raised her hand. She didn't feel much resistance and assumed that he was now supporting his own weight with his legs, her hand under his arm serving only to help him balance. She studied his face. He still seemed completely unconscious. How could he be standing? She looked down at his feet and froze in shock.

Neither of Gary's feet were touching the floor. It was as if he was hovering an inch above the ground. Lynne took a moment to try and comprehend the situation. His entire body was limp, his torso slightly crooked, the shoulder where she was supporting him much higher than the other. It looked, she had to conclude, as if she was holding him off the floor with her one hand. But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

Tentatively, she raised her arm. She was aware of some weight pulling down on her, but not the weight of a large man. It felt more like the weight of a half-full shopping bag. But Gary's whole body rose in response to the lifting of her arm. She tried lowering him. His toes touched the ground. She could see that his legs were anything but rigid and realised that if she removed her hand, he would collapse in a heap.

Experimentally, she straightened her arm out. Now his dangling feet were level with her knees. That was the clincher. Incredible as it might seem, the amazing sensation that had started in her belly seemed to have left her vastly stronger than before. She held him in place for a few seconds, curious to see if she would tire as the bizarre effects wore off. But she remained comfortable, supporting his bulk at the end of her outstretched hand. Confusion took a brief hold of her. This was all so weird... Shouldn't she feel scared of what was happening?

But it wasn't fear that she was experiencing. She quickly realised that. It was something completely different. Something altogether more... positive. She felt... excited. It was a sense of.. of liberation. Of capability. Of new possibilities. "Come on Gary," she said, out loud, even though she knew he wasn't capable of hearing her, let alone replying. "I'll take you to bed." Then she carried him, using just that one hand under his armpit, his feet never touching the floor, up the stairs and into the bedroom.

 

18.

Ivana strolled happily down the street towards her flat, her new outfit swinging in the bags she was carrying. The front door was as she had left it - half-open with the lock broken. As she stepped inside, she was greeted by one of the other tenants, a short, slightly overweight young woman with spiky dishwater-blonde hair and thick, round glasses that made her eyes look unnaturally large. "Have you seen what's happened to the front door?" asked the blonde.

"Yeah, some kids must've done it," Ivana replied, eager to end any conversation before it started.

"I don't think it was kids. It looks like it was done with a blow-torch or something, I mean the lock bit's completely deformed..."

If only she knew, Ivana thought, smiling to herself.

"I came home at eleven-thirty," the short woman continued, "I only went into the office to finish a report and check the mail. It's kind of a day off for us today because it's a national holiday in Japan - did you know I work in publishing? We do a lot of work with Japanese companies, and when they're not in the office, we get the day off as my boss - he's a good bloke mostly - he's really big on family time and stuff and even though I don't have kids or anything, he couldn't really ask me to stay when he'd already told everyone else they didn't need to come in at all anyway-"

"I've got to go," Ivana interrupted, bluntly, walking towards the stairs.

"What about the door?" asked the blonde, clearly offended by Ivana's impoliteness. "I've been trying to call Mr. Myrtle for the past two hours and it just goes to voicemail. I've left three messages. Do you think I should leave another one?"

Ivana knew why the landlord wasn't responding. Her eyes flicked momentarily to the cupboard under the stairs in which she'd stuffed him, along with glove-man. She'd almost forgotten about the pair of them. She was going to have to think up a clever solution to that double problem, and sooner rather than later.

"We can't just leave it open to the street like that," the irritating woman continued. "Anyone could walk in! I saw this thing on the news the other day, these two men got into a block of flats and beat some poor old dear half to death and no-one found her for two days and it was nearly her ninetieth birthday and-"

Ivana wondered if there was enough room in the cupboard for the blonde as well as the two men.

"Try one of the other flats." Ivana suggested, once again cutting the shorter woman off, mid-endless-flow.

"They're not in. I tried knocking, but everyone's out. I know that chap on the first floor, the one who always wears a cap, he works as a security guard, so heaven knows what time he'll be back, and the other fellow, the one opposite him, he hasn't said a word to me in all the time I've lived here, I think he might be foreign or something, but, even so, you'd think he'd say "good morning" I mean he's been here long enough and frankly, it's just basic manners-"

"I'm sure someone will be along soon enough," Ivana said firmly, walking towards the stairs. "Keep trying the landlord," she added as she mounted the first step.

"Yes, well, it's all very well you saying that, but it isn't just my responsibility, you know. I appreciate you must be very busy but I-"

"Yes," said Ivana, over her shoulder from halfway to the first landing. "I am."

"Well, thank you very much." said the blonde, sarcastically. Ivana didn't bother to respond.

 

19.

"Come on, tell me! It's a trick, isn't it?" The gym creep was refusing to leave her alone. "I mean there is just NO WAY a chick like you could press that much. If I can't even move the thing, you sure as hell can't! Just tell me how you did it!"

Claire hated being called a "chick". She hated the implication of his logic - that he had to be her physical superior. And she hated creeps who leered at her. Coming to the gym, she now realised, had been a bad idea. Sure, she'd proved that she had now gained amazing strength, and indeed, stamina. But she was stuck in an awkward situation with this jerk and she was struggling to find the right words to get herself out of it. Perhaps there weren't any words, she thought. Maybe she should just go.

She started to walk towards the female changing rooms. But the creep worked out her plan, and moved to intercept her. "Alright, alright," he said. "You totally got me. Well played. But you gotta tell me how you did it. I won't tell anyone else, if you want to play the trick again, I swear I won't spoil it."

"It's no trick," said Claire, bluntly. "I'm just way stronger than you."

"Yeah, right!" he snorted, folding his arms across his chest.

Claire took a step to the side, intending to walk around him to the changing room door. The creep mirrored the move, putting himself directly in her path once more.

"Please move," Claire requested, trying to sound authoritative, but failing to hide her increasing nervousness.

"Not until you tell me how you did it," he declared.

Claire's mind was racing. If he'd been completely unable to move the weight that she'd pressed pretty easily, did that mean she'd be able to fight him off if things got completely out-of-hand? Would he hit a woman? He certainly was behaving like the sort of bastard who might. She looked at the thick arms crossed over his chest. Yesterday, she would have been terrified by him. But yesterday, she would have set the leg-press to her standard sixty-five kilos...

She knew that the creep weighed an awful lot less than the six hundred kilos she'd just shifted twenty times. Could she just pick him up and move him? And what would he do if she tried? He looked fairly muscular. And he did work in a gym. For a brief second, she found herself imagining what he would look like out of his tracksuit. Completely naked.

It was as if a switch in her brain had been flicked. "Oh shit, no!" she thought. "Not now... not with... with him!"

She marched towards him, grabbing his arm as soon as she was close enough. "Ow!" he cried. Claire ignored his obvious discomfort.

"Come here!" she ordered, pulling him towards her and then shoving him one-handed on the chest. He stumbled backwards, falling onto his rear.

"Oof!" the impact clearly hurt him. Claire knew that she could not fight the feeling that had overwhelmed her. She had to take him orally. But her anger remained. She took two steps until she was standing over him and dropped to her knees, straddling his ankles. With her hands, she roughly tore his tracksuit trousers open, shredding his underpants in the process, exposing him to her.

He started to sit up. "Whoa, there!" he said. "If that's what you wanted, babe, you should have said. We can go into the manager's off-"

"Shut up." Claire commanded, pushing him back down onto his back with one hand, and knocking the wind out of him. So much for being concerned that he might be a physical threat to her... She gripped his manhood in her petite left fist, giving it a couple of strokes. "Get hard!" she ordered.

"Not... here... someone... might... see..." he wheezed, even as his organ responded to her touch, throbbing in her grip as it filled with blood.

"I said 'Shut up'," she reminded him. Just to be sure, she placed her free palm over his mouth, simultaneously silencing him and pinning his head to the carpet. She could feel him struggling under her hand, but she paid no attention to his futile efforts as she parted her pretty lips, released her hold of his now completely erect penis and bent her head towards it.

 

20.

"Sorry sir," puffed Detective Sergeant Finch as he ran up the hospital corridor towards his waiting boss. "RTA on the High Street. Traffic was backed up on all sides..."

"You haven't missed much," Detective Inspector Thomas told him by way of forgiveness. "You got the details?"

"Local businessman, possible assault victim, found unconscious in an alley. Driver was waiting in the car, saw nothing." Finch summarised. "I guess we're treating this as a bit more than a routine mugging given the victim's profile... I suppose the driver's under the spotlight, given his convenient story..."

"Let's not jump to any conclusions before we've spoken to the victim," D.I. Thomas reminded his subordinate, before hinting at agreement by adding "Get on to the lads back at the station and ask them to run some checks. Recent phone activity, bank records, the usual." He handed Finch the notebook in which he had taken down Jimmy's details.

"What are the docs saying?" asked D.S. Finch, as he took the small pad. "Any indication of the weapon used or the attacker?"

"That's the weird bit," said Thomas. "No apparent sign of any injury except... except severe bruising of the sexual organ. He's still unconscious, but there's no sign of any skull trauma."

Finch looked at his superior in shock. "It's weirder than you think, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, back at the station I heard two of the beat officers talking about a call-out they had this morning. Something about a bloke found naked and unconscious with a blue whatsit. Too much of a co-incidence, isn't it, sir?"

"Get on to the station, start the ball rolling on Jimmy-see-no-evil, and get them to send me the report on the other chap from this morning." Thomas instructed. "I'm going outside for some air. Stay here, and call me if there's any sign of life from Williams."

"On it, sir."

"Oh, and Finch?"

"Sir?"

"Don't get distracted by the nurses. You're not being paid to make dinner plans."

Finch laughed and extracted his mobile phone. D.I. Thomas headed down the corridor, following the signs marked "Way Out", an unlit cigarette already in his lips, ready to be ignited the second he passed through the exterior doors.

 

21.

"Mmmmf. Mmmf! Mm.. Mmmf!!" With her hand still stifling him, Claire couldn't tell if the gym guy was trying to yell in delight or pain or something between the two. Not that she cared in the slightest either way. She was working his shaft with her mouth, licking and sucking, dragging her teeth up and down his length, bringing him ever closer to an orgasm. She could feel the quivering of his flesh and, lost in the anticipation of it all, she pulled in her cheeks trying to accelerate the release of his juice.

"MMMMMmmmfffff!" It was either a scream or a cry of rapturous pleasure. All that mattered to Claire was that it heralded the glorious moment when he came, shooting his hot, thick semen into her mouth. She swallowed, and then licked the head of his organ and sucked once more to extract everything, every single last drop that he could produce. Only once she was certain that he had nothing more to offer her did she part her lips and let him flop out of her mouth.

She ran her tongue as far as it could stretch all around her lips to capture any stray drops and then, finally, took her hand off the creep's face. His eyes were closed now, she noticed, his chest rising and falling as if he were in a deep sleep. She stood up. For a second she wondered if she should leave him where he was. It would be more humiliating for him to be discovered like that with his groin exposed. That's when she noticed the discolouration of his now-flaccid organ. Had she caused that? If she had, she thought, she hoped it would hurt the bastard.

Realising that the lunchtime rush would soon be starting, and keen to be far away before the commotion of discovery, she decided to try and move him. She bent over his feet and tentatively wrapped one of her hands around each of his socked ankles. At the last moment, she recalled the sensation of the metal handrail yielding to her supposedly-dainty fingertips, and stopped short of attempting to grip him tightly.

Her plan was to drag him by the legs to a door marked "Private. Staff only." and dump on the other side of it, but when she rose up and experimentally tugged on him, she was shocked by the ease with which she could move his limp masculine bulk. She couldn't resist lifting her arms as high as she could above her head until only the hairs hanging down from the top of his head were touching the carpet. She hardly felt any strain at all, despite his considerable weight, as she strolled, comfortably, to the door.

Without thinking, she let go of one of his ankles, and used the freed hand to push the unlocked door, revealing some kind of employees' break-room on the other side with a table and chairs. She barely noticed the change as her single arm took the entire mass of his body, one hand casually hanging by her side as she stepped in. With minimal care, she lowered him, head first, then shoulders, back, rear and finally legs, onto the table.

There was no sense of relief as she let go. Rather, she felt as if she could have supported him with one hand by his ankle all day without tiring. Spotting a stained dish-towel beside a metal sink full of dirty mugs, she grabbed it and tossed it over the unconscious gym creep's discoloured organ in a single, casual movement as she left the staff kitchen.

She was walking towards the changing rooms to make her exit when a rush of heat burst within her stomach, warming her from within in the most gloriously exhilarating manner. The sensation expanded, remaining in her belly but also racing up her body and down her legs, then into her arms until it filled up her entire being. She stopped in her tracks, luxuriating in the glorious feeling. She felt fantastic, filled with fresh energy, fresh potential, fresh power.

Claire couldn't resist. Her body yearned to express its new power, and she yearned to experience it. She couldn't just leave now without testing herself again. She almost ran over to the seated chest press machine, so overpowering was her excitement. Like a child unwrapping a longed-for present, she grabbed the weight adjustment pin and thrust it into the last hole at the bottom of the stack of weights.

Her plan was to max out the press and then conquer it. But in her zeal to prove herself, she failed to notice the two steel locking levers just above the weights. If she had spotted the twin safety controls, she would have realised that they were both firmly in the "lock" position. Instead, she raced around to the front of the equipment, grabbing the two handles almost before she had fully sat down.

She was slightly surprised to feel noticeable resistance as she started to move her arms towards each other. She was much, much more surprised to hear the loud, metallic screeching sound that came from the back of the press, behind her. The squeal of tortured steel briefly rose in both volume and pitch until something went Clang! and the challenge to her muscles instantly vanished. Now, it was effortless to operate the machine, her arms moving freely as if she were applauding her own fabulous strength, the huge stack of weights rising and falling quickly and smoothly in response.

Satisfied that she had bested the chest press, she stood up, unaware of the two steel locking mechanisms that she had torn in half with the power of her slender, feminine arms. The astounding feat had barely tested her new abilities. She felt no tiredness, no need to recover as she strode towards the free weights area, having spotted a loaded bar lying on top of a bench. She thought nothing of it, but no other user of the gym would have been able to read the "50kg" label on the side of one of the two disc weights from across the room.

Claire did not approach the one hundred kilo bar expecting it to be difficult to lift. She was more curious to find out how it would feel. She bent over, stretching her right hand towards the middle of the bar. Her petite fingers only just curled around the thick metal cylinder, but despite the imperfection of her grip, she pulled the weight off the bench with that single hand with as much difficulty as she had encountered picking up a dish cloth moments before.

She had to look at the big bar with the large metal discs at either end as she raised and lowered it with her arm several times. If she hadn't seen it for herself, she would never have believed, based on the sensation in her barely-visible muscles, that she was manipulating something as bulky or as heavy. It was just too easy! She felt a surge of confidence, and a new thought, a delight, even a thrill, observing her own power.

Experimentally, she put the weight down, and curled all but her index finger of her right hand into her fist. Then, using just that single, dainty digit which wasn't large enough to encircle even half the diameter of the bar, she tried lifting. The challenge was balancing the big weight on her girlish finger. Once she had mastered that, she found picking the thing up with one finger no challenge at all. She repeated the trick using the middle digit of her left hand, with similar, amazing and effortless results.

Thinking how the unconscious creep in the kitchen would have struggled to raise the same weight using both of his big, hairy, masculine arms, she smiled and tentatively attempted to toss the whole thing into the air using nothing but a single finger. The result of her effort far exceeded even her most ambitious expectations.

Rather than rising slightly into the air, the weight rocketed straight upwards. It would have continued to rocket straight upwards, if only it hadn't been constrained by the ceiling overhead. One of the two disc weights smashed into a light-fitting, reducing it to a shower of plastic, glass and electrical sparks that rained down. "Shit!" Claire exclaimed, more in amazement at herself than any regret for the breakage she had caused.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes as the little pieces of destroyed lighting rained down. There was a loud, dull "Thud!" as something smacked onto the crown of her head, making her wince momentarily. The discomfort faded immediately. She assumed it had been caused by a large piece of debris, maybe a section of the plastic casing of the lamp, but a moment later, a much louder impact, next to her feet, shook the whole room. When she opened her eyes, she saw the entire bar, weights still attached, lying on the ground beside her.

She brought her hand up to the top of her skull, feeling for bruises or a lump but found none. Had that "Thud!" really been the weight itself crashing onto her head? She caught her breath in shock. That much solid metal, falling onto her cranium, should have killed her instantly. Instead, she had experienced nothing but a brief, mild discomfort that immediately passed. "This is awesome!" she declared, out loud.

Realising that she would find herself having to answer some awkward questions if anyone were to walk in at that point, she reluctantly decided it would be best to make a sharp exit. But as she stepped towards the changing rooms, she passed the leg-press that she had tried first, and simply could not turn down the opportunity to test herself one final time.

It was a huge machine, with its sturdy metal frame, the rack of weights at the back, and the seat in front. She already knew she could handle the stack of slabs alone. Now, she wanted to see if she could lift the entire thing. She gripped a thick square metal upright at a corner of the frame, enjoying the feeling and the low groan of solid steel yielding slightly to her dainty-looking grip. She didn't spot the six big bolts that secured it to the floor.

There was a scream as she tugged her arm upwards. It came from the bolts as they were subjected to forces that they simply had not been designed for. With a series of loud snaps, the bolts surrendered in quick succession to her superior strength, their squeals silenced as the whole leg press mechanism rose into the air, completely at the whim of Claire's long, shapely feminine arm. "Awesome!" she repeated as she glanced down at the half-dozen sheared bolts. Comfortably, she lowered the machine back to the ground, letting it rest, slightly unevenly, on the six torn remainders.

After that, there was nothing left in the gym to test her. Besides, she didn't fancy the idea of being asked to pay for the all the damage she had wrought. So Claire hurried into the changing room, getting into her street clothes in record time, and slipped, unnoticed, out of the building.

 

22.

It turned out that climbing, monkey-style, up the drain-pipe to the first floor window wasn't quite the "piece of piss" that Kelly had thought it would be. Twice, she almost lost her grip and at one point, two sections of the pipe came apart, soaking Fred, who was watching down below, in cold, stale rain-water, much to her amusement. But she had made it to the sill now, and hauled herself through the open window, into some kind of kitchen area.

Fred had rushed around to the front of the building to do their usual trick of pressing the intercom buzzers to see if anyone was in before she started her climb, so she didn't bother to be careful as she jumped down onto the tiled floor. She scanned the room, looking for cash or jewellery. There were a couple of jars on the worktop, but there was nothing inside but instant coffee and sugar, so she made her way out of the kitchen.

Immediately, she heard the snoring and froze. She was about to turn around and dash back to the window when she saw the man, asleep at a table, face down. His clothes were dishevelled. He looked rough as hell, and she could smell his body-odour and booze-ridden breath from ten yards. She noticed the empty whisky bottle and glass lying on the carpet by his feet. The whole scene reminded her of her father when he was still living at home. Before her mother had chucked him out for good.

The man at the table had slept through Fred buzzing the flat. He'd probably sleep through an earthquake. And even if he did wake up, he would, almost certainly, still be too drunk to do much more than shout at her. Still, she thought, I need to be quick about this. She ran over to a sideboard, sifting through papers as quietly as she could, looking for anything worth taking. There was nothing but sheet after sheet of weird sciency stuff - formulas and diagrams... nothing of interest to her.

Feeling brave, she approached the sleeping wreck, thrusting her hands into the pockets of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Nothing but small change. She didn't dare try his trouser pockets, but she could see there wasn't a wallet or any kind of interesting bulge in either of them. Anyway, if he was anything like her father had been, he wouldn't have any money, either on him or stashed in his flat. Climbing that pipe had been a complete waste of time.

She'd spotted the big jar of colourless liquid at the same time as she'd first noticed the sleeping drunk. At the time, she'd assumed it was just more booze. But now that she was close to it, the shape of the bottle, and the lack of a label intrigued her. Maybe it was some kind of home-brew. If it was super-strength alcohol, she and Fred might be able to sell it for a few quid. Or maybe, she realised, it was something else.

She recalled Fred telling her about one of his cousins who had mixed up a batch of acid and got busted as he was dipping a pipette into the jar of liquid and carefully placing a single drop onto each of the hundreds of squares that he'd drawn onto a large sheet of paper. Maybe that's what was in this big container. She couldn't see any paper with squares around, but she was curious. At least, she thought, it might make the rest of the day a bit more fun. She leant over the top of the bottle and sniffed, as quietly as she could.

It definitely wasn't booze. It didn't have any smell at all. Tentatively, she extended her little finger and dipped it, up to the first joint, into the liquid. She brought it slowly up to her mouth and touched it to the tip of her extended tongue. It tasted faintly of chicken. She was no expert, but she could tell it wasn't what she was hoping it might be.

Disappointed, Kelly crept back into the kitchen and pulled herself up to the window. Fred was waiting below, keeping an eye out. She gave him the two palms sign that meant there was someone in the flat and athletically climbed through onto the pipe to shimmy her way down.

"Did you get clocked?" Fred asked her as she jumped down beside him.

"Nah. It was just some old piss-head. Totally out of it," she reassured him. "Looked like he'd spent everything he ever had on drink."

"Bit like your dad," Fred commented.

"Yeah." said Kelly, rolling her eyes. And then her legs seemed to give way underneath her and she collapsed in the alley.

 

23.

Ivana was sitting on her bed, trying to come up with a plan to deal with the contents of the cupboard downstairs. Sooner or later, one or the other of the two men she'd hidden in there would come to. The lack of mobile signal especially at ground-level meant no-one would hear their phones ringing at least. Otherwise that irritating blonde woman would have heard something each time she'd tried Myrtle's number. And glove-man was a big deal at some bank or other. No doubt someone would try to get in touch with him about fluctuations in the Bolivian knicker-elastic market or whatever.

She needed to wait, she realised, until Blondie stopped roaming the corridors looking for someone to bore the tits off about the door and her job and the rude geezer on the first floor. But she couldn't hold off too long. If someone started to bang on the cupboard door, that little cow would be racing to tell the police her life story. Ivana already had an allergy to the police because of her work.

She needed to time it right. She was certain that with her new strength, moving the two men would be relatively easy. She could wrap them both up in a rug or something and then just carry them both on her shoulder, maybe dump them a couple of streets away. But, someone would notice. If not the blabber-mouth downstairs then someone on the street. And when the pair did eventually wake up, they were bound to go to the fuzz. She could deny everything but it would be the word of a prostitute against the words of a multiple-property-owning landlord and a high-flying banker.

There had to be a way she could make sure neither of them would point a finger at her. Maybe she could make them both disappear. It might work for her landlord, she considered. No-one would miss that hideous slime-ball. But glove-man was rich, and married. They'd drop everything to find him, trace his last movements, check his phone history...

She could run. Get out of town before either of them woke up. But where would she go? Where could she stay? She'd already spent glove-man's money. She'd be broke and forever looking over her shoulder. There had to be a better way. She was strong now, amazingly strong. And confident. The rules were changing... Surely, there was some way she could use this new reality to her advantage...

Ivana knew that she had drawn the extra strength from the men she had fellated over the past days. Whatever it was that had caused those strange urges to perform the oral act had also given her the ability to absorb energy from men. That's why they fell so deeply asleep afterwards. She'd drained them of more than just semen.

She began to wonder what lay ahead. Would the bizarre cravings continue? Could she learn to control them? Would the amazing strength she had gained wear off? Or would it continue to increase until... until she became unstoppable? Could she keep going, keep absorbing energy until no-one could touch her and little problems like the two men in the cupboard downstairs would become irrelevant?

A jolt of excitement made her stand up. The sight of her expensive new clothes, bought with glove-man's money, set her imagination flying. Was it really possible that she might become so strong, so confident... so powerful that she could have whatever she wanted without any fear of consequences? The idea thrilled her. She couldn't - no, wouldn't - let the two men sleeping downstairs ruin her glorious new future.

 

24.

"I've got four days off from Wednesday, if you fancy a drink..." Detective Sergeant Finch suggested.

"Can't. I'm on nights all week." pouted the young, cute-faced, redhead nurse.

"I can treat you to breakfast then!" Finch insisted.

"I don't really like to eat after a night shift," said the nurse. "I usually prefer to go straight home to bed."

"For where I'm standing, you don't need any beauty sleep." Finch tried flattery.

"I didn't say anything about sleep," grinned the nurse.

"D.S. Finch!" boomed Detective Inspector Thomas from the far end of the corridor as he spotted Finch and the nurse in conspiratorial proximity to each other. "Any developments?"

"See you!" the nurse whispered before hurrying off in the direction opposite to Thomas, where she quickly disappeared around a corner.

Finch cursed inwardly and addressed his boss. "Jenkins thinks there's a link between Williams and the laundrette fellow. Similar injuries, similar circumstances... thinks there might be a sicko out there with some kind of portable vacuum pump. Nothing interesting has shown up on the driver's bank details or his phone. They're checking to see if there are any unregistered numbers that have geographical links to his official one. So far, nothing."

"So, Chief reckons its a serial sex-case, and nothing to do with Williams' money. That's definitely an angle, but I need to talk to Williams first before I go all in on it. Is he any nearer to waking up? I'm guessing that's what you were discussing with the redhead..."

"Still out cold, sir. But the guy from the laundrette..."

"What about him?" asked Thomas.

"Well, he was brought here too. He's two floors down, apparently. Here's his details." D.S. Finch handed over a small, hand-written sheet of notepaper.

"Timothy Dean," Thomas read. "Anyone done a check on him yet?"

"Clean as a whistle," replied Finch. "Works in a bookshop, not so much as an unpaid parking ticket."

"Right then," Thomas announced. "Let's pop down and see if he's up for a chat."

 

25.

She couldn't help breaking into a jog. Claire felt so filled with energy and physical potential that walking home from the gym seemed wrong. Her legs pumped effortlessly, her breathing remained as easy as when she was strolling. She started to glide around people and objects in her path, luxuriating in the internal glow that seemed to be filling her.

It was only when she noticed a car driving parallel with her for the length of a block that she became aware of the speed at which she was travelling. She was running much much faster than she had ever sprinted before. But it had felt so comfortable! Despite her curiosity, and the inescapable sensation of surplus ability in her limbs, she slowed a little, concerned that she would draw unwanted attention to herself.

Nonetheless, she was jogging up to the front door of her building almost before she knew it. This time, she had the key with her. She extracted it, and placed it delicately into the lock as if it were made of fine china, aware that she might deform the brass with a simple squeeze. She was relieved to open the door, remove the key, get inside and close it again without damaging anything.

Claire needed the quiet solitude of her own room to think. It was clear now that she was gaining strength - enormous strength, she realised - each time she yielded to the irresistible urge to suck a man off. If she'd been able to use the leg-press at its maximum setting before she'd found herself ingesting the gym-creep's sperm, she must now be superhuman!

There had to be a way, she thought... A way she could use her awesome new strength to her advantage. She definitely had nothing to fear from creeps like the guy from the gym. Or that pervy photographer. Or the weird guy in the cafe... She could just push them away, or perhaps break their arms, or... or she could rip off their clothes and take another energy boost from them.

As long as she was discreet. As long as she didn't get caught. She could make herself even stronger. Surely, she could find an easy way to make money then. Perhaps, she thought, she could become so strong, she wouldn't need to find a job, to work for someone else... That would be amazing.

The muffled bass-line of her flatmate's stereo seeped through the wall of her bedroom. It was nothing new. She was used to the mildly intrusive noise of club beats coming from his room, and had always tolerated it in the past. The sound never bothered her that much, and besides, she'd always been keen to avoid unnecessary conflict in her home-life. But now, she realised, things were different.

She didn't have to take any more crap from him. In fact, she thought, as she carefully opened her bedroom door, there was something else she wanted to take from him...

 

26.

Kelly had never kissed Fred before. Not on the lips. And certainly not like this. She'd opened her eyes, and found herself lying in the alley, with Fred cradling her head and asking her if she was OK. It just seemed the thing to do. In fact, it was, although she could not begin to explain it, something she felt at that moment that she had to do.

She kept her mouth locked on his as she gathered her feet, and began to stand up. Fred rose with her until she was fully upright, the embrace of their mouths unbroken. Kelly threw her arms around his neck, trying to pull the much taller boy down to her, as well as to press her fantastic body to his. Whatever it was that had made her pass out, it seemed to be out of her system now, because she felt fine. Just really, really horny.

There was something she wanted. Badly. She kept one arm resting on his shoulder and used the other hand to run her palm down his chest and his belly, and on to this groin. She felt his manhood, already swelling in response to the kiss and the contact of their bodies. Hurriedly, she unzipped his trousers and reached in, pulling him out. She let her big, ripe breasts drag down his body as she bent her knees, thrilling as the meat in her palm throbbed and stiffened as she did so.

By the time she'd lowered herself so that her face was directly in front of his organ, he had grown completely erect. "K.. Kelly..." he stammered. "Are you sure..."

Hungrily, she removed her hand from the shaft and took him into her hot mouth.

"Oh..." moaned Fred. "Oh... god..."

Kelly pulled in her cheeks and sucked hard as the first, violent jet splattered against the back of her throat. Her tongue lashed out at him at the second spurt hit, and she swallowed, hard. More pulses of fluid filled her mouth, and she was careful to ensure that he was fully spent before she finally pulled her head back, letting his length slide out between her lips. Then she gave him a final lick.

"Oh my god..." gasped Fred, as he sunk down, his back against the fence, until he was sitting on the ground.

"That. Was. Love-" Kelly began. She stopped, mid-sentence as a bizarre, and for from unpleasant feeling began to build in her belly. It was like a warm burst of vitality, starting in the pit of her stomach and then rapidly outgrowing her digestive system, expanding into her chest, making her breasts tingle delightfully, flowing on down her arms, up her neck, into her head, her face, her hair.

The same wonderful heat spread downwards, into her sex, her thighs and on to her feet and her toes. "Oh thank you, Fred!" she sighed.

Fred mumbled something unintelligible. His eyes were closed and he was breathing hard. Kelly giggled.

"C'mon, Fred. We gotta get back," she reminded him.

Fred climbed laboriously to his feet. "Shit... I feel so... so... tired," he panted. Kelly put her arm around him. "Let's go stud," she smiled, even more stunningly brightly than usual, urging her reluctant companion out of the alley.

 

27.

Ivana crept down the creaking stairs. As she neared the bottom, she saw that the infuriating chubby woman had left the door to her own flat open, presumably so that she could hear if anybody was coming or going through the broken street-door. Carefully, she tip-toed past the cupboard containing the unconscious men. With her back pressed against the wall, she slowly leaned her head over until she could glimpse into the blonde's flat.

"Pssst!" Ivana hissed, making the verbose young woman turn in shock.

"Oh! You gave me such a fr-" started the blonde.

"Shhh!" instructed Ivana, putting her finger to her lips. "There's a couple of dodgy-looking guys outside, looking at the door," Ivana whispered. "I think they might be about to come in," she lied.

The spiky-haired woman looked terrified, just as Ivana had intended. "You'd better lock your door," she suggested, still whispering.

"I'll call the police," muttered the panicked short woman.

"No!" Ivana hissed, perhaps a little too hurriedly. "It might be nothing. Give it a couple of minutes..."

"What about you?" The whispered question showed a degree of concern that was anything but mutual.

"I'll be fine," whispered Ivana, truthfully.

The blonde hesitated briefly, before uttering a grateful "Thank you," and complying with Ivana's wishes, closing the door. The click of a lock was clearly audible. It was all Ivana could do not to burst out laughing at the display of gullibility and paranoia.

With the coast now cleared, she turned her attention to the cupboard. She twisted her improvised lock off the door with her thumb and forefinger without giving the feat a second thought and let it swing open. The stench inside made her recoil briefly. Myrtle and glove-man were exactly as she had left them, unceremoniously stuffed in the storage space. She reached in and grabbed the banker first, taking a careful hold of him by the armpit and lifting him off the corpulent landlord and out of the cupboard in a single, easy movement of her slender arm.

With glove-man dangling from one hand, she used the other to get a similar hold on Myrtle. He was considerably heavier than his fellow sleeper, but Ivana was delighted to note that the difference felt negligible to her. She was able to hoist them both, keeping all four feet off the ground, with relative ease.

She climbed the stairs as quietly as she could, moving sideways so that her cargo - two fully grown men - would fit up the narrow space. She soon reached her room two storeys up, and casually tossed the pair, one after the other, onto her bed to that they lay side by side like lovers. As she brushed off her hands, she was pleased to observe that the effort of carrying them both up to her tiny bedsit had not left her even slightly out of breath.

Ivana left the pair briefly and headed back down. Quickly closing the cupboard door and then re-mangling what was left of the bolt so that it stayed shut, she called out "It's me again. False alarm."

She was already half-way back up the stairs when the blonde unlocked and opened her door. "Oh thank you so much for that," she blurted, "I've never been so scared in all my life! I was just about to dial 999. I know you said not to, but I was sure they wouldn't mind, after all, the door is completely open and anyone can just walk in here and I still can't get hold of Mr Myrtle and it's not like him to be unavailable for such a long time..."

"It's fine." Ivana said, over her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be in touch soon."

She didn't wait for a response as she entered her room, making sure her door was firmly shut behind her. Then, she strode over to the sink in the corner, extracted an unwashed, wine-stained glass out of the basin and filled it with cold water from the tap. Moving back towards the bed, she threw the contents of the glass over the two sleeping men.

"Wake up, arseholes!" she commanded as they both stirred.

 

28.

Lying on the bed watching Gary in deep sleep didn't feel right. Lynne was buzzing with energy. She'd never been so alive, so full of drive. Doing nothing seemed inappropriate to her mood. She was itching to move, to do something. She thought about doing some housework but something told her that hoovering the stairs or setting up the ironing board wouldn't satisfy her restlessness.

She'd never been a jogger, but the idea of running, pumping her legs, feeling the wind in her hair suddenly seemed irresistible. But she couldn't go outside semi-naked as she now was. She threw open the doors to her wardrobe and squealed in shock as both wooden panels tore free of their hinges and crashed to the bedroom floor. "Gary's going to go nuts when he sees that," she thought, automatically.

Then she paused, confused. The fear, the terror that would usually accompany such a thought failed to materialise. She simply was not afraid. Not afraid of his temper. Not afraid of his angry, violently raised hands. Everything was different now. She felt strong. In fact, it was more than just a feeling, she reminded herself looking at the bits of sheared metal that had been wardrobe-hinges moments before.

And he... well, he looked incapable of anything right now. She thought of the way he'd been unable to stand, let alone climb the stairs. Gary wasn't going to shout at her. He certainly wasn't going to hit her. Gary was weak. Helpless. Useless. No wonder she wasn't scared of him.

She glanced at his prone, pale body, and lingered over his bruised, shrivelled penis. He couldn't give her what she wanted, which was more of that delicious warm sensation she'd experienced after each time she'd taken him in her mouth. No, he needed to stay where he was, and she needed to leave him alone. She needed something else. Something more.

Lynne opened a drawer, taking care not to break any more furniture. She grabbed a pair of knickers, and pulled them on. Selecting her most comfortable bra, she fastened it over her waist and then turned it around, manoeuvred her arms through the straps and pulled the left cup over her big, round breast.

She noticed that something looked a little different to normal. Was she showing a little bit more flesh than the last time she had worn the same bra? Had it shrunk in the wash? She pulled at the other cup to position it over her other mound, and was rewarded with a snap as the strap broke in two under her arm.

Pulling the now useless garment off her body and discarding it on her dressing table, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She turned herself in profile. That confirmed it. Her bust looked firmer. Higher. More rounded. The kind of shape she'd always worn a bra to achieve. Only now, her large breasts looked that way completely unsupported. She cupped them in her hands. They felt wonderful. Just as the rest of her did.

In the damaged wardrobe, she found a pair of comfortable, grey, elasticated trousers and a T-shirt. Her chest filled the upper garment and, as she looked down, she realised that the shape of her nipples was evident. Gary would have exploded at the thought of her going outside looking like that.

Perhaps it was a little too revealing... "Maybe," she thought, "I should see if I've got something a little looser." But before she could begin scanning the busted wardrobe, the familiar ding-dong of the front door wafted up the stairs. Without thinking, she ran down to answer it.

 

29.

D.S. Finch was busy scanning the corridors for the redhead nurse. It was D.I. Thomas who spotted the uniformed duo first. The two detectives had just entered the ward where Timothy Dean had been allocated a bed. Sergeant Brown and Constable Forrest, it appeared, were just leaving.

"What are you two doing here?" D.I. Thomas demanded.

"Interviewing an indecent exposure suspect," Brown answered the question, before turning to D.S. Finch and adding, "Remember, that guy we found in the laundrette this morning with the thing like a smur-"

"Timothy Dean?" interrupted Thomas.

"That's right, sir." the Sergeant confirmed. "Although he seems to prefer Tim."

"So, you've spoken with him?"

"Just about, sir. He was kind of half-asleep most of the time, but I managed to get a few words from him."

"So what's his story then?

"Well, sir, he says he was on his bike riding East-to-West down the High Street, when he crashed into a pedestrian. A female of approximately twenty-five years of age. According to Mr. Dean, she was OK but he was hurt, so she led him into the laundrette and, er, well, sir, she then proceeded to perform a sexual act on him, which he says he did not initiate. He claims it was usually painful, but swears he can't remember anything between the girl starting to, um, perform the act in question and waking up here."

"Did he mention anything about any, er, devices, being used?" inquired Detective Sergeant Finch. "Anything that might account for the, um, unique nature of his injury?"

"I did ask him that," said Brown, with a degree of professional pride. "He insists he only remembers her causing him discomfort with her mouth. When I pointed out to him that the doctors had compared his, er, condition, to someone who had been... ah... friendly... with an industrial vacuum cleaner, he was unable to offer me any explanation."

"And the female?" Thomas probed. "What did he tell you about her?"

"White, about five foot ten, long, straight dark hair, slim but curvaceous, face like a model - his words, not mine - wearing a navy blue two-piece runner's outfit. That's all I could get from him before he fell asleep again. I had intended to come back this time tomorrow to see if he could recall anything else, or change his story."

"Well done, Sergeant." commented Thomas.

"Thank you, sir." said Brown.

"You get all that, Finch?" Thomas checked.

"Sir." confirmed the Detective Sergeant.

"Make sure you get it all in the report." said D.I. Thomas to the uniformed men. "And make sure a copy of it is sitting on my desk double-quick time."

"Will do sir."

"Hop to it then," urged Thomas. The Sergeant and the Constable hurried towards the lifts. "Right Finch," he said, as soon as the other pair started to walk away, "I'm going to hang around here and see what Harry Williams has to say. You've got a description and a location. Get down there and knock on some doors. Tell the team to pull the traffic cams for the hours leading up to when Dean was discovered. Let's see if this mystery lady shows up anywhere."

 

Conceptfan, Dec. 2017.