Teuser's Formula

Maverick biologist Sam Teuser has spent months developing what he thinks is the ultimate love potion. But he has no idea what he's about to unleash on the world as he starts testing his formula on random, unsuspecting women.

Part 1


Ivana lay on the pavement, breathing heavily, trying to arrange her thoughts.  She could taste the blood that trickled into her mouth from the wound on her cheek.  The bruises on her jaw and around her eyes hurt.  Her body ached from where she'd hit the concrete when she'd been shoved out of the car.  She knew that violence was an occupational hazard and that in some ways she was lucky to be alive.  She also knew she'd been a victim of a vicious, unprovoked attack.

Under other circumstances, she would be reporting the incident to the police, giving them every help to lock up the bastard who had done this to her.  But she was all to well aware that the police would have little sympathy for a prostitute who had been physically abused by one of her clients, no matter how serious the assault had been.  Ivana knew that the shit was relying on that fact.  He was driving away, certain that he would never have to face justice for what he had done.  He'd probably done it before to some other poor girl.  He'd probably do it again, too.   Maybe one day he'd go too far and actually kill...

Awkwardly, painfully, she drew herself to her feet.  She began to limp home.  She thought of the ugly, fat man who had beaten her.  Of his foul breath, his disgusting touch, the sick glint in his eye as he had pinned her down on the back seat of his car.  His evil laugh as his big, hairy hands slapped her face over and over again while he violently plunged his undersized erection into her.  She recalled the way he'd leant across her to open the door and the way he'd violently pushed her out without even checking to see if she was conscious before clambering back into the front and driving off at speed.

As Ivana staggered towards the relative sanctuary of her damp, cramped bedsit, she looked down at her torn, low-cut top.  There, tucked neatly between her generous breasts, she could see the folded banknote he'd given her.  "Always get the cash up front" the older girls had advised her.  At least the animal hadn't tried to take it back.  And there was something else.  Far too absorbed in his assault, he hadn't noticed when his driving license had fallen from his shirt pocket.  Nor when she picked it up and slipped it up her sleeve.

She reached her door and turned the key in the lock.   Looking in the mirror, she examined the damage done to her beautiful face.  It would be a fortnight before the marks faded, but the mental scars would remain much, much longer.  Ivana extracted the stolen license and turned it over in her hand, muttering to herself "I know where you live, bastard."



The conversation was not going the way Sam Teuser had expected.  Rather than expressing his congratulations, his old Professor appeared disgusted.  Sam wondered if the veteran biologist hadn't grasped the incredible implications of his protégé's achievement.  He listened to the little bald figure as he continued his tirade.

"For God's sake, man!  You were my brightest student.  You have a gift - a great gift, which you should be sharing with the world.  I was convinced you would  extended your work on DNA for the benefit of all mankind.  Instead, you've wasted the last six months on this... this pointless, selfish, perverted aberration!  You call it a project?  Ha!  It's a stupid abuse of your talents, man.  A total, utter waste.  I've seen enough.  Goodbye, Sam.   Goodbye for good."

Teuser was shocked by the strength of his former mentor's disgust.  He tried appealing to the older man's inquisitiveness and his human weakness.  "Before you go, Professor Lindstrom, aren't you even curious to see what I've achieved?  It works, you know, my formula.  Don't you want to see it for yourself?  After all, as the man who taught me so much, I sort of owe you.  I could supply you with a sample.  Free of charge, of course.  Imagine the enjoyment you could have..."

"I'm a serious man of science and a happily married man!  I don't want anything to do with this.  With your talents and the amount of work you've put into this - not to mention the financial resources you've conned out of this faculty - you could have found a cure for a major disease by now.  Instead you've made fools of everyone - especially yourself."

"A fool?!  Me?  Come on, Professor.  Since the dawn of civilisation, people have been striving to find the ultimate love elixir.  The only difference here is that I've actually done it.  It works.  My formula -"

"- Yes, you've told me what your formula does, you pervert."

"When was the last time you had a blow job, Professor?"

"I'm not here to discuss my sex life!"

"When was it?  I mean, a really good blow job, given by the girl of your choice?"

"You need help, Sam.  This dangerous fixation with oral sex will destroy what little sanity you have left."

"I don't need help.  Not anymore.  I've completed my work.  Look, old man!  One tiny drop of the liquid in this beaker will instantly make any female crave the taste of human sperm.  It will turn any woman into your life-long sex slave, desperate to go down on you at every possible opportunity.  Imagine the life you could lead if you -"

"- That's enough.  You're clearly not fit to be at this institution any longer.  I'm giving you thirty minutes notice to vacate this laboratory before I call Security.  Goodbye."  With that the Professor Lindstrom turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Sam glanced about himself.  He'd come too far to lose everything now.  Carefully, he transferred the contents of the beaker he had been holding into a sealable sterile plastic container.  Then he lifted his attaché case onto the workbench in front of him and opened it.  He placed the container inside and threw an inch-thick folder of papers on top.  He didn't bother with the rest of his equipment.  It would be easy to produce more formula from his notes.  He didn't need the lab or Lindstrom or the faculty and its research grants anymore.  He had everything he'd ever dreamed of in his case.  Calmly, he strolled out of the building for the last time.



"In a hurry, sir?" the policeman's sarcastic tone irritated him, but he kept his cool.  There was far too much at risk.

"Sorry, officer.  Just a bit too keen to get home - you know how it is."

"No, sir.  I don't.  Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Um.. forty?"

"Forty-five.  Do you know the speed limit for a minor road in a built-up area, sir?"

"Yes.  I'm sorry, I-"

"-What is the speed limit for a minor road in a built up area, sir?"

"Thirty, officer."

"That's right.  Can I see your license, sir?"

"Sure, it's.. er.. it's... it was right here..."  Gary patted his pockets, trying to feel the laminated card that he could have sworn was in his shirt.  "Um... I think I've dropped it somewhere..."

"Would you mind stepping out of the car please, sir.  Nice and slowly, please."  Gary obeyed.  The copper studied him.  "Is that blood on your collar, sir?  Been in a fight, have we?"

"Er.. yeah.  That's right.  Nothing major, though..."  Shit!  Why couldn't he have said he'd cut himself shaving?  It was too late.  The policeman was already talking into his radio.  An age seemed to pass.

Finally, the copper spoke.  "What's your name, sir?"

"Bowyer.  Gary Bowyer."  No point lying now.

"And is this your car, sir?"

"Yes, it is."  He was on safe ground here.

"What's the registration number?"  Gary reeled off the answer.  That seemed to satisfy his interrogator.

"OK, sir.  I'm going to hand you a document requiring you to present yourself with your driving license to your local police station within the next three days.  Do you understand that failure to comply is a breach of the law?"

"Yes officer, thank you."

"Right, sir.  Off you go - under the speed limit this time."

"Thank fuck for that!" thought Gary as he got back into his car, driving away at precisely twenty-eight miles per hour.



A girl.  He needed a girl to try the formula on.  And it might as well be a good-looking girl, with nice lips and big tits.  Someone who wouldn't be missed if anything went wrong.  But Sam didn't know many girls.  His family was off-limits, obviously.  None if the women he studied with had ever really talked to him, let alone given him contact details.  He'd been too busy in the lab for months to have a girlfriend.  If he was being honest, he'd admit that he had never been any good with the opposite sex anyway.  That's why he had worked so hard on his formula.  So where could he find a willing test subject?

Sam wasn't a frequent visitor to his local pub.  Definitely not at this time of day, about a quarter of an hour after opening.  But he had little else to do, and the thought of a change of scenery, not to mention alcohol, appealed to him.  He was still angry with Professor Lindstrom, and bitter as ever towards all things female. Booze, he hoped, would dull his disappointment.  The smell of stale cigarette smoke and spilt lager caressed his nostrils as he sat at the corner table in the deserted pub.  He stared at the blinking lights of a fruit-machine as he absent-mindedly played with a cardboard beer-mat.  From time to time he took sips from the whisky on the table in front of him, lost in thought.  Soon enough, his glass was empty.  He went up to the bar, monosyllabically ordering a refill and returned to his table to resume his musings.

Ten minutes later, he was back at the bar.  "Take it easy, mate." said the barman.  "It's not noon yet.  How about some lunch with that?  We do a ploughman's for three-fifty."

"Just the scotch." Sam replied, dourly.  "Make it a double."



Ouch!  Her face hurt.  The light streaming through the dirty windows had woken her as it usually did.  "Got to get some curtains" she thought.  And then she remembered the events of the previous night.  No wonder she ached.  Getting gingerly out of bed, she looked at herself in the mirror.  Her hair, ruffled after a night's sleep didn't help the picture, but that was nothing.  Her left eye was swollen, and her right cheek bruised almost completely dark blue.  The cut beneath the dodgy eye hadn't properly scarred over yet.  She knew she had plenty of marks elsewhere on her body too.  The bastard would pay for this.

She dressed - casually and unflatteringly.  Her revealing work clothes were designed to draw attention to herself and that was exactly the opposite effect to the one she desired.   Then, she forced a brush through her hair.  Makeup did little to hide the mess of her face.  Picking up the driving license she'd stolen, Ivana examined the address on the back.  It was a part of town she didn't know.  Digging amongst a pile of disordered papers on the tiny table in the corner of her crappy room, she eventually uncovered a pocket street-finder.  She located the road where her attacker lived in the map section and folded over the corner of the page before stuffing the little book in her handbag.

Just before she went through the door, she remembered the crumpled up bank note she'd left on the side the night before.  She grabbed it and stuffed it into her purse with the few coins already in there.  It might come in handy - after all the loose change would barely cover her train fare.  And she had no compunction using the bastard's money.  She had more than earned it.  Ivana locked the door to her tiny flat and headed downstairs to the street.  Paying no heed to the passers-by who stared at her battered face, she walked purposefully to the tube station.



Where the fuck was his driving license?  He was sure he'd taken it with him last night in his shirt pocket like he usually did, but it hadn't been there when the law had asked him to produce it.  It didn't seem to be anywhere around the house either.  He'd turned the bedroom and his office upside down, cursing as he searched.  Surely he couldn't have lost it.  He'd checked the car out twice to see if it had fallen out - perhaps while he was teaching that cheap tart a lesson.  Gary smiled to himself as he remembered how he'd shown her just what trash she was, really giving her the slapping her kind deserved.  And the sex had been good.  He liked it when he was completely in charge, holding the bitch down, hurting her while he took his pleasure...

"Whatcha looking for, Gary?"  His wife's question interrupted his daydream.

"Nothing.  Why don't you go and do some shopping or something?"  He felt in his trouser pocket and pulled out a few notes.  He thought he had had a fifty, but there were only three twenties.  Then, he remembered he'd given the fifty to the bitch last night.  She'd insisted on it before getting in his car.  He had meant to get it back off her, but had forgotten about it in the heat of the moment.  He handed one of the twenties to his wife and pocketed the rest.

"OK, love" she said, taking the money and walking out of the room before collecting her coat and leaving the house.  She knew better than to question her old man.  He was too quick with his fists.

Gary took one last look around the room, and kicked over a chair in frustration with an almighty shout of "Fuck!".  He'd have to go to the police and say he'd lost his license.  There was no point not turning up - they'd only send someone round anyway.  He grabbed his keys and went out to his car in   a foul mood.



There was some sort of delay - signalling problems or whatever.  The usual bullshit.  As she sat in the motionless train looking at the electrical cable and the black tunnel walls - all that was visible through the window - Ivana tried to form a plan in her mind.   She remembered that the bastard had worn a wedding ring.  In fact, she could feel the indentation it had left on her face one of the many times he had slapped her.  Maybe she couldn't confront him in person.  But she could tell his wife what a shit her husband was.  He'd smashed her face so she would break up his happy home.  That would serve the vicious sod right.

"Once again, apologies for the hold-up.  We should be on the move again shortly."  The train-driver's voice on the intercom was greeted by a chorus of groans and tutts from the other passengers.  Ivana read all the advertisements posted around the carriage, realising that she had no need or want for any of the goods or services offered.  Finally, the train lurched and began to move once more, the familiar whining sound of the electric motors filling the air.  She thought about how she would break the news of the bastard's unpleasant habits to his wife.  Twenty minutes later, the train clattered into the station that the map indicated was closest to her final destination and Ivana alighted, following the signs to the escalators.



"Haven't you had enough, mate?  More whisky isn't going to fix your problem.  I can do you a coffee if you want.  On the house..."

"Jus' gimme another", Sam slurred, slamming his empty glass and a fistful of coins on the bar.  He hadn't meant to be so dramatic, he'd just misjudged the distance from his hand to the bar.  He was drunk.  The barman was right, of course, the six large scotches hadn't fixed his problem.  But they were taking his mind off it.  In fact, they were taking his mind off almost everything.

The landlord was clearly reluctant to refuse his only customer, and, turning his back, pressed a fresh glass twice to one of the waiting optics.   With an expert's skill, he selected the necessary coins from the pile Teuser had thrown down, pushing the filled tumbler with the surplus change back across the bar.  "Wanna talk about it, mate?"

"No."  Sam tried to scoop up the loose coins and dropped half of them onto the cigarette-burnt, vomit- and drink-stained carpet.  "Fuck." he muttered.  It took him nearly a minute to pick them all up, his fingers frequently clutching at thin air.  Then he collected his drink and staggered back to his table in the corner.  He was angry now.  What was the point of creating the ultimate love-potion and not having anyone to try it out on?  What was the point of addressing that problem by getting drunk?



There was no-one in.  That was obvious enough.   The bastard's red BMW wasn't anywhere in sight, the lights were off and no-one came when she rang the bell.  She'd peered through the letterbox, catching a glimpse of a stereotypical suburban family home, but no people.  They must be out.  She hadn't considered that possibility.  Briefly she considered finding a brick or similar heavy projectile and smashing a few windows before turning around and going home.  But she rejected that idea.  For starters, he'd never know who had caused the damage or why.  And besides, she thought, he deserved far, far worse than the inconvenience of having to 'phone a glazier.

She would have to wait for him or his wife - or both of them - to return.  She was about to sit down on the neglected, cracked paving stones in front of the deserted house when she remembered the banknote in her purse.  Might as well spend the bastard's money while she waited.  She recalled passing a pub on the corner of the street.  She glanced at her watch.  It would definitely be open.  They wouldn't know her in there, and it wasn't like she was going to be touting for business.  Just a quiet drink.  A little bit of Dutch courage before the big confrontation.  Why not?



"Cheer up, love.  Might never 'appen."   The butcher's assistant gave her a little wink that seemed to say a bit more than his words had.  Lynne Bowyer blushed unconsciously, perhaps secretly flattered by the young man's overt flirtation with her.  Immediately, she stiffened.  Her Gary was a jealous man.  Very jealous.  She wouldn't want this kid to get his face covered in cuts and bruises just for being friendly.  She cast her eyes down and took the polythene bag of paper-wrapped parcels of steak and sausages that he was offering her over the counter.  Transferring the bag to her left hand, she held her right out for her change, mumbling a curt and emotionless "Thank you." as she left the shop.

"Funny one, that." the assistant called over his shoulder once he was sure that she was out of earshot and there were no other customers around.

"Who?" his boss shouted from somewhere on the other side of the beaded curtain that mark the boundary of the staff-only part of the premises.

"That Mrs. Bowyer.  I reckon there's summink going on at 'ome."

"Yeah, I've heard her old man's a bit of a basket case."

"What, 'e slaps 'er about an' stuff?"

"Something like that."

"Poor old cow..."



Sam didn't notice the girl walk in.  He was staring at the hypnotic, blurring, flashing lights of a fruit machine when she made her inauspicious entrance.  He was still looking in the wrong direction when she made her way up to the bar and sat on one of a dozen vacant stools, arranging her small handbag on her knee.   The landlord, on the other hand, hadn't taken his eyes off her from the instant she had opened the door.  Immediately, he had been struck by the contrast of the obvious beauty of the girl's face with the appalling state of it.  As she approached, he saw the cut on one cheek.  What had at first appeared to be a make-up disaster turned out to be a succession of bruises, including a particularly nasty set ringing her right eye.  She looked a mess.  Like a tragic fallen heroine.

Her loose-fitting knee-length coat hid her figure, although he could tell that she was tall and slim.  There was a tiny bit of alluring, smooth flesh visible between the hemline of the coat and the tops of her long, generously-heeled, black boots.  She seemed to walk with confidence, a sense of purpose almost, despite the beating she'd obviously recently received.  "Must've been muggers," the landlord had thought, "Bastards for going for a pretty young lady like her".

The girl had sat down on the stool in a well-practised, graceful manner, letting her coat ride up over her knees which, the barman couldn't help but notice, were flawless.  Then she undid the top buttons of her coat, revealing a thin, plain black top that was stretched out tightly over a magnificent bosom.  She leaned slightly on the bar as he went over to take her order, making her bust strain even more against the struggling fabric.

"What'll it be, love?" the barman asked, looking her straight in the chest.

"I'm up here." she replied, pointedly.

"Er, sorry, love" said the landlord, looking up, embarrassed.  His shame grew when he realised his attraction to her breasts was beginning to show in his trousers.  He began to recite the previous ten World Cup winning teams to himself, hoping that by occupying his mind with sport he could redirect the blood from his reproductive organs to his cognitive one.

"Large gin and tonic, please." the stunning girl announced.

"Anything else?" he stalled for time, relieved that the trick was working.  "Who won it in '62?...."  the voice in his head asked.

"No, just the G&T."

"Ice and lemon?" he asked her.


His mental strain had had the desired effect.  It was safe for him to move away from the bar, confident in the knowledge that his erection was no longer obvious.  He went about preparing the drink, returning with a smile, a glass with the gin and condiments and an opened bottle of tonic water.  Setting down the glass and the bottle, he was careful to avoid looking at her body as he announced "Two twenty please, love."  The girl opened her purse and pulled out a folded note, handing it over without returning his smile.  He took one look at the note before asking "Haven't you got anything smaller?"

"Sorry, no."

"Excuse me, mate!" the landlord called out to his only other customer, the taciturn whisky drinker in the corner.  "You got change of a fifty?"



It hadn't actually gone too badly, all things considered.  With no license to prove his identity, he'd shown them his passport, credit cards and a couple of utility bills.  They left him alone in a bleak interview room while someone made a few calls to check out his story.  When the duty officer came back, he was full of advice on what to do about a lost driving license.  In fact, he was almost friendly.  Gary kept his mouth shut.  He knew better than to express his frustration at being called in.  He even bit his tongue when the officer gave him a patronising mini-lecture about the dangers of speeding.

Within an hour, he was out of there.  They wanted him to come back any time in the next four weeks - whenever he got his replacement license.  It was another inconvenience, but, considering how badly things could have turned out, he wasn't complaining.  He walked out of the station and headed for his car.  There was no point going straight home; he'd expected to lose the whole morning anyway.  Might as well go for a little drive - do some thinking, kill some time...



Sam Teuser was just on the point of telling the landlord exactly where he could shove his fifty.  At that moment, he looked towards the bar where he intended to hurl his insult and his drunken eyes just about managed to focus on the two figures there.  Even from distance with booze-impaired vision, the girl was beautiful.  There was something peculiar about her face, though.  He stood up and unsteadily made his way towards the waiting duo.  As he got closer, he realised that she was covered in bruises.  But he could see she had a stunning figure.  She was wearing long black boots, always a big turn-on for Sam and he could see, among the cuts and marks, a rich, ruby pair of lips, something else that he loved to see on a woman.

In his drunken state, Sam found himself staring at the girl's battered face, imagining her generous lips encircling his willing erection.  Only the high levels of alcohol in his blood preventing him from growing hard there and then.

"Change of a fifty, mate?"  the landlord reminded him.  Sam didn't have that much cash on him, but the girl fascinated him.  She would make such an ideal test subject for his formula.  He might have been drunk, but he wasn't stupid.  He had to find a way of getting to know her.  Seeing the glass and bottle on the counter and the large banknote in the barman's grasp, he figured what was going on.   He pulled a crumpled fiver from his trouser pocket, concentrating so as not to slur his words too badly as he said;

"No worries.  I'll get the lady's drink."

"I don't want your charity." snapped the beautiful, bruised stranger.  Her eyes flashed a warning his way.  It was like she was saying "I don't want to be in your debt.  I wouldn't like having to pay you back."

"I haven't got fifty.  Jus' take it!" Sam insisted.

"It's that or leave the drink" reminded the landlord.

"OK." said the girl, flatly,   "Pay for my drink then piss off and leave me alone."

"Don't be like that." pleaded Sam, handing over his five pounds.  He collected his change and sat down two stools down from her.  She made a drama out of turning her back towards him as she poured half the tonic into her glass and took her first sip.  Sam sighed and concentrated on emptying his own tumbler.  From the corner of his eye, he glanced at her stunning profile and her lovely, thick, straight, long black hair.  Pretty soon, she'd finished her drink.  She'd downed it pretty quickly, thought Sam.  Like she was used to doing her fair share of drinking.  "Fancy another?" Sam asked her.

"What do you want from me?" she snapped back, before adding "As if I didn't know."

"You've got me wrong." Sam claimed.  "I could do with the company, that's all.  Do you want another drink or not?"

"Yeah, I'll have another, but I won't talk to you.  Up to you if you want to throw your money away."

"Another for the lady, please!" Sam called to the landlord who busied himself preparing the drink.



Professor Lindstrom finished his report and read it through again.  He shook his head ruefully as he signed his name at the bottom.  What else could he do?  That fool Teuser had given him no other choice.  The stupid boy!  He had a real gift.  He had had the academic world at his feet.  They'd all been so excited by the prospect of the young genius conducting his own research, expecting some dramatic new discoveries.  Instead, Teuser had wasted his time and the Institute's money selfishly trying to develop a "magic potion" to help him indulge his personal fetish.  It flew in the face of everything that Lindstrom and the department stood for.

More disconcerting than that was the fact that Sam Teuser had taken his notes and a beaker full of what he had claimed was his ready-to-test formula.  Now he was at large.  The Professor shuddered to think what he would be doing.  Was he conducting illegal tests even now?  Who knew what unplanned side-effects the liquid would have.  Teuser had been so single-minded in his quest, he had probably ignored the need for caution.  He could be unleashing something quite terrible on the world.

Lindstrom had examined his protégé's abandoned laboratory without finding a single clue of what the young man had been up to in there.  He knew that his basic responsibility ended with the signing of the report on the desk in front of him, but his discomfort had been in no way demitted by the application of his autograph.  Sure, Teuser was no longer to be admitted to the Institute's facilities and he was forbidden to have professional contact with any of its members, but the damage might well have already been done.  The Professor sighed.  For the sake of his own peace of mind, he would have to seek out his former pupil and talk him out of doing anything stupid.  If it wasn't already too late.  He stood up, put on his coat and headed out of the building to his car.



One-and-a-half large G&Ts on the back of an hour's tube ride was too much for her bladder to hold comfortably.   Ivana made a quick decision.  It would be less awkward to use the facilities here in the pub than at the bastard's house.  Holding it until she got home in about two hours' time was out of the question.  She slipped off her stool, completely ignoring the drunk who had bought her two drinks and strolled confidently towards the door marked "Ladies".  She felt her benefactor's whisky-scrambled bloodshot eyes following her and suppressed the desire to shoot him a look of contempt.  He only wanted what all men wanted.

She almost felt pity for him.  If only he knew that her price was much higher than two measly drinks, they might have been able to do business.  He wouldn't have been the first drunk she had laid herself out for.  She had taken their money just as willingly and offered herself just as disgustedly.  But she had come to this part of town looking for revenge, not trade.  And thanks to the bastard she was waiting to confront, her bruised face had meant she wouldn't be able to do much business for a while.  "Why do men have to be such arseholes?" she wondered as she locked the door of the toilet cubicle.



Sam was so drunk, he almost missed his golden opportunity when it fell right into his lap.  The girl had gone to the loo, leaving half her drink behind.  The landlord had slipped into the back moments before.  He was completely alone.  Suddenly realising his fantastic luck, he shoved his hand into the pocket of his out-of-style sports jacket and removed a single test-tube, half filled with a colourless liquid.  In his inebriated state, it took him quite a few second's struggle to remove the rubber stopper, but he succeeded in the end.   All he had to do then was to get a few drops into the girl's gin and tonic before either she or the landlord returned.

His hand was trembling!  Why had he drunk so much whisky?  He wasn't normally such a heavy drinker.   Fuck it.  There was no time to waste.  His sense of judgement was severely impaired.  He squinted. Just a tiny extra tilt of the tube and the liquid would start to drip over the lip.  Just a tiny, tiny... Shit!  He'd poured half the contents of the test-tube into her glass.  What was he going to do now?  Throw her drink away, and miss out on this perfect opportunity to test his formula?  Or leave it and hope for the best.  After all, the formula shouldn't have had a detectable flavour...

He returned to his own stool and sat down, trying to look as if he'd never moved.  It was then that he thought with a jolt that he hadn't even tasted a tiny droplet of the stuff for himself.  He'd told Professor Lindstrom that it worked, but in truth he had no idea.  The theory said that it would.  But the practice?  Yet, that was why he desperately needed a test subject.  He was still wrestling with his quandary when the landlord returned to his usual post behind the bar, looking over in his direction as if to see if he wanted anything.  Sam ignored him and waited for his unwitting guinea-pig to come back from the lavatory.



Lindstrom called Teuser's home from his car.  The number had been on his files for years, but he'd never had cause to use it until now.  Perhaps if he'd shown a greater interest, he could have detected the young man's unhealthy obsession earlier.  The line rang with no response.  If he had an answerphone, it was switched off.  There was another number listed for a mobile phone.  The Professor tried that, but after two rings, he went straight through to Teuser's voicemail.  "Hi this is Sam.  I can't take your call right now so -"

Lindstrom hung up.  He'd go to his ex-pupil's address and try to speak with him in person before he resorted to leaving a phone message.  Stopped momentarily by some traffic lights at a major junction, he consulted the map on his dashboard.  In the twenty years since he'd settled in the city, he didn't think he'd ever been to Teuser's district.  But the route seemed pretty clear.  He estimated that he should get there within about half-an-hour.  Forty-five minutes if he hit traffic.



Ivana emerged from the toilet newly resolved.  She'd finish off what was left of her drink and tell the drunk who'd paid for it to piss off.  Then she'd go back to the address on the driving license she'd "borrowed" from the bastard who'd beaten her up to confront him or his wife or his cleaner or all of them or whoever happened to be there when she rang the bell.   She crossed the floor to the bar, aware that this was the first time her unwanted companion had seen her from the front.  His eyes practically popped out of his head as he stared at her chest.  Maybe she hadn't chosen wisely this morning when she decided to wear a tight top.  Or maybe this drunk was just another, typical man.

Ivana reached the bar and, not bothering to sit down again, drained her glass.  Ignoring the four eyes that she knew without looking were fixed on her, she arranged her handbag-strap over her shoulder, buttoned her coat and headed for the door.  The idiot who'd bought her drinks snapped to life and clumsily stood up, knocking over his bar-stool as he did so.  "Shove off, creep." she sneered without turning round.   Then she marched through the door, out into the street.  The sun seemed much brighter than it had been when she went into the pub and her legs felt a little unsteady beneath her.  She put both sensations down to the gin as she turned the corner towards her destination.

Back in the bar, the drunken man began to stagger towards the door when the barman called to him "Leave her, mate.  She's fine.  I'll sort you a coffee - on the house."  The offer had no effect on the whisky-drinker's unsteady progress towards the exit.  A hint of unease had entered the landlord's voice as he tried again.  "Come on, mate.  She don't want to know.  There's plenty more where she came from."

"Leave me alone!" the drunk slurred back, fighting to push the door open. The barman showed surprising agility as he ran around from behind the bar to put his hand on his customer's shoulder.

"Sit down.  Let me get you a cab."

"Fuck off!" The drunken man slung his arm carelessly, aiming for the landlord's stomach, but in fact hitting nothing but air.

"Right.  That's enough from you."  The friendly tone was gone and the barman's voice was severe and commanding as he put his thick arms around the aggressor in a well-rehearsed bear-hug.  In a matter of seconds, he'd wrestled the stranger to the floor, twisting both his arms behind his back.  Through clenched teeth, he spoke slowly and clearly.  "OK.  You've got two choices.  Either you sit down and drink a cup of coffee while I sort you a cab home or I call the police.  Up to you."

"Let go!  You're hurting me!"

"I'll break both your arms if you don't sit down nice and quietly."

"Let me go you bastard!  Let me go now!"  The drunk thrashed around on the floor like a recently-caught fish on dry land, but the barman's hold was firm.  "Let me go, you fucker!" screamed the man on the ground.  The barman tightened his grip. "Aaagh!  You fucker!  Stop it!"

"Shut up or I'll break your arms!" replied the landlord.

"Fuck you!" screamed the drunk.  The landlord pushed his captive's arms a little further up his back to add weight to his threat, but in the heat of the moment, he misjudged his strength relative to the abusive man on the ground.  The snapping sound was unmistakable.  Immediately, fearing the consequences of his error, the barman released his hold.  There was no movement from the drunk.  Clearly unaccustomed to both pain and heavy drinking, he was completely unconscious.



Professor Lindstrom checked the map for the eighth time.  He was definitely headed in the right direction.  He'd been pretty lucky, too.  Only a few queues at traffic lights had delayed him, otherwise his journey so far had been fairly easy.  According to the scale plan on his dashboard, he was only a few minutes away from Teuser's street.  He tried to run through what he was going to say to his wayward former pupil.  There was no point being confrontational, he decided.  Much as the idea revolted him, he would have to take a conciliatory tone if he was to make any headway convincing Teuser not to carry out any illegitimate tests of his so-called formula.

But how was he going to speak to a man he had recently thrown out of the Institute with a barrage of insults?  Hadn't he himself been responsible for forcing the brilliant young mind underground in the first place?  Lindstrom dismissed the idea.  He had had no other choice but to expel Sam Teuser.  Anyone else in his shoes would have done exactly the same thing. After all, their role as biologists was to study life, not to try and develop drugs that made women "addicted" to fellating.  He shuddered at the thought of Teuser's terrible abuse of knowledge, almost missing his turning.  He was close now.  The coming conversation was going to be one of the hardest of his life.



She was becoming more and more unsteady with every step she took.  Something was definitely up.  She'd been known to drink half a bottle of gin in a night before, and she'd never been this wobbly.  It felt a little like having vertigo, but she wasn't nauseous.  Her limbs just seemed to be incredibly weak.  Her head was fuzzy too.  Was she ill?  Ivana paused to lean against a hedge in front of a house.  She was in no state to carry out her plan to confront the bastard who had beaten her up and she knew it.  She resolved to rest a while and see if the peculiar sensation passed.

Her head was spinning slightly now.  Briefly she wondered if she was suffering from the after-effects of the previous night's beating.  But she dismissed the idea.  She'd been slapped around in the past, but never with this result.  It certainly couldn't be the two gins.  Suddenly, she thought she knew.  The drunken idiot who'd bought her the drinks.  He must've slipped something in her glass when she'd gone to piss!  She broke out in a cold sweat.  Had he given her some kind of date-rape drug?  Or worse, was he a psychopath who had tricked her into imbibing poison?

Scared, she resolved to return to the pub and make the bastard to tell her just what he'd done to her.  She took a single step back in the direction she had come from.  Her mind felt as if it was sliding around inside her skull.  Her legs seemed to be made of water.  Vaguely, she felt herself collapsing on to the pavement, and then her world went black.



Dave poked his head out from behind the door of his pub and checked out the street.  No-one there.  As quickly as he could, he went back inside, picking up the unconscious drunk by his armpits and dragging him, heels scrapping on the carpet, out to the street.  Casting furtive glances in every direction, he hauled his load around the corner, finally propping him up against a set of iron railings in front of a small communal patch of greenery so that it looked as the young man had just fallen asleep on the pavement. Then, puffing, he ran back into his bar, making absolutely sure that no-one saw him.

With any luck, he reasoned, the fellow would never even remember how he came to be there, let alone how he had broken his arm.  The only possible witness was the beautiful girl.  And given the fact that she'd seemed totally disinterested anyway, Dave figured that she was nothing to worry about.  And, it had all been an accident after all.  An accident that no-one need ever know about.



Lindstrom squinted and studied the road ahead.  The map had told him that Teuser's street would be the final turning off the road he was on now.   "Quite a nice part of town" he thought to himself.  "Pleasant houses, decent cars parked outside and...what was that?"  It looked like a young woman collapsed on the pavement.   The Professor drove past the prone figure slowly, rubber-necking to get a good view of her.  She looked in a pretty rough state, and she was clearly unconscious.  But he had important work to do.  He couldn't stop and play good Samaritan...  Someone else could help her.

But there was no-one else around.  Perhaps she needed urgent medical help.  Maybe if he left her, the minutes that passed before another came to her assistance would be her last.  By trade, he was a studier of life.  He couldn't just ignore someone in need, no matter how vital was his mission to see his former pupil.  He pulled over to the kerb and got out of his car.  He was no longer a young man, but he moved as hurriedly as he could, jogging to the collapsed woman and bending over her to study her face.  She'd been beaten up!  Not in the last few hours judging from the state of her bruises, but perhaps some time the previous day.

Despite the marks on her skin, the Professor could tell she was a beautiful girl.  Carefully, he lifted her less-bruised eyelid to examine the state of her pupil.  Not too dilated or bloodshot.  And what a stunning, bright, green iris!  He was just considering whether he should try to move her or leave her where she was and call an ambulance when she stirred slightly.  She blinked open her eyes and stared at the old man.  Her other eye was just as lovely, even as she struggled to focus.  "Take it easy, my dear." Lindstrom offered, reassuringly, "I think you've had some sort of fall."

"Who.. who are you?"  She really was beautiful.  Such a sexy mouth - full lips, straight white teeth, a melodic feminine voice.

"My name is Stefan.  I was driving past and saw you lying on the pavement."

"What time is it?"

"Er.. quarter to one." replied the Professor after a brief glance at his watch.



Twelve forty-five.  Then she'd only been lying there for a few minutes.  That was a relief.  For a couple of seconds Ivana wondered if the drunk from the pub, whom she was now convinced had drugged her, had secretly followed her and taken advantage of her when she passed out.  But her clothes were untouched, and she ruled out that possibility.  So what had happened?  She certainly didn't feel groggy or confused now.  In fact, she felt quite good, as if she'd had a refreshing sleep.  Had she just had a dizzy spell, nothing more sinister than that?  She looked up at the kind-faced old man who was leaning over her - the one who called himself Stefan.  Could she trust him?  He seemed harmless enough.

Gathering her feet, she carefully tried to stand up.  Stefan offered her his hand to help her and she took it willingly.  She found herself standing pretty easily - no dizziness, no aching limbs.  Even the cuts and bruises on her face seemed to be a little less painful than they had been.  "Thank you." she said to the old man once she was on her feet.  They were almost eye-to-eye.  Ivana thought he didn't look bad at all, considering his age.  There was something nice about his lived-in face.  Something... attractive.

"We should get you to a hospital to make sure you're OK," Stefan suggested.

"That's alright.  I'm fine now."

"What about all these bruises?  You should get them checked out."

"Oh those!  That was last night.  That's something else.  Thanks, but I'll be OK."

"Well, do you want a lift, er.. er... I don't know your name."


"Do you want a lift Ivana?"

"Thanks, no.  I'm fine."  She'd had enough of strange men's cars lately.  That thought reminded her what she had been doing in the area in the first place.  She wasn't sure if she wanted to face her attacker after what she had just been through.  She looked at Stefan.  He was extremely attractive, despite his age.  She wasn't accustomed to having these feelings for older men and wondered for a moment if she had indeed, been the victim of some kind of sex-drug.  But she felt in complete control of her mind.  Her thought-processes were clear.  It was just that there were some unexpected feelings building inside her.  Feelings directed to the helpful pensioner who had come to her rescue.

But what about the bastard and his wife whom she had come to confront?  They could wait.  Revenge, she'd once heard, was a dish best served cold.  Passion, on the other hand, was exclusively hot.  And passion was certainly what she was experiencing at that moment.  She'd never known anything like it.  Over the past few years, she'd taught herself that passion was a myth, that sex with a man was a mere business transaction.  Now she found herself desperately wanting to give pleasure a complete stranger.  It was so out of character.  But it seemed to make sense to her.  He was such a lovely looking man, so kind.  Suddenly, she seemed to know with dead certainty what she wanted to do.  She wanted to give him his due reward.  She needed to give him his reward.

She leant a little closer towards him. "Umm... Stefan?  Actually, I think I could use a lift."  She tried her most seductive smile, a pose that came easily thanks both to much professional practice and to her feelings towards her companion.  "Just, you know, around the corner."



Lindstrom melted when the young woman flashed her fabulous warm smile at him.  It was so long, so very long, since a woman had looked at him that way.  And never in his life had he been on the receiving end of such a smile from a girl as beautiful as this.  She was standing so close to him, her lovely but bruised face filling his vision.  He felt an almost forgotten sensation in his groin as all thoughts of his previously all-important mission left his mind.  "Er.. my car's just over here." he said.

"Thank you." she breathed.  She was so beautiful.  She walked by his side towards the car, her visage turned more towards him than the street in front of her.  As they walked, she unbuttoned her long coat.  The Professor gasped as the coat fell open, revealing the magnificent figure that had been concealed beneath it.  She must have heard his sharp intake of breath because she gave him a coy smile.  What a girl!  What a lovely smile!  What an incredible body!  Could she really be flirting with him?  An old man, decades past his prime - and, if he was truthful, he hadn't exactly been much in his prime either...

They reached his car and for a brief moment, he fumbled with the release mechanism.  He was like a clumsy teenager around this lovely creature!  She merely flashed him another knee-weakening smile as he opened the door for her before walking round the front of his vehicle to climb in the other side.  As he got in, he looked across at his stunning passenger.  She made a show of arranging herself on her seat, arching her back to push out her already prominent chest, causing the Professor to feel a twinge between his legs, a sensation at once familiar and nostalgic, like a long lost friend.  She fastened her seat-belt, carefully placing the strap between her breasts, emphasising her fabulous mounds to such an extent that Lindstrom found himself staring in awe.

He snapped out of his reverie to ask her, in an unsteady voice, "Where are we going?"

"Um.. back up to the end of this street please, Stefan."  She pronounced his name as if it was a magic spell.  It made him feel twenty years old again.



Lynne walked slowly down the street, trying to ignore the weight of the polythene shopping bags she was carrying which was threatening to pull her arms out of their sockets.  A dark green Jaguar passed her.  She glanced at the two people inside; a grey-haired elderly man driving and a beautiful big-chested young woman beside him.  They made an odd couple.  Perhaps, thought Lynne, they were father and daughter.  But there was something about the way the woman was looking at the old man that suggested they weren't related.

She gave it no more thought as she approached her front door.  There was no sign of the car, so Gary must have gone out somewhere.  She'd long since given up wondering where he went or why.  She dared not ask him in case it provoked him.  Gary got provoked very easily.  Besides, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what he got up to outside the house.  She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open before carrying the shopping through to the kitchen.  Then she busied herself, making sure that, no matter what time Gary decided to return, his tea would be ready and waiting for him.  That way, he'd be much less likely to want to slap her.



Ivana had no idea where she was telling Stefan to go.  She was completely ignorant of this part of town anyway.  She was merely looking for somewhere quiet.  "Turn right here." she said, fixing her driver with what she hoped was a look of longing.  He shot her a glance, returning the sparkle of her eyes with a smile of his own and turning his steering wheel before, when it was already too late, he said:

"But.. it's a car park!"

"Yes, I know." she lied.  The place was perfect.  Not a soul about.  "Can you park over there, Stefan?"  she asked, innocently, making her eyes do the majority of her communicating.

"Er.. sure.  Do you work here?" he inquired as he steered into a parking space and pulled the handbrake, cutting the engine as he did so.  Ivana released her seat belt and turned to him, leaning to whisper in his ear:

"Thank you for saving me earlier."

"Oh, I didn't save you.." he replied, clearly nervous that she was so close.  She placed her long, slender fingers on his rough chin, gently turning his face towards hers.  "Er.. I..." he stammered.

She placed her extended index finger vertically across his lips as she whispered "Sshh."   Then as he looked at her with his eyes full of uncertainty and longing, she removed her finger and kissed his lips very gently.  He made no attempt to resist so she kissed him again, this time more earnestly.  At the same time, she let her left hand rest on thigh, gently massaging his upper leg.  She brought her tongue into play, and found him a willing partner in this, opening his lips and teeth to let her tongue into his mouth.  Meanwhile, her hand had moved from his thigh to his groin.  She could feel him stiffening inside his trousers and, encouraged, increased the intensity of the kiss.

It was strange.  She would never had thought herself attracted to a man like this.  But she felt terrific with him.  She found herself longing to taste him.  All of him.  Not just his mouth.   Breaking off the kiss, she leant into him, letting her breasts press lightly against his chest.  Her hands found their way to his lap, unzipping his fly with well-practised efficiency.  Then she reached in with her left hand through the opening at the front of his underpants to cup his scrotum as if she was trying to guess the weight of his testicles.  Her right hand soon joined the left as her thumb and forefinger touched his shaft, gently stroking up and down its entire length until she was certain that he was fully erect.

"Wh... What are you doing?" he asked her.

She put her lips close to his as she breathed into his face "I'm just rewarding your good deed."

"I.. I don't need a -"

"Sshhh.  I need to do this."  She couldn't believe the words were leaving her lips.  But it was true.  Somehow, somewhere within her there was a driving need to taste him.  She shifted her position, taking her face away from his and her breasts from his chest as she bent over his lap.  She used her hands to push back the surplus material of his trousers and underwear, leaving most of his aroused sexual organ exposed.

"Oh my God!" he moaned as she ran the tip of her tongue lightly around the tip of his penis.  He tasted lovely.  She'd done this a thousand times in her professional capacity, but she'd never actually enjoyed it.  Now, she was loving it.  She opened her lips, taking him about an inch into her warm mouth.  He was delicious.  Ivana began to lean back and forwards into and out of his crotch, letting him alternatively slide deeply into her mouth and then almost slip out altogether.  She found she adored the feeling of his shaft rubbing against her lips and loved the taste of him.  She could hear his little cries of pleasure, but paid no mind to them, concentrating on her own, mysterious, inexplicable, enjoyment.

She had charged countless men for oral sex, each time making it absolutely clear that she would not permit them to ejaculate in her mouth.  Not for any amount of money.  The whole idea had always disgusted her.  But now, as she took an old man in her mouth, an action she herself had initiated - not for cash, but because she had wanted to do it - she found herself longing to feel his ejaculation in her throat, desperate to taste his juices.  For a brief moment, she wondered what had happened to her to make her act so out of character. 

The thought passed as she became aware of a dramatic tensing of the old man's muscles.  "Oh God!" he groaned again.  Eager to speed the inevitable explosion, Ivana increased the pace of her ministrations, letting her teeth touch his sensitive skin, almost biting him.  That was enough to push him over the edge.  He let out a throaty cry of uncontrolled delight as she felt him spasming inside her mouth.  Then, he came.  The feeling of the first strong jets of semen hitting her throat was delightful, and the taste of his fluid seemed like ambrosia to her.

She swallowed hard, not wanting to waste a single drop.  Then she began to squeeze him with her lips and teeth, all the while sucking as strongly as she could, fanatically trying to extract every last molecule.  She stopped only when she found herself short of breath, gulping down air for a few moments, before she finally relaxed, looking up at the old man's face.  He was smiling, and his eyes were closed.  His thin chest rose and fell with his breathing.  He seemed happy enough. As if to prove the fact, he mumbled  "Thank you."

Ivana sat upright again, and leant back on the comfortable seat.  They sat in silence for a few moments before the old man re-arranged his clothes, tucking his now dormant sex back into his underwear and fastening his fly.  "It's been so long." Stefan said.  "I really wasn't expecting that."

"Neither was I" Ivana replied, truthfully.  She had no idea what had made her do what she had done.  It wasn't as if she didn't have her fill of penises normally, and, kindly though this man had shown himself to be, he definitely wasn't what she'd describe as her "type."  Yet she had been so desperate to suck him off... And she never swallowed!  But just now, she had felt a sort of inner imperative to consume his cum, as if she knew it to be the only antidote to some poison in her system.  What the hell had she been doing?  Did her unusual behaviour have something to do with her collapsing on the street earlier?  Had the drunk in the pub spiked her drink with some bizarre aphrodisiac?

As if sensing her discomfort, Stefan spoke again.  "Can I take you somewhere?" he asked.

She was embarrassed now.  "No, no.  Thank you.  I'll walk."  She wasn't even sure where she was, but she felt awkward about spending any more time than strictly necessary in his company.  She quickly climbed out of the car, throwing a rushed "Goodbye" over her shoulder as she did so.  Closing the door behind her, she looked around until she spotted an "Exit" sign and walked quickly in that direction.  She could feel Stefan's eyes on her as she strolled, and hurried her pace, keen to get out of his view as soon as possible.  What the hell had she just done?  She badly wanted to be at home.



Lindstrom watched the beautiful girl fading into the distance until she vanished from his sight.  As soon as she was gone, he began to wonder if he had imagined the events of the last few minutes.  But the lovely sensation in his groin served as proof that he had not been dreaming.  Lucky, yes, but not dreaming.  It had been a lovely experience.  No wonder, he thought, Teuser was so obsessed with the act.  Teuser!  He had been on the way to see the man when he'd spotted the girl.  He had to get over to his disgraced former pupil's address as soon as possible!

If Teuser had used his dangerous formula while he, the Professor, had been busy being pleasured by that young woman, he would never be able to forgive himself.  How had he allowed himself to become so distracted?  He had torn across town on an urgent mission and then forgotten all about it just because he had been flattered by the attentions of a pretty girl.  Sure, it wasn't as if he had many opportunities to spend "quality time" with such an attractive member of the opposite sex these days, but he had a responsibility to fulfil.  He started his engine, released the hand-brake and began to steer his way out of the car park, vowing to go straight to Teuser's without any delay.



Sam Teuser wasn't sure whether his head or his arm hurt more.  He had no idea how he had come to be sitting on the street, his shirt soaked in vomit which, he could only assume, was his own.  He remembered being in the pub around the corner, ordering whisky after whisky.  But had he just left and then passed out here?  What had happened to his arm?  He could feel that it was badly swollen.  When he tried to move his forearm, his mind exploded with pain and nothing much else happened.   He didn't need to be a prodigy to realise that it was broken.  He would have to go to hospital.

But he couldn't go like this, stinking of booze and puke with a headache painful enough to lay a herd of elephants low.  He'd have to go home, clean himself up and take some aspirins first.  Slowly, he got to his feet.  The world seemed to spin around him.  It was hateful.  He was about to sink back to the pavement but the promise of soap, pain-killers and clean clothes pushed him on.  It was a hundred and fifty yards to his flat.  It took him almost ten minutes to stagger the distance and then a further five minutes to open the front door and mountaineer his way up to the second floor.  All the way, his head throbbed and the pain in his arm grew and grew.



Ivana sat on the train in a daze.  She still couldn't understand what she had found herself doing with the old man in the car park.  It was so out of character.  But she could clearly remember her eagerness whilst she had been engrossed in the act.  Even now, she felt strange.  There was a peculiar, warm sensation in her stomach.  It wasn't indigestion, but it was as if the ejaculation she had swallowed wasn't settling quite normally.  She didn't feel bad - a little ashamed at her actions, perhaps, and more than a little annoyed that she had utterly failed to achieve what she had set out to do that morning, but physically, she actually felt quite good.  And the unusual feeling in her belly was far from unpleasant...

Her thoughts turned to the reason she'd left home earlier in the day.  Maybe it was just as well no-one had been in.  She hadn't planned what she would do or say if either the bastard or his wife had answered the door.  What if she had had her strange collapse alone with him in his house?  What would he have done to her then?  What if she'd had an uncontrollable urge to perform oral sex on him instead of the old man who had stopped to help her?  That would have been a fine way to get revenge - giving him a free blow job and breaking her rule of not swallowing!  No, things had turned out for the best as far as her unresolved business with him was concerned.  Now she had an opportunity to think properly about how she would avenge herself.



Professor Lindstrom found the address quickly enough and parked in the nearest available spot.  Trying to pay no attention to the pleasurable empty-feeling in his groin, he immediately located the bell marked "S. Teuser".  He pressed it and waited.  There was no response.  He tried again three or four times before pulling his mobile phone and a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket.  He dialled the number he'd scribbled down back at the Institute.  After a couple of rings, the answerphone kicked it.  "Teuser!" he shouted into the mouthpiece after the "beep".  "Teuser!  If you're there pick up.  This is Professor Lindstrom.  Sam, please!  We need to talk".

Dispirited, Lindstrom hung up and re-dialled, this time trying Teuser's own mobile number.  Once more, only a recorded message greeted him.  He repeated the plea he'd made before and put his phone back in his pocket.  Then he tried the door buzzer a couple more times, again without luck.  Not knowing what else to do, he went back to his car and sat down to wait for his wayward protégé to return.  He felt like a detective on a stake-out.  This was certainly turning into a most unusual day, he reflected.



The carriage was full and when a heavily pregnant woman got on a few stops into her journey, Ivana instinctively jumped to her feet to offer her seat.  She hated that many other people seemed unwilling to make such a gesture, but she was no fan of standing for the duration of her ride, either.  This time though, the familiar aching sensation in her feet never developed.  Her arm, stretched for twenty-five minutes as she gripped the roof-mounted hand rail didn't get tired, either.   When she arrived at her home station, she walked to her flat with a spring in her step, bounding up the stairs as if she was returning from a relaxing week at a health farm.

Closing and bolting the door of her tiny single room, she threw down her handbag, sitting down on the corner of the bed - her only comfortable piece of furniture.  But she was restless.  Remembering what she had done with the old man, she walked the few paces to the minuscule shower/sink area - not really large enough to be called a bathroom - to brush her teeth.  Rising her mouth, she spat out the foam and lifted her head from the sink.  She caught a brief glimpse of her face in the wall-mounted mirror and turned to walk back to the bed.  Then, with a gasp she whirled back round and stared at her reflection.

The face that stared backed at Ivana from the mirror was not the same face as the one she had scowled at that morning.  That face had been marked by the previous night's beating.  Now, just seven hours later, all that remained was the cut beneath her eye that appeared already semi-healed and some faint bluish marks where there had been dark purple bruises.  She had expected to see the gash only just starting to scar over.  Instead, it appeared as though a scar had already formed and dropped off in the space of a few, short hours!  How could her wounds have diminished so quickly?

Even the tiny patch of acne on her forehead that she had hidden beneath her hair had miraculously vanished.  It wasn't just that.  She ran her fingers through her long dark hair as she looked, amazed, at the mirror - her hair seemed softer and shiner than that morning.  How could that happen without shampoo and conditioner?  And her lips seemed fuller and redder than they had, as if she was wearing lipstick.  Something strange was happening.  Could this all be connected with her faint earlier in the day?  She decided to go for a walk outside.  She needed fresh air and some thinking space.



Lynne heard the sound of the key in the lock.  Panicked, she turned to look at the tiny clock above the electric oven.  It said five minutes to go.  She would have to take a chance.  The door slammed and she heard loud footsteps in the front room.  Wherever Gary had gone, he obviously hadn't enjoyed himself very much.  The familiar noise of a chair being scrapped across the carpet reached her ears, followed by the muffled thump of the big man sitting down.

"Lynne!" Gary's angry shout was audible three houses away.

"Yes, love?" she replied, meekly, almost sprinting into the front room.

"Get my tea, I'm starving."  The blonde didn't even answer as she turned around and headed for the kitchen.  It was an easy decision: run the risk of him losing his temper because the chicken was undercooked, or provoke him for certain by saying it wasn't ready yet.  She hated it when he was in one of his moods.  Carefully transferring the meat and some roast vegetables from the oven tray to a plate, she whispered a prayer that it wouldn't be too blue inside.



The pain in Teuser's arm was terrible, but the throbbing of his head was even worse.  He took four aspirins after his shower and without bothering to loosen the sheets, threw himself onto his bed.  If the arm still hurt in the morning, he decided, he'd go to hospital.  He was amazed he'd allowed himself to get in such a state.  A man of science, falling asleep in the street, covered in his own vomit with no recollection of how he'd gotten there or how he'd hurt his arm.

As unconsciousness rapidly overtook him, Sam vowed to himself that he would waste no more days as he had wasted that one.  He would find a test subject for his formula, rather than indulging in alcohol-fuelled self-pity.  But that was for tomorrow.  Now it was time for sleep.



Professor Stefan Lindstrom sat in his parked car, his seat-belt still fastened, snoring loudly.  He was not as young as he used to be.  A post-orgasmic wave of tiredness swept unstoppably over him just minutes after he had decided to begin his vigil for Teuser.  He dreamt of the beautiful girl's lips and the feeling of her soft tongue and hard teeth so expertly operating on his now sated organ.


Conceptfan, May 2002.

Part 2


Ivana strolled past the usual sights without paying them any attention.  Her mind was fully occupied with the confusing events of the previous twenty hours.  She'd been beaten up by a client.  Nothing new there.  Then she'd gone looking for revenge - again, no surprises - seeking vengeance was completely in her character.  But after that... She'd fainted in the street, accepted a ride from an elderly stranger and then, for no apparent reason, she'd felt an irresistible urge to perform oral sex on him.  Free of charge.  And she'd enjoyed it.  Later, back at home, she'd seen that her nasty-looking cuts and bruises had miraculously almost healed.   All that, plus the fact that her body now seemed gripped by an unusually healthy glow both internally and externally.

She almost collided with a push chair containing a miserable looking toddler and, brought swiftly out of her fog of thought, swerved her body at the last moment to avoid the crash.  The young woman pushing the chair gave her an irritated look.  Ivana decided she would be better off doing her thinking sitting down rather than walking down the High Street.  Spotting a familiar tiny patch of green on the other side of the street, and noticing that the bench in the middle of it was vacant, she made her way towards it.  On the way, she diverted on impulse into a convenient newsagent's.  A chocolate bar, she reckoned, would help her to think.

Ivana had been into the shop before.  Countless times, in fact.  She brought a lot of emergency "top-up" stuff there - tea, coffee, sugar, milk as well as sweets.  It was a lot more expensive than the supermarket, but much closer to her flat.  She'd gone in there so many times, in fact, that she remembered the heavy metal and glass door, its ill-fitting, damaged frame and its bulky rusted hinges.  All in all, the door was a bugger to open.  She recalled how, on many occasions, she'd been carrying some shopping and had barely been able to push the thing open by herself.  This time, she was prepared.  She leant her shoulder into the metal as she gave a hefty shove.

To her great surprise, the door flew open with an almighty groan from its worn hinges and deformed frame.  It felt as easy as a brand-new, well-installed lightweight door, but when she looked it was the same old dull, scratched and filthy thing.  "Fixed the door at last, eh?" she called out in friendly tones to the aged woman behind the counter at the far end of the shop.  The woman looked puzzled for a moment before replying in her heavy South Asian accent:

"No.  Still very bad.  My husband is too busy to fix."

"Seems alright to me." Ivana opined, opening and closing the door over and over again with one hand.  The loud scraping sound of metal on metal that had greeted her initial entrance repeated each time the door passed its midway point.  With a shrug, she walked up to the wall-long chocolate display, picking out her favorite and carrying it up to the counter.  She paid and left, the old woman's cheery "Goodbye!" ringing in her ears as she yanked the door open - again, with the greatest of ease - and went out into the street.

As she approached the awaiting park bench, she did not spot the large, well-built man wearing dirty jeans, a greasy T-shirt and a builder's helmet who passed her.  She did not seem him turn in front of the newsagent's and grasp the handle.  She failed to notice him pushing and grunting, his muscles bulging as it took him two shoulder charges to finally force the door open.  When he finally entered the shop, he was puffing. "Jesus," he called out, "when are you going to sort that friggin' door?"  The old woman sighed.



Pain.  Terrible pain.  Mind-filling, breath-impeding pain.  His head was pounding, but that was nothing compared to the throbbing that came from his arm.  Sam Teuser sat up slowly.  The room seemed to spin around him.  This was no good.  He was never going to get to sleep properly.  Whatever was wrong with his arm, he had to get it attended to immediately.  If that meant dragging himself to a hospital, then that was what he had to do.

It took him five minutes to dress.  He couldn't move his arm even so much as a millimeter without causing fresh waves of agony.  Maneuvering himself into a shirt brought tears to his bloodshot eyes.  Fastening his trousers was almost impossible.  But he could not go out naked.  He realised that driving was not an option, and grabbing a few well-used banknotes, he decided to try and find a cab outside.  Gingerly, he made his way downstairs, blinking as he opened the front door.  Even the weak, early-evening sunlight proved painful in his hung-over state.

He glanced left and right, trying to compute in which direction lay the most likely cab-hailing point.  There, directly in front of him, his squinting eyes alighted on a curiously familiar car that was parked right outside his flat.  The pain in his arm was terrible, and he would have paid no more attention to the vehicle if he hadn't spotted the figure inside.  Something clicked in his agony-riddled brain.  It was Professor Lindstrom's car.  And the strangely immobile person looked a lot like Lindstrom.  Teuser shuffled closer to take a look.  It was the Professor and he was asleep.   Without sparing a thought for what his ex-mentor was doing sleeping in a parked car outside his flat, Teuser knocked on the driver's window.



Lindstrom awoke with a start.  He felt awful.  So tired, as if he hadn't slept for a week.  His testicles ached, reminding him of the strange events of earlier.  A dull empty feeling, centered on his groin, spread as wide as his belly and his hips.  Wearily he looked towards the sound that had disturbed his sleep. "Teuser!" he cried.  He hurried to open the door, finding the effort lifting the handle surprisingly hard.  "Teuser, we've got to talk.  About your form-"

"-Never mind that." Teuser interrupted.  "You've got to drive me to a hospital.  I think I've broken my arm."

"Your arm?  For goodness sake, man, how did you do that?  Look at the state of you.  Sam, we've got to talk."  Teuser was already making his way around to the passenger side of the car.  He tried the door, but it was locked.  The professor leant across the vacant seat next to him to release the lock, and found he could barely stretch far enough to reach.  He felt as if he'd suddenly aged about ten years.

Eventually, they got the door open.  Teuser climbed in with great care and tried to fasten the seat-belt with one hand for a while before giving up in frustration.  "Please, Professor Lindstrom," he pleaded, "take me to a hospital."  The old man looked at his companion despairingly and fished the keys from his pocket.  His hand was shaking as he found the ignition.  Even the simple act of turning the key to start the engine tired him.  The Professor pulled out into traffic.  He might have been taking Teuser to a casualty department, but he felt as though it was he who needed to see a doctor.



Lynne sighed as she reached down and pulled another shirt from the basket by her side.  From the next room, she heard the muffled sound of gunfire.  Another action movie, no doubt.  Gary loved his action movies.  He watched one almost every night on satellite TV while she was busy elsewhere in the house.  Tonight, she was ironing.  She didn't know why her husband had to have ten clean, well-pressed shirts every week - he hardly ever seemed to go to work.  All she knew was that if, one week, she only put eight shirts in the cupboard her old man would go mental.  And she didn't like being around Gary when he was in a mood.

She took a break to make herself a cup of tea.  Opening the fridge, she pulled out the milk.  Only enough left in the bottle for another couple of drinks.  She'd have to leave a note for the milkman for the morning or there'd not be enough for Gary's cornflakes.   That would make Gary angry, too.  She left the tea-bag in the hot water to brew as she carried her hastily scribbled note to the front door.  She stuffed the little scrap of paper into an empty bottle on the door step and closed the door to return to her tea.

"Lynne?!?" Gary yelled.  The sound of the door closing always stirred him.  He didn't like Lynne going out without speaking to him first.  "What the hell are you playing at?"

"Just leaving a note for the milko." Lynne answered meekly.

"Hmph!" her husband grunted his satisfaction with her reply.



"Sam, what's going on?  What have you done to your arm?"  The professor's questions bothered him.

"I don't know.  I was drunk."

"Drunk?  What's happened to you, man?"

Teuser resisted the temptation to answer with a retort along the lines of "People like you." and instead tried a rather pathetic "I've been having a hard time lately."

"Much of that seems to be of your own making," Lindstrom preached. "I mean, this formula nonsense, it -"

"- It's not nonsense.  It'll work.  I'm sure of it.  I just need to test it."

"Teuser!  You can't do that.  That's why I was coming to see you.  You mustn't test that drug.  We don't know anything about it yet."

"You threw me out of my lab!" Sam exclaimed.  "What do you care?"

"I do care, Sam.  That's why I was outside your flat.  You mustn't test that formula."

"Oh, I intend to test it as soon as possible."

"You can't, man!  Look, why don't you let me look at your notes - strictly unofficially.  But you cannot just test it on a human subject."

"I don't want a blow job from a fucking rabbit." Teuser responded, beginning to lose his temper.

The young man's crude language reminded Lindstrom of the remarkable girl he'd encountered and what she had done for him.  And the peculiar way he was now feeling.  A connection fired in his brain.

"Sam," the old man began, slowly, "are you sure you haven't already tested the formula?"

"'Course I'm sure." Teuser answered, sounding annoyed.

"Is it possible you let someone take it when you were drunk?  Say a dark-haired young woman in her late twenties with a bruised face?  Somewhere near where you live?"

"What are you talking a...." Teuser's brow knitted in concentration for a moment as if he was rooting through a pile of papers in the disorganised filing system of his mind.  For a brief second, a look of realisation and then horror flickered across his features.  Then, it disappeared.  "Why are you asking?" he inquired, trying to sound innocent.

"Er.. no reason.  You're quite sure no-one has tried your formula?"

"Yes.  Yes.  Quite sure.  For certain." the younger man blurted as the car turned and drove through the ornate gates of a large hospital.



Sitting on the park bench, Ivana stared absent-mindedly at the pedestrians passing on the street, munching her chocolate.  She couldn't understand why, but she felt terrific.  Confused, but terrifically healthy.  She was thinking about the old man she had fellated, wondering about the strange compulsion that had driven her to carry out the act.  As she thought about what she had done, a series of sensations washed through her mind.  She could almost taste the old man again.  There was no doubt about it, whatever had driven her to it, she had enjoyed it.  It had just been so.. pleasurable.  And now, afterwards, she felt.. great.

The mysterious healing of her wounds concerned her, but somehow it seemed to fit in with the inexplicable improvement in her constitution.  Were the two things related in some way?  Did it all have something to do with her unexplained fainting fit?  Had she accidentally drawn something from the old man into herself - some energy or a trace of some wonder drug he was taking?  Or did feeling good just come from the natural substances in his fluid?  Was it the old man himself or would the effect have been the same with any man?  Would it wear off?

This last question sparked another: would the "healthy" feeling increase if she ingested another man's cum?  Suddenly, she found her thoughts racing as she imagined herself performing the oral act.  She'd not been particularly into that type of thing in the past, but now, for some reason, the whole idea excited her tremendously.  The very notion turned her on.  She realised, quite unexpectedly, that she was horny.  Incredibly horny.  Needy, in fact.   She wanted a man so she could suck his organ.  She wanted him now.



The waiting room of the casualty department was full of unfortunates.  They had to wait five minutes just to see the nurse to register.  The nurse had made it quite clear that there was a strict order of priorities and that Teuser would have to wait until those with head injuries or other serious problems had been seen.  She said it might be several hours.   With that in mind, the Professor and his ex-pupil had gone to hunt out a vacant seat to wait until Teuser was called to a doctor.  They found no two seats together anywhere.  Clearly, Sam was in no fit state to stand, so Lindstrom let him have the chair.

But the Professor didn't feel so good either.  He was weak and tired.  He knew there was no way he'd be able to remain on his feet for more than ten minutes, let alone two hours.  He was about to go and sit in his car, when an idea occurred to him.  He had not become a Professor for nothing.

"Sam," the old man began, "you'll be alright here for a while.  I need to lie down for thirty minutes or so.  I'll be here to take you home when you're done.  It's just that, well, my flat is an hour's drive from here so there's not much point trying to go back and, er, I'm a bit too old for sleeping in the car...  Um, I don't suppose you could let me use your place - y'know just to lie down for a little while whilst you're waiting here.  I won't disturb anything, of course, it's just that, well, I could really do with the rest and..."

Teuser was on the point of interrupting and refusing the request outright, when he stopped himself.  The Professor had helped him out and his offer of a lift home would be more than useful...  In addition, his head was pounding and the old man's persistent talking was making it worse.  This way, he could at least have peace while he waited.

"Sure," Teuser replied, fishing a small bunch of keys from his pocket and handing them over.  "If you're not back by the time I'm done, I'll wait for you where we came in."

"Oh, I'll be here, Sam.  Don't worry."

"See you then, then."



Ivana looked up, drawn from her fantasies by the sudden sound of coughing.  She was no longer alone in the tiny park.  A young man was walking a fierce-looking dog, the animal straining at his leash, almost dragging his handler off his feet.  Ignoring the snarling beast, she studied the human part of the duo.  He couldn't have been much older than twenty-five.  Tall - maybe a bit over six-foot and incredibly skinny.  His head was shaved, his denim jacket faded and frayed and his tatty T-shirt bore the name of a long-since defunct rock-group.  His khaki trousers were worn-out and baggy.  A thin, hand-rolled cigarette hung from his top lip.

He wasn't her type.  He wasn't even a close approximation of her type, but she found that she was staring intently at his crotch, despite herself.  She was wondering what lay beneath his trousers, imagining what it would be like to touch, to hold, to taste...  To her surprise, a new, overpowering sense of desire rose from within her to fill her mind.  Somehow, she knew it would be pointless to resist it.  She had no choice.  She had to have this guy.

Making sure he wasn't watching her, she unbuttoned her coat and swiftly took it off, folding it over the arm of the bench.  The evening must have been cool - summer was still a way away.  Everyone passing on the street was wearing at least two layers, yet she didn't notice the chill in the air without her coat.   She pulled her top down tight, arching her back to make her large breasts as prominent as possible.  Then, she ran her fingers through her long hair, leaving one strand hanging over her face.

The young man was still busy restraining his dog as she walked over to him, swaying her curvaceous hips with every stride.  Her efforts did not go to waste as the guy's eyes seemed to bulge from his skinny face as he stared unashamedly at her.  She kept approaching him, stopping a little bit closer to him than the usual distance between two strangers.  She leant a little forward, pushing out her chest towards him and spoke, in her most seductive voice.

"That's a nice dog."

"He..he's a boxer" the young man replied, looking and sounding as nervous as a teenager.

She was definitely having an effect on him.  That heightened her own inexplicable arousal.  She decided not to waste any time.  Looking down at his groin and making sure he realised that she was doing it, she coquettishly inquired, "Do you have a nice juicy bone for him?"

The thin man swallowed hard.  Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead.  "Er.. I..."

She smiled.  "Just a minute," she said, suddenly frowning in concentration.  "I think you've got something in your eye."

"Um.. I don't think so.. I.. er.. don't feel a-"

"- Let me have a look." she interrupted, her voice dripping femininity.  Before he could react, she was moving closer towards him.  She brought up her hand, gently stroking his face as she pretended to study his eye.  Leaning in closer still, she let her breasts touch his chest, enjoying the involuntary shudder that ran through his body as she adjusted herself, incidentally brushing her rapidly swelling nipples against him.  Her face was barely an inch from his now.  She did not move away as she breathed softly "No, I don't think there is anything.  I must have been wrong."

Ivana remained exactly where she stood, making a mockery of his personal space as she let her hand slide down from his face and find its way to his groin, lightly stroking his thigh through his trousers.  She was not disappointed by what she found there.



It took Lindstrom twenty minutes to drive to Teuser's flat.  He sat in the car for a few moments, trying to gather strength before climbing out.  He couldn't understand why he felt so weary.  Was his age suddenly catching up with him?  He'd always been reasonably fit.  It just didn't make sense.  He resolved to book himself some time off - perhaps he just needed a good rest.  But not now.  Now he had work to do.  Fishing Teuser's unfamiliar keys from his pocket, he climbed out of his car and approached the front door.

Teuser's flat was up three flights of stairs.  The professor had to stop half-way and sit down on the steps to catch his breath.  His legs ached.  His physical condition was beginning to become a subject of concern.  He would definitely be taking that time off.  And making an appointment with his doctor.  As soon as he got home.

Finally, Lindstrom got into the flat.  The temptation to just lie down on the messy bed was enormous, but he was determined to carry out the task he'd set himself.   The place was in a terrible state.  The professor was disgusted to find a vomit-stained shirt hanging off the back of a chair, shaking his head at the way such a promising young man had let himself go.  He put Teuser's stupidity out of his mind and got to work.  Puffing heavily, he began searching for his former pupil's papers.



Smiling sexily over her shoulder, Ivana led the confused, nervous young man by the hand towards a large bush.  It wasn't the Ritz, but it did offer the nearest thing to privacy available in the tiny public park.  There was just enough room inside for two people to lay down.  She flopped onto the soft ground and patted the soil by her side, inviting the skinny youth to join her, absent-mindedly tracing the outline of her generous breasts with two fingers of her other hand, playing her role of temptress with expertise.

He joined her, breathing fast and moving awkwardly.  He was clearly a little unsure of himself.  She propped herself up on one elbow to lean over him, letting her breast touch him and her breath flow over his face as she smiled reassuringly, caressing his face.  Slowly, she leant in to kiss him softly on the lips, a carefully measured embrace, neither too short nor to long, but just enough to relax his nerves and stimulate his desires.  He made no attempt to break away, letting her choose the moment to end the kiss.  She gave him another smile.  It was all going so well.



Teuser sipped from a plastic cup of steaming, foul-tasting vending machine coffee.  He'd been there half-an-hour already and there was absolutely no sign of anyone being ready to see him yet.  The other casualties were called through at a depressingly slow rate, further diminishing his hopes for speedy attention.  His damaged arm throbbed and his head still ached.  An unshaved, middle-aged man sat next to him in filthy, torn clothes, clutching his left knee and periodically groaning and swearing under his breath.  Something smelt unwashed.  Sam didn't know if it was the man or his clothes or both.  He felt utterly miserable.

Without warning, the dirty stranger turned to him.  Teuser saw he was missing most of his teeth.  Those that remained were crooked and discoloured.  His breath stank of alcohol.  "Busted my fucking knee," he announced.  "What're you in for?"

"My arm." Sam replied, curtly.

"Knee's worse than an arm.  Can't even fucking walk."

Teuser made no attempt to contest the statement.  The stranger seemed disappointed.  He was obviously hoping to start a conversation.  "Hurt, does it, your arm?" he tried again.

"Like buggery." Teuser answered.

"Yeah.  My knee too.  Got something for it, though."  His dirt-encrusted hand delved into the partly-torn pocket of his jacket and re-emerged clutching a quarter-empty half-bottle of supermarket own-label vodka.  "Best fucking pain killer in the world." he declared, twisting off the metal cap and bringing the bottle up to his scabby lips.  Once he had taken a few large-looking swallows he held the bottle out to Teuser.

"What the fuck." Sam said, taking the offering and wiping the neck on his sleeve.  He drank deeply and passed the bottle back.  "Thanks."

As if by magic, Teuser's headache began to lift.  The pain in his arm remained, but it seemed a little more tolerable now.

"Looks like we're stuck here for a while." the stranger said.


"Good job I've got plenty of booze, eh?"

"Yeah."   To his private self-disgust, Sam knew he was genuinely grateful.




Lindstrom sat on the edge of Teuser's bed, breathless.  The effort of constantly bending down and straightening up again had left him exhausted, but at least it had been worthwhile.  He'd found what he was looking for.  Twisting, he began laying page after page of handwritten notes out on the bed, scanning each one, his experienced eyes trying to locate the key information amongst the rest of the scribbled text and diagrams.  He started making two separate piles until he had sorted through the entire stack of paper.  Then, he picked up the smaller pile and began to read each page more carefully, separating these sheets into a further two groups.

Eventually, the professor put three pages down on one side and gathered the rest together.  Then, rubbing his eyes which had tired under the strain, he settled down with the three pages he had identified as representing the core of his former pupil's strange work.  He found himself falling asleep, but shook his head to fight the creeping feeling, focusing on the paper in his hand, despite his heavy eyelids.  He was half-way through the second page when he suddenly dropped the notes.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed.  He picked the paper up again and re-read it.  There was no doubt about it.  Now, he knew he had to stop Teuser.  He couldn't believe what the young man had done, supposedly in the name of science.  To use experimental theories and untested, unlicensed substances was irresponsible to say the least.  But to use - as a major ingredient - a mysterious compound that had been secretly developed by the military and abandoned by them long before the completion of their project...

Lindstrom drew a pen from his pocket and found a blank piece of paper.  He began to draw a few sketchy diagrams, adding long lists of calculations alongside.  His jaw fell open.  He checked his hasty writings again.  Then he checked them for a second time.  His face fell and his head shook as he said out loud "No... No... It can't be possible...."



The dog sat patiently by the vacant bench, waiting for its master, casting longing glances towards the bush were he had disappeared.  Inside the foliage, she was lying on top of him now, their legs intertwined, their lips locked in a long, passionate kiss.  Her top and his jacket and T-shirt lay beside them, long since discarded.  Still wearing her bra, she pressed her big breasts against his bare chest, rubbing herself over him.  His eyes betrayed his near-orgasmic state.  He'd clearly not had many experiences with women before.

Ivana gently lifted her mouth from his, sliding her hands between their bellies, not breaking the contact between their chests as she expertly unfastened his jeans.  She pulled down his zip slowly and deliberately before reaching in and gently freeing his engorged penis from his underwear.  Then she delicately ran her fingers up and down its length a few times, all the while staring into his eyes and smiling.  He looked at her in nervous anticipation, making no attempt to stop her as she raised herself up and softly kissed his neck.

He moaned appreciatively as she moved a little down his body, brushing her lips against his nipples, touching his chest hairs with her tongue, letting her breasts rub against his abdomen.  Slowly, steadily she worked her way down over his belly, nuzzling his stomach.  His fingers plunged into her long, silky hair, stroking her head.  She looked up and gave him her sexiest grin before bending down once more and touching the end of his exposed erection with the very tip of her tongue.  He shook in delight for a moment.

She couldn't wait anymore.  The anticipation was overwhelming.  She opened her mouth wide and let him slide in between her full lips, taking as much of him in as she could.  The she closed her mouth tightly around him, letting her teeth press gently into his sensitive flesh.  He let out a groan of pleasure.   She kept her hold on him as she lashed his shaft with her tongue, eliciting more moans from him.  Then she relaxed the grip of her teeth and began to lower and raise her head, letting her lips ride up and down him.

From time to time, she flicked the sensitive tip of his member with her tongue or let her teeth scrape lightly along its side, enjoying the reaction she provoked.  Soon enough, she felt the flesh in her mouth begin to spasm.  She pulled in her cheeks, sucking hard as he began to ejaculate, trying to ensure that every last drop went down her throat.  He came in big, thick jets, his body thrashing about beneath her as he did, but she bit down on him to prevent him slipping out of her mouth before she had extracted all his fluid from him.

It was delicious!  She couldn't get enough of it, sucking and licking, trying to squeeze more and more of it out of him, swallowing again and again.  She hoped it would last forever, but it was over all too soon.  She heard him yelp and, finally letting him slide out of her mouth looked up at him in surprise, even as she swallowed the last few drops of him.

"Ow!  Jesus!  Stop!  Please! You're hurting me!"  There were tears in his eyes.  He began to frantically move his feet beneath her, trying to scoot away from her.  Confused, she lifted herself off him to let him move.  His hands went immediately to his bright purple penis, gingerly cupping it.  Ivana had never seen one that colour before.  And she had seen many.  She was pretty sure it hadn't been that colour before.  Had she done that?

"Sorry" she said, still licking her lips and not sounding particularly sincere.  He winced as he pushed his rapidly deflating organ back inside his trousers and then grabbed his T-shirt and jacket and stood up to put them on.

Ivana looked at him with disappointment.  "Going so soon?" she asked "Can't we do it again?"

"Er.. no." he said, his face flinching with every tiny movement he made.  "Got to walk the dog."

"Shame." she responded, truthfully.  "But thanks anyway.  That was lovely."

"Uh.. sure." he said and then, as he pushed his way out of the bush where they'd been hiding, "Ouch!  Shit!  Fuck!"

Ivana was surprised.  She thought he'd have been a bit more grateful, like the old man had been earlier.  Maybe she had actually hurt him.  His cock had looked quite unusually purple.  But she hadn't bitten it hard or sucked particularly strongly.  Maybe he was just embarrassed.  She pulled on her top and worked her way out of the bush.  Her coat was still hanging from the bench but there was no sign of her temporary lover or his dog for that matter.



"Go on, have another."

"Nah, I don't think I should I - "

"- Have another!"

"OK, OK." Teuser took another big swig from the vodka bottle.  So much for his promise not to drink any more.  Here he was, in a hospital waiting room, waiting for a doctor to tend to his injured arm, completely drunk once again.  The nurse behind the desk at the front of the room called out another name and Teuser's unwelcome benefactor clumsily rose to stand on one leg.

He began to hop his way through the seated crowd towards the nurse, looking over his shoulder to shout "Cheers, pal!  Good luck with your arm.  Hope the fuckers don't cut it off.  Ha! Ha!"  He temporarily disappeared from view as he lost his footing and fell with a crash to the floor.  The nursed rushed over to help him to his feet.

He got his arm around her shoulder when she said, loudly and reproachfully, "Look at the state of you!  No wonder you've hurt yourself."  Still in his seat, Teuser felt deeply ashamed.  Was he, a scientist, becoming like this guy?  He glanced at the chair vacated by his erstwhile companion.  He'd left the bottle behind.  There were still a few swallows left inside.  Full of self-loathing, Teuser snatched it up and drained it.  Tomorrow, he'd stop drinking.



Puffing and painting, Professor Lindstrom made his way downstairs and out of Teuser's flat to his car.  He was anxious to get back to the hospital and confront the young fool as soon as possible.  But the terrible weariness that had grown throughout the day was too much.  He sat in the car for a few moments, trying to gather his strength.  What was wrong with him?  It had been getting worse ever since the incident in the car park when the beautiful girl had... had...

"Oh my God!" he said out loud.  It all fitted together.  Teuser had obviously lied to him.  He must have tested his formula at least once.  On the girl he'd met earlier.  That would explain why she had done what she had done to him.  From what he had seen in the notes, his former protégé had succeeded in creating a substance that would induce a yearning for the taste of spermatozoa.  But Lindstrom had also seen something else in the handwritten sheets of paper.  The strange, military-designed substance that Teuser had included in his formula would, according to the Professor's theories have a dangerous side-effect.  A side-effect that would account for his inexplicable weariness.

Lindstrom had gathered from the notes that the substance had been designed for tired soldiers in the field.  The idea was that it could re-energise them in mere minutes when there was no time for sleep.  But the substance itself did not contain the energy.  It was supposed to act as a conduit, transferring strength from enemy prisoners into their captors. But the project had been abandoned for unknown reasons.

Somehow, Teuser had gotten hold of the untested prototype.  His notes made it clear he had used it for its non-energy-transferring properties.  He'd harnessed another aspect of it in combination with various chemicals to generate the yearning for a specific taste.  He had completely ignored the original intention behind its creation. The Professor was almost certain that the formula, along with the effect Teuser had sought to create, would also have energy transferring effects.  What he didn't know was how those effects would be altered by the other components in the mixture.

If the girl he'd met had been given the formula, then the weariness he now felt would be explained.  His energy might well have been transferred into her.  In coarse terms, she'd literally sucked out his strength.   But would she have absorbed it into her own body?  Would that now leave her with surplus energy?  What would happen over time if she kept collecting other people's energy?  What would happen to the people she took it from?  Like him?  He had to see Teuser immediately.  He turned the key in the ignition and eased off the handbrake.



What the hell had she done?  She knew the answer.  She'd done exactly the same thing she'd done to the old man in the car park.  Now it was a young punk in a bush in a public park.  What had driven her to seduce two men , neither of whom she would normally look at twice, and give them both oral sex?  For free?!?  Ivana remembered feeling a desperate yearning to carry out the act and wondered where it had come from.  It was as if she needed sperm - as though she were a cum-junkie.  She couldn't understand it.

Neither could she understand the pleasant, warm sensation in her stomach.  It seemed to be spreading outwards through her body, wave after wave of delicious heat rippling from her belly to the very tips of her fingers and toes.  It was a little like lying in the warm sun and a little like waking up after a great night's sleep.  So invigorating.  So refreshing.  Despite her confusion over her actions, she felt physically fantastic, just as she had inexplicably felt better after her encounter with the old man earlier.  Yet to lose control of herself twice in one day... that was unnerving.  Uncertain what to do, she headed for home.



"Sam Teezer?" the nurse announced.

"Teuser!" he corrected, standing up and almost collapsing until he gripped the back of the chair in front of him for support.

"This way please."  Teuser shuffled between the mass of people waiting to be treated, making his unsteady way to the nurse.  She looked at him, frowned disapprovingly and pointed to a series of small curtained-off rooms.  "In there." she said.  Sam staggered in the direction indicated, stumbling as he got into the cubicle and almost ripping the curtain from its rail.

Inside the little room there was a hospital bed and a stool.  He choose the bed and lay down, staring at the bright ceiling light which blurred and then moved in his alcohol-fuzzed vision.  A few minutes later, a doctor entered striding purposefully, his whole manner one of efficiency.  "So," he boomed, "what's happened here?  Had a few too many and fallen down have we?  Where's the damage?"

Sam felt disgusted with himself.  He knew the doctor's somewhat patronising assessment of the situation was more or less correct, but he was too ashamed to admit it.

"Actually, it wash lasht night." he slurred.  The medic's expression let him know that he was suitably unimpressed with his response.

"Right, then, Mr...." he glanced down at his notes "..Tazer is it?"

"Teuser."  said Sam.  He was used to people getting his name wrong.  The doctor put his notes down on the vacant stool.  "What's brought you here, Mr. Teuser?"

"My arm.  It hurts like buggery and I can't move it properly."

"You say this happened last night.  How'd you do it then?"

Sam paused for a moment.  He was too embarrassed to tell the truth - that he was drunk and couldn't remember a thing.  "I, ah, fell awkwardly."

"Hmmm."  the doctor responded.  He might as well have said "I don't believe you", but Teuser let it pass.  The medic went on "We'd better have that shirt off so I can take a look."  Sam tried to remove his shirt, but one-handed and drunk, it wasn't going to happen.  The doctor helped him.  There was a sharp drawing in of breath through clenched teeth as the wounded arm was revealed.  "Some fall." the doctor opined.  "Looks more like a bad twist to me."

"I fell." Sam repeated, sternly.

"Well, whatever you did, you're going to need to go to X-ray.  I think you may well have broken a bone."

"Oh, shit." murmured the drunken scientist.



Lindstrom shook his head as he drove towards the hospital.  It was all so ridiculous.  So... unscientific.  More like the plot of a bad erotic story on some web site than real life.  A brilliant biology student going off the rails and making up formulas containing unstable ingredients.  A beautiful girl on the loose, sucking men's energy out through their sex organs like a pornographic vampire.  Ridiculous.  It had to be stopped.  The professor wondered if Teuser had any more of his formula prepared.  If he did, where was he keeping it?  What did he plan to do with it? He resolved to confront his former student the moment he arrived at the hospital. Surely someone as intelligent as Teuser would respond to reason, once he was made aware of the dangers of his discovery.

Professor Lindstrom's thoughts were interrupted by a short, sharp blast of another car's klaxon.  Suddenly, his windscreen was completely filled by the side of a large family car.  He slammed on the brakes, bringing his vehicle to a shuddering stop, only his seatbelt saving him from flying head first through the glass.   He could feel his heart pumping violently under his ribs.  Taking a few deep breaths, he muttered to himself "Easy, Stefan."  Before easing cautiously out into the traffic to continue his journey.  "Concentrate." he whispered to himself.   If only he didn't feel so tired, so... drained.



It was so strange.  Even as she wrestled with the confusion of her actions, Ivana couldn't help but notice how wonderful she felt.  Her steps seemed to be becoming lighter and lighter and her limbs more and more supple.  The warm sensation in her belly had dissipated and spread throughout her body making her feel as if she was positively glowing with health and vitality.  And the world somehow seemed to be in sharper focus now.  It was as if she was suddenly noticing things for the first time like individual leaves high up in the trees and the song of tiny birds flying overhead.  She put it down to a psychological manifestation of her general sense of well-being, convincing herself that her senses only appeared to have become keener.

She found herself approaching the street door to her building.  How had she gotten here so soon?  The walk from the park usually felt much, much longer to her.   This time, she was so fresh, she had the impression that she'd only been strolling for less than a minute.  She drew her keys from her coat, preparing herself for her customary battle with the rusting lock mechanism.  She couldn't recall how many times she'd raised the matter with the landlord, but, she acknowledged with a sigh, it had long since become clear that the bastard didn't give a shit about his tenants.  How much effort would it require to fix the lock?  Sooner or later, she thought, someone's going to get locked out.

Separating the correct key from the bunch in her hand, she pushed it into the lock.  She twisted her wrist, preparing herself for the violent yank it usually took to unlock the door.  "1..2..3.." She said to herself, "..Turn!"  She was rewarded with a surprising high-pitched snapping sound.  The key had broken in half.  "Shit!" she said out loud.  Part of the key was still in the lock, the rest of it in her hand.  She could see the edge where it had broken in two.  It looked almost as if the key had been torn rather than snapped, but she knew that was impossible.  Cursing the incompetent landlord and the unknown locksmith who'd cut her key from unsuitable materials, she flung down the useless bit of metal in her hand.

She was shocked to see the half-key break of a small chunk of paving stone when it hit the ground, the dislodged piece of concrete flying quite a few feet before coming back to earth.  She couldn't figure it out.  One instant the key had been too weak to survive the lock, the next it was tough enough to damage the pavement.  And she hadn't even thrown it all that hard...



Teuser gritted his teeth as his arm was wrapped in plaster bandages.  It turned out that he had broken it after all.   The pain was even worse now, and the vodka he'd drunk in the waiting room was wearing off, making his head thump again.   The youthful male nurse who was building up his cast was working in a cheerful manner that irritated the biologist.  He just wanted his arm dressed quickly so that he could get the hell out of there.  But the nurse was trying to start a conversation.  Why did everyone want to talk to him today?  He was in pain, for Pete's sake.

Looking up from his task with an annoying grin, the young medic tried a new tack.  "'Spose you'll be thinking twice before getting hammered next time, eh?" he suggested.

Why was everyone making a big thing about him having a couple of drinks?  What was their problem?  He racked his brains.  He needed a clever reply, something that would show his superior wit, but the best he could manage was a dismissive "Oh, piss off."  It just wasn't his day.



His eyes were closing.  This damned tiredness was driving him crazy.  Lindstrom knew he should pull over to the side of the road and rest a little.  Perhaps get out and walk, or find somewhere where he could get a coffee.  A nice, hot, sweet coffee...  But he couldn't.  He had to get to Teuser as soon as possible.  What he had discovered about the formula could not wait.  He had to stop his protégé making any more of the stuff or worse, actually administering it to anyone.  Anyone else, he corrected himself, certain now that the beautiful girl who seduced him had somehow received a dose of the dangerous mixture.  That was another reason why he couldn't delay - the girl had to be found.  Before she drained another man's energy.

But it was so hard, so hard to stay awake.  It was like having a severe 'flu and not having slept for days.  His body was exhausted.  He craved rest, longed for sleep.  But there'd be time for that later.  His eyes were closing again.  He had to fight the creeping feeling, had to keep them open.  Eyes on the road.  Not let them close.  Open.  Not closed.  So hard.  Tired.  Needed to sleep.  Sleep.  Lovely.  So lovely, so lovely...



No-one responded when she pressed the buzzers for the other flats.  Ivana couldn't believe that out of seven other tenants, not a single person was in on a weekday evening.  The lazy bastards.  Why couldn't they just come downstairs and open the door for her?  Getting frustrated, she balled up her hands into fists, intending to hammer on the door until someone finally answered.  She drew her hands up to her chin and then brought them forward into the door.  There was a tremendous crash as she hit the thick wooden panel.  She screamed in shock as the solid wood splintered beneath her fists, chunks of door flying off as her little feminine hands went right through the three inches to emerge on the other side.

She pulled her hands back sharply, her surprise increasing still further as more wood broke off where she brushed against it.   Breathing slowly to calm herself down she opened her fingers and brought them closer to her face for examination.  No bruises or cuts or splinters.  More than that - her hands were utterly flawless.  Not a single scratch or mark or wrinkle was visible anywhere on them, although she had noticed plenty last time she'd looked closely at her hands.  Cautiously, she stretched her right arm out towards the damaged door, using her thumb and forefinger to touch the edge of the hole she had accidentally made.  The wood felt dry and solid.  She pinched the splintery chunk between her fingers and watched fascinated as it crumbled to dust.

She hardly felt the wood resisting her pinch.  Surely, the door had to be rotten.  There was no other explanation for what she had done.  It wasn't possible that the door was fine and she had become vastly stronger.  Was it?  Gingerly, she reached for the still intact section of door, giving it a gentle, nervous push with the finger tips of her right hand.  Her efforts were rewarded with a crunching sound as the wood smashed and broke around the two large metal locks that had been set inside it.  With nothing now to hold it shut, the remains of the heavy door swung open.  She gasped in astonishment.  This was incredible.

Experimentally, Ivana grabbed a portion of exposed lock mechanism and pulled.  It came effortlessly free of the battered door.   She held the chunk of metal in her palm, lifting it up and down as if trying to estimate its weight.  It felt unrealistically light for a lump of steel and brass.  She tried squeezing it between her fingers and found, to her amazement, that it yielded slightly in a few places.  Feeling more like solid clay than metal, the mechanism groaned under the pressure she exerted with her dainty hand.  She dropped it in shock.  What the hell was happening to her?



Jack made his way down the street, embarrassed by the John Wayne-style walk he had to use.  It was the only way to avoid the pain every time his bruised prick touched his thigh.  In addition, his balls ached terribly.  Although the encounter in the park had been his first ever blow-job, he was sure that he wasn't supposed to feel like this afterwards.  In agony and physically drained, as if he'd just run a marathon on a hot day.   He desperately wanted to sleep.  Finally, he made it back to the squat he shared and climbed in through a broken window.  Bastard, his amusingly-named dog jumped in obediently after him.   Jack immediately lay down on a pile of old blankets that had been spread out on the paint-splattered bare floorboards.  Within a minute, he was snoring loudly.



"Make us a cuppa, love!"

Gary's shouted half-request, half-command filtered through the kitchen wall.  Lynne looked up from the magazine she was reading and walked over to the door that connected to the sitting room.  Opening it a little, she spoke at a normal volume through the crack, "Just coming, Gary."  It wouldn't do for her just to yell without moving from her seat as he had done.  He wouldn't like that.  It might make him angry.  She set about preparing her husband's drink.

She was about halfway through when Gary's voice again reverberated in the house "Make it a milky one, alright?".  Again, she made her way to the door that separated them, opened it slightly and answered "OK, Gary.".  She went over to the fridge.  That was it for the milk until tomorrow's dawn brought the doorstep delivery.  Without saying a word, she carried the completed mug of tea into the sitting room and set it down on a small side-table next to the comfortable armchair in which her husband was sprawled.   Gary took a sip, replaced the mug and turned his attention back to the television.  He didn't bother to thank her.



Sam Teuser stood outside the hospital near the Accidents and Emergencies entrance, looking for the Professor's car.  His heavily-plastered arm sat in a sling across his belly.  His bloodshot eyes scanned the parked vehicles in front of him, searching without success.  With his latest intake of alcohol wearing off, his head was beginning to pound once more.  The pain in his arm just got worse and worse inside the cast.  Where the hell was Lindstrom?  Teuser glanced at his watch.  The old man was probably still asleep.  He'd have to get a taxi back to his flat just to wake up the old bugger.  Looking at the time-piece on his wrist for a second time, he made a silent resolution.  Ten more minutes, and he would find a cab.



Stefan Lindstrom was sat with his head resting on the top of the steering wheel of his car.  Had he been able to see through the windshield, he would have noticed that the view was completely obscured by the concertina'd remains of the front section of his vehicle and the crumpled back of the lorry he'd driven into.  Or rather that his car had driven into while he had been asleep at the wheel.  A thick trickle of blood flowed from a deep gash in his forehead, running down one side of the steering wheel and dripping onto the mat between his feet.  He'd never even felt the impact.  His last thoughts had been generated by his sub-conscience as it replayed images of the girl he had met earlier in the day.  In other words, he had met his end midway through an erotic dream.


Conceptfan, May 2002.

Part 3


Jack was snoring heavily under the stinking blanket on the floor of the squat. His dog, Bastard, was curled up at his side, eyes open but not moving. Ian, one of the other members of the squat sat on an upturned fruit crate in another corner of the room, busily trying to extract enough unsmoked tobacco from a pile of cigarette butts to build another smoke. With a snort, he looked over at his dormant friend.

"Fuck, Jack. Stop snoring, for Christ's sake." The only response was a low moan from beneath the pile of cloth. Ian tried again. "It's only fucking nine o'clock. I thought you only went out to walk the dog. How come you're so tired? You taken something? I thought we said we'd share whatever we got." This time, there wasn't even a groan of acknowledgement. "Jack!" he shouted, exasperated, "Wake the fuck up!"

"Wha?" Jack mumbled, rolling over.

"Why're you asleep? You got some stuff?" Another moan. Ian stood up and stormed over, using the toe of his well-worn right shoe to encourage Bastard to move somewhere else. The dog slowly walked away, settling down a few feet away. Ignoring him, Ian yanked the covers off of Jack's prostrate body and looked down at him.

"Fuck! You sick or something?"


"I said you sick? You look fucking awful. You sure you haven't taken something?"

"Just tired." muttered Jack. "Let me sleep."

"You look like shit, man. I'm going out. You coming?"

"Nah. Sleeping."

"Fine. See you." And as Ian climbed out through a broken window, Jack rolled over and fell deeply asleep once more, his dreams filled with the strange dark-haired girl who'd given him his ever first blow job in the park earlier.



In the taxi on the way to his flat, Sam Teuser cursed. He cursed Professor Lindstrom who'd failed to turn up and give him a lift home from the hospital. He cursed his broken arm that was now wrapped in plaster and hurt more than ever. He cursed his pounding head and the desperate urge to have another drink to make all his troubles fade. And, he cursed the terrible traffic that was keeping him from his waiting bed. A bed that he'd probably have to kick Lindstrom out of before he could climb in. The stupid old man was only supposed to be having a quick nap, but that was hours ago. Teuser imagined him snoring noisily, having completely forgotten where he was or how long he had originally intended to be there.

The taxi edged forward another few yards and then stopped again. Why was the traffic so bad? Rush hour should've been over by now. He leant forwards towards the driver seated in the front and slid the window between them open. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded.

"Some sort of accident up ahead. It's blocked two lanes. Sorry, mate, nothing I can do about it. There's police there and everything."

"Hrrumph!" Teuser voiced his annoyance as he sat back. The driver edged his vehicle forwards another few yards and stopped yet again.

"We should get through this in the next ten minutes and then it'll be clear on the other side." the cabbie opined.

"Fucking hope so." said Teuser.



"Just popping out for a bit, love." Gary's booming voice filled the house, comfortably reaching Lynne in the kitchen. "See you tomorrow."

Tomorrow? thought Lynne. That means he's going to be out half the night again. What the hell does he do when he goes off like this? She wished she could ask him without incurring his wrath. Or at least ask him to stay with her. Now she would be completely alone until he crawled into bed at three a.m. or whenever. She hated him going out like this. But experience had taught her to fear his temper above all else. Meekly and with false cheerfulness she called back "Bye, dear."

For a second, she thought about secretly following him out of the house, finding out once and for all what he did, where he went on these nocturnal excursions. But she knew that if he discovered her, he would beat her senseless once more, as surely as night follows day. Gary was not a man who had learnt to control his anger. Lynne picked up an tatty women's magazine from a pile she kept on top of one of the kitchen units and, resigned to the situation, began leafing disinterestedly through the glossy pages.



"No I won't do it!" the girl exclaimed once more, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh, come on, love. It's no big deal." The fat, balding man crouched behind the tripod-mounted camera was trying to sound reassuring. He wasn't succeeding. But he persisted: this girl was definitely beautiful, and he was pretty certain, looking at the way she filled out her clothes, that she had what it took to make it as a glamour model. The only problem was, she was utterly refusing to take off her shirt, or any other garment that would reveal an intimate part of her flesh. True, she hadn't come into his studio intending to take her clothes off but then perhaps she hadn't realised just how much money she could make if she did. Or rather how much they could make.

He took a deep breath. "Look," he said, trying a new tack, "I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to. But I think that you should be aware that this fashion catalogue stuff you're doing is never going to pay the bills. You're still going to have to get a job. But half-an-hour with your kit off will earn you more than you could get in a week as some sad bastard's secretary..."

"I don't care!" The girl was practically sobbing now. She stormed off the set towards the changing rooms, leaving the photographer to stare hungrily at her perfect, tight, retreating behind.



Ivana sat on the stairs, staring at the remains of the street door, waiting for the landlord who was on his way, supposedly "as fast as I fucking can, OK?" She had called him as soon as she'd recovered from the shock of seeing her little feminine hands destroying the thick heavy wooden door. She couldn't just leave all the flats unprotected. Anybody could walk in from the street. Of course, she hadn't told him that she had accidentally smashed the door herself. Instead she had invented some story about coming home and discovering the work of some unknown sledge-hammer-wielding vandal. Not that he'd have believed the truth anyway.

As she waited, she studied her hands. What was happening to her? She kept getting these strange, overpowering urges to suck a man off. Each time, after she had performed the act, she felt a wonderful, warm sensation first in her belly and then all through her body. And then she felt fantastic. She didn't understand it.  Also, she was getting stronger.  A lot stronger. Strong enough to smash a two-inch thick slab of heavy wood with her fists. Strong enough to deform a chunk of metal with her fingers. Was it permament?  It was a little scary, but she wasn't sure she didn't like it. After all, if she was that powerful, she was unlikely to be beaten up any more...

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Ivana was snapped out of her thoughts by the familiar sound of the landlord's voice. He stood by the ruined door, his exclamation an understandable reaction to the state of it. He reached a couple of stubbly, nicotine-stained fingers towards the rough edge of the broken wood. Ivana could see his filthy car parked only about a dozen yards away, yet the journey from kerb to door seemed to have left him sweaty and puffing. His face was red. The few hairs he still had were matted against his shiny skull. He removed his hand from the door and fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

Lighting up, he took a long drag, exhaled and muttered "This is really going to fucking cost." Leaving the burning cigarette between his pale lips, he reached into his dirty sports jacket and extracted a battered-looking mobile phone. "Shit. No signal." Then looking up, his yellow, bloodshot eyeballs lighted on Ivana. Clearly, he hadn't noticed her until then. His eyes suddenly opened wide and his scowling face softened a little. She saw his gaze lower a little, coming to rest on the top half of her T-shirt.

"Dirty old man." she thought to herself. She made a living from guys like him, but she still found them rather pathetic.

"Er... mind if I use the 'phone in your flat?" he asked her, without bothering to look up at her face. She did mind, but she knew that the sooner he made his call, the sooner the door would be repaired and the sooner the greasy bastard would stop staring at her tits and go. Without bothering to answer him, she stood up and headed up the stairs towards her one-and-a-half-room apartment. She could hear his heavy footsteps and rasping breath behind her and wondered if he was now ogling her arse.



At last, they pulled up alongside the two crashed vehicles that had caused the traffic jam. Sam was relieved - the road would be clear as soon as they got past the mangled car on their left. It had driven into the back of a truck; the front was crumpled almost beyond recognition, the windshield smashed. It was obvious that the driver hadn't walked away from the impact. Whoever it had been had long since been pulled out. Teuser stared at the wreck through the taxi window. There was something familiar about the destroyed car. What was it?

Recognition dawned in his alcohol-and-pain-killer-fogged brain. It was the same make, model and colour as Professor Lindstrom's car. As the cab pulled past the destroyed front of the vehicle, he caught a glimpse of a piece of smashed license plate lying on the road. Most of the registration was still visible. Sam's face turned white. "Pull over! Pull over now!" he shouted to the driver.

"OK, OK, mate. Keep your hair on." the cabbie replied, steering his taxi to the side of the road. Teuser grabbed the handle to open the door and pulled, but nothing happened. "Where's the fire?" joked the driver. "That's locked, mate. Too many punters trying to do a runner - y'know how it is."

"Let me out!"

"Soon as you settle up. Thirteen sixty, mate." Sam thrust his hand in his pocket and extracted a couple of crumpled notes. He didn't bother to count as he threw them at the gap in the partition between the back seats and the driver. The man in front gathered them, glanced briefly to make sure there was enough and flicked a switch on his dashboard. Noticing his passenger's sudden hurry, he made sure the man was well out of the door before calling out "Don't you want the change?". There was no answer. The cabbie pocketed the forty pounds.

Sam had already forgotten about the taxi as he rushed up to a policeman who was standing by the ruins of Lindstrom's car. "Where's the guy who was driving?" he demanded.

"Do you know the driver, sir?" asked the constable.

"Yeah. Where is he?"

"Are you a relative, sir?"

"No. He's my professor. Where is he?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you."

"Fuck that! Where is he?"

"No need for that. Calm down, please."

"Just tell me where he is, for fuck's sake!"

The policeman leaned in towards him. "Have we been drinking, sir?"

"What the fuck is it to you?"

The constable put his big hand on Teuser's shoulder. "I think you'd better come with me."

"Let go of me you fucker!" Sam shouted, wriggling.

A moment later, the copper had Teuser's uninjured arm behind his back in a painful half-nelson and they were marching towards a waiting squad car.



Gary drove the car through the familiar streets, his face an expressionless blank. It was completely dark now, the last dregs of twilight well exhausted. He slowed to a crawl as he passed under a railway bridge, turning his head to the side. From the shadows of the central arch of the bridge, three young women emerged. As they entered the pool of light cast by his headlights, Gary studied their legs, exposed beneath tiny skirts and their heavily made-up faces. His gaze moved from one girl to the next, studying them carefully like a man sizing up second-hand cars in a salesroom.

One of the trio began started to step towards his slowly moving car. Gary lifted his hand from the steering wheel and waved it dismissively in her direction. She stepped back and he accelerated away. Nothing there had caught his eye. He was looking for a certain type of girl. One with just the right kind of face. A face that would look just as he wanted it to as he slapped it about. The thought excited him. He sped up, heading for another part of town where he knew he could find more prostitutes. He was in no hurry. Lynne wouldn't complain no matter how late he got back. She wouldn't dare. And even if she did, well, he quite enjoyed giving her a slap too.



Ivana watched as her landlord stood by her bed and used her telephone. The thought of his podgy, slimey hands on her personal property sickened her almost as much as the way his dull eyes were glued to her chest. She wondered if she'd ever seen such a disgusting, fat old pervert - even amongst some of her more pathetic clients. Even the way he talked, speaking to some - no doubt disreputable - builder about replacing the front door, repulsed her. The words seem to fall from his lips like great blobs of saliva. She hoped he would make his arrangements quickly and go, but he seemed to be involved in some ridiculous bargaining over the price of the work.

Finally, he came to an agreement and, with a quick "OK, see you then." he hung up. He smiled at Ivana, revealing chipped and yellowing teeth. "Right," he said, "the builder's going be here in half-an-hour to sort the door out. I don't suppose you could make us a coffee in the meantime?" He was still staring at the area where her breasts pushed out her T-shirt.

"I'm up here." Ivana said, acidly, pointing to her face.

"What? Oh, sorry, darling. It's just that, well, you know, I'm a bloke. Can't help it. You know, you've got a great pair there an' all.. Tell you what, I'll let you look at my nuts if you like - fair's fair.." he started to laugh, a disgusting laugh that quickly degenerated into a coughing fit. Ivana was about to slap him. He made her want to puke. She thought she would rather die than have to see his... his...

"Oh fuck!" she thought to herself. "It's happening again." And it was. The word "nuts" seemed to echo inside her mind. Nuts were attached to a penis. A penis! Who cared if he was the most repugnant male on Earth. He had a penis and she, suddenly, wanted one. Needed one. Desperately, inexplicably desired one. Every fibre of her being burned with a single yearning. It was just like the previous two occasions with the old man and the skinny punk. She seemed to be loosing control of herself. She knew she couldn't fight it. She had to taste a man's cum. Now. And there was no other man there. But she couldn't. Not with this grease-ball. And yet... and yet...

Before she was fully aware what she was doing, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Frantically, she reached up to the belt of his trousers, an elaborate thick leather affair. Urgently she grabbed hold of the strap either side of the buckle, desperate to unfasten it. She was amazed to see the stitching around the square metal loop and even the robust-looking leather itself tearing in a couple of places. Experimentally, she tugged her hands apart a little. A violent ripping sound accompanied the sight of the belt being torn apart. The buckle was a little misshapen, but nonetheless still fastened as it hung uselessly from her landlord's trouser-loops.

"Hey! Easy! That cost me fifty quid!" he exclaimed. But Ivana was too impressed with herself to care.

"How much did you pay for these?" she asked, curling the fingers of her right hand around the top of his trousers. Before he could answer, she had yanked her hand down, ripping the waistband of the still-buttoned strides. Her wonder at the ease with which she destroyed the landlord's clothes was surpassed only by her uncontrollable desire to wrap her thick, soft lips around his sexual organ. She pulled the remains of his trousers down to his ankles and then used a single finger to snap the elastic of his boxer shorts, letting them fall to the ground. He was already fully erect. He looked as unimpressive in that exposed, aroused state as he had appeared when fully clothed. But Ivana's mouth was already wide open in anticipation.



Claire walked out of the photographer's studio, pausing for a moment to get her bearings on the unfamiliar street. Then she spotted a large video rental place she'd walked past on the way from the tube station and headed towards it. In her hand a plastic bag swung with her stride. It contained the three head-shots the filthy pervert had taken at their previous session - the reason she'd come to him in the first place. Why she had allowed him to persuade her to come back on another occasion, she didn't know. She certainly wouldn't have come if she had known what he had in mind.

In her disgust as his attempts to cajole her into posing topless for him, she'd almost ran out of there without her photos. But he had called after her, apologising and holding out the prints in a display folder and she had taken them. They weren't bad shots either; they'd be a useful addition to her portfolio. She wasn't all that excited. Becoming a model was something she was trying mostly because so many people had told her she was attractive enough to do it, rather than because she had any great ambition in the field. She certainly had no desire to show off her tits (although her last boyfriend had called them "magnificent") for the benefit of sad old men looking for a cheap alternative to viagra.

What Claire wanted was an easy job. Something which could provide a decent, not neccessarly huge, regular income without requiring any great effort on her part. The world of work just didn't appeal to her - the thought of waking early every morning to go to the same place to do the same thing for eight or nine hours filled her with dread. But her family had very little money, certainly not enough to support her, and the idea of marrying a rich man did not appeal. She was young and she wanted to sample many different dishes before she finally decided on a main course. As she turned down the stairs into the Underground, she was wondering if it were possible to make a living as a model without having to expose herself.



Lynne had given up on the magazines. There were full of the same old crap. The only thing that had caught her eye was a letter on one of the "problems" pages. A woman had written in saying that her husband could only get aroused when she started ordering him about and that he enjoyed being beaten and slapped during sex. The writer wanted a "normal" relationship with him and wondered how she could make him change. Lynne had laughed when she read that part. Her experience told her that husbands don't change. But she had thought it weird the way the wife had to hit her man when they made love. On the rare occasions that Gary had sex with her, he usually struck her once or twice during the act.

Of course, Gary lifted his hands to her aggressively in all kinds of different situations. It just seemed to be his way. Most of the time, it was OK if she did everything the way he liked it and kept a low profile, but sometimes he'd just hit her for no reason anyway. And when she did something he didn't like there would be no stopping him. She was really scared at those times. She wondered if one day he would kill her. She'd been in hospital a few times already. She hated it. All those questions from the doctors, the nurses - the police even - about how she'd been hurt. Of course, she didn't say anything, so they kept asking. But she knew what Gary would do if she told them about him.

Bathed and dried, she lay down in bed, naked under the duvet. Once again, she was alone. Briefly, she wondered what Gary was doing, out so late. But she knew such thoughts were a waste of time. Instead, she started thinking about the letter in the magazine. It must be really strange for that woman to feel so much in charge of her husband. To tell him what to do and to hurt him. She tried to envisage herself sitting on Gary's groin, reaching down to slap his cheek. Subconsciously, her fingers worked their way down her body and slid between her thighs. She was already wet as she began stroking herself.



It must've been the fastest blow-job in human history. Taking into account the speed with which the girl had gotten his clothes out of the way, it probably was. Rodney had seen it all stunned. He'd never have believed that his beautiful, sexy, young tenant would do something like that for him. He'd only been flirting with her because she was so stunning-looking and she'd caught him looking at her breasts and he'd been embarrassed. He had thought that his remarks would be rewarded with nothing more than a slap on the face. Instead, she had suddenly dropped to her knees in front of him. At that moment, as a jolt of excitement ran the length of his body, he still thought she was merely teasing him.

He'd watched her as she went for his belt and then gasped as it seemed to come apart between her slender fingers. She had torn it off! He heard himself complaining about the cost of the leather strap, and inwardly chastised himself for worrying about money at a time like that. Before he could think of anything more appropriate to say, the girl had started tearing his trousers, ripping the thick, tough waistband with what looked like one-handed ease. She was incredible! Could she really be so strong? She seemed so confident, so utterly sure of herself as she split the elastic of his underwear with a single finger.

He looked down at her graceful, powerful hands and the top of the curve of her breasts that stretched out the fabric of her T-shirt below. He was fully exposed now, the sight of the girl's stunning face so close to his naked organ heightening his arousal still further. He didn't think he'd ever been so turned on before in all his life. She parted her full lips, exposing two rows of beautiful, straight feminine teeth and leant towards him. He began to think about how wonderful it would feel to be inside her warm, soft mouth. Feeling himself quivering, he held himself still, worried that he might peak to soon.

Just them, he felt a wave of her hot breath washing over the sensitive tip of his erection and he knew it was too late. "Ohmygoddd...." he groaned as the muscles in his groin suddenly and violently contracted. The small portion of his brain still capable of rational thought expected to see the beautiful brunette moving quickly away, out of the range of the imminent spurting. But she did not. The first spasm was still underway, a huge muscular expulsion of fluid from his very core as she dramatically closed the distance between her face and his groin, opening her sexy lips wide to bury him deep in her mouth.

It was as if she had been starving and his seed was the only food on Earth. She took him into her hungrily, like she was concerned not to let a single drop of his cum go to waste. The touch of her soft, darting tongue on his throbbing shaft only increased the force of his ejaculations until he was spasming in enormous, painful bursts. All the while, she kept her lips closed over his organ, swallowing occasionally as her mouth filled with his sperm. When his ejaculations finally began to die down, she pulled in her cheeks, making Rodney think she was trying to suck even more fluid from him. It felt as if his shaft was being crushed in a tiny vice whilst being forcibly and violently stretched. He screamed in agony.

Those yells finally got through to the girl who opened her mouth and released him. The sense of relief that spread through his body was chased by an aching, empty feeling that grew and grew until it seemed to be consuming him. He felt himself becoming unsteady on his feet, his rapidly deflating penis throbbing with pain, his head spinning. He'd never felt like this after an orgasm. He reached out for something to hold on to for balance but his judgment abandoned him and instead he swotted vaguely at empty air. Then his legs just seemed to give way beneath him and was heading for the ground.



Sam Teuser looked around the tiny police station cell he'd been thrust into and felt sick. Sick because his mentor, Professor Lindstrom had been killed in a car crash when he had been on the road purely for Sam's benefit. Sick because he'd managed to end up behind bars despite being a promising young scientist with a huge research grant and the world of human biology at his feet. And sick because the last vestiges of alcohol-induced high were quickly evaporating from his brain leaving nothing but a hangover, a deepening depression and nausea. He lay down on the thin, uncomfortable mattress in the corner.

He was best off sleeping. Certainly, there was nothing he could do for poor old Lindstrom now. It was well past midnight and they wouldn't release him until morning. They'd told him as much just before they'd locked him in. At least this way he could get some much-needed rest. It was just that his arm, heavy in its plaster, was hurting more than ever. If only he could have a little drink, he thought, he would sleep like a baby. Instead he was stuck in a grim police station, feeling sick and forced to wait for the humiliations that morning would surely bring.



Gary drove slowly around the corner, turning into a dark, deserted alley and pulling over by the side of the road exactly as the blonde girl sitting next to him instructed. She obviously worked these streets a lot, and Gary trusted her local knowledge. He reckoned that she ought to know where they would be least likely to be disturbed by the police. Being out of sight doubly suited him. Firstly, he didn't want to be arrested for paying for sex. And secondly, if the bitch decided to make a fuss when he got a bit rough, then no-one would come charging in to rescue her. Gary switched on the tiny overhead light to dispel the enclosing darkness.

He glanced over at the girl's overly-made up face and her long stockinged legs that were amply displayed by her tiny, tight skirt. She was pretty alright. But, he thought, she was a filthy, cheap street girl and she needed to be taught a lesson.

"Fifty quid, then." said the girl, holding out her hand. It was not a relationship that required small talk. Gary was familiar enough with the routine. He handed over a few well-used banknotes and waited impatiently while she carefully examined the water-mark in each one. Then she screwed the bits of paper up tight in her fist and shoved them into her stocking tops. She turned to him and, without the slightest hint of romance in her harsh high-pitched voice asked "How d'you want it?"

Gary opened the door on his side and climbed out. "In the back." he said, sounding almost disgusted. The girl got out of the front passenger side and climbed in at the back. She arranged herself so that she was lying on the long back bench, one leg resting on the driver's seat in front, the other raised and hooked over the top of the back seat. She pulled up her micro-skirt. She wasn't wearing any knickers. Gary noticed with contempt that she wasn't a natural blonde. She looked almost comfortable in her contorted position, as if she'd done this many times before.

"You got a rubber?" she asked.


She fished an individually packaged condom from her stockings and handed it up to him. Gary placed it between his teeth and he pulled down his trousers and underwear. He took off his jacket and flung it onto the front seat but didn't bother removing his shirt. Then he ripped open the contraceptive and pulled it onto his erect organ. He didn't wait for any invitation as he dropped heavily on top of her and violently rammed himself into her.

"Ouch! Easy, there!" she said.

"Shut up." snapped Gary, continuing his aggressive thrusts.



Ivana stood by her bed, looking down at the unconscious form of her landlord lying on top of her sheets. She couldn't believe she'd gone down on such a repulsive creature. But she knew she had. That strange compulsion had struck her for a third time. And, just like on the two previous occasions, once she'd sucked the man dry, she had been rewarded with a wonderful, warm sensation in her belly that spread rapidly throughout her body, leaving her feeling fabulous. As for her landlord, the experience seemed to have been too much for him. He'd collapsed as soon as she was finished and now he was out cold, snoring loudly.

Meanwhile, she was growing increasingly certain that the weird increase in her strength was connected with her impulsive fellating. The clincher was when she had decided to move the fallen body of the landlord from her floor. She'd got her hands under his shoulders, intending to drag him towards her bed. But when she straightened up she found his whole, huge frame rising easily in her grip. She raised and lowered his limp form a couple of times, amazed at the way such an overweight man felt as light as a thin bath towel to her. Then she tossed him on to the bed like he was a piece of dirty laundry, laughing at the sheer ease of it.

There was a shout from downstairs. "Rod? It's Danny! D'ya want me to start on the door?"

The builder! Ivana had completely forgotten the busted front door. "Just a minute." she called down.



Teuser sat bolt upright on the uncomfortable mattress. He'd almost fallen asleep. Suddenly, he was pulled back to full consciousness by the sound of many voices shouting. Something was going on outside his cell. Something that involved a lot of angry people. He didn't hear the lock turning above the din, but he did notice the dramatic increase in noise level as the heavy metal door swung open. A young, harassed-looking constable entered the cell.

"Right, mate," the copper said, patronisingly, "Looks like it's your lucky night. We've got two van loads of gentlemen who will be needing these facilities, so you're free to go early. Come with me please." Sam followed, shuffling meekly behind the tall young man. At the front desk, he signed some forms and listened humiliated as the sergeant told him to go home and drink some coffee and never end up back there again. Then he walked out of the police station into the cold night air, almost tasting the drink he had promised himself. But he had no money at all on him. Bollocks! He would have to walk home first.



Gary drove quickly away from the area, heading towards his home. He smiled as he thought of the encounter that had recently finished. It had been nice just thrusting violently away at the girl, but it was only when he'd given her a couple of sharp, harsh slaps with the back of his hand that he'd orgasmed. He loved showing these girls who was in charge. She'd called him a bastard as he'd shoved her unceremoniously from his car, but he didn't care. And besides, he thought, why did they always complain? He'd let her keep the money, the little bleached bitch. She should have been grateful for that, rather than making a fuss about a couple of little slaps.

As soon as he felt secure, he eased off the accelerator a little, driving carefully; what with all the business with his strangely disappearing license he didn't want to attract any attention. It took him quite a while to get home, despite the streets being almost empty at that time of night. By the time he finally crawled into bed, he was tired. Lynne was fast asleep, breathing heavily. He didn't bother waking her as he lay down beside her. He had already got what he wanted from the blonde girl. In minutes, he was snoring loudly enough to temporarily wake his wife.



Ivana had watched the builder expertly removing the smashed old door and then installing the new one. He chatted with her as he worked, making no secret of the fact that he found her attractive. Inevitably, the conversation worked its way to their mutual acquaintance. "So, " he enquired, "where's Rod then?"

"You mean Mr. Myrtle?" checked Ivana.

"Yeah. I thought he was here."

"Er, he had to go somewhere in a hurry."

"I hope you've got my money, then. The deal was strictly cash-in-hand."

"Hold on a moment." Ivana stalled. She jogged upstairs, bounding up two steps at a time, delighting in how effortless the climb was. In her room, she located the torn remnants of Myrtle's trousers, still wrapped around his ankles. Shoving her hands in the pockets, she quickly located a small folded stack of notes and headed back downstairs.

Soon, the new door was in place. Danny the builder handed her a small key. "You'll have to get this to Rod soon. He's gonna have to make copies for all the tennants."

"Ta." said Ivana, taking the key. "How much did Mr. Mrytle say he would pay you?"

"Three hundred and fifty."

"What?" she asked, shocked. It had to be a lie. There was no way a cheapskate like her landlord would pay out so much. "Come on," she said, "I wasn't born yesterday. How much did you guys agree on?"

Danny's face suddenly hardened. His eyes stared straight into hers, his teeth clenched and he drew himself up to his full height. She knew that he was trying to make himself look as intimidating as possible, and she had to admit, he was succeeding. "Three hundred and fifty." he stated, firmly.

"That.. that can't be right." Ivana said, bravely, though her voice did quiver a little. He seized on her nervousness.

"Three fifty. Now." and he held out his palm. Scared, Ivana pulled the folded notes she had taken from Myrtle's pocket and began counting. She wasn't sure that there would be enough. But the sight of the cash seemed to have an intoxicating effect on the builder. Without waiting for her to finish counting he reached out and grabbed her wrist in his large, rough hand. "I'll just take the lot and we'll call in quits. OK, darlin'?"

She could see from the tendons on the back of his hand that he was gripping her slender feminine forearm very tightly. But, it felt to her as if nothing more than a lightweight piece of cloth had been laid over her wrist. Immediately, she realised that this was another effect of her increasing strength. She was almost immune to pain! Then, it occurred to her. She had no need to be frightened of the man holding her. Experimentally, she placed her free hand over his knuckles and gently squeezed. There was a series of cracking sounds. He screamed, letting go of her and clasping his hand to his stomach. She could see the area she'd touched already turning dark blue. There were tears in his eyes!

"Tell you what," she said, growing in confidence by the second, "Why don't you just piss off and I'll say no more about it."

"You bitch! What've you done to my hand?" he yelled. He swung his uninjured fist at the side of her face, catching her unawares. The blow struck her squarely on the cheek, but it was he who shouted in agony for the second time while she remained unmoved. In truth, his punch had felt more like a mild tap than a knockout blow. Now he was clutching both his hands to his belly. He looked ridiculous. She had to laugh. She was beginning to enjoy having extra strength. She put her hands defiantly on her shapely hips and stood tall and straight in contrast to the doubled-over builder.

"Get out!" she said firmly. He moved immediately, wincing as he used his injured hands to open the door he'd just fitted. He made sure it was firmly shut behind him.



It took nearly an hour, but Teuser eventually made it home. Wearily, he made his way upstairs to his flat. He opened a cupboard and began checking the pockets of the jackets hanging there. Eventually, he pulled out a crumpled banknote. "Thank fuck for that!" he exclaimed out loud. He must've left it in his pocket when he'd worn the thing earlier. He slipped his good arm into the jacket, leaving the other sleeve empty and headed out to the street once more. He passed the hallway clock, noticing that it was past 3 a.m., but thought nothing of it.

The first couple of all-night supermarkets he staggered into refused to sell alcohol out of licensing hours. He argued with the guy behind the counter in the third place he tried, saying that he "didn't give a fuck about the fucking law."

"Neither do I." answered the middle-aged man, suddenly producing a large metal hammer and wielding it like a weapon. Teuser left immediately.

He tried the softly, softly approach in the fourth shop, with much more success. After glancing furtively around, the shopkeeper wrapped the bottle of whisky in four layers of cheap polythene carrier-bags so that the label and shape of the bottle were hidden. "Keep it under your jacket when you walk out." he advised Teuser.

"Cheers." Sam replied, with genuine gratitude. Out of respect to the guy who'd put his license to sell booze on the line for him, he waited until he'd walk around the corner before going for the bottle. He tore the layers of polythene away with his nails and twisted the cap off the top of the whisky with his teeth. He took a big swallow. And then he took another.



Up in her room, Ivana was still coming to terms with the way she'd dealt with the aggressive builder. It was all just so incredible. Being strong enough to crack the bones in his hand just by squeezing them was awesome. But the way he'd really hurt himself punching her face - a blow which had felt soft to her - well, that was brilliant. Looking down at the deeply sleeping landlord on her bed, she thought of what she had done to him just before he lost consciousness. Then, there was the subsequent ease with which she'd hauled his big body off the ground. Now, she felt she knew for certain. "I get stronger every time I give a blow job!" she exclaimed out loud.

It was so obvious. It had been happening ever since the episode with the old stranger in the car park. Whatever was giving her the urge to perform the oral sex act was also giving her incredible power. And what power! She'd destroyed a door and beaten up a man. If only she'd have been able to do such amazing things when she was with her last customer - the bastard who had slapped her about. Then, she remembered his driving license in her handbag. And the address printed on it. Now that she was supercharged, could there possibly be a better time for revenge?



The clatter of the milk float broke the pre-dawn silence. The whining of the electric motor driving the open van slowly through the suburban streets as the dozens of bottles of milk on board clinked against one another was a familiar enough sound to anyone awake to hear it. From time to time, the driver stopped, walking up to the front of various houses, picking up the empty bottles left on doorsteps and replacing them with full ones. All the while he kept a hand-rolled cigarette clasped tightly between his thin, cracked lips, occasionally re-lighting it, but never taking more than a couple of puffs before letting it go out again.

The first hints of daybreak were beginning to manifest themselves on the Eastern horizon as the float whined past a drunk shuffling unevenly along the pavement, his arm in a plaster-cast and sling. "You look like you could do with a coffee, mate!" the driver called out.

What gave this guy the right to talk to him like that? Sam was fed up with people telling him to go home and drink coffee. "Fuck you!" he slurred. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his jacket, looking for some loose change to hurl at the bastard. His drink-dulled senses detected something cold, hard and round in his palm and his boozed-up brain interpreted it as a coin. He didn't bother to try and focus on the object in his hand before he lobbed it at the slow-moving milk-float. Teuser heard the sound of tinkling glass, turned clumsily on his heels and ran. Having just been released from police custody, he didn't want to get in a fight with a milkman.



"What've you done to your hands?" the cabbie asked as he opened the door for the big guy who had franticly flagged him down.

"Er... I had an accident." said Danny

"Whaddya do - get 'em caught in a machine?"

"Um.. yeah, sort of." the builder lied. "How long's it gonna take to get to the nearest hospital?"



There didn't seem to be any damage. None of the bottles had broken. The sound of smashing glass he'd heard must've been whatever the drunk had thrown at his van. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened recently. The idiot had probably lobbed a miniature bottle of booze. There were a few shards of glass on the floor of the float that looked as if they'd once been part of a tiny bottle. The milko decided not to waste any more time over the incident. A couple of the milk bottles were a little wet, but when he sniffed them, there was no tell-tale whiff of alcohol, so he didn't bother to wipe them as he left them outside the next house on his list.



Her landlord was still snoring heavily on her bed, out for the count. Ivana smiled. "Another satisfied customer." she said to herself as she turned her attention back to the matter in hand. That matter was a large, heavy, nineteen-thirties wooden wardrobe. And it was, quite literally in her hand. She was experimenting with her new strength and the only thing she could find to properly test her was the wardrobe. So, she had bent low next to it, wrapping the fingers of one hand around one of its short, stubbly legs. And then she had lifted, delighted to see the huge piece of furniture rising smoothly from the ground.

It felt about as heavy as a Sunday newspaper to her as she raised and lowered it as if it were a piece of fruit in the market and she was guessing its weight. She looked at the wardrobe, remembering it was full of her shoes and winter clothes. Two big men would struggle to lift it, and yet here she was, doing it one-handed, not even straining. It was fantastic! Lost in thought, she was shocked by a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood. "Ooops!" she said, carefully lowering the wardrobe to the ground.

She'd forgotten the low ceiling and had lifted the thing a bit too high. The top of it, a large, thick single slab of wood, had smashed into the plaster overhead, knocking off big chunks of it. The sides of the wardrobe had buckled and snapped near the top, so that the huge cupboard was now roofless.  Three broken chunks of it former lid were lying amongst her things inside along with countless little white flecks of plaster. Ivana decided she had better go out where she was less likely to cause damage testing her strength. Besides, the wardrobe was the heaviest thing in her flat, and she already knew that she could lift it with no trouble at all.



Two hours later, Lynne opened the front door of her home and bent down to pick up the regular delivery of two pints of semi-skimmed milk. The bottles were damp, which she put down to a light coating of condensation. The kettle had already boiled and the teabags were floating in the two mugs she'd prepared. She used a finger to remove the foil seal from one of the bottles and poured a little milk into each mug, not noticing the tiny drips of colourless liquid that fell from the outside of the glass into the drinks she was making. Then she got a teaspoon, stirred the brews and removed the bags, throwing them in the kitchen dustbin. She sipped her tea as she carried the other mug upstairs to Gary.



Two hundred yards away, Teuser lay fully clothed on top of his messy bed, snoring heavily, a three-quarters-empty whisky bottle in his hand. He was still half-wearing his jacket. He'd staggered into his bedroom and searched in his pocket for the little phial he was certain he'd put in there earlier. There had been no sign of it so he had decided that he must have dropped it somewhere. His last action before falling deeply asleep was to glance over at the cupboard in which he'd hidden his stash of his formula. He had no need to worry about one tiny phial of the stuff. There was plenty more. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would stay sober and find a test subject.



A grey, cool morning had dawned. Across town from Teuser's flat, Ivana's landlord slept on her bed, completely unaware of the rising sun. The tattered remnants of his trousers and underpants were still wrapped around his ankles. On his slowly rising and falling chest was the new front door key and a note from Ivana. Two streets away, Jack the punk rolled over on the floor of the cold squat. He'd been asleep for more than twelve hours, but he was nowhere near ready to get up either. Both he and the landlord were simultaneously dreaming of the same girl.


Conceptfan, Aug. 2002.

Part 4


The cubicle stank of disinfectant and the overhead strip-light was headache-making harsh. Danny sat on the trolley, plastic sheets rustling uncomfortably beneath him, his elbows resting on his thighs, pulverised hands hanging from his wrists. He hated hospitals. He'd already been there nearly three hours and he knew he was no-where near done. Why did they always have to take so long? He was about to stand up and set off in search of a member of staff when the splash-proof curtain at the front of the cubicle was pulled open and a young doctor strolled in, clutching a small, thin, cardboard folder.

"Danny, isn't it?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah. What took you so long?"

"Sorry about that. We're busy this morning - and it does take a while to develop these.." as he spoke he pulled two large X-ray photographs from the folder. He fixed them to a light panel on the wall so that they were clearly visible. Danny hadn't seen many X-rays of hands before, but even he knew that something was very wrong. Too many small, jagged bits in there...

"Is.. is it as bad as it..." Danny began.

"It's too early to be sure." answered the doctor. "Right now, we've got to find you a bed. I've booked you in for emergency surgery tomorrow afternoon. Best if you stay here 'till then. We'll know more once the specialist has had a good look."

"Oh fuck." muttered Danny. Then, louder he asked: "Doc.. I'm a builder. Will I be able to use my hands again properly?"

"I.. I don't know. It'll take time before anyone can answer that question."

Danny hung his head. His career - his whole way of life - had been thrown out of balance. He thought of the gorgeous young woman who had done this to him. How the hell had a girl who looked so delicate and petite caused so much damage with her bare hands?



Lynne carried the two cups of tea upstairs just as she had done a thousand mornings before. Today seemed no different. She walked carefully into the bedroom, anxious not to spill any of the warm, fresh brews. As quietly as possible, she set one mug down on the bedside table next to where her husband lay softly snoring. Then she walked around the big matrimonial bed and placed the other mug on the matching table on the other side. Climbing back into bed, she arranged the pillows so that she could sit up comfortably and took a couple of sips of her drink. For a moment, she thought she could detect a hint of a peculiar taste in the liquid. She hoped that the milk was alright and took another swallow to put her mind at ease.

She leant over towards Gary, laying her hand gently on his shoulder which was exposed above the top edge of the duvet. He didn't stir. "Gary," she whispered in his ear. No response. Moving her hand delicately up and down on his shoulder she tried again, a little louder. "Gary?"

"Huh?" he mumbled.

"It's eight o'clock, love."


"Eight o'clock. I've brought you your tea."

"Uhh." That was as close to a "thank you" that she would get. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing his eyes before blinking them open. He looked rough. He reached for the hot drink his wife had prepared and took a big gulp.

"Did you sleep alright, dear?" Lynne asked.

"Yeah." he replied, curtly. She knew that meant he didn't want her to talk anymore for a while. Over the years, she'd become well accustomed to his moods and mannerisms and she knew when it was best - for her sake - to keep her mouth shut. The two of them sat up on the bed, drinking their mugs of tea in silence.



The cafe's windows were filthy and partially steamed up but it still somehow looked welcoming. More welcoming at any rate than the street where all there was were puddles and commuters scurrying to work. She pushed on the door and walked into the warm, greasy atmosphere of the interior. The place smelt of fat and the sound of bubbling oil was an underscore to the half-dozen or so conversations taking place at the occupied tables. She found an unoccupied seat and sat down, throwing her newspaper on the table. She would take a look at the "Situations Vacant" once she'd had some coffee. Not that there'd be any job in there that she'd actually want, she thought. But she knew that she had to find some paid work and soon. She found it hard to think of herself as "Claire the Office Assistant" or "Claire the Cashier", but at least those were better prospects than the only other employment offer she'd ever had. She shuddered thinking of the slimy photographer. If he had his way, she'd be "Claire the Topless Model."

She left her paper and her bag on the table and made her way to the counter. "What'll it be?" asked a huge-bellied man with a shiny, tomato-red face. He'd tied a frayed, dirty apron on himself, but it barely covered his massive gut. She stared at his great round stomach for a moment too long before embarrassedly looking up at his face. He hadn't noticed. He was far too wrapped up in the task of gawking at the front of her T-shirt. She was used to that. She knew she had the sort of chest that men love - large and firm - and she didn't see the point of hiding it inside loose-fitting clothes. Instead she let him look as she answered.

"Coffee, please. White, 2 sugars."

"Certainly, darlin'." He was fairly dextrous for such a big man, and twenty seconds later, he was pushing a large, steaming cup across the counter towards her. "Sixty." he said simply. She counted the coins from her purse and laid them down on the greasy surface. The she took her drink back to her table and sat down. Yawning, she began to search for the Jobs section of the newspaper.



Whatever anyone says on the subject, having lots of money is wonderful. Having even more is even more wonderful. Harry Williams found that out when he made his first hundred thousand, twenty years before. Now he had several million in the bank just earning interest and that maxim was truer than ever. Money meant he didn't have to take a bus or a train or even walk like everybody else. Money meant he didn't even have to drive his own car. No, he had Jimmy to do that for him. Harry just relaxed on the luxurious back seat and let his Chauffeur get on with it. He loved it all; the big car, the staff who hung on his every word, waiting for his instructions, and touching their caps in greeting. All because he had money.

But this particular morning, Harry had a problem. Something that Jimmy couldn't take care of for him. Something that he couldn't pay anyone else to do. Maybe it was his advancing age. Maybe it was the extra cup of freshly roasted coffee he'd told the cook to bring him at breakfast-time. Whatever the reason, the effects were getting worse. He was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn't going to wait. Harry had to piss. "Jimmy," he announced. "stop at the first public toilet you see."

"OK, Mr. Williams."



Bright. Very bright. Too bright. It hurt. No, it wasn't the light that hurt. It was his head. The light was strong, but normal for a morning this time of year. Teuser blinked repetitively until his pupils adjusted. It made no difference to his head. His mouth was dry too. Unpleasantly dry. And it tasted like someone had been shovelling dirt in there all night long. He had to wash that hateful taste out. He gathered his legs and prepared to stand up. Looking down he noticed he'd slept almost fully clothed. He saw the cast on his arm, and slowly recalled the events of the past few days. "What I need," he thought, "is a drink. That'll clear up this hangover and get rid of the awful taste in my mouth." Unsteadily, he stood up. His head pounded. The room spun slightly. "Fuck." he said.

He managed to make it across the room to the side table where he'd left the remnants of a bottle of whisky before falling onto the bed a few hours before. Picking it up, he parted his cracked, dry lips in preparation but then stopped. He couldn't go on like this. He couldn't spend every waking moment drunk. Not when he had half-a-gallon of his wonderful formula sitting in the cupboard, waiting to be tested. San Teuser put the bottle down again and made his way awkwardly into the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water and cleaned his mouth with a toothbrush. Studying his face in the bathroom mirror he saw bloodshot eyes and pale skin. He turned away from the sight in disgust.

He felt awful. His arm still hurt and his headache showed no sign of receding. Remembering his days as a student, he recalled how he and his colleagues would always eat a huge breakfast when they woke hung-over. It had always made him feel better in the past. Why should now be any different? He thought of the cafe on the corner of his street; he'd walked past it a thousand times without entering. They had to do a decent fried breakfast there. The thought suddenly made him realise that he was ravenously hungry. He felt in his pockets and found sufficient money for even the most expensive of greasy-spoons. All he needed now was a change of clothes.



Like Teuser, Rodney Mrytle had also fallen asleep in his clothes. His trousers, torn at the waist, were around his knees but his grubby shirt was still properly done-up. As he made heavy work of breathing in his sleep, his flabby chest rose and feel, lifting and lowering the scrap of handwritten note and the shiny new key that Ivana had placed on him the night before. Still on his tenant's bed and still no nearer to waking up, the landlord dreamed of the moments just before he had fallen asleep. His subconscious mind replayed the moment when Ivana had taken his throbbing erection into her soft hot mouth causing him to smile, even as he snored ever louder.



Myrtle was blissfully unaware of the fact that the owner of that mouth was in a completely different part of the city at that moment. Ivana had always had a morning exercise regime - it was essential in her line of work to stay fit. She'd usually take a short run, perhaps a mile or so and then force herself to do a couple of dozen sit-ups. This morning she'd set out for her jog as usual. She had thought it strange that she hadn't felt tired despite not sleeping all night - how could she with her fat old landlord taking up her bed? - but had attributed that to the other strange changes that she had undergone in the past few days. But the run was weird. She felt herself going much faster than she was used to. Not only that, but her legs seemed to be doing much less work to achieve the increased pace. It all felt so easy, so natural. She reached the point where she would normally turn around and head back home and decided to keep on going.

She exhilarated in the way her long strides ate up the ground, amazed at the way her breaths came easily despite the exertion. She just could not get over the general effortlessness of running. She wasn't even sweating! She found herself getting further and further away from her flat. Soon, she'd run the kind of distance she would normally only travel by bus. But still, she wasn't tired. Partly out of curiosity and partly because she was enjoying the feeling so much, she decided to keep going. She knew she was getting appreciative glances from many of the men she passed, but she'd long since learnt to ignore that kind of attention. Unless, of course, her admirers were willing to pay in advance. This morning, however, she wasn't prepared to stop for anyone.

After a while, she noticed that there was something familiar about the street she was running along. She had been here before - recently probably. Then she recalled: she had come this way looking for the bastard who had beaten her up. The address on the driving license she had stolen - it was nearby. She stopped dead in her tracks, the sudden deceleration not disturbing her balance at all, although it should have done. Six miles! She knew her geography. That was the distance between her flat and where she was now. Half-a-dozen miles. She had jogged that distance in.... She checked her watch. Half-an-hour! And she wasn't even short of breath! "Oh my God!" she muttered to herself. "I'm becoming superhuman!"

That last word made her think of the incredible events of the previous night. How she had hurt a big man and lifted a huge wardrobe with nothing but her lovely hands. And then there was the run she had just completed. She really was gaining incredible physical powers. Yet she her appearance wasn't changing - she wasn't growing huge muscles. She was as slender, feminine and desirable as ever. But now... now she wouldn't be beaten up any more. She thought of the last guy who had slapped her about. How she had been coming to see him when things had first started getting weird for her. She'd ended up going down on a kindly old man who'd stopped to help her. What if she were to try again to get her revenge on the bastard who hit her? After all, she was in the area. And she seemed to be stronger than when she was last here. A lot stronger.

She didn't have the guy's driving license on her. It was back at her flat. She tried to remember the address, but held little hope of success.

She'd never been any good at memorising that kind of thing. Yet, suddenly, she did recall the house number and street name. She could actually picture the entire license in her mind - even the serial number. It was fantastic. Even her brain seemed to be getting more powerful. Excited by the thought that she was steadily turning into a superwoman, her mind turned again to revenge. Now she knew his exact address there was no reason not to pop 'round and re-introduce herself to the bastard. She'd show him what it meant to be knocked about. There was only one thing that worried her: the urges she kept getting. The inexplicable, all-consuming desire to take a man's penis in her mouth and swallow his ejaculation. What if she felt that way with this - she recalled the name on the license - Gary Bowyer? What kind of revenge would it be if she ended up on her knees sucking the bastard off? Pulling him into her mouth, tasting his cock, feeling him against her lips, licking his...



"I'm looking, Mr. Williams." said Jimmy. "But there doesn't seem to be one around here."

"Then, you'd better look harder," retorted Harry, a man not accustomed to having to wait for what he wanted. He crossed his legs and felt a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. What was the point of having a chauffeur if the idiot couldn't even locate a toilet?



Teuser bent over awkwardly, gasping as the rush of blood to his brain made his headache throb for a few moments. His swirling vision settled and he was able to pick up his jacket from where he'd dropped it on the floor the night before. He put his uninjured arm through one sleeve and let the other hang free. It would involve too much pain to squeeze his plastered arm through. He needed someone to take care of him. A woman. He glanced up at the cupboard where he had stashed his large bottle of formula. All that work and he had yet to test it! He could really benefit from a bit of the sort of tender care that the special liquid was supposed to guarantee.

He rummaged around in a drawer until he found a small cardboard box. Opening it, he extracted a single, empty glass phial. This he filled with a few drops from the big container and then sealed. Then, with great care, he returned the beaker to its home in the cupboard and dropped the now-full phial into his jacket pocket. He was ready to leave the flat. He made a promise to himself: he would not drink. He would get a decent breakfast, and then he would not rest until he had found a suitable test subject. If he was right about his formula, then he would feel a hell of a lot better soon after he had given a few drops to the right person. First, though, he needed to eat. Slowly, he made his way down to the street.



Gary sipped his tea in silence, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. He'd been out late, teaching a cheap tart a lesson or two so he hadn't slept enough and he felt rough. Of course, he wasn't about to share any of that with his wife. He glanced over at her, sitting next to him on the bed. She had no idea where he had been last night or what he had done. She'd never guess and she knew better than to ask. She was so meek. He had chosen well when he picked her - the perfect little woman to stay at home, make sure everything was clean and bring him his tea in the morning. Not that she'd done a great job of it today. She'd left the bag in too long or something - there was a strange aftertaste with each sip he took. But it wasn't enough for him to complain and he was too tired to make an issue of it. If she did anything else to piss him off later, he decided, he'd bring it up and give her a little slap to teach her a lesson.

He was interrupted in his thoughts by the sound of her dropping her half-finished tea onto the duvet, the liquid quickly soaking into the material "You dozy bitch!" Gary chastised, but she didn't respond. He would have expected the usual "I'm sorry Gary.", but she was quiet. He looked at her. Her head was bowed, her chin resting on her chest. Her eyes were closed. The stupid cow had fallen asleep holding her mug. "Lynne!" he shouted. Still no response. "Wake up, you fucking cow! You've spilt the tea everywhere! For fuck's sake!" But his wife didn't move. He reached over, grabbing her shoulders with his big, rough hands and shook her violently for several seconds, making her head bounce about. But her eyes remained closed and her breathing slow. Taking his right hand from her shoulder, he swiped the back of it across her cheek. The blow was enough to make a sound, and a bruise began to form on her skin almost immediately, but still she seemed asleep. "For crying out loud you lazy bitch!" he yelled, getting ready to hit her again.



It was just as she had feared. There were no decent jobs in the paper. Only low-paid positions that all seemed to involve an awful lot of work. Certainly nothing along the lines of what she was looking for - something that rewarded generously for very little effort. She got up to carry her now empty coffee mug back to the sweaty fat man at the counter. As soon as she stood, she could almost feel his eyes focussing on her. She knew he was staring at her top where it stretched to accommodate her breasts. It always seemed to happen to her. Men just couldn't help themselves. She thought about what the photographer had told her - how she could make pots of money just by taking her clothes off and letting a pervert like him take a few photos of her. She didn't doubt that it was true. She obviously had something that appealed to the opposite sex.

But Claire knew she couldn't stomach the thought of thousands of men clutching her picture in one hand, tongues hanging out of their mouths as their other hands frantically worked on their organs. She shuddered at the repulsive image, only to be brought back to reality by the almost equally unpleasant sight of the fat man leering at her chest. "'Nother cup, love?" he enquired.

"Thanks." said Claire, already placing the correct change on the counter, eager to hasten the moment when she could turn her back. Once again, he proved himself efficient at his job, even though he barely looked at what he was doing, so intent as he was to study the shape of her upper body. When he was done, she took her cup back to her table and sat down, pushing the newspaper away. There had to be something she could do to make a few quid that wasn't either demeaning or back-breaking.



He couldn't take it any longer. He was at the point now when he would gladly have swapped half his wealth for a vacant lavatory. "Jimmy!" he yelled. "I'm bursting!" It was humiliating to have to share such intimate information with his employee, but what else could he do? "Stop the car. I'm going to go into that alley." Harry pointed at a narrow lane that ran between two buildings on the left-hand side of the road. The chauffeur eased on the brakes as sharply as he could without discomforting his passenger before pulling over to the kerb and cutting the engine. Before he could get out and walk around to open the door, Harry had already flung it open and dashed - fairly quickly for a man of his age who did so little physical exercise - towards the alley.

With a chuckle at the unfortunate situation of the rich man, Jimmy reached beneath his seat and pulled out a folded tabloid newspaper. Turning to the back, he quickly immersed himself in the sports news. He had no idea how long it would take the guy to have his slash, and besides, he never knew when he'd have another opportunity to have a read. Lost in a report of the previous night's big match, he completely failed to see the beautiful brunette strolling purposefully down the pavement towards where he was parked, her eyes flicking to the left and the right as though she was urgently looking for something.



Sam Teuser pushed open the cafe door with his good arm and shuffled painfully up to the counter. A grossly overweight man wearing a ridiculously tight apron caught his eye at the last moment and walked over, a grease-stained notepad dwarfed in his podgy hand. "Whaddya want, mate?" he asked.

"Er.. two eggs, bacon and sausages please." The words were almost lost amidst a rising tide of phlegm and Teuser cleared his throat before continuing. "And chips, mushrooms, beans, two slices of toast, and a pot of tea."

"Heavy session last night mate?" smiled the big guy.

"Uh-huh." The man in the apron began totalling the cost of the meal, moving his pencil stub up and down the page he had scribbled.

"Six forty-five." he finally announced. Teuser placed a crumpled tenner on the counter whilst the fat man filled a metal pot from a huge urn. He placed the pot in front of Sam and then filled a smaller vessel with milk. This, and an empty mug, joined the big pot. Teuser started to reach for them, and realised that he couldn't carry all three items with just one hand. The big man noticed it too. "Don't worry about it mate. I'll bring 'em over with your change."

"Thanks." said Sam, genuinely grateful. He turned around to find a seat. There were no empty tables - he would have to share. He noticed one table with only one person seated at it. A girl with a lovely face. She looked lost in her thoughts, staring into space, a folded-up newspaper abandoned in front of her. Teuser couldn't help but notice that the paper was partially obscuring her chest, but the little glimpse of curve he got stimulated his curiosity for more. He made his way over to her table and, without asking, sat down opposite her. She didn't acknowledge him.

A few moments later, the fat man came over with a tray and placed the tea-pot, milk-jug and mug down in front of him, together with a small pile of change. "Thank you." said Sam.

"No problem." the big guy answered, although he seemed to be looking more at the girl than at him. Teuser couldn't blame the guy. She was extremely good-looking. He poured himself the first mug, stealing the odd glance at her. No doubt about it. She was gorgeous. He took a sip and then, as subtly as he could, put his hand in his jacket pocket to feel the little phial of formula he'd stashed in there.



She'd had this feeling several times now, but it still confused her. One moment, she was feeling incredibly powerful, the next she was being controlled by this compulsion to "service" a man. All she knew was that she could not fight it. She had to yield to it as quickly as possible before it consumed her. But she was stuck on the street in the morning in a residential area. Where was she going to find a man? Her eyes were drawn to the gleaming form of a freshly polished silver Jaguar parked a dozen or so yards ahead of her. The car looked completely out of place on the modest street. She noticed someone at the wheel, reading a newspaper. Excited, she sped up. Chances were, it would turn out to be a man behind the wheel of such a vehicle.

She was almost level with the car when she heard a sound to her right. Her head spun, and she found herself looking down a tiny alley - more of a gap between two buildings than a side-street. There, at the far end, leaning against a featureless brick wall, was a man wearing what she instantly recognised was an expensive suit. His back was to her, but she saw the jet of liquid arcing from his groin and the puddle growing at his feet around his shiny black shoes. The guy in the car was too engrossed in his paper to notice her as she turned on her heels, and, smiling, started to walk down the alley.

The pissing man had finally emptied his bladder and was obviously shaking the last few drops from his member. He hunched in preparation for manipulating it back inside his underwear and readjusting his trousers. With no thought for how she might sound, she called out cheerfully "Don't put that away yet!"

The man spun around, astonished. He was still holding himself in his right hand. Seeing her, his face turned the bright crimson of the highly embarrassed as he began awkwardly trying to stuff himself back into his pants. "I.. I.. er.." Ivana broke into a trot towards him, dropping gracefully down onto her knees at his feet while he was still struggling with his flies. Shocked, he tried to back away from her, only for his back to press up against the wall. The seat of his trousers touched the newly-wetted brick and he spring forward in disgust, only to find that Ivana had grabbed hold of his waistband. "Wh... what.. the..." he started to say, as she pulled her hands apart and the expensive tailored material of his suit tore noisily. She opened her hands and his trousers fell immediately around his ankles. Her finger was already curling around the elastic of his underpants. Ivana tugged and they too came away to fall to the ground.



Suddenly he was naked from the waist down. He had no idea how the girl had removed his clothes so quickly, but there was no doubting that she had. What was she planning to do? Was this some kind of elaborate kidnap or robbery plot? A man of his standing was always going to be a target. He opened his mouth to yell, to summon Jimmy or whoever might be around, but just as he was about to shout, he was stunned by the sensation of something incredibly smooth yet tight closing around his penis. He looked down to see that the girl had taken him in her mouth. Surprised, he hesitated for a moment, just long enough to see her luscious, thick lips wrapped around his shaft and to feel the strong, insistent pull she was exerting. That moment was enough for a whole row of switches in his brain to be flicked.

Suddenly, he wasn't scared anymore. He was incredibly turned on. He had, on occasion, used some of his wealth to indulge his baser desires with women - professional women who charged huge sums for their expertise and discretion. But none of them had ever made him feel like this. There was something about the way her lips gripped him - the astonishing, almost painful force of it - that made him instantly aroused. He could practically feel the blood rushing into his organ, inflating it in seconds. He was becoming hard in her mouth, pressing more an more against her remarkable, unyielding lips. It felt wonderful. He forgot all about the strangeness of the encounter and shut his eyes, lost in the most pleasurable feeling of his life. Then, she started to move, taking him in and out of her mouth with real expertise. The way she squeezed him was indescribable. It was so tight it almost hurt and yet.. and yet... Within seconds, he was on the brink of his orgasm.



Gary slapped his wife for a fourth time. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he screamed, the veins in his temples were beginning to stand out. Both her cheeks were now turning blue, but still her head just flopped down as if she had been given a knock-out drug. He grabbed her face aggressively between her palms and lifted it towards his own. Her eyes were still shut. Her breathing was steady, if a little slow. "Wake up!" he shouted into her face, little dots of his spittle appearing on her lovely features. He released her, letting her slump down again. "Useless fucking cow!" he growled. "You'll be sorry if I have to call a doctor for you."



It hadn't taken long - from him being flaccid to this glorious moment when her burning urge would be fulfilled. Ivana took him deep into her mouth, ready for the moment when he would shoot his load. He shuddered dramatically as the first burst of hot fluid flew down her throat, thrilling her as it did. She swallowed down the next three jets with relish and then began to suck on him to make sure she extracted every last drop he could offer. She heard a gargled scream above her and realised that she might have sucked a little to hard for his liking. No matter; she had to make certain that nothing went to waste. Without warning, the man fell forward, his head crashing down on her back, his stomach resting on the back of her head. She realised that only her body was stopping him falling flat on his face on the ground, yet she could barely feel his weight as she supported it. He was no longer producing any fluid, so she opened her mouth wide and stepped back away from him, letting him collapse onto the filthy street, face down with his pants and trousers still around his ankles.

Immediately, the familiar, wonderful glowing sensation appeared in her belly, spreading rapidly outwards into every single part of her. She stood up effortlessly, marvelling at the way she felt even lighter and more supple than before. It was amazing. She was as fresh as she had been before her remarkable run, the frantic efforts of the past minute apparently having given her even more energy. How was it possible to feel so good? She stretched out her arms, enjoying the way her body felt. Now, she was ready for the bastard who had beaten her up. His house had to be nearby. Just a matter of finding the right street.



The beautiful girl had picked up her paper and was reading the local news intently. Sam took a big swallow of his tea, put the mug down and fished once again for his phial. She really was lovely. And this was a great chance. After all, she was completely absorbed in her paper. In front of her, her half-drunk coffee seemed to be calling to him. He glanced awkwardly around him. No-one else was paying them any attention. He used his thumb to break the seal on the tiny glass tube and, with a shaking hand, tipped a few drops of the colourless liquid inside into the coffee. He was so nervous, he pulled his hand away a little too quickly, making the girl look up at him for a moment. She caught his eye. Teuser was stunned by the beauty of her face. He smiled at her, as warmly as he could. She scowled back, clearly disgusted.



Jimmy was still reading the match report when the girl emerged from the alley, bounding lightly on her feet, her expression a mixture of intent and satisfaction. He went on to read about a couple of the other games. Then he stopped and folded the paper. How long had he been reading? He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour! No-one needed that long to have a piss, no matter how much cash they had in the bank. Something was wrong. He cursed - if he hadn't been so engrossed in the paper he might have seen something, or at least noticed that something was up sooner. He jumped out of the car and trotted around to the mouth of the alley. "Oh, fuck!" he spluttered as he saw his employer lying on the ground, his face against the concrete. "Mr. Williams!" he called, rushing to the man, "Mr. Williams!"

The chauffeur rolled Harry over onto his back. No injuries to his face and he seemed to be breathing fine. "Thank fuck!" he thought. "He's not dead." Then he noticed the man's trousers and underpants had been torn and were now rolled up around his lower legs. He gasped. He'd never seen Williams' penis before, but he was pretty sure its natural colour was not dark blue all over. What the fuck had happened? He leant over the man's face and called his name a couple more times "Mr. Williams? Mr. Williams!" No answer. Jimmy plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a mobile phone, dialling a three-digit number.

"Ambulance." he spoke into the mouthpiece. "Quickly please! I think my boss has had a heart attack or something."



Gary's clenched fist hung eight inches above Lynne's nose, ready to crash down and flatten it. "This'll teach you to ignore me you fucking rude bitch" he hissed through clenched teeth. Just as he was about to let fly with all his considerable anger, he heard the incongruously charming ding-dong of the front door bell. "Oh for fuck's sake!" he spluttered. "You'd better be up by the time I get back or I swear I'm gonna knock you into next week." he told his unconscious wife before getting out of bed and grabbing his dressing gown from its hook on the back of the bedroom door. He tied the chord around his waist as he stamped furiously down the stairs, already demanding "Who's there?"



It had been quite a few minutes since the girl had sipped her coffee. The formula had to have kicked in by now. With a quiver of excitement, Teuser imagined what the lovely girl would shortly be doing to him. Full of anticipation, he forgot himself and laid his palm under the table onto her tight jeans, grasping her thigh. Immediately her hand pulled on his. "What the hell do you think you're doing, pervert?" she shrieked, standing up. All eyes in the cafe turned accusingly towards Sam. He swallowed hard. The fat man came over to their table.

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, sounding truly concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." she answered, regaining her composure. "Um.. where's your toilet?"

"Through there." said the fat man, pointing to a door marked "Toilets.". "Go through the kitchen and then turn left."

"Thanks," said the girl, already on her way. As she pushed open the door, the sound of frying grew loud until it faded as the door closed behind her.



"I said: Who's there?" demanded the man inside the house. Ivana recognised the voice instantly. It was definitely him. The aggressive bastard.

"Post." she lied, and was rewarded with the sound of a bolt being drawn. Then the door was flung open and there he was. In the flesh. Or rather the flesh covered with a towelling robe. The bastard who had slapped her about. He looked at her curiously, obviously trying to place her. He recognised her alright, but he couldn't work out where from. Ivana opened her mouth, about to launch into a short speech she had prepared about scum who love dishing it out but can't handle it themselves. But the words stuck in her throat. The mere sight of the guy made her anger boil up to the surface. She had no language to express her emotions.

Before she even realised what she was doing, she had extended her right arm, palm towards him and shoved him in the belly with all her strength. Her new strength. And her fury made certain that she didn't hold back even an ounce of it. The shove doubled him over and sent him backwards. His feet left the ground as a shocked "Oooff" sound left his lips and he flew into the house, his entire heavy frame thrown back by her single, petite hand. Ivana watched, partly in delighted pride at her power and partly in utter surprise at her lack of control. The big man flew backwards about ten yards before crashing down onto his rear. The momentum she had transferred from her slender arm sent him sliding a further three yards on his backside until his movement was stopped as his back hit the far wall.

Ivana gasped at what she had done. The bastard's head was lowered, but even from that distance, she had no trouble seeing that he was still breathing. That, at least, was a relief. But she was annoyed with herself. She hadn't even told him who she was and why she had come to see him. And she was disappointed. She had intended to cause him a lot more pain. But now it was all over. One push and he was out cold. Fuck, she was getting strong! She was going to have to learn to be more careful when she beat up men in future. She took a step into the house, intending to see if she could revive her unconscious host, then froze in her tracks.

She'd heard something. Movement or something from upstairs. There was someone else in the house! She panicked. Maybe this other person was calling the police, or worse grabbing a weapon and preparing to attack her. She turned on her heels and ran out, pausing only to shut the front door behind her as quietly as she could. Then she sprinted down the street, amazed at the pace her long legs immediately achieved.



The ambulance pulled up at the top of the alley. The man in the chauffeur's uniform ran up to the two medics who jumped out, babbling and frantically pointing to a fourth man who was lying, semi-naked, on the ground. One of the doctors tried to calm the chauffeur whilst the other crouched by the side of the unconscious man. None of them noticed the girl running past the at the speed of an Olympic sprinter, her large bust bouncing enticingly beneath her sweatshirt. She turned as she passed, but still none of the men saw her, or the look of surprise that crossed her stunning face when her eyes lit upon the man in a suit flat out on the concrete. A couple of seconds later, she ran around a corner and disappeared from sight altogether.

"He's unconscious but I don't think it was his heart." one of the ambulance men explained to the Chauffeur after he had examined his patient for couple of minutes. "More likely is that he's suffering the after-effects of some major trauma, which would be consistent with his injuries. Any idea of how he sustained them?"

"Er, no." the driver answered. "I was waiting in the car at the time. I didn't see anything. I.. er..."

"OK. We've got to take him to the hospital for checks. I imagine the police are going to want to ask you a few questions, too."

"What kind of questions?"

"Well, like how he was hurt."

"I told you. I didn't see, I -"

"Save it for the police, mate. We're taking him to hospital. You can follow in your car if you like."

"Er, yeah, sure."

The two medics lifted the patient onto a trolley and wheeled it up to the back of the ambulance. The chauffeur watched as they carefully transferred him into the vehicle.



It was pretty clear that the lavatory was there because the owner of the cafe was obliged by law to provide facilities to both his staff and his customers. It was just the right side of the line that separated "unfit for use" from "barely tolerable". Claire had had to walk through the kitchen to reach it. She was feeling a little unsteady, as though the touch of that weirdo's hand on her leg had made her physically dizzy. She totally ignored the way the chef - a small, wiry man with South American features - looked up from his frying pan to stare at her as she passed by, but once she was inside the cubicle, she made doubly sure that the door was locked. Before she could start undoing her jeans, however, she felt her legs wobbling beneath her. She sat down on the closed lid of the toilet as the unpleasant surroundings appeared to spin around her. Then, her head and body fell limply against the graffiti-covered wall.



Lynne sat up in bed, confused. She didn't remember falling asleep. The duvet was soaked with tea. Her face stung, as though her husband had just imparted another of his "lessons." She turned to see if he was still next to her on the bed, but saw no-one. Slowly she got out of bed. She didn't feel groggy at all, in fact, she felt quite good. Her arms and legs felt fine. Only her face hurt slightly. Walking over to the mirror, she studied her reflection and saw the fresh bruises on her cheeks. She knew immediately how they had been made. Why did he do things like that? She had obviously passed out - why did he have to be so angry all the time? And where was he now?

"Gary?" she called, although her voice was barely above a whisper. "Gary?" A little louder this time. The third was almost a shout. "Gary?" Had he gone out? She left the bedroom and headed for the stairs. Maybe he was in the kitchen or the living-room.



The formula should have kicked in by now. Teuser sat at his table in the cafe, his huge fried breakfast barely touched on the plate in front of him. He paid no attention to the accusatory glances he was still getting from the other customers and the fat man in the apron. Why did the girl have to make such a scene? Why couldn't he have waited a few minutes before he touched her? Why was she taking so long on the loo?



Ivana was a dozen streets away from the house where she'd committed the assault. She was still running at a pace very few other women in the world could match, but her breathing was calm and easy and she felt she could have sustained the effort for quite a while longer. As she crossed a quiet residential road, she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was following her, but saw no-one. She also didn't see the cyclist freewheeling down the sty fit! What's your secret?"



The girl had been in there for at least six minutes. He'd fried up a dozen eggs and already started on a packet of sausages in that time. He didn't like it generally when customers used the toilet, especially when they stayed there for so long. It usually meant they were doing drugs in there. The last thing he needed was anyone in authority poking around in his kitchen. Who knew what they might find this time. He went over to the door and thumped on it three times. "Hello?" Hs accent was strong. "How are you?" and his command of the language wasn't great. "What is passing there? Do you have the drugs?"

"Er.. I'm fine." the girl answered. There was a series of shuffling sounds from inside the cubicle and then the bolt was drawn and the door opened. The chef had forgotten how attractive she was and his eyes grew wide as they took her in. "I'm sorry," she said. "I felt a bit dizzy, and I guess I kind of blacked out for a minute, but I'm cool now. Actually, I feel terrific."

"You making the drugs, no?" accused the chef.

"Oh, no, no!" she protested. They were about the same height and she stared straight into his eyes, perhaps so that he would be more likely to believe her. He stared back, captured now by her physical beauty. And something seemed to have caught her attention too. She was looking at him in a peculiar way. Almost mischievous, like a child eyeing up a forbidden sweet she was just about to steal.



"Gary! What happened?" Lynne rushed over to her husband who was still slumped against the wall. He blinked his eyes open as she bent over him.

"Lynne? You awake now?"

"What happened Gary? Did someone attack you."

"It was - " he started to say something then stopped. "It was an accident. I, er, fell over."

"Are you OK?"

"Course I fucking am!" he snapped. He moved to stand up but fell back against the wall. Lynne looked at him. He looked so.. so.. defeated and helpless. This wasn't the Gary she knew. He was weak. She stared down at him, suddenly aware that for the first time in years, she briefly held the upper hand in the relationship. It was strange. But it was also exciting. A peculiar thought entered her mind. A deed. Something that she suddenly wanted to do more than anything else in the world. She dropped down onto all fours beside him and began loosening the chord of his dressing gown.

"Lynne!&q intending to see if she could revive her unconscious host, then froze in her tracks.

She'd heard something. Movement or something from upstairs. There was someone else in the house! She panicked. Maybe this other person was calling the police, or worse grabbing a weapon and preparing to attack her. She turned on her heels and ran out, pausing only to shut the front door behind her as quietly as she could. Then she sprinted down the street, amazed at the pace her long legs immediately achieved.



The ambulance pulled up at the top of the alley. The man in the chauffeur's uniform ran up to the two medics who jumped out, babbling and frantically pointing to a fourth man who was lying, semi-naked, on the ground. One of the doctors tried to calm the chauffeur whilst the other crouched by the side of the unconscious man. None of them noticed the girl running past the at the speed of an Olympic sprinter, her large bust bouncing enticingly beneath her sweatshirt. She turned as she passed, but still none of the men saw her, or the look of surprise that crossed her stunning face when her eyes lit upon the man in a suit flat out on the concrete. A couple of seconds later, she ran around a corner and disappeared from sight altogether.

"He's unconscious but I don't think it was his heart." one of the ambulanuot; he wheezed. "What are you doing you daft bitch?"

"Shhh." she said. "I'm going to make you feel better."

"Don't tell me to shhh, you stupid-" he broke into a cough, struggling for air.

"Shhh." she repeated, taking his flaccid organ between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

"Lynne - not now." he spluttered.

"It's OK, darling." she said, slowly beginning to stroke him into erectness.



Ivana looked both ways up the street. There didn't seem to be anyone else around. She spotted a laundrette on the other side of the road. She couldn't see anyone inside. She bent down and curled the fingers of her left hand around the bent frame of the bicycle. When she stood up, the bike came up with her, hanging from her hand as though it were weightless. She turned to its owner. "You should come with me," she told him.

"What?" he asked. She smiled her warmest smile, locking her eyes on his.

"Come on," she said, "Over there." she pointed to the empty laundrette. "You can sit down for a bit and maybe, y'know, relax." The way she said the word "relax" filled the word with a hundred new meanings. They walked side by side over the road.



Claire had never done this before. Not even with her boyfriends. It had never appealed to her. After all, she had always thought "what's in it for me?". But now as she knelt in front of the small cook and took his rapidly enlarging penis into her mouth, she felt a thrill of electricity running through her body. She wondered why she had never done it before, and then she wondered why she was suddenly doing it now. But he tasted so delicious and felt so good in there that she soon forgot her concerns. She closed her lips tightly around him, pulling her head back, letting his shaft slide part of the way out of her mouth. Then she brought herself forward again until his shaft was buried inside her. The tip of her long, soft tongue flicked repeatedly all over his hot organ, touching. licking and stroking it until it quivered.

Bringing her teeth into play, she let them scrape lightly over his length, enjoying the way the light touch of her jaws made his whole body shake. She began taking him in and out of her mouth faster and faster, biting down gently on him, her tongue attacking him with increasing vigour. She knew what was going to happen and welcomed it. The chef let out a low moan of pleasure and convulsed, sending a violent jet of his fluid deep into her throat. Reflexes made her swallow, but the warm tingling feeling as the liquid entered her stomach made her want more. She sucked hard on him, trying to draw as much of the wonderful fluid as possible into her gut, until he was finally dry. Then she parted her lips and let him out, throwing her head back as a wonderful feeling grew within her, reaching out like the branches of a tree into her every extremity.

The chef took a few unsteady steps, a smile fixed on his face. He sat down on a stool, leaning against the work surface. On the stove, oil spat furiously as black smoke began to curl upwards from the sausages he was cooking there, but when Claire tried to warn him, his only response was to close his eyes, rest his head on his hands and start snoring. Claire went over to the cooker and turned off the gas. He looked like he would be asleep for a while, and she feared the whole place might burn down. As she moved, she marvelled at how revitalised she now felt. It was weird - almost as if the chef's seed had contained energy boosters. She had been so tired a few minutes before, but now she felt terrific. Was this how every woman felt after giving head?



Teuser knew that women sometimes took a very long time in the loo, but this was ridiculous. She'd been gone ten minutes! By now the formula would have started working for certain. Where the hell was she?



The medic shook his head and chuckled. Five years he had worked in the emergency service. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd sat in the back of an ambulance accompanying a patient to hospital. But this time was unique. He'd never seen an injury quite like this guy's - his body apparently completely untouched except for the fact that his dick had somehow become so badly bruised it was dark blue all over. And that wasn't the only thing. The medic had never heard a patient on his way to hospital snoring as contentedly as this man was.



Lynne's tongue worked its way around the tip of her husband's penis, removing the last few drops of his cum. She'd done this to him before, but she'd never enjoyed it so much. There was just something about the way he tasted today - it made her want more and more. She'd always seen oral sex as a duty - especially because it was always Gary who initiated it, who bullied her into doing it for him. But this time, she had instigated the act and she had loved every moment of it. She couldn't explain it, but seeing her husband hurt and too weakened to harm her even if he wanted to had really turned her on. Then as she had started to take him in her mouth, she had lost herself in the sheer pleasure of the process.

Now, as she was finishing, she felt fabulous. Whatever it was that had made her fall asleep was now well and truly out of her system, because she had never felt more awake in her life. Even her face where the bruises had stung a couple of minutes earlier now seemed better, as though someone had turned a dial, dramatically lowering the pain. She watched as Gary's eyelids appeared to grow heavy and stroked his arm. "That's alright, dear." she said, softly, "You sleep now. I'll be here when you wake up." She shifted her position so that her back was next to his, against the wall. As his breathing grew slower and deeper she smiled. She wasn't going anywhere. She wanted to be right there when he awoke, ready to do it all over again.



Inside the deserted laundrette, Ivana sat next to the cyclist who had crashed into her. His twisted bike was propped up against a washing machine and the two of them were on a bench at the back of the shop, hidden from the street by a row of ancient-looking dryers. They had sat some distance apart, but over the past moments, she had slowly shuffled closer and closer to him until now when their legs were touching. The guy kept looking at her as though he were trying to ascertain what she was up to. She kept smiling at him. She leant in close, almost whispering into his ear as she spoke, letting her large breasts brush against his sleeve. Each time there was contact, he shuddered as if he had received an electric shock but the bulge in his trousers told her that she was getting through to him.

"So," she breathed, "you want to know my secret, do you?"

"Um... er..." he blushed crimson. A natural with the ladies he was not.

"Shall I tell you?" she teased, stroking the straining front of his trousers with her finger.

"Ah... um..."

"Not a man of many words, are you?" she joked, laughing so that her breath washing over his face. He swallowed hard. She took a hold of his fly and slowly began to lower his zip. Immediately he brought his hands to his groin, trying to shield his manhood from her. She took her left hand and used it to hold on to his two wrists. Then she carefully began pulling his hands away from his crotch. He started to resist her, the muscles on his arms bulging with the effort. The look of astonishment that filled his face when he realised how easily she was overpowering him made her chuckle. "Strong, aren't I?" Ivana said, proudly.

"How... how..." he spluttered.

"So, you do want to know my secret." she said, lifting his hands above his head despite his struggles and leaning in so that her chest pressed against his. With no hands, he tried to push her away by sitting forward, but soon gave up when he found he couldn't shift her even an inch. She leant further into him, enjoying the sensation of her breasts pushing against him. Her free hand ventured expertly into his underwear and emerged triumphantly clutching his already fully aroused sexual organ.

He protested. "Please, no. Don't. My girlfriend, she-"

"-isn't here." Ivana completed the sentence for him. She slid off the bench, dragging her chest down his body as she did so until she was on her knees in front of him, her shapely breasts resting on his knees. She still held both his hands in one of her own, keeping them immobile above his head.

"Please!" he begged, but she was completely ignoring him now. She lowered her head towards his waiting erection.

She spoke, letting her hot breath warm his penis. "This is my secret, lover. I get stronger every time I do this." Then she opened her mouth and slowly extended her tongue. Sensuously, almost tortuously, she licked his length. "I hope you enjoy this half as much as I'm going to." she said.



Claire glanced at the sleeping chef. The wonderful feeling in her guts had faded slightly and she was just beginning to wonder at the events of the past few minutes. Part of her was shocked by what she had done. He was a total stranger and not that attractive either. And yet she had happily done something for him that she had refused even her lovers in the past. She was embarrassed. What would she say to him if he woke up - "Thanks, that was nice"? or "Sorry, I don't normally do that."? And what if someone came into the kitchen and asked why the guy seemed out for the count. Should she tell them? "Oh, he's fine. I've just gone down on him, that's all." It was all too awkward. She didn't want to have to see or speak to anyone from the cafe. Her eyes were drawn to the sign reading "Fire Exit" that was affixed to a partially open door at the far end of the kitchen. Twenty seconds later, she was walking down the street.

She wasn't there to see the man who had been sitting opposite her in the restaurant entering the kitchen. He pushed the toilet door and found it open. Confused, he shook the sleeping chef's shoulder using his good arm. "Hey! Wake up!!"

"Ugh?" he looked as though he was still asleep.

"The girl!" shouted the customer. "Where is she?"

"Girl?" asked the chef, his eyes still firmly shut. He smiled. "Oh, the girl. Mmmm. The girl. Yes. Girl."

"Where is she?"

"Oh, she... she gone. Nice. Nice girl. She gone..." the chef lapsed into heavy snoring. The man with the injured arm ran out of the kitchen back into the seating area and straight out through the front door. Once on the street he looked left and right before hesitating and turning left.



"Ow! Please! You're hurting me! Please! Aaaagggghhhhhh!"

Ivana couldn't tell if the final yell was one of agony, ecstasy or both. All she cared about was that it heralded the cyclist's orgasm. Evidently, he'd been saving himself for a while because he came in great, violent waves, filling her mouth with delicious juices. She swallowed again and again, drawing every single fluid ounce into her stomach, using her tongue to clear up any clinging particles until she was absolutely certain that she had cleaned him dry. When she lifted her head from his lap, his eyes were already closed. His organ deflated almost the second it left her mouth, its deep purplish colour indicative of severe bruising. She stood up, leaving him where he sat with his sore penis on display. Turning on her heels, she walked calmly out of the laundrette without throwing the cyclist so much as a glance.

Outside she quickly checked the street to be sure that no-one had seen her leave. "Fucking hell!" she muttered to herself. "It just gets better and better every time!" It was as though she was walking on air. The energy flowing through every corner of her body excited her. She felt fantastic.



Gary snored. His wife sat dutifully next to him, their backs against the wall, legs stretched out on the carpet. She stroked his hair. "Come on, darling." she said softly. "Wake up. I want to make you feel better again." Then, after a pause she added. "I want to make me feel better again."



Teuser stopped and leant against a lamppost, gasping for breath. He'd run the length of the street in both directions, desperately hoping that he would see the girl from the cafe again, but it was all in vain. She had vanished into thin air. He cursed. He'd seen her swallowing the coffee he'd laced with his formula. She had to be feeling the effects of it by now. Where was she? Was some other bastard now enjoying the effects of the magical compound he'd spent so much time perfecting? Why did nothing seem to work out the way he planned it these days? He needed a break. A way of escaping from himself and his troubles. At the edge of his field of vision, he caught sight of a large wood and glass door opening on to the street. The sign above it said "Rose and Crown". He checked his watch. Eleven a.m. He checked his pockets for money. Eight pounds thirty-six pence. He crossed the road and headed through the newly opened door. As he approached the bar, the landlord smiled. "Starting early. eh? What can I get you?"

"Large whisky, please." said Teuser.



Claire ran down the stairs into the Tube station. She couldn't get over how good she felt. It was so strange. She was a little guilty over what she had done with the chef in the cafe, but it had left her feeling so wonderful that she wasn't sure she didn't want to do it again. Though next time, she vowed, she'd find a guy she really liked the look of.



She couldn't help smiling. It had been a good morning. She'd hurt the man who had hurt her, although perhaps not seriously enough. Every molecule of her body glowed with health and vitality, more now than ever. Could she really be even more supercharged than earlier? If she had lifted a wardrobe eight hours before, how strong would she be now that she had "recharged" twice more? Ivana was desperate to investigate. She wanted somewhere to experiment, somewhere where she could test herself without drawing any attention. Somewhere where she could be alone, to plan her next move. She headed for home. With a inner chuckle she thought, "No-one better get in my way this afternoon!"



Rod Mrytle sat up yawning on Ivana's bed. Tiredly, he noticed his trousers and pants were round his ankles. He smiled, thinking of how they had gotten there. He tried to pull them up, and found that they were torn beyond repair. Something fell off his chest. Reaching down he retrieved the new front door key and the note that had been left with it. He read the scrap of paper and then placed it in his shirt pocket with the key. Then he yawned again. Why was he so tired? He lay down on his tenant's bed once again. Seconds later, he was deeply asleep.



It was twenty past eleven in the morning. Claire and Ivana made their respective ways home, both bounding with energy as Lynne sat patiently, enjoying the warm glow still spreading outwards from her belly. Meanwhile, the chef slept in the kitchen of the cafe, the cyclist slept in the laundrette, Harry Williams slept on his hospital bed and Gary Bowyer slept in the entrance hall of his house. And in the Rose and Crown, Sam Teuser took the last swallow from his second double whisky.


Conceptfan, Jul. 2003.

Part 5


"Steady on there, mate!"

Sam Teuser ignored the barman's friendly advice and threw the contents of his freshly-refilled whisky glass down his throat, slamming the empty tumbler back down onto the bar with a force that owed more to ill-judgement than anything else. The landlord took it as a defiant statement. "Right, that's enough for you, then." he announced.

Teuser thrust his good hand into his trouser pocket, intending to pull out a note and demand another drink, despite the finality of the barkeep's words. But his fingers encountered nothing but fabric. Muttering a silent, slightly slurred curse, he pulled his hand out and redirected it into his coat. He felt the cold, hard metal of coins and curled his fingers to try and scoop them all into his fist. The weight of the haul was promising; but when he brought his hand in front of his face and opened it, he saw that most of the coins were copper-coloured.

He didn't even have enough for another single shot, let alone the treble he wanted to order. "Fuck!" he said, more than loudly enough to be overheard. That earned him a reproachful glance from the landlord. With a snort, Teuser turned his back and began to walk, a little unsteadily, towards the exit. After a couple of steps, he paused. The scowl on his face shifted and then vanished, to be replaced by a mischievous half-grin.

He'd just remembered something. He'd woken up that morning clutching the previous night's bottle. And he had left it, back in his flat, still at least a quarter-full. He didn't need money or disapproving bar-staff to drink. He just needed to get home. He could worry about what to do next when he got there. After he'd had another whisky. Or three.



Everyone who used the squat was there, all of them in the front room. Ian was crouched next to the dormant form of Jack, angrily listening to the sleeping man's deep breathing. Bastard the dog lay curled at his master's feet, anxious for the moment when he would waken. Daz, a wannabe DJ and part-time soft drugs courier, stood in deep thought, looking down at his comatose housemate. Next to him, scratching his belly beneath a filthy, tattered T-shirt was Cal, the oldest member of the group.

Cal was a veteran of the drop-out scene, a man who had been living rough off his substance-addled wits when Jack was just a baby. His experience had led to him becoming the unofficial leader of the loose group, a role which he accepted grudgingly. That reluctance was unsurprising in a man who'd spent his adult life avoiding responsibility. Nonetheless, he knew that the others were waiting for him to speak first and that, for some reason, they seemed to value his opinion more highly then their own. Cal cleared his phlegm-filled throat.

"He's just sleeping." he pronounced.

"So how come he can't wake up then?" Ian spluttered from his position near the floor. "I'm telling you he's taken a ton of something and now he's sleeping it off."

"Calm down, Ian - for fuck's sake!" hissed Daz. "If Cal reckons he hasn't taken anything then that's good enough for me. Maybe he's just knackered - you know, not slept for a couple days and now he's-"

"Bollocks!" Ian interrupted. "Look at the facts, man! He goes out with the dog yesterday, comes back an hour later walking strange and goes straight to sleep and stays there for twenty fucking hours. The fucker scored some shit and finished it before he came back so he wouldn't have to share it with the rest of us. I thought he was supposed to be a real punk! What's he gonna do next? Get a fucking job?"



It was one of the quieter hours of the day to travel by Underground. Well past the morning rush, even for "media types" whose office day rarely started before half-past ten, and still before lunchtime. With no-one sat opposite her, Claire took advantage of the space to stretch out her long legs and slumped back in her seat, the posture causing her shapely, firm breasts to become even more noticeable beneath her T-shirt.

The Tube rattled noisily through its tunnel, rattling its contents but she paid no mind to the sound or the shaking. She was deep in thought, trying to comprehend the events of the past hour. She had fainted, albeit briefly, in a public toilet. She'd never lost consciousness like that before. But that was an insignificant occurrence in the light of what had happened after that.

She'd been seized by a compulsion. An irresistible, inner compunction to fellate the first man she laid eyes on as she left the lavatory. And she had obeyed the need, performing the act for the first time in her life with genuine enthusiasm and discovering, to her surprise, that she enjoyed it enormously. And it had left her feeling so wonderful afterwards, as if her recent spate of restless nights had never happened.

Claire had never been an impulsive girl. She couldn't fathom the origin of the sudden desire to do something she'd always thought of as distasteful. Was it connected in some way with her temporary black-out moments before? But that itself was strange. She hadn't felt in any way unusual prior to that.

She recalled the peculiar sequence of events. She hadn't felt dizzy when she had stood up to go to the toilet, even though she had risen rapidly to her feet because that creep at her table had put his hand on her leg. She shuddered at the thought of the unwelcome, intimate contact. And then, she suddenly sat up straight with a jolt. Had that bastard in the cafe spiked her coffee with some kind of sex drug? That would explain her black-out in the lavatory, not to mention her out-of-character behaviour afterwards.

She felt a little sick as she considered the possibility that she'd been the victim of a pervert's potion. She'd been fooled into carrying out an act she would never execute normally. There was no way, no way on Earth she would ever contemplate willingly taking a man into her mouth. She would never choose to do all that... licking the length of his shaft, tasting him... tasting.... tasting... Oh, that taste! That delicious, wonderful, taste....

Claire dropped her head into her hands, struggling to fight against the all-conquering sensation that was sweeping through her. "What have you done to me, you bastard?" she asked out loud. There was no answer from the empty carriage.



"Pedro! Pedro!" the fat man's booming voice echoed around the cafe kitchen, almost rattling the windows, but somehow failing to rouse its intended audience. Its owner's heavy footsteps followed into the room moments later. "Pedro, what's going on with that sausages an- Jesus!"

He hadn't expected to find his cook slumped on the work surface. "Pedro!" he shouted. The short frame with its head resting on the counter stirred slightly. The fat man went over to him, placed his huge hand on his employee's shoulder and pulled him up. The cook's eyes flicked open for a second and then shut again as if the effort required to keep them ajar was simply too great.

"Are you alright?" No answer. It was only then that he noticed the little man's trousers and underpants had fallen around his ankles. "What the hell happened to your clothes?" Again, there was no response. The cafe owner shook his cook violently by the shoulders. "Pedro!" he practically shouted in his face.

"Eh?" the chef asked, weakly.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You sick or something?" The muttered reply was inaudible.



Ivana just could not believe how wonderful she felt. She was far from home - far enough to consider taking a train or, in good times, hailing a taxi - but she was enjoying being on her feet too much. It was as if she had springs in her legs, each stride an effortless joy. Although earlier that same morning she'd already run further than she'd ever done before, she found herself breaking into a jog.

It was all so amazing. Running seemed to require no more energy than walking had. Her feet propelled her with utter ease as she tore down streets, weaving between other pedestrians who stopped and stared at her. Her large chest bounced beneath her top with every stride. That, added to the fact that she was running at a speed that only a handful of men on the planet could have hoped to have matched, drew even more attention to her.

She began to notice the people staring, and wondered why. It did not occur to her that she might be moving extraordinarily rapidly. After all, she was just enjoying a comfortable jog, keeping well within herself. Getting increasingly concerned by being the focus of so many strangers' gazes, she turned down a side-street, not reducing her remarkable pace in the slightest.

Of course, following the back-roads would stretch out her journey home even further. But Ivana didn't mind that. In fact, she was looking forward to a long run. At that moment, she felt as if she could run around the circumference of the globe without tiring.

She thought of the cyclist she’d left in the laundrette – the latest man to benefit from her bizarre urges - and the way the energy she had absorbed from him was now coursing through her. There was no doubt in her mind anymore. The way she felt was the clincher. Each time she obeyed that strange impulse to pleasure a man orally she was rewarded with a boost of energy. Not just energy, she reminded herself. Energy and strength. She smiled as she continued to run.



The old woman's screams brought people running into the laundrette from the street and the neighbouring shops. "Over there!" she shrieked at the first to arrive, her bony, wrinkled finger extended towards the far corner. They turned to look where she was pointing. Two of the men and one of the younger women in the group began to laugh. Two other women glanced at each other, then at the sky before turning to leave.

There, sitting on a bench, his back against the wall, was a completely nude young man. His genitalia were on full view and it looked for all the world as if he, or perhaps some other joker, had painted them dark blue. Even from ten yards away, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was obvious. "Must be drunk." one of the remaining on-lookers suggested.

"I'll call the police." volunteered another.



Tempers in the squat had reached boiling point.

"Look, I'm telling you he hasn't taken anything behind our backs!" Daz was losing his temper. "Jack's always shared everything he's had in the past. Leave him alone!"

"Leave him alone?" Ian's voice was heavy with incredulity. He's the one who's bogarted a triple dose of... of whatever the hell he took!"

"That's just your opinion, mate." Cal commented, trying to act as a calming influence. "He's not breathing like someone who's on something. He just looks knackered to me."

"Oh yeah?" Ian was defiant. "Watch this!" He placed his hand on the sleeping man's chin and used it to turn his head rapidly from side to side as he shouted "Jack! Jack! Wake the fuck up!"

Jack's eyelids opened slightly and he blinked as the dim light of the room hit his retinas. His mouth was obviously bone-dry and he had to lick his lips before any sound could pass through them. "Wha?" he said weakly.

"What the fuck did you take yesterday?" Ian demanded, loudly.

"Eh?" Jack still could not fully wake up.



Lynne was a patient woman. Marriage to Gary had given her plenty of practice at that. But she'd been sitting by his side, waiting for him to wake up for nearly two hours now. Surely he'd had enough of a nap now. Normally, she would not have dreamed of disturbing his sleep. But everything felt a little strange at that moment. Looking at his sleeping form, she was struck by how vulnerable he suddenly appeared. Suddenly the idea of interrupting his rest wasn't completely out of the question, like she had somehow been given an extra dose of courage.

It wasn't just the sight of him that emboldened her. There was also something inside her that made her urgently want him awake. A peculiar, almost inexplicable compulsion. A need to... to taste something. An urge. It seemed to come from nowhere and then grow rapidly until it pushed every other thought from her mind. It began as a whim and quickly became an imperative that she knew she was powerless to ignore. She had to have him in her mouth again. She couldn't understand why, but she knew that she craved the taste of his seed and that the desire would not dim until she fulfilled it.

The cord of his dressing gown was unfastened, so she had only to pull apart the two sides of the garment, rather like opening a narrow pair of curtains. She gasped involuntarily as the object of her lust was revealed and immediately reached for it with her right hand. She took her husband's flaccid organ delicately between her fingers, moving it around a little and squeezing it ever so carefully as though it were a piece of fruit she was testing for quality and ripeness in the supermarket. It felt good in her hand.

She began applying a little more pressure and was delighted to see her efforts returned by a slight stiffening of his penis. Encouraged, she began to stroke its length carefully between her thumb and two fingers. That had a much more impressive effect and within a minute he was almost completely erect. She took her hand away for a moment so she could have an unobstructed view of Gary's shaft. She'd seen it in this state many times before, but it somehow looked different this time. It looked inviting. It looked delicious.

Bending over his lap, she let the very tip of him brush against her lips. The contact sent a thrill through her entire being. She heard herself letting out a low moan as she leant in to kiss it properly, the light press of her sensitive lips against his flesh delighting her. She licked him slowly, tracing her tongue around the circumference of the dome of his member, loving the way he tasted. She also enjoyed the way his whole shaft quivered beneath her tongue as he responded, even in sleep, to her.



The cab had arrived. Now all that was left was for him to help his cook into it. It was going to be hell trying to cope with the lunchtime rush without him, but the man was clearly in no fit state to work. He'd never seen anything like it. He just seemed unable to keep his eyes open, or stay alert for more than a few seconds. The only place suitable for a man in that condition was his bed.

As the fat man helped the chef out of the front of the cafe, he told him "Call me if you can this evening and let me know if you're coming tomorrow." What else could he do? The man was a good cook and hadn't missed a day's work in the two years he'd been employed. They staggered towards the waiting taxi.

"Watch out!" the cafe-owner's shout was aimed at the man with his arm in a plaster cast who was shuffling unevenly along the pavement towards them.

"'Salright." the man slurred, steering a clumsy path around them. The fat man narrowed his eyes in concentration. He knew he recognised the guy from somewhere. Realisation dawned quickly. He had been in the cafe that morning - sitting opposite the pretty girl who had jumped up and shouted at him to leave her alone. And now, here he was again, half-drunk. It was barely noon.

"I've got my eye on you, mate." The cafe-owner growled.

"Faarkoff" the man with the damaged arm replied, without breaking his shuffle down the street.



At first, Claire barely noticed the young man getting on to the otherwise deserted carriage. He carried a heavy-looking shoulder bag which was so stuffed, she could see the outlines of hardback books stretching out the material. Unkempt hair fell over his forehead, just above a pair of thin, round-rimmed glasses. Everything about his clothing - the scarf, the sweatshirt, the worn-out jeans - screamed "Student!"

He looked around at the dozens of empty seats before, almost in a double-take, he swept his gaze back towards her. Something about her appearance clearly appealed to him because he kept his eyes on her for a few moments too long once she had returned his stare. She was used to that, and did not let it trouble her. She turned away as the student carefully selected a seat that offered him a good view of her, without being too close.

She'd already been on the train for a while. With nothing to read, she'd studied every advertisement in the carriage twice and was thoroughly bored. The only "new" thing to look at was the young man. She knew he was checking her out, stealing glances at her whenever he believed she wasn't looking. She turned her head to return the favour. He wasn't what she would call ugly, but he wasn't really her type either. Too weedy-looking. She preferred them more substantial. More muscular.

Claire eyes wandered down from the student's arms to his lap. A sudden jolt of the carriage temporarily knocked his hands away from their resting point on his knees. In the brief instant it took him to rearrange himself, she saw the small, but tell-tale bulge in the fly-area of his jeans. "I bet that's in my honour." she thought to herself.

She wasn't entirely happy with the idea of being trapped in the carriage with this young man and his... his... Suddenly, she felt strange. Her mind filled with images of what she thought the erection might look like. The images were incredibly attractive. They inspired her curiosity. She wanted to see the actual penis for herself. She wanted to be close to it. To touch it. To taste it. She stood up and locked her eyes on the student's. A look of wonder and then surprise came over him as slowly, sexily, she started to walk towards him.



In the twenty-three years that Sergeant Rick Brown had been on the Force, he'd seen humanity in all its varied guises. Criminals and madmen, villains and nutters, alcoholics and users, drunks and junkies. Perpetrators and victims, the aggressive and the scared. He was completely unfazed by the radio call for a squad car to check out a case of indecent exposure in a laundrette. He grabbed the radio to respond to the request. "This should be a laugh" he told the man sitting next to him. Two decades his junior, PC Frank Forrest, was impressed by Brown's decision-making.

"You done a lot of these?" he asked the older man.

"Oh yeah. Dozens. Happens all the time. You'd be surprised how many fellas crack up and end up with their dicks hanging out in public." Frank giggled. "Seriously." Brown added, but in a tone that made his colleague laugh even more. They pulled up outside the laundrette and got out of the panda car.

They saw it as soon as they opened the door. "Step aside please, ladies and gentlemen." the Sergeant announced to the three members of the public inside. A man and a young woman were standing by the naked man in the corner. A third person was throwing dirty clothes into one of the washers, apparently oblivious to the bizarre scene.

The two who had been with the nude looked up, and at the sight of the two uniforms filled by tall, imposing men, moved to the side. That was when Brown and Forrest saw the man's limp, peculiar-coloured organ. "Is...that..painted?" the younger policeman asked out loud, stifling his laughter.

"No," the young woman answered a little too quickly. "I think it's bruised or something. Can't see any cuts on it or anything like that."

"Been conducting a thorough examination, have we?" Brown inquired of her. Forrest bit his lip to prevent peels of hysterics escaping. The woman blushed deep crimson.

"I was... concerned." she excused herself, unconvincingly. "We can't seem to wake him up."

The Sergeant approached the sleeping form. "Is that his bicycle?" he asked, pointing to a badly damaged bike that had been propped up nearby.

"Dunno." the woman replied.

"Not as interested in the bike as the prick." Brown muttered under his breath. He turned his attention back to following protocol. He faced his colleague. As a Constable, Forrest had the idea piece of police equipment for the first task they needed to complete. "Constable," he said, holding out his hand, "your helmet, please." Forrest handed over his ornamental headgear. With an expertise that hinted at considerable experience, Brown placed the hat over the comatose man's exposed groin.

The Sergeant lowered his face in front of the sleeper's. "Hello, mate. Had a good night?" There was no answer. Brown checked the man's arms for signs of needle-marks, but found none. He didn't even smell of booze. He put his hand on the guy's shoulder and shook it a little. "Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!" he called.

An eye opened, half-way. "Huh?"

"Sorry to disturb you, sir." Sergeant Brown was starting to enjoy himself. "I was just wondering if you might be able to tell me what you are doing sleeping in the nude in a public laundrette." There was a reply, but it was an incomprehensible mumble that quickly faded to nothing. Brown grabbed his radio. He called for an ambulance.

"No, we won't be requiring any assistance.... Special instructions for the medical crew? Well, the patient appears to be barely conscious... No, I don't think it's drink or drugs... Injuries? No, no breaks or cuts... Just, ah, a severe, er..." he briefly lifted Forrest's helmet and looked at what lay underneath. His face contorted as he reacted to the sight. "...um, severe bruising of the sexual organ... No, I said sexual organ.... His penis...."



A quarter past noon? That couldn't be right. Ivana glanced down the street, and checked the electronic clock and temperature gauge mounted outside her local pharmacy. It agreed with her watch. But that would mean she had ran all the way home in less than an hour. That just wasn't possible. And yet it had to be; she was home and the time was twelve fifteen. How fast must've she had been jogging?

She did the sum. She was surprised how easy it was; even her mind seemed to be quicker and more agile than ever before. "Fuck" she muttered as she considered the result. And she wasn't even out of breath. When she added that wonder to the knowledge that she seemed to be gaining increased mental as well as physical abilities, she shook her head in amazement. It was like being a superwoman.

She thought of how easily she'd lifted a full, heavy wardrobe the previous evening. She'd twice surrendered to the strange urge to fellate since she left her flat that morning. If each one made her more powerful - and the proof of that was in the astonishing speed and stamina she had just shown - then, how strong would she be now?

She needed to go up to her room and sit down and think for a while. She reached into her pocket where she normally kept the keys to her front door and stopped. The brand new door facing her reminded her that the lock had been changed overnight. She'd left the only copy of the new key with her landlord. And she'd left her landlord sleeping on her bed.

Pulling out her mobile phone, she found she had no signal. She walked a little down the street until she could dial his number. After ten unanswered rings she heard his familiar unattractive voice. "Hi, this is Rod Myrtle. I can't get your call right now, so leave a message after the beep." Frustrated, she hung up without speaking.

She returned to her door. Remembering how the door had come to need replacement - she had smashed it with her fists - she smiled. Myrtle will just have to pay out for a second new door, she thought. And find another builder to fit it, she added, recalling the brief confrontation she had had with the handyman which had left the big guy with two badly hurt hands.

She didn't want to make a big scene on the street, so she stood as close as she could to the door and pressed two fingers of her right hand on the lock mechanism. Something immediately started to creak. She hadn't even pressed down hard yet. She could see the metal lock housing bending beneath her fingertips and the sight excited her. Was she that strong?

She watched as her fingers continued to sink into the solid metal panel. From beneath the surface, she heard the unmistakeable sound of metal protesting futilely against the unbearable strain it was under. Then, with a dull thump, the lock gave way. A small chunk of door broke around the remains of the lock. Splintered wood and mangled metal fell inside the flat and the door swung open.

Ivana inspected the damage she had wrought. She'd only really rested her fingers on the lock. What would have happened if she'd actually pushed? Or used her whole hand? She bounded up the stairs to her flat, in awe at the raw physical strength she now seemed to possess. It was incredible to think she had absorbed so much power from the five men she had given head. As she slowly inserted the key to her bed-sit, taking great care to avoid causing more damage, she wondered if the men were missing whatever it was she had sucked out of them.



Jack just couldn't force himself awake. Despite his vague awareness of the small crowd of familiar faces that had gathered around him, and the insistent tone of the interrogation he was being subjected to, he was unable to find the strength to sit up and open his eyes. Nonetheless, Ian was persisting.

"What did you take, fucker?"

"Nothing. Leave me alone. Need to sleep." What did he have to say to make Ian understand that he was telling the truth?

"You've been sleeping for a whole fucking day! What did you take?"

"Nothing! Let me sleep!"

Ian grabbed Jack's chin and shook his housemate's head violently for a second time. "You're not sleeping 'till you tell us what you took yesterday!"

"Take it easy, Ian!" Cal chided, without moving. Typically, his involvement would remain purely verbal.

"I'm tired, man." Jack pleaded. "I'll tell you later. Just let me sleep.."

"No. Tell me now!" Ian shouted.

"OK, OK." Jack tried to sit up, but evidently the effort required was beyond him and he lay back down, his eyes barely open. "Fuck, I'm tired." he observed. "Look, I really need to sleep. I swear, I haven't taken anything. I just went out with Bastard for a walk, that's all."

"So how come you came straight back and went to sleep for a day then?" demanded Ian.

"I.. I... er.... I met.... a..... woman...and she... er... she gave me... er..."

Ian was impatient. "What did she give you, Jack? Heroin? Smack?"

"No... I swear I haven't taken anything!"

"What did the woman you met give you?" Daz asked, his calm enquiry providing a stark contrast to Ian's frantic questioning.

"She... uh... she gave me a blow job."

The unexpected reply caused an explosion of laughter as Cal and Daz doubled over, their bodies shuddering with hysteria. Even Ian lost his scowl and - briefly - chuckled. When he'd recovered sufficiently, he commented: "Must've been one hell of a performance if it's made you this tired!"

But Jack didn't answer. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slowing as he drifted back towards deep sleep. Daz and Cal were moving away, heading towards the window that served as their front door, still laughing.



Claire's tongue flicked frantically again and again, lashing the student's quivering penis as she parted her thick lips as wide as she could and leant forwards, taking him into her mouth once more. Her lips formed an air-tight seal around the base of his shaft, and she stretched it by sucking hard, now scraping her tongue over the sensitive tip of the organ.

She heard the young man's moans of pleasure somewhere above her, but was too absorbed in her own enjoyment of the act to acknowledge them. Something about the way he tasted was driving her into a frenzy, her tongue and lips working ever harder as she longed for the moment when he would convulse and fire his semen into her throat.

Drawing her head back and forwards as fast as she could, she kept her lips locked tight all the while on his erection as she let it slide into and out of her mouth, squeezing it, pulling it. She let her top teeth touch his wonderful warm flesh. Continuing the frantic woodpecker-like movement of her head, the slight scraping of her enamel along his length brought a new, more urgent sound from him.

Believing him to be on the verge of a triumphant explosion inside her mouth, she found from somewhere the necessary energy to increase the speed of her ministrations, lashing his member with her tongue as she sucked hard on it and stroked it firmly with her teeth and lips. The sounds from above became high-pitched. She bit down on him very gently.

Suddenly, the student's entire body shuddered. His penis seemed to draw into itself for one, brief, magical anticipatory moment and then, delightfully, he came in her mouth. She was amazed by the strength of the convulsions as jet after jet of thick, hot syrup hit the back of her throat, sliding down so deliciously into her stomach.

She pulled on him with her lips as if trying to draw out every last drop of fluid from him. Her tongue methodically licked all over the throbbing head and pulsating shaft, making sure that not a single drop of his exquisite cum went to waste. She gripped him with her lips, ensuring that he could not slip out of her mouth until she was completely satisfied that he had nothing more to give her.

When she was finally done, she stood up, licking her lips. Only then did she notice the rapidly growing and darkening bruises on his shrinking, limp organ. She also saw the twin red marks her teeth had left along his length. What had she done? No wonder he had made so much noise! She looked up at his face. His eyes were closed and his chest rising and falling slowly. He'd fallen asleep.

Claire suddenly became aware of her surroundings once again. How could she have done something so... outrageous? With a total stranger! On public transport! What was happening to her today? She was acting like an animal with no sense of control. Had she really been a victim of some kind of drug? What else could explain the fact that, having never considered oral sex as an attractive idea before, she now had a belly full of semen?

She sat down, confused. Thinking of the contents of her stomach made her realise that she could feel a warm glow deep within her. It was as if swallowing the student's seed had caused a fire to be lit in the centre of her body and its pleasant heat was spreading outwards, through her chest and on, right to the tips of her fingers. She was being refreshed - revitalised, even - by the warmth. In her mind, she felt concern for her bizarre behaviour. Physically, however, she felt fantastic.



"He's over in the corner" Sergeant Brown pointed as the first green-uniformed paramedic came through the door of the laundrette. "He's unresponsive, but there's no external sign of any substance or alcohol abuse. I haven't seen any other injuries other than, er... that."

"Blimey! What happened here?" the ambulanceman asked as his gaze settled on the unconscious cyclist's unnaturally discoloured sexual organ.

"Wish I knew." Brown chuckled. "As usual, no-one saw anything."

A second member of the medical crew joined the two of them. "Ouch!" was the new arrival's preliminary verdict.

"Ever seen anything like that before, Brian?" his colleague enquired.

"Only in a dodgy video." answered Brian. The three men laughed. A moment later, the paramedics began the careful process of moving the object of their amusement onto a trolley. Brown removed his partner's helmet and held the door open as the two men in green transported the gurney to the waiting ambulance parked outside.

"You chaps OK from here?" the Sergeant asked as he helped one of the medics close the back doors of the emergency vehicle.

"I don't think blue-dick needs an escort" the ambulanceman opined, with a nod in the direction of his charge.

The Sergeant walked over to his own car where PC Forrest was already waiting. Handing the Constable back his helmet, he said, with a chuckle "Here. You might want to give this a wash later."



Gary was experiencing the most vivid, most wonderful erotic dream of his life. His subconscious had taken him to a place where he lay naked and prone on an endless feather-soft mattress. All around him, infinite beautiful women cavorted in the nude, showing off their spectacular bodies, occasionally rubbing them against his own. They danced for him, moving suggestively as their eyes sought out his, as though pleading with him to show that their exhibitions pleased him. Everywhere he looked he saw more women competing for his attention. They reached for him, touching him, stroking him.

He let himself become lost amongst the sensations as the caresses increased in frequency and intensity all over his body. He was aware that he was naked in his dream, but when he looked down, he couldn't see the lower portion of his body. He wasn't sure why, but his vision just became lost in the mass of naked flesh. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't see anything below his waist. Still the women continued their extraordinary performances, oblivious to his growing unease at the inability to look down, their hands rubbing against his lower body, beyond his sense of sight, but well within his sense of feel.

Gary felt himself becoming ever harder, the inevitable response to the fantastic bombardment of his senses. Something soft and warm was running slowly up and down the length of his manhood, a beautiful feeling that filled his body with pleasure. Yet, at the same time, he was disturbed by not being able to see what it was. All he could see were a million naked female forms, their gorgeous bodies touching him everywhere. But he just couldn't see what was creating the wonderful pressure on his penis.

And that pressure kept on increasing. His feeling of slight discomfort grew too. The more he felt himself being so expertly squeezed and the more he was driven on towards an orgasm, the more he ached to know how it was being done. He tried to push away some of the women crowding around his upper body, hoping that by clearing them away, his vision would become clear. But each time he managed to move one of them, another would immediately take her place, pressing herself erotically against him.

He was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Discomfort gave way to anxiety which built steadily towards outright panic. He tried to shout "Get away from me!" but, as so often occurs in dreams, no sound left his lips. Still, the women continued to rub against him. Still the pleasurable sensation below his waist increased in intensity. He tried to swing his arms, to knock the closest female forms away from his body, but there were so many of them that his limbs could barely move at all before meeting soft, smooth, warm flesh.

What was going on down there? Why couldn't he see. He writhed around, but that only served to encourage more lovely naked skin to press against him. Everywhere there were long smooth arms, beautiful round hips and thighs, exquisitely shaped legs, soft cheeks and lips and generous full breasts with firm, pert nipples. They touched him intimately, pushed into him, stroked him, caressed him. He felt as though he was drowning, sinking beneath the surface of a sea of sexy nudes. He realised, in a panic that he had no control over the situation. He was helpless. This wasn't his erotic fantasy. This was an erotic nightmare.



Ivana managed to open the door to her room without smashing it to matchsticks or contorting the metal lock into a Dali-esque blob. But the joy of that achievement was instantly dismissed as she entered the tiny space. There, on her bed, torn trousers and underwear still around his ankles, lay the disgusting form of her landlord. His snores reminded her of the sound of a man sawing through a thick block of wood.

She felt nothing but disgust towards him. The sight of his body repulsed her. The thought that he had spent an entire night and morning sleeping on her bed sickened her. He was supposed to have made copies of the new door-key - or at the very least answered his mobile phone when she called him - so that she would not have been forced to break in.

Now, the building was vulnerable, open to the street and this fat bastard was doing nothing but lazing. This was her space, the only tiny place in the world where she could be in private. She paid him, heavily, for the privilege of having that space. And here he was, denying her that privacy with his ugliness.

Looking at him on her bed, she could not understand how it was possible that she had felt such a strong desire to give him sexual pleasure. He was so disgusting. She was angry. Angry with herself for performing such an act on such a repulsive man. Above all, she was angry with Myrtle, for letting her surrender to her inexplicable urge and for sleeping on her bed, violating her space.

She stood, straight, by the side of her bed, looking down at the object of her ire and disgust. The negativity was apparent in her tone as she said "Wake up!" The large man stirred but did not open his eyes. "I said wake up!" Ivana almost shouted.

"Eh?" Myrtle half opened his left eye, struggling to focus through it. He coughed several times. Horrid, phlegm-stirring coughs.

"Get out of my room!" Ivana scowled, her pretty face temporarily contorted in an expression of her distaste.

Myrtle yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. The brief glimpse of his yellow teeth and furred tongue turned her stomach. "Jus' give us another couple of hours, love." he mumbled, the half-opened eye closing once again.

"No!" she couldn't contain herself any longer. "Get out!"

"I.. can't. Let me sleep a bit more love." her landlord muttered. There was no way she was going to allow that. She looked down at him. The thought of touching him was unpleasant. But the thought of leaving him there was worse. She remembered the wardrobe she'd lifted the previous evening. Hadn't she wanted to experiment with her increased strength when she got home?

Tentatively, she reached down. It was difficult to decide which part of his overweight, greasy body to take hold of. Seeing the torn remnants of his trousers still around his ankles, she realised she could grab the big man's lower leg through the material without actually having to touch his skin directly. It seemed the best way to proceed so she slowly curled her fingers around the cloth covering his left ankle.

Knowing that she would need a good grip if she actually wanted to lift his leg, she gripped him firmly. A series of loud crunching sounds immediately filled the room. Before they came to an end, Myrtle sat up, his eyes wide open, and screamed. His cries did not stop once she let go of him. His pupils seemed to be rolling upwards into his skull and his arms thrashed about. He was clearly in agony. Ivana took a step back, away from him, as the understanding of what had happened sunk in.

She'd crushed the bones in his ankle - merely by gripping it with her little hand. And now the slob's screams were going to alert everyone within a mile radius to what she'd done. She had to shut him up. Unsure what to do, she tried placing her hand over his open mouth. Immediately, the volume of his yells was dramatically reduced. The muffled sounds escaping from him were far more acceptable, and she used the moment of relative calm to consider her next action.

She did not notice, for a few seconds, that her landlord had taken both of his fat, sweaty hands and placed them on her slender arm. When she did see it, she was shocked. Shocked because of the trembling of his forearms, the sweat pouring onto his brow, the whiteness of his knuckles and the extreme bulging of the tendons on his hands. He was trying to move her hand, with all his might. And she hadn't even felt his efforts!

Three key factors seemed to be in his favour: he dwarfed her, he was using two of his hands against one of hers, and leverage was on his side. And yet, it was no effort at all for her to keep her small hand over his mouth, virtually silencing his screams. The look of curious interest on her beautiful features contrasted completely with the agonised panic contorting his ugly face.

She was still marvelling at her strength when, suddenly, Myrtle's struggles faded and his hands dropped away, falling on to her bed. His eyes had shut again. She realised that he must have passed out. She paused for a moment to consider the implication of what she had done. She'd broken his ankle and then smothered him unconscious. She was in real trouble.



Claire bounded up the 93-step escalator that lead to the tube station exit, taking two stairs at a time. She wasn't sure what was harder to believe; the fact that she had just performed an act of oral sex on a stranger in a train carriage, or the way she felt so... alive. She reached the top of the giant stairway in no time at all, and was amazed to find that she wasn't even slightly out of breath. She felt ready, if anything, to run up another half-dozen escalators.

Mechanically slipping into well-practised routine, she inserted her ticket into the slot on the exit barrier and strolled through. From the ticket concourse, three separate short flights on stairs lead to the streets above. Choosing the one that would leave her closest to home, she walked towards it.

As she lifted her foot towards the first step, she reached, unthinkingly, for the metal handrail. The familiar solid chrome rail felt somehow strange in her grasp and she stopped dead in her tracks as an inhuman squeal echoed through the concrete tunnels. The squeal stopped instantly. It was only when she lifted her hand to take another step that she became aware of the noise's source. The shiny handrail had a deep dent in it, right where her hand had been. That hadn't been there before.

Tentatively, she placed her hand back onto the handrail, selecting a portion of it away from the new indentation. Slowly, she squeezed her fingers together. She felt the metal actually moving very slightly beneath her hand. The same tortured scream grated on her ears, although not quite as loud as before. She relaxed her fingers and the noise ceased. Moving her hand away, she examined the rail where she had gripped it.

Claire gasped as she saw the half-inch deep dents her fingers had imprinted in the dense chrome. She brought her hand up to her face and turned it around in front of her eyes, trying to see if it looked any different from that morning. But there was no sign of any change. Confused, she walked up the rest of the stairs without touching the handrail, and turned for home.



"Hey! Jack! Jack! C'mon, wake up!" Ian tried to shake his flatmate awake once again.

"Leave me alone, man." the skinny man croaked.

"Jack, Cal and Daz've gone. There's no-one else here. Tell me what really happened."

"I already did."

"I don't believe you."

"I swear it's the truth, Ian. I wouldn't take something without saving some for you - you know that, man."

"So... some woman just walked up to you and asked if you'd like her to suck you off?"

"Yeah. I swear... well, she didn't really ask. She kind of just did it."

"What? Completely out of the blue?"

"Yeah. Now let me sleep."

"Where did it happen Jack?"

"On that bit of park by the high street. I was taking Bastard to have a crap and she just started coming on to me and the next thing I knew she had my dick in her gob. I swear that's what happened. Now piss off so I can sleep."
Jack rolled over. Before Ian could think of his next question, the sounds of snoring were clearly audible.

Ian walked away and sat down on the best chair in the squat - an upturned packing crate. Turning to the dog, he asked with great sincerity: "Why doesn't that kind of stuff ever happen to me?"



Gary felt himself sinking below the surface of the sea of nudes. He tried to kick out, to push the uncountable, stifling, beautiful bodies away, but his limbs seemed to be paralysed. There were pressing against him so hard now, squeezing him from all directions, restricting his lungs and airways. He was already struggling to breathe but now it was becoming harder and harder to get oxygen. He feared he was about to die.

And that was the moment he awoke with a start. A small cry left his lips as his eyes flicked open. It took him a moment to realise where he was; the hallway of his home was familiar enough, but he did not expect to wake up sitting in one corner of it. He remembered flashes of his dream, and felt the same insistent pressure on his sexual organ. Now, however, there was nothing to block his view of his groin. Nothing except the back of his wife's head.

"Lynne!" he exclaimed, shocked at how weak and unauthoritative his voice sounded. "Lynne! What are you doing?"

She lifted herself slowly from his lap, letting his full length slide agonisingly from her mouth before turning to him with a grin on her face and a glint in her eye that he had never seen before. "Shh!" she said, soothingly. "Close your eyes and enjoy." She'd barely uttered the final syllable before she turned her head back to his erect, pulsating penis.

"Lynne, stop! Not now, I don't feel-" Without moving her head away from his groin, she brought her hand up to his face, extending the index finger and placing it vertically over his lips. The meaning was clear; she was telling him to be quiet. But Gary was shocked. She knew better than to tell him to be quiet. But to interrupt him, mid-sentence? There was no way he could allow her to do that.

"How dare you interrupt me!" he tried to bellow. But he could not generate anything like the force he hoped his voice would carry. Not only that, but he sounded slightly less deep than normal, the higher-than-usual pitch further diminishing the command of his words. Instead of making a threat, he sounded plaintive. To his horror, his wife, rather than jumping at his every word, seemed to be completely ignoring him. What on Earth had gotten into her?



Ivana was halfway down the stairs that lead from the door to her tiny flat to the street entrance when her mobile rang. Her phone was in her right jeans pocket and it required a complex operation to dig it out with her left hand. That meant she had to transfer what she was carrying in her right hand first. She accomplished the feat with a remarkable ease which surprised even her, and answered the call.

The unconscious, semi-naked form of her overweight landlord dangled from her left hand as she spoke. She had him gripped with her fingers wrapped around his armpit and shoulder, her slender arm raised in the air so that his hanging feet weren't dragging on the ancient, worn carpet of the staircase, holding him at arm's length as she might carry a bag of malodorous kitchen waste.

Supporting all his considerable bulk with her left hand felt just as effortless to her as using her right had done. In fact, she'd passed his fat form from one hand to the other as casually as she would have transferred a paper-back book. The only problem was that Rod Myrtle was a lot larger than a book, and she had banged his enormous rear against the wall of the narrow staircase in the process.

Not particularly concerned with the extra bruises she had given the big man, she spoke into her 'phone.

"Yeah, what?"

"It's me, Gerald." the caller began. When she didn't acknowledge the name, he went on. "You know, your Thursday morning regular." Still she didn't give any indication of recognition. "The... er... gloves man."

Of course, she knew who she was speaking to. She had offered her services to Gerald, a timid, pale man with an exceptionally well-paid position in the banking industry, most Thursday mornings for the past three years. He had a thing for elbow length leather gloves and insisted that she always wore a pair when she was with him. Not one to pass up a business opportunity, Ivana always charged a little extra to accommodate his request.

"I'm busy this morning," she told her habitual client, glancing down at the overblown form of her landlord, still dangling from her left hand. She should have worn Gerald's gloves to handle the fat greasy berk, she thought to herself.

"Please, love. I've had a bad week and need some cheering up." The banker's weedy, pleading voice did nothing to ingratiate its owner with her.

"That's not my fault." she replied, a little harshly.

"Ah, c'mon. I won't take a full hour..."

"I told you I'm busy."

"I'll be really quick, I promise. In and, er, out in twenty minutes." She could almost hear him blushing at the crudeness of his unintentional pun.

"Forget it, Gerald. I've got my hands full." Strictly speaking, it was only one hand that was full - full of the unpleasant blubbery flesh of Rodney Myrtle. Her experience should have warned her that a man with certain needs can be doggedly persistent. She should have hung up the phone but she was thinking of the correct words to use to get through to him; to explain that she would not see him that day no matter how much he begged, but that she still wanted him as a long-term client. No sense harming her future income.

Perhaps she was distracted by the fact that her arm was not tiring despite the weight it was supporting. Whatever the reason, she left enough of a gap in the conversation for him to continue his negotiations: "OK, OK. Just a blow-job then? Please!"

A blow-job? She'd said she was too busy. What made this idiot think that she would be any less busy because he wanted a different service to his usual? Here she was, trying to deal with her unconscious landlord and come to terms with the bizarre changes that were happening to her, and this guy was asking for... for... "Be here in twenty minutes." she ordered him, pressing the hang-up button on her phone. She put it back in her pocket and continued the task of carrying Myrtle out to the street.



Sam Teuser turned the whisky bottle in his hand upside down over his glass and shook it. Nothing but a tiny drop fell from the empty container. With a snort, he tossed it aside, not looking when it fell with a dull thump onto the carpet beside him. He brought his tumbler up to his lips and tilted it to ensure that every last molecule could enter his bloodstream. His eyes closed as he savoured the taste of the mediocre-quality malt on his tongue.

With his eyelids still down, he moved to place his emptied glass on the small table he was sitting at. A second passed before he heard the gentle tap of the glass landing on the carpet. He opened his eyes and saw that he'd missed the top of the table by a good few inches. For a moment, he considered picking up the fallen object and then stopped himself with a muttered "Fuck it." What was the point of a glass if he had nothing to pour into it?

He turned his attention back to the only object still actually on the table: a large glass bottle three-quarters full of colourless liquid. His formula. He studied its transparent contents, as if the atoms within could provide him with the answers he sought. This was his great creation; his passport to happiness and wealth. So, why was he alone, hopelessly drunk and knee-deep in the wreckage of his career?



"Stop it, Lynne!" Why couldn't he shout properly? It was as if he lacked the strength even to use his voice. Worse than that, his wife had started to disregard his words completely. When he recovered, he vowed he would give her a beating she would never forget. How dare she disrespect him in this way! She wasn't even looking at him as he spoke - or tried to speak. She was focussed completely on his groin, continuing her insistent sucking and licking.

His hands and arms ached as he raised them from his sides. He'd never felt so weak. He wanted to pull Lynne's head away from his aching penis, to grab her skull and shake some sense into it. To make her obey him. But the effort of placing his two palms on either side of her ears left him out of breath and in pain. He fought through it, straining as he tried to lift her head. To his horror, his efforts brought no result other than an unbearable ache in his muscles.

Not for a second did she seem to let up in her earnest ministrations. It was as though he hadn't touched her at all and yet the discomfort and exhaustion in his body was proof enough that he had tried. Gary was scared. If his wife had not felt - or at the very least chosen to ignore - his best efforts to physically intimidate her, then he was lost. He had nothing, no way to make her stop. No way to prevent her doing what she wanted to do, no matter how much it hurt him. No matter how tired he was feeling.

He thought back to his dream and remembered the sensation of drowning, of helplessness. Of not be able to fight back against the tide. There was nothing he could do. Nothing except surrender and let himself be pulled beneath the surface. Unless... Unless he forgot his pride and his arrogance and pleaded with his wife. But he'd never done that before and the thought of exposing his weakness terrified him. Almost as much as the ever increasing agony in his sexual organ.



Clare had never walked home from the tube so quickly. And she'd never felt so refreshed after the journey. Or so confused. Too much was happening to her. She'd left home that morning looking for work. In the short space of time since, she'd performed oral sex on two strangers having twice fallen victim to an irrepressible urge to carry out the act. She'd never even considered servicing a man in such a way before. She was sure she found the idea of it distasteful.

Yet, she'd done it twice, and with enthusiasm on both occasions. And now, she felt strange. Not "strange" as in uncomfortable, but "strange" as in marvellous. Recharged. Full of energy. And then there was that peculiar incident with the chrome handrail. Her delicate fingers deforming the metal like something out of a sci-fi film. As though she had suddenly becoming really, really... strong.

Approaching her front door, she reached into her bag for her keys, and failed to find them. She cursed. It was not the first time she had left them on her dressing table. She reached for the doorbell, praying that her flatmate would be both at home and awake, a rare combination in a young man addicted to night-club life. Her slender finger pressed the bell, and it sounded briefly inside the building before, to her shock, the button crumbled into its housing. The little white plastic box also collapsed beneath her fingertip, little chunks of it raining down onto the ground at her feet.

"What the fuck is happening to me?" she asked the universe, out loud. There was no reply.



She'd decided at the last moment not to leave Myrtle semi-naked and unconscious out on the street. Not when she realised that the cleaning cupboard under the stairs offered a much more discreet solution. It was locked of course, but like most things in Myrtle's properties, it was a crappy lock. Ivana broke it by pinching the bar of the padlock between her thumb and forefinger, whilst she kept her landlord suspended from her other hand.

With the lock as good as destroyed, she pulled open the door and swung her left arm, releasing her cargo. The cupboard was small, but virtually empty. She was anything but careful as she manoeuvred his bulk into the space, his back slamming against the far wall with considerable force. She brushed off her hands, and closed the cupboard door on him with her foot, being careful not to use too much strength and break the thick wood panel.

The door swung back open, and she shut it once more, but it would not stay closed. Understanding that the badly-built thing would remain open now that it was not held in place by the padlock, she bent down and picked up the broken lock. Squeezing it in her fingers, she completely remoulded the brass into a cigarette-shaped cylinder, the metal yielding completely to her whim. Impressed with what she had done, she inserted the tiny bar she'd made into the holes the padlock had hung from, keeping the door closed most effectively.

She was still admiring her handiwork when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching the broken front door. "Hello?" enquired a familiar, slightly pathetic voice. She looked up. Without bothering to return the greeting, she turned for the stairs to her room. "Upstairs." she said simply over her shoulder, leading the way. She heard Gerald the glove man picking his way through the damaged entrance as she climbed and the excited sound of his breathing. With a start, she realised that she could also hear his heart pounding.



"Lynne, please!"

Gary's words had a startling effect on his wife. As soon as he had uttered them, she stopped her ministrations and looked up at him almost in shock. Had he really said "please"? Like he was pleading with her - begging her not to do what she was doing.... Yet Gary never asked her for things - he just demanded. And then became violent if he didn't get what he wanted without delay. He'd never had to beg before. But he'd never seemed as... as weak as he was now. And she'd never wanted to do anything against his will as badly as she wanted to do this.

She looked into his face and read the helplessness and desperation in his eyes. It surprised her. She would never have suspected him capable of having such emotions. It was as if her husband had been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by a faulty clone. She knew that if yesterday she'd tried to do what she was doing now, Gary would have beaten her within an inch of her life. But today... Today, something had changed. She didn't know if it was just him who was different or whether she had altered too. Either way, the way she felt towards him was completely novel.

It all seemed to have happened in that brief spell where she had passed out and awoken to find him slumped in the entrance hall downstairs. One moment he was his usual, aggressive self and the next he was like a timid child. And as for herself... Before she lost consciousness, she had been terrified of him. Now, she just wanted to give him oral sex and she didn't care whether he wanted her to stop or not. She wasn't afraid anymore. She was in control of the situation. She was in charge. And she loved it.

Lynne's rich lips parted in a bright, genuine smile which she shone over her husband. "There, there." she soothed, patronisingly. "Everything's going to be alright. I'll make you feel nice again." She bent back towards his lap, her mouth opening in anticipation of resuming its task.

She didn't stop when his uncharacteristically pleading voice called out "No, please, no!"



She was waiting for him as he got to the top of the stairs. Gerald knew which was her room; he'd been in it many times before. Always on Thursdays, when his secretary thought he had a regular doctor's appointment and his wife believed he was in meetings at work. "Thank you for fitting me in." he puffed, genuinely grateful, even though he was the paying customer in the relationship. He turned to smile at her, but his expression soon shifted to one of disappointment, like a child handed a gift-wrapped parcel which turns out, when the first piece of paper is removed, to be a school book.

"You're not wearing the gloves!" he said, slightly accusingly.

"Do you want this blow-job or not?" she demanded back, pulling her T-shirt over her head at the same time, her aggressive tone taking him by surprise even as the fabulous sight of her wonderbra-clad breasts was revealed to him.

"Yes, yes. Of course!" he hurried to reassure her. "But with the gloves!"

"Too bad." she said, reaching over his shoulder to close the bedroom door behind him. Her body was close to his now. Quickly, she made the gap disappear altogether, so that her large chest touched his, through his shirt and her bra. She was astonished to note that she could clearly hear the quickening of his heartbeat as she leant into him.

"The gloves, please!" he pleaded.

"No." She placed the fingers of her left hand on his stomach and pushed gently. As she hoped, that was enough to make him take a stumbling step backwards until his back hit the door. Having all this strength was wonderful. She advanced on him until they were touching again and hooked both sets of her fingers around the waistband of his trousers. Tugging carefully, she effortlessly tore the thick, expensive material apart, letting the pieces fall around his ankles.

"Hey, my trousers!" Gerald exclaimed, shocked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you the blow-job you wanted. Now shut up." Her right hand flashed out, gripping the front of his shirt just beneath the collar and gathering a fistful of shirt and tie. Tentatively, she lifted her arm, delighted at the ease with which his entire body came off the floor. She barely felt the strain of his weight on her single, slim arm as she raised him higher and higher, his back pressed against the wall. He was spluttering above her head but she ignored him entirely.

He placed both his hands over her right wrist, desperately trying to prise her off him, but to no avail. Stifled sounds revealed that he was trying to speak or even shout, but her grip was robbing him of the ability to make coherent noises. Still she raised him higher until, just before the top of his head hit the low ceiling, his groin was level with her face. She studied it, contemptuously. "What's this?" she demanded. "How can I do anything with it like that? Have you gone off women? I thought you wanted a blow-job!"

If he had wanted to respond, she would not have known. He was making noises, but none that resembled actual words. Not that she was listening anyway. She leant towards his flaccid manhood, addressing it directly as she spoke, making sure her hot breath washed over it. "Looks like I've got to do everything myself. Come on, get hard!" she urged. She drew her right arm down a little, lowering Gerald's entire body until he was the perfect height for her to use her free hand to lay his penis on the balcony of her breasts.

That intimate contact had an immediate effect. The blood began to pump into his organ, and its size increased dramatically under her gaze. Encouraged by the success of her tactic, she placed her palm on top of his growing member, pushing it down against her chest. Now he was beginning to become really hard. She rolled him back and forth as if kneading dough over the top of her mounds, only stopping when a particularly urgent cry from above her head let her know that she was hurting him.

By then, he was completely ready for her. She straightened her right arm once again, lifting him quickly and holding him immovably against the door until his fully extended length was directly in front of her mouth. Subconsciously, she licked her lips in anticipation. Then, she parted them and moved her head forward, taking as much of him as she could into her warm soft mouth. Her tongue flicked out at him as her lips locked around the base of his shaft. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the deliciousness of it all.



Lynne sat back, running her tongue around her mouth, making sure that none of her husband's juice would evade her stomach. It had taken her quite a while to bring him to orgasm this time, and she had had to suck hard and long on him. Once he did cum, she was disappointed by the weakness of his spasms and the lack of volume of his ejaculation. She had pulled in her cheeks tight to draw as much as possible from him, but the effort had left her anything but exhausted. Instead, she felt the same warm glow in the pit of her stomach as last time; a glow that was slowly spreading outwards.

She had been vaguely aware of his moans as he finally began to orgasm, but did not notice as the sounds faded to nothing shortly afterwards. When she finally released him from her mouth, she was startled by the bright blue colour of his rapidly shrinking penis. She looked up at his face, and saw that his eyes were closed. His breathing was heavy and slow and his chest rose and fell in time with it. Smiling as she sat against the wall, her back next to his, she stroked his hair with her hand.

"That's alright, Gary, dear. You get your rest," she purred into his ear. "I'll be right here as soon as you're ready. Just don't keep me waiting too long."



Clare had been pleasantly surprised by the sight of her flatmate, fresh out of bed, opening the door for her. Ignoring the "Why can't you remember your keys?" questions, she went straight into her room and closed the door. She took off her coat and, standing in front of her full-length mirror, removed her T-shirt. She studied her familiar reflection, looking for signs of change in her physique. But there were none. Her figure was as slender as ever, her arms and shoulders as slim and shapely, her chest as rounded and proud. Nothing to suggest that she was now, inexplicably, much stronger than before.

Examining her waist, she suddenly froze. As a teenager, she'd had an emergency appendectomy, and the operation had left her with a subtle, but highly visible, two-inch long scar on her belly. Only now, she could barely see it. What had been a thick, red-tinted blemish was now a fine line and its colour was a much closer match to the rest of her skin. Was this unexpected healing a result of her acts of fellatio? She dismissed the thought as nonsense. But then, so was the idea that she was now powerful enough to dent chrome.

She strolled over to her bed, bending low and grabbing hold of one of its four legs. She'd moved the bed a few times before, mainly to retrieve items that had rolled under it. Each time, she had dragged it a few inches to the side. She would never have considered trying to actually lift such a heavy item of furniture. She remembered a former boyfriend showing off, trying to tilt the bed whilst she was still on it. He'd managed to lift the bottom end about half-a-foot before he'd dropped it with a curse. Two minutes later, he was going through the phone book, looking for a local osteopath.

Thinking of her ex-lover's back, she was extremely careful as she experimentally pulled at the bed-leg. She shrieked out loud, stunned by the sight of that corner of the bed rising smoothly towards her. It didn't feel all that heavy. Curious, she continued to lift it, her single hand easily taking the weight of that end of the divan, base and mattress. With her other hand, she gripped the other non-floor-bound leg. A gentle pull brought the whole thing two foot closer to her. She found herself laughing out loud. It wasn't even hard!

She lowered the bed back to the floor and looked around the room for something else to test herself with. But there was nothing heavier than the bed. The wardrobe was fitted and she'd always been able to move her small dressing table. Clare sighed. She was going to have to go out if she wanted to properly examine her new strength. She put her clothes back on, and left her bedroom. This time, she remembered to take her keys as she made her way to the front door.



Ivana drew her head back, satisfied that she'd ingested all that the glove-man had to offer her. She saw the increasingly familiar sight of a man's collapsing, discoloured penis. Looking up at her small hand holding him pinned high against the door of her room, she noticed that his chin was slumped downwards. His face was paler than she remembered it and his eyes closed. Only the slow, steady movement of his chest beneath her grip revealed that he was alive.

She muttered a small curse under her breath. She had forgotten to charge him up front. Just then, the sensation of pleasant heat deep in her guts kicked in, as it had done each time she'd swallowed a man's cum over the past few days. She luxuriated in it, anticipating and then marvelling in the way it gently spread outwards from her belly throughout her torso and right along the length of her limbs, reaching to the extremities of her fingers and toes - even, it felt to her, as far as her hair.

With a chuckle, she reminded herself that she was still holding her latest sperm donor against the wall. His weight seemed so insignificant to her now, she might easily have forgotten that she was supporting it with her arm. She released her grip on him and he slid, unceremoniously, down the door. His legs folded beneath him, leaving him lying in a heap on the floor. "Another satisfied customer," she joked to herself. She bent low over him. "OK, Glove-man! Time to pay and go." There was no response. "Glove-man?" she asked.



Lynne checked her watch for the fifth time in ten minutes, and then checked her husband. Fast asleep. His brow was wrinkled, as if he was deeply concerned about something. He looked somehow older than before, as if he'd aged about five years in the space of the morning. His skin-tone was lighter than normal too. "Perhaps he's sick" she thought. "Maybe he needs more special care..." She made a decision. She'd let him sleep for another thirty minutes and then she'd give him another dose of her exclusive cure-all. He looked like he needed it. Besides, she definitely needed to do it. It made her feel so good.



Across town, Clare was strolling down her local high street. She couldn't recall ever feeling as alive as she did at that moment. Every sense seemed to have been sharpened, and her whole being seemed to be almost vibrating with energy. She walked with purpose, her head held high. Her back was straight as if she were proudly displaying her ripe, desirable body to the world. She ignored the hungry stares of the men of all ages that passed her on the pavement and the jealous glares of the women, too. Her mind was set on her destination, and she refused to let any other thoughts get in the way. Clare was going to the gym. She was going to find out just how strong she had become.



Carrying the comatose Glove-man downstairs was easy - far easier than carrying Myrtle had been. For one thing, he was nowhere near as fat as her landlord. Additionally - although she did not know it for certain yet - Ivana was quite a bit stronger than she had been an hour earlier. She'd also slightly lightened the load by removing all the cash from his wallet. The only problem she faced was stuffing him into the cupboard under the stairs. Most of the space in there was already taken, and she had to squeeze Glove-man against Myrtle to get the door shut. She just about managed it, and, checking quickly to make sure she was unobserved, slid her make-shift bolt back into place.

She knew she couldn't keep the two of them in there forever, but it was a better temporary solution than leaving them in her bedroom. At least this bought her some time to think of something better. With the deeply sleeping pair out of sight, she thrust her hand into her jeans and extracted the fat wad of notes she had liberated from Glove-man. No stranger to handling cash, she smiled at the thought that she was handling a small fortune. There was only one thing to do under the circumstances. She ran up the stairs to her room to grab her coat. She was going shopping.



A trickle of warm saliva dripped from the corner of Sam Teuser's mouth. He was still sat at the table in his flat, but now his head was resting on the table top. A bottle and a glass, both empty, lay abandoned on the carpet. His unplastered arm was curled, possessively, around the large jar that contained his formula. His snores were loud, bearing witness to the depth of his sleep. Not even the cold air pouring in through the open window in his kitchen could disturb his drunken rest.


Conceptfan, Mar. 2005.

Part 6


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.



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.



"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.



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.



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.



"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?"


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



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.



"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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



"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.



"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.



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?"



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.



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.



"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.



"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?"


"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.



"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.



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.



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.



"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."



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...



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.



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.



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.



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.