Author: Virtual Scott
Title: Instant-On
Part: 4
Summary: A soccer mom is sucked into a world of uncontrollable desire and
shameful degradation. Even if she manages to win some measure of freedom
for herself and her family, will what remains be recognizable?
Keywords: MF mc Mm oral anal inc grow scat

Optimization

By the end of the first month of school, we'd settled into a rhythm. It
wasn't anything like we'd lived before, and would have shocked the
neighbors, but we did what we had to. Olivia had been accepted to several
top-flight schools, but she ended up at the local community college. None
of us were allowed to travel, and I didn't think I could have survived
without her, anyway. Maybe it was for the best; the friends she'd been
closest to had moved away to school and weren't around to ask awkward
questions.

"Mom, I forgive you. Truly," she told me the only time I tried to raise
the subject. It was the first time she'd done anal, and her ass wasn't as
practiced as mine or Alex's. None of us cared about things like that in
the heat of the moment, but she'd flinched under my gentle touch as I
applied cream to her inflamed orifice.

The men were the worst. Honestly, I think it was having two dogs. They
were incredibly stoic, or more likely repressed, and never talked about
any of it, even in their more lucid moments. There weren't a lot of those
at home, anyway.

"Honey, I'm home," Jose called from the doorway. The greeting sounded
tired and rote, and I knew any affection there wasn't for me. By the end
of the short walk to the kitchen, his eyes had already gone feral and he
was sniffing the air. I was positive he wasn't smelling the pot roast I'd
worked on all afternoon.

"Dad!" Alex shouted, flying into the kitchen; apparently Olivia hadn't
been able to restrain him. He acted like a boy a decade his junior,
running to give his father a welcoming hug. The passionate kiss wasn't at
all traditional.

I didn't know if it was emotional regression, damage to his anus, or just
a lack of concern, but Alex didn't have very good hygiene any more.
Unfortunately, the only thing that excited Jose more than the smell of his
son's shit was reaming the hole that produced it. They already were
tenting their pants and my feeble plans for a family dinner crashed and
burned.

"Not in the kitchen! Damnit, take it upstairs. Olivia!"

She appeared a moment later. "I'm sorry, Mom! I just turned my back for a
second to put on my hose, and he got away from me."

I smiled. "I understand. Don't get a run in them! Here; just stir the
gravy and I'll deal with them." I grabbed Alex and tugged him in the
direction of his room; Jose followed as if attached by a string. A little
push propelled my son through the door and I stood aside to avoid being
trampled by my husband.

Olivia and I had done the work of clearing the room by ourselves,
stripping it completely to the subfloor and installing easy-to-clean vinyl
flooring. It contained nothing now except a mattress encased in plastic
and a webcam. It was always active, and I knew perverts around the world
were watching Jose force his hand between Alex's legs while my son leaned
forward to lick the tip of the organ protruding about my husband's
waistband. I'd have to put something in front of them later or they'd
starve.

On returning to the kitchen, I paused to consider the picture it
presented. Olivia had her tongue absentmindedly caught between her teeth
while she stirred, and the only stitches of clothing she wore were her
fancy hose and the garter belt holding them in place.

The same implants that looked preposterous on me were obscene on her, but
I had to admit they seemed to drive men wild. For a quasi-modest girl, the
proportions were a challenge; even with really stretchy fabric, Olivia's
tops either had to be really tight upstairs or absurdly loose around her
midriff.

As of a week ago, we both sported what Olivia termed "blowfish lips" and I
hadn't made up my mind about them yet. Everyday Tanya thought they looked
ridiculous, but slut Tanya had already noticed they got me a mouthful of
cum faster than ever.

"Thanks, honey," I told Olivia, relieving her of the wooden spoon. "I
guess it's just the two of us for dinner again tonight."

"Sorry," Olivia said apologetically, "it's just you. I have bingo night at
the LFOP." They weren't really called the Loyal Fraternal Order of
Perverts, of course. She'd coined the name after the first night and it
stuck. A bunch of dirty old men who should have been dead had figured out
it was a lot more fun to play for a ride atop a sexy young girl than cash,
especially if she was wildly enthusiastic and willing to do anything to
help grandpa get his rocks off. Anyway, Olivia had been back there every
week since she'd started.

I glanced at the schedule we kept posted on the side of the refrigerator
now. "How could I have forgotten that?" I wondered. At least she'd be home
early. My next appointment was an 8 AM with Mr. Burns the next day. That
wasn't his name either, but Olivia had explained the reference and I had
to admit it fit -- except, perhaps, for the age. "Well, I'll just keep it
warm until you get home. You'd better hurry up -- don't want to be late!"

Olivia nodded energetically and tip-toed out of the kitchen, trying to be
gentle on the soles of her stockings. I knew neither of us wanted to think
about what happened following any of the infractions we'd made in the past.

She was down again in plenty of time, all made up and dressed to kill.
Olivia had said -- I thought in jest -- that she thought the LFOP had a
dead pool for the first person to pass away coitus interruptus. A year
ago, I would have sent her back to her room to put on a top under the
vest, find a skirt at least two inches longer, replace the stripper heels
with anything else, and put on some underwear, for God's sake! A lot had
changed. "You look scrumptious, as always. I wish I were still your age."

"Oh, Mom." Olivia rolled her eyes. She walked over and we hugged lightly;
I took care not to smudge her makeup. Looking serious, she pulled the
locket she wore on a fine chain around her neck over her head and handed
it to me.

It was the symbol of our deal with the devil, but repetition had dulled
any awkwardness or self-consciousness. I matter-of-factly held it between
my legs and released a short squirt of urine, hitting it dead-on and
saturating the bit of foam inside, before handing it back to Olivia.

With it, and the right perfume from Mr. Burns' supply, she'd be the raging
slut I knew too well from my own experience. Without it, literally nothing
on earth could arouse her and anything she'd experience would be pure
rape. Olivia hung the chain back around her neck; it was a tiny measure of
self-control not even I was granted.

Normally, Olivia knew what she was getting into and raised the locket
whenever she recognized the perfume to which she'd been keyed. But, if she
wished, she could refuse to sniff it, retain her wits, and perhaps escape
from a bad situation. It was a two-edged sword.

She'd refused exactly twice that I knew of. Once, upon review, Mr. Burns
had agreed with her assessment. The other time, I'd been forced, while
totally in control of my faculties, to watch Olivia be triple-teamed by
three of the most unsavory vermin I'd ever met, until she begged me to
piss on her. Then I'd been forced to watch her insatiable desire for the
same degradation that had left her crying a few minutes earlier.

"Be safe," I told Olivia, which was a really stupid thing to say, but made
her smile for a moment. Then she was gone. I wondered idly if Mr. Burns
stayed away from younger children because they couldn't drive themselves
to their assignations, but realized I really had no idea how many of the
people around me might secretly share my twisted circumstances.

I sighed and divided the pot roast into four servings. Two I set aside
under plastic wrap, and the other two I carried up to Alex's room. I'd
thought more than once it would be easier, and just as acceptable, to use
dog food, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. "Dinnertime," I announced
brightly as I walked into the room.

They weren't fucking, which was a blessing, but I couldn't always tell how
"with it" they really were. Tonight, the answer appeared to be "not very."
Alex set his plate aside without interrupting his masturbation session,
while Jose, equally erect, placed his carefully beneath Alex's bobbing
ass. A mingled stream of semen and liquefied shit trailed from his
distended hole onto the food. I turned away before I saw any more, but I
could hear Jose slurping and chewing behind me.

After retreating to the family room, I turned on the music loud enough to
drown out any noise from the bedrooms and picked up one of Jose's old
Popular Science magazines. I'd used to read romance novels, but they left
me flat now. Nothing that didn't smell of cologne excited me.

It was a little later than I'd expected when Olivia returned home, and she
went straight to the bathroom without saying a word. That wasn't unusual
-- it still took a lot out of us, emotionally -- but I grew concerned when
she didn't reappear.

I went looking for her, and found her curled up on the floor of the
shower, under the spray, crying. "Olivia, baby, what's the matter?" I
asked, climbing in to sit and hold her. My skirt and shirt had seen a lot
worse than warm water.

"He-he-he died," she sobbed into my shoulder. "Mr. Grelton, he just died!
I screamed at him and hit him because I wanted his dick and he wasn't
staying hard. They had to pull me off his body. My God, what if I killed
him?"

"Oh, Olivia," I gasped, appalled, "I'm sure that wasn't it. He was old,
right? I think the exertion must have done it; you couldn't have changed
anything." I considered a moment before adding, "At least he died happy."

A choking laugh interrupted her sobs. "You're terrible!" Olivia told me,
and hiccupped.

I encouraged her to stand up. "C'mon, let's get you out of here." I turned
off the water and wrapped her in Jose's terry robe before pulling on my
own over my wet clothing.

We shared a quiet dinner and a glass of wine. Yeah, Olivia was still
underage, but if she was old enough for the rest of it, she was old enough
for a little alcohol.

"I just don't know," she finally told me. "I'm not sure I can go on like
this. How do you do it?"

My heart clenched at her words. "It's no great virtue. Maybe I'm just more
of a slut than I let on." I felt my eyes get watery, too. "But don't give
up, Olivia; you're smarter than I am. We'll figure a way out of this."

We put away the dishes and went up to the bedroom. Olivia usually slept
with me now; it was strictly platonic, no matter what an observer might
have thought, but neither of us wanted to sleep alone. Jose slept -- if he
ever did -- with Alex.

She and I spooned our naked bodies together and held each other close. I
tried again to think of some way out of the trap I'd led us into, but once
again managed to lose myself in sleep before an answer appeared.

The two of us had the morning routine down pat. About half an hour before
the bus was due, we entered the unspeakable filth of Alex's room. The
sight, and the smell, still made me want to heave, but I hadn't done that
since the first week. Olivia flipped on our jury-rigged exhaust fan, and
then we dragged our charges apart and out of the room.

It probably wouldn't have been possible any other time, but by dawn they
were so smeared with each other's secretions and dazed from another
sleepless night that their mutual attraction was at a low point. Olivia
pushed Alex down the hall into their bathroom, while I tugged on Jose's
arm until I maneuvered him into the shower in the master bath.

As always, the start of the process was a struggle, but as the gunk
flushed down the drain, a degree of sanity returned to their eyes. Olivia
would get Alex dressed, push a hot pocket for breakfast and his book bag
into his hands, and get him physically out of the house in time to board
the bus. A knock on our bedroom door let me know it was safe to allow Jose
out of the bathroom. Once, I'd messed up and let him out before Alex had
left, and he'd had to use a sick day.

He dressed slowly, never looking at me, and left for work. Olivia and I
traded supportive glances and finally were free to look after ourselves.
Normally I'd decontaminate Alex's room after Olivia left for her first
class, but today that would have to wait.



I'd allowed extra time in case there were traffic problems, but apparently
the idiots were driving somewhere else and I made it to Mr. Burns' office
way early. I didn't see any reason to just sit around in the car, so I
went in and rode up in the elevator with a number of well-dressed men who
couldn't stop glancing at my jugs. If I'd been wearing fuck-me pumps
instead of Sketchers, I bet I could have gotten some action -- not that I
wanted any.

None of them got off on my floor, and for once I saw the receptionist's
station was unoccupied. Well, it wasn't like I didn't know where his
office was. I let myself in, and realized I'd found the receptionist.

Burns was sprawled on the little loveseat that sat to one side of the
seating area in front of the desk, and the girl knelt on the floor between
his legs. Of course, I assumed she was blowing him, but it didn't appear
anything was happening and I started second-guessing myself. He gestured
quietly for me to take a seat, and I did.

From that angle, I could see she really did have his cock in her mouth,
but it wasn't like any blowjob I'd ever seen. Everything was incredibly
slow, like a walk in the park on a really muggy summer day. She worked her
mouth languorously down the length of his organ, but then she withdrew
again and begin licking it. I kept waiting for him to hump her face and
get it over with, but it never happened.

Gradually, I began to appreciate her artistry. It was true that nothing
happened quickly, but her tongue was always in motion and never doing the
same thing for longer than about a minute. There was never a time her lips
or tongue weren't caressing either his hard shaft or the sack hanging
below it. Her hands remained neatly in her lap the entire time, and she
wasn't playing with herself, either.

Precisely at the time the clock in the corner began chiming the top of the
hour, she opened her mouth wide and Mr. Burns began spurting into it. One
jet went wide, arcing across her nose and the corner of one eye, but she
remained perfectly still. Only after he nodded did she close her mouth and
I saw her throat work.

A perfectly manicured finger removed the errant jism from her face and was
cleaned in turn by her obviously talented tongue. "Thank you, sir."

"That will be all, Lauren," Mr. Burns absently replied while tucking
himself away.

She rose gracefully to her feet and swayed out of the office. I watched
her go, trim in her professional attire, and caught her looking at me with
a smugly superior attitude. Lauren might have been the one leaving with a
bellyful of cum, but I was the one who felt like a cheap slut.

Hell, I looked like one, with my obviously artificial bust and lips;
Lauren looked like she was smaller than I'd been even before. She had to
have trouble typing with those nails, while mine were short and uneven
from scrabbling at stranger's zippers and mopping up my son's shit.

"Good morning, Tanya," Burns greeted me as he rose and walked behind his
desk. "I appreciate your punctuality."

I snorted, letting some of my bitterness show.

He frowned slightly in return. "I thought it was time we discussed your
future with our organization."

"Future, me? That seems pretty obvious, even to a dumb bimbo. What do I
have, five years before I'm fucked out and discarded? I'm never going to
be like *Lauren*, especially now." I hefted my tits for emphasis. "Why
don't you just go get more like her?" I nearly bit my tongue, ashamed I'd
suggest even in jest subjecting more innocent victims to his cruel whims.

"Don't be catty. Humor me for a moment and listen." He leaned forward and
studied me intently; I couldn't help but focus on him in return. "Your
surmise is roughly correct, in the general sense."

"We are a large enterprise, with a diversified client base and a
correspondingly large portfolio of product offerings. You were selected as
a typical MILF candidate." I looked blank, and he explained it. "Mother
I'd Love to Fuck. An attractive soccer mom, old enough to appeal to
several demographics and young enough to retain substantial sex appeal and
have reasonable shelf life."

"You are, frankly, not the type of woman men dream about having romantic
relationships with or take pleasure in breaking or degrading. Perhaps it
would be more accurate to say that such men doubtless exist, but they are
unlikely to pay the sums we demand for such fantasies. No, Tanya, men who
dream about MILFs expect to fuck them. If the mother in question is wildly
uninhibited and uncontrollably aroused by their prowess, is that not just
part of the fantasy? Your induction and conditioning was planned
accordingly."

Listening to him dissect me so analytically was like undergoing surgery
without anesthesia.

"In the normal course of affairs, you would be subjected to increasingly
intrusive alterations to bolster your attractiveness to additional
audiences when your youth begins to fade. Your implants are a common first
step. Perhaps you will not be shocked to learn that more radical
fetishists focus more on the alterations than the starting point."

"At some point, either your mind or your body will give out, and you will
become useless for our purposes. Our actuaries estimate that will occur
between 3 and 7 years from now for women in your position."

I closed my eyes, uncertain whether I wanted to cry, or scream, or do
both. "You dragged me down here to tell me you're going to squeeze me like
a tube of toothpaste and throw me away when you're done?" A hysterical
laugh burst out of me. "You should tell your fucking actuaries that my
life expectancy is about as long as it's going to take me to overdose or
jump off a bridge somewhere!"

"And leave your family to fend for themselves?" he asked, piercing me to
the quick. "Listen, Tanya; I said, 'in the normal course of affairs.' I am
increasingly convinced you are not a normal acquisition."

"Sure," I sneered, unswayed. "I'm just a college dropout who stayed home
to raise kids and then decided to become a trashy slut -- what do I have
that she doesn't?" I nodded my head angrily at the door.

"Do not confuse appearance with potential. If Lauren does not look like
you, it is because she is intended to suit a different audience. That does
not, on its face, make her either more or less than you." He pushed the
call button on his desk.

Lauren appeared a moment later. "Yes, sir?"

"Come here." When she was standing in front of the desk, he added, "Now,
face Tanya. Masturbate."

I thought her expression slipped, ever so slightly, for a fraction of a
second before she lifted her black skirt and slid one of those carefully
shaped and polished nails beneath her black satin panties.

Mr. Burns asked, in a conversational tone, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you told me to." He shifted in his chair. "Because I have to do
everything you tell me."

"Really? And why is that?"

Lauren's eyes dropped. "Because you might not give me your cum. I'm
addicted to it."

"So if I told you to reach orgasm in less than a minute, you'd do it? I am
telling you, by the way."

A look of panic crossed Lauren's face, and a second finger joined the
first underneath her panties. She turned her head aside.

"Keep looking at Tanya."

Her eyes locked on mine, and she didn't look superior any longer. She
looked frightened, and then humiliated, and finally ashamed as her body
jerked on her fingers and she bit her lip to stifle a gasp.

"Thank you, Lauren; that will be all for now."

She straightened her skirt with shaky fingers and exited the office with a
semblance of her normal assurance.

"It's nothing personal," Mr. Burns clarified. "A mouthful of love from any
man who chews these special breath mints is enough to hold off the
withdrawal pains for another day." He nonchalantly popped one, as if to
demonstrate.

"How do you know she wasn't faking it?" I blurted out, unable to resist
asking.

"I don't," he answered simply. "But if she was -- and I'm not saying
that's the case, mind you -- she'd have to be confident that I couldn't
tell the difference." He shrugged. "Either way, it's good enough;
remember, this business is all about appearances, not reality."

Mr. Burns focused on me again. "That brings me back to my point. Having
seen this little demonstration, what do you suppose is the difference
between Lauren and yourself?"

Not as much as I'd believed, it was clear, but I was tired of being
lectured. "I don't know; a $1000 wardrobe and a good manicure?"

"Very good." He laughed lightly in a way that let me know he was humoring
me. "The difference is that Lauren recruited both of her sisters --
triplets, by the way -- while *you* managed to muster enough willpower and
creativity to place your daughter at least partially outside our control.
We frankly expected your husband and son to be fixtures in a brothel
months ago; you have somehow managed to maintain a semblance of a normal
household."

He rocked back in his chair. "This is not a business that tolerates the
ill-prepared or incompetent. While you do not have the experience to
comprehend this, please accept my assertion that you have been both
unusually troublesome and unusually intriguing."

I couldn't decide whether to be horrified by his callous assessment,
pleased at the apparent compliment, or disgusted with myself for having
any positive reaction to the man. "Which means what to me, exactly?"

Mr. Burns sighed. "People are a dime a dozen. Not literally, but there are
so many opportunities -- far more than we could ever hope to manage --
that no face or figure, no matter how compelling, is truly indispensible
or irreplaceable. Meat is a commodity. Minds, on the other hand, are a far
more precious resource."

He studied me intently for a moment longer. "I believe there is a spot for
you on our management team."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and another moment for me to
master the towering fury that erupted within me sufficiently to stand up
and walk towards the door without trying to kill him with my bare hands.

"*Listen!*" The slap of his hand against the desk punctuated the order and
was enough to freeze me for a moment. "You can decide to be ordinary, and
walk through that door. We'll do the usual things at the usual time. Jose
and Alex will be dead within a year, from disease, mistreatment, or just a
lack of interest in anything except sex. You'll have your half decade,
more or less, before you're too used-up for all but the most extreme
deviants. The ones who won't care what you look like, as long as they can
watch you orgasm while they kill you."

"Then there's Olivia. She's young, and resilient, and might have decades
ahead of her. Except you won't be there to help her, or provide those
little shots of piss that make life bearable, will you? Nothing will ever
arouse her after you're gone. Most men won't be interested in a girl that
isn't hot for them. She'll be left for the rapists and sadists, the ones
who just want to hear her scream. I wonder how long she'll last then?"

"If you honestly think what I might offer is worse than that, then please
keep walking." He paused for emphasis. "On the other hand, I hope you will
choose to use that brain in your head and come back here to listen to my
offer. You can always choose to stupidly end your lives afterwards."

I rested my head against the door and wanted to cry. "Why can't you just
let us go?" I asked, voice breaking.

"That's hardly good business," he said, a hint of humor grating on my last
nerve. "I grant you are unacquainted with the costs of preparing and
maintaining somebody such as yourself, but I think you might find them
surprisingly high. I am confident it requires no particular imagination to
understand the risks of exposure. I am sure you will find it callous, but
it makes much better sense to use up our resources rather than leave
them... flitting about to be picked up by others."

"I hate you," I grated out as I plopped myself back into my chair.

He had the grace to look discomfited. "That is understandable. It is not a
defense, but I ask you to consider that my personal feelings do not always
align with my professional responsibilities."

"Yeah, yeah," I irritatedly waved away the insulting disclaimer. "Get on
with it, already. Start with how you think you could trust me if I were
stupid enough to agree to whatever you want me to do."

"Enlightened self-interest," began Mr. Burns, pausing to make sure he had
my attention. "It is clear you care deeply for your family, and obviously
it is unnecessary to point out at any greater length what could happen to
them if you made us unhappy. I would prefer not to dwell on that
possibility; fear of punishment may command obedience, but it does not
inspire."

I reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"We are willing to make -- concessions -- for good service," he continued,
sounding as if the word was being torn from his throat. "More to the
point, I have mentioned this is an enterprise. Our industry is highly
competitive, and some of our competitors are less principled than we are."

His admission surprised a laugh out of me. "Worse than this?" I asked,
skeptically.

"Considerably," he answered without elaborating.

I didn't know if he was letting my imagination paint a darker picture than
the situation warranted, or if I wasn't as scared as I should be; I
decided I wasn't ready to find out just then. "I still don't understand
what you think I can do for you," I prompted, trying to get back onto the
original subject.

"One or more of our competitors -- we believe just one -- has resorted to
theft in an effort to boost their market presence and profit at our
expense."

"I guess you can't just call the police," I smirked, but he surprised me
by grinning back.

"Actually, we can, within certain limits." He produced a small cardboard
box, opened it, and shook out a tiny perfume sampler; it looked just like
the one I'd been given to use with Olivia. I tensed as he pressed the tiny
pump, but the mist it produced was an unfamiliar scent. "We're just
another cosmetics distribution company, as far as the authorities are
concerned. Their investigations have been fruitless; in part, that is
because they rely on the stolen merchandise turning up on the grey market
or swap meets, and ours never does."

"What is particularly disturbing to us is that these shipments are
fundamentally worthless unless the thief happens to know the identity of
the person that goes with each specific lot. This information is quite
closely held, as you might imagine, but it has become clear the guilty
party does, in fact, possess some of it."

I struggled with the thought of some creep with fewer scruples than Mr.
Burns holding a box of "my" cologne, and repressed a shudder.

"While this information must unavoidably be known at the tip of the
distribution network -- how else would we get the right product to each of
your dates? -- the pattern of losses suggests we are looking at a more
highly-placed turncoat. We have no leads, and fear of an insider deters
open discussion of the problem."

"Maybe you have a blackmailer," I suggested, becoming engaged despite my
earlier inclinations. "You know what Lauren or I would do for a little
fix; what if the same thing happened to you or one of your boardroom
buddies?"

"Impossible," he asserted with the air of sublime superiority that
irritated me every time I heard it. "You recall from our earlier
discussions that an individual can be imprinted exactly once, and that the
result is permanent? Each executive candidate is imprinted with a totally
random one-off sample to guard against precisely such an attack."

"Oh come on," I laughed at him. "You think an organization that engages in
slavery, torture, and murder is above lying? I'd bet you everything I own
there's a box like that with your name on it sitting in a vault somewhere."

Mr. Burns looked suddenly discomfited. "There's a certain logic to what
you say, but it couldn't be done," he admitted slowly, before perking up
again. "However, that is precisely the viewpoint and manner of thinking
that makes you valuable, Tanya."

He pushed the box aside and leaned forward intently. "Find us the leak, or
a lead, or anything. Use the eyes of an outsider to see what we have
overlooked or failed to consider. Succeed, and you will earn considerably
more than just my gratitude; my word on it."

The funny thing was, I could tell he meant it. I didn't like him and
didn't understand him, but for all that, I almost trusted him to hold up
his end of the bargain. It still didn't make sense to me, however. "I'm
flattered, but how do you think I will be in a position to learn anything?"

"There are several factors," he said, looking more relaxed now that I'd
pretty much signaled I was going to take his offer. "First, you and Olivia
are among the people affected by the most recent lost shipment."

My face must have turned grey as I thought of Olivia exposed at school,
out in the open and unaware of her danger.

"Don't panic," he told me, uselessly. "Some people aren't compromised for
months after a loss, and some have gone years without anything happening.
Nobody has *ever* gone missing sooner than two months. The important point
is that both of you are in the subset of employees who may be of interest
to the perpetrators."

"The next important point is that your stubborn willfulness and Olivia's,
um, less than perfect imprinting are not known outside this office."

Men were all the same. "Didn't want to look bad on your next performance
review?"

He didn't deny it. "Area managers are given broad discretion in how they
run their territories. I intend to push the limits of that policy."

"So your grand plan is to let me get picked up, hope I can resist whatever
happened to your other bimbos, figure out who kidnapped me, and then
somehow escape to fill you in on the details, while you just sit here and
give Lauren her cumshots?"

A pained look crossed his face. "In crude concept, I suppose so."

I crossed my arms, somewhat awkwardly because I still wasn't used to the
size of my new breasts, and glared at him. "You'd have to *guarantee* the
safety of my family before I'd do something that stupid."

The pained expression intensified, and I knew I was about to hear some of
the fine print. "I'm afraid Olivia would need to be with you." He held up
both hands to forestall my explosion. "That's both for her benefit and
mine."

"I'm listening," I angrily told him.

"You wouldn't have had any reason to know this, but you're both addicts,
too. If you aren't exposed to your trigger compound for longer than about
a month, you -- just die. It isn't flashy or painful, and there aren't any
withdrawal symptoms. It's meant to prevent incriminating strays from
wandering away. If you left her behind and couldn't return in that time,
you'd be coming home to a gravestone."

"You bastard! You told me she could live for decades!" I was so angry I
was shaking.

"I told you what was necessary to get you to the bargaining table!" he
retorted, showing some anger too. "Now, I'm telling you the truth."

"Really?! Why are you still alive, then, if you've been imprinted too?
Shouldn't you be dead already?"

"It doesn't work like that unless you've been exposed a second time, which
I've explained is impossible," he said, and suddenly went still.

"What?" I asked, still irritated.

"Nothing," Mr. Burns assured me with a distracted air. "I was just
reminded of a colleague who passed away unexpectedly about a year ago." He
gave himself a brief shake and focused on me again. "There's still a risk,
but I believe it's reduced if the two of you are together."

"What if we got split up?" Suddenly I was more focused on the danger to
Olivia than ever before. "My God, what if they kidnapped her now?!"

"Calm down," he said, which was perhaps the stupidest thing to come out of
his mouth so far. "That is the other reason for my plan."

I waited impatiently for him to get to the point.

"I've told you that soccer moms and cute coeds aren't exactly in short
supply. We could wait months, or for all eternity, for you to be picked
up. Worse, certainly from your perspective, is the prospect they might
snatch one of you but not the other."

At least he acknowledged the risk, even if he made it sound like a minor
inconvenience. "So?"

"As you can see, we are not without cosmetic resources. Normally, neither
of you would be a candidate for the sort of work I envision, but this is a
special case. With the right enhancements, your trade value -- and the
likelihood of being stolen -- will increase astronomically, and you'll be
virtually guaranteed of being kept together. Like all expensive and rare
collectibles, a pair is worth far more than two alone."

I liked the idea of knowing I'd be with Olivia, although I didn't like the
way Mr. Burns discussed me like I was some anonymous object. "These aren't
going to get any larger, are they?" I asked, looking down at my chest.

He laughed. "So worried about being an ugly duckling, yet afraid to dream
of being a swan? Any boob with a scalpel and a few bags of silicone can
give a woman udders. That won't impress the sort of people we need to
attract. Tanya, I'll make you a firebird!"

"And Olivia, too?" I pressed him.

"Her, too," he agreed, and then qualified his statement. "I won't do this
if she isn't a willing participant. You should also be aware that, since
you don't have her advantage, I'll want you to undergo some psychological
training to help you control your impulses. It's rather painful."

"I'll think about it," I told him. All I could think about was the threat
of Olivia being stolen away alone, no matter what Mr. Burns said about it.
As far as I was concerned, it was already a done deal -- no matter what it
cost me.



We didn't get home to the new condo until after the new year. The change
had been necessary to avoid alarming the neighbors, and it also provided
better accommodations for the staff I'd insisted on to care for Jose and
Alex while Olivia and I were in the hospital. My daughter was now a
college dropout like her mother, and we resembled each other more than
ever.

I shivered inside my jacket and squinted in the sunlight that seemed too
bright, even through the dark sunglasses. It was nice to be outdoors
again, even briefly, but nicer to be inside and warm. Mr. Burns had kept
his word and our breasts and lips were still the same size, but he'd been
right when he said my imagination was totally inadequate to the task at
hand.

"Mom? Olivia?" asked Alex uncertainly, looking at us while we removed our
jackets. He was home-schooled now, by one of Lauren's sisters -- I
couldn't remember if she was Megan or Jasmine. "Is it really you?"

Well he might ask. Those 5 or 10 extra pounds that had always bothered me
were gone now, along with a few more and my lowest pair of ribs. The
resulting wasp waists Olivia and I sported emphasized our bust and hips,
and guaranteed we'd never wear clothing that wasn't tailor-made for us.
Alex wasn't looking there, however; he was transfixed by our hair.

It had only grown out about a hand length, and still had the same soft
wave as before, but it was a light pastel blue never found in nature. That
was our natural color now, courtesy of some specialized retroviruses, and
matched our lashes and eyebrows. I was a traditionalist and had a little
blue powder-puff above my mound, but Olivia had elected to go permanently
bare. I'd forgotten what they'd told us, but I wouldn't have to shave my
legs ever again.

The scars there already were so fine they were difficult to find. I
sometimes still felt aches where they'd broken my legs and lengthened
them, giving me an extra two inches of height. I felt bad for Olivia;
she'd had twice as many breaks to work around the areas where her bones
hadn't finished growing, but she was younger and healed faster.

Mr. Burns' artistic consultant -- for *people*, if you could believe it --
had wanted to reshape our feet and hamstrings too, but I'd drawn the line.
If we got into a bad situation, I wanted to be able to *run* -- not prance
around in impractical heels like a helpless victim in a slasher movie.

"It's us, Honey," I told him, and watched him gape as I removed the
sunglasses. The vivid violet of each iris was artificial, courtesy of
permanently implanted lenses, but unforgettably striking. With our
exaggerated lines and coloring, we looked like refugees from a cartoon. I
wasn't going to go into the less-visible changes. "Give Mom a hug, okay?"

He clung to me like a barnacle, and I buried my face in his miraculously
clean hair.

"What about me?" asked Olivia, obviously feeling left out. I saw Alex's
reflection in the mirror stick out his tongue at her, and felt him jump as
she returned the sentiment. Olivia didn't think and carelessly extended
her tongue a full four inches beyond her lips. She blushed slightly as she
realized what she'd done, but I just extended an arm and silently pulled
her into our communal embrace.

Dinner felt like heaven, even though it was just pork chops out of the
freezer and some au gratin potatoes out of a box. We were a family again,
for the first time in too long. If you ignored our hair and didn't notice
the high-tech filters tucked discreetly into Jose's nostrils, we were
almost normal.

I didn't know how long we had, but I was determined to make the most of
every moment.