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Archive name: cooties.txt (F, nc, drugs, sci-fi)
Authors name: JF Porter (jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org)
Story title : Cooties
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2001. This story
may not be distributed by any Web site that participates
in "Adult Check Gold" or any other age verification
scheme. Such schemes are an abomination before the Lord.
Other use and distribution is permitted if this notice is
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Cooties (F, nc, drugs, sci-fi)
by JF Porter (jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org)
***
It's funny how seemingly rational people can scare
themselves silly over the most ordinary things. You take
public toilet seats, for instance. If you could put a
hidden camera in the average washroom stall, you'd see
people obsessively wiping the seat before sitting down,
attempting to cover it completely with toilet paper to
prevent their skin ever actually touching plastic, or
even trying to "sit" on thin air, hovering an inch or so
above the seat. Like it had cooties or something.
It is true that sometimes some pretty yucky things go on
in washroom stalls. Maybe the last person pissed all
over the seat and only barely wiped it up. Maybe someone
was sitting there shooting up heroin from a dirty
needle. There could be all kinds of viruses and God
knows what else lurking on the surface of the average
public toilet. A nice, clean girl wouldn't want to be
exposed to that.
But in this modern era, we have some powerful
disinfectants, and the vast majority of people who use
a toilet are just ordinary everyday people using the
toilet, just like everybody else. Also, the worst of
the diseases we associate with junkies and similar
characters are actually somewhat hard to catch. Take
HIV, for instance: you pretty much need to have
significant amounts of an infected person's body fluids
injected into you, in order to become infected yourself.
That happens in sex, but it's not something that
normally happens when you just sit on a public toilet.
Amy Wilson was a nice, clean, and above all rational
young woman. Her sober, calm approach to life hadn't
made her popular in high school, where all the social
opportunities seemed to go to the blonde airheads. On a
Saturday night when most of her female classmates would
be out with boys, Amy would most likely be at home
watching something mindless on the tube, or even doing
homework, staring dully into a book with her pencil
tucked behind one ear.
Hey, she would think, leaning against her locker in the
hall between classes, trying to catch boys' eyes, I've
got tits, too! She would spend a long time in the
morning brushing her straight dark hair, trying to give
it just that perfect curve, around behind her ears and
up under her chin. Look at me! But they seldom did.
After high school she spent a few years in dead-end
jobs, waitressing, that kind of thing. At one point she
sank so low as a telemarketing boiler room, but she
quickly gave that up because it made her feel soiled.
By the time Amy was twenty-two, she was starting to feel
pretty depressed about work, life, and sex. She'd had
only a handful of dates in her life, never more than one
with the same man. She'd slept with three of those men;
the first time just because she was so sick and
frustrated of having been a virgin for so long, and the
others because she kept hoping it would be better. It
wasn't.
She just never seemed to meet any men except at work,
wherever her work at the time happened to be, and the
men she worked with always turned out to be so
disgusting that seeing them outside of work was almost
unthinkable.
When Amy interviewed for a job as a receptionist at a
dot-com startup, she hoped this would be her chance to
get a life, finally. This was back in early 2000, of
course, just at the end of the 20th Century when
"receptionist at a dot-com startup" actually sounded
like a job with a good future to it. Anyway, the
president and vice president of the corporation seemed
nice enough. Sure, the two guys were young, at most a
year older then herself, and they obviously couldn't
keep their eyes off her breasts, but they were
scrupulously polite, and kind of sweet.
She guessed that they were techies, not business people,
an impression which was confirmed when she met the rest
of the "crew" on her first day of work. Clearly this was
a group of guys who had been staying home on Saturday
nights themselves for most of their lives, and now they
had a marketable idea and were trying to make money on
it. She didn't quite understand what the company's
product was all about; they gave her a brochure, but it
was full of three-letter abbreviations and didn't make
any sense. They were obviously smart, though, and she
had high hopes for the future.
The company didn't really get enough visitors to need a
receptionist. An office manager was what they should
have hired. During the next few months Amy tried to make
sure they got good value for her salary anyway. She
started a filing system to keep track of all the
companies the geeks made connections with, and all the
receipts and tax papers and other minutiae.
After a few months she was firmly convinced that they
would have long since gone tits-up without her efforts,
and even if they didn't fully realise that, her
employers did seem to appreciate her in the vague shy
way that male computer geeks have with attractive young
women. Amy felt good about herself and her job.
On a Thursday afternoon, at about 4:30, Amy sat back
from the computer screen she had been staring into and
felt pressure in her bladder. It had been building, but
not strong enough to intrude on her concentration, for
most of the afternoon. She wondered briefly, ever
conscientious, if she could afford to leave the front
desk for a few minutes to take a pee. All the geeks were
in their offices at the back, so nobody would be there
to greet visitors.
But it was almost quitting time on a quiet day, and
nobody expected; she figured a quick pit stop would be
no problem. She got up and made her way out of the front
office into the hall they shared with the other three
companies on this floor. The door of the women's
washroom was just to the right of the elevators. Amy
pushed it open and entered the stall nearest the door.
The hard soles of her shoes clicked loudly on the clean
grey tiles.
Amy lifted her short skirt, pulled her panties down
around her ankles, sat down, and started urinating. The
seat was cool and smooth under her thighs, but as she
sat there, she felt it warm with her body heat. It
seemed slick, almost moist, with her sweat. No surprise
there - it was a hot day outside, and they had never
gotten all the kinks out of the air conditioning.
The first hint that anything was wrong came as she
shifted forward to reach for some toilet paper. Her
bottom was stuck to the seat. She automatically lunged
forward, trying to break the contact, but she couldn't
separate her skin from the black plastic. She had to
stop herself from putting her hands on the seat too, to
push herself up. Would they have gotten stuck?
Amy thought carefully. She didn't know why the toilet
seat was now sticking to her body as if coated with
instant-hardening superglue. Was it some kind of
practical joke? She had wiped the seat before sitting
down, but could there be such a thing as a time-delay or
sweat-activated adhesive?
Was someone standing outside the washroom door at this
very moment, laughing at her? That wasn't really likely.
Her co-workers were all basically nice people and, she
thought uncharitably, not really creative people anyway.
The same would go for all the other high-tech workers on
this floor and probably in the whole building.
Rationally speaking, this was almost certainly some kind
of strange accident rather than anything someone had
caused deliberately. She decided the best thing to do
would be to play dumb, like she didn't know what was
going on and didn't suspect anything. "Hey, help! Help
me in here!" she yelled.
Then she paused and listened. She didn't hear anything.
The only other people on the floor would be the geeks,
her own company's geeks and those from the other
companies, and if one of them wasn't playing a sick joke
on her, they'd all be off in their offices, each one in
his own programming trance.
If there was nobody within earshot, she could yell
herself hoarse and never be heard. She decided to try
again at one-minute intervals. It was certain that
sooner or later someone would be in the hallway, perhaps
even looking for her, and she could make contact. In the
meantime she wasn't exactly going anywhere.
Sitting with her hands carefully on top of her bare
thighs, trying to make sense of it, she unthinkingly
tried to lift her left foot. It refused to budge, and
Amy realised that as well as her thighs being stuck to
the seat, her feet were firmly attached to the floor.
The seat must be stuck to the porcelain bowl, too, she
reflected, or else it would have lifted at least a
little when I tried to jerk myself off. She checked her
watch. Still twenty seconds before time to yell again.
She felt a light tickle at the back of her neck, as if
someone had breathed there. At first she thought she had
imagined it, but in a moment it was back. She tried to
twist around, and something hard and slick suddenly
slapped across her forehead, snapping her head back.
There was a cracking, popping noise from the bones in
her neck, but mercifully, she didn't seem to be injured.
She was staring up into the fluorescent light. There was
a dead bug trapped in it. Her head was held immobile,
tilted back, by whatever was stretched across her
forehead. Her spine was bent backwards, and she could
feel her nipples hard against the inside of her bra,
pressing at the tight fabric of her blouse.
Amy realised that she was screaming at the top of her
lungs. She stopped, closed her mouth, tried to catch her
breath, and thought about the situation. At least she
could still move her hands, she thought. Then, stupidly,
she reached backwards, feeling for whatever was behind
her. There must be something behind me. Her left hand
hit the toilet seat, and immediately stuck there.
Her right hand hit something, but it wasn't the seat. It
was something warm, and softer than plastic. Although
her fingers immediately stuck to it, she could still
squeeze and press it. The thing seemed to have some kind
of internal structure of ropes and lumps under the
surface. Some of them were pulsing. Amy screamed again,
and strained her head against its restraint, trying to
twist around, even for a moment, and catch a glimpse of
whatever was holding her. But she couldn't move her
head. All she could see was the ceiling and the light.
There was a rattling noise from somewhere down and to
her left. Amy stopped screaming for a moment and heard
rustling and tearing sounds. The toilet paper dispenser,
she realised. Then there was a soft touch on her right
inner thigh, and she screamed again. A moment later, she
felt a second slap across her face and something was
forced into her mouth. She choked and retched at it.
Salty. It was a huge wad of paper, she realised, dunked
in the toilet. She tasted her own urine in the water.
Desperately she tried to spit it out, but seemingly
endless amounts of paper were forced into her mouth, and
then something contracted around her cheeks, holding it
in, just like the thing across her forehead. Amy
inadvertently swallowed some of the liquid, and it took
all her self-control not to vomit right out her nose.
She realised that she'd probably choke to death if she
did that.
There was a long pause. Amy tried squeezing and pressing
at the thing in her right hand. She couldn't really do
anything else. If it was something alive, maybe she
could hurt it. She found a round lump under her thumb
which felt like it was filled with fluid, and she
pressed down hard on that, trying to pop it. But her
efforts had no effect. After a long minute of staring at
the ceiling while nothing happened, the tickling at the
back of her neck was renewed.
Then it quickly became a hard pressure, and then there
was a ripping noise as something was rapidly dragged
down her spine. It must be some sort of knife or claw,
she thought, because it seemed to be cutting or tearing
her clothes as it went. But there was no point or edge
touching her skin, only a hard smooth object. She felt a
sudden cool draft against the newly exposed skin on her
back as the cut fabric of her blouse fell open.
Amy heard a snap when the strap of her bra broke, and
her breasts slumped forward, the cups falling halfway
off but still mostly held in place by the blouse in
front. The blouse was now open in the back, sliced all
the way from the neck down, but her uncomfortably
pulled-back arms in the sleeves still held it in place,
covering the front of her body.
But when the cutter reached the elastic waistband of
Amy's skirt, it didn't cut through that. Instead, the
band was pulled back, away from her bottom. Then it was
suddenly released, slapping back against the base of her
spine. It hurt, and Amy gasped, choked, and swallowed a
little more of the mixture of saliva, water, and urine
that had collected in her mouth. She tried to vomit
again and had to choke that down. She did her best to
scream, but could only produce a vague, nasal moan.
Again she felt the elastic being pulled away from her
body, and she braced herself for the snap, but it didn't
come. She, and whoever or whatever else was present,
just sat there. The only sound Amy could hear was her
own muffled whimpering. She looked up at the dead fly in
the light fixture, and felt her heart beating. She
counted her heartbeats. I am not really here, she
thought. This is not happening. Of course, it is not
happening. It is impossible. This is a dream.
Then the band was released, and snapped at her waist
again, breaking her concentration. It had been pulled
tighter this time, so it hurt more. She felt a warm line
form across her skin where it had struck. Immediately,
she felt the hard object hook into the band again,
quickly pull it back, and snap it a third time. When it
hit her tender flesh she grunted and tried to jerk
against her restraint, but couldn't move. After a few
seconds, she felt the waistband pulled away from her
body yet again and tensed for another stab of pain.
But this time the elastic was not snapped. Instead, Amy
felt the tightness all around the front of her body
softly release, and she realised that the waistband had
been cut. There was a swish and a rustle, and she felt
her skirt being pulled up and away, from the left; the
rest of the garment slid around the front of her body
and was quickly lifted away. Now she felt completely
naked, despite the cloth of her blouse covering the
front of her body.
Something touched her, right at the base of the spine.
It was cold and wet. Something smooth and hard like an
egg or a rounded stone. It started to slide up her
spine, the moisture rubbing off on her skin. In a few
moments it was rubbing across the line of raw skin where
her skirt had been snapped, and pain flared as the
liquid soaked into her skin there. Not water. She
wondered if it had alcohol in it.
The hard smooth object continued moving up Amy's spine.
It felt rougher now, as the lubricating fluid had mostly
rubbed away. It was pressing hard against her body,
grinding painfully over each bump of her vertebral
column as it passed. She blinked into the fluorescent
light, and tried to breathe slowly and steadily, not
think. The object moved slowly up her back, leaving a
vague trail of pain behind it. The raw flesh at the
bottom of her spine, just at the end of the crack
between her buttocks, gradually stopped stinging.
The fly in the light fixture seemed to be jiggling. Was
it alive after all? No, that was just her eyes playing
tricks on her. The fly was perfectly still. Amy realised
that the point of pressure on her back had stopped
moving up. Now it was just resting firmly against her
back, cold and hard between her shoulder blades, just at
that one point where she could never apply suntan lotion
by herself. She tried hard to continue that thought and
imagine herself playing on a beach somewhere in the sun
instead of stuck to a toilet here under that sickly
fluorescent.
The touch on her back pulsed softly. Then there was a
snap and she felt coldness, moisture, and sharp things
against her skin. Amy shuddered and made a tiny crying
noise. It felt exactly as if someone had cracked an egg
against her back. But nothing dribbled down. The cold
moist stuff on her back just seemed to be stuck there.
Then, first imperceptibly and then faster, the patch of
wet grew and spread out. It trickled to either side, and
against gravity, up across each of her shoulder blades
and into her armpits. She could feel it touching the
back of her immobile upper arms, too, as it slid into
position. Not a flow of liquid after all, but some kind
of solid coiling thing much like the restraints across
her forehead and over her mouth. But what was sliding
into her armpits was colder and covered in fluid.
The pressure in each armpit was becoming painful. It
felt like she had a lemon, or a large stone, rammed into
each pit, pressing uncomfortably against her bones. Amy
could feel her racing pulse throbbing around each
intrusion. Then she felt a sharp sting on the left, and
a kind of iciness started to spread through her flesh
from the point. Was she being injected with some drug?
In a few seconds a similar pain began in her right
armpit.
Her heart beat even faster, presumably spreading the
drug throughout her body. Amy's vision began to take on
a yellowish tinge, then green, like a photograph
subjected to some nonstandard developer chemistry. She
felt a crawling sensation like a thousand tiny insects
skipping across her entire skin surface. But though she
half-wished it, she did not lose consciousness. If
anything, she felt her mind concentrated and drawn
firmly into her body.
She felt a series of light strokes on the outside
surface of each of her breasts. From the movement of the
cloth of her blouse, she guessed that finger-like
protrusions had thrust forward from inside each of her
armpits. The fingers stroked back and forth in a line on
each breast.
Then, first on the right and then on the left, she felt
them flick downwards along the curve of her breasts,
loosening the dangling remnant of her bra, pushing it
down and away. There was a rustle of fabric, which
caused her to suddenly realise that she had heard no
sound but her own muffled whimpering for the last few
minutes.
The rustling continued as the bra fell free of Amy's
breasts, landing across her thighs. It was lifted and
pulled away from behind and to her right. Some part of
the bra, probably part of the fastener, snagged in her
pubic hair. It was sharply tugged, and came away in a
jerk, pulling out one or two hairs with it. She felt the
pain of their removal, then the end of the strap sliding
across the top of her right thigh and around her hip,
and then the bra was gone entirely.
The touches on Amy's breasts started again, a pattern of
diagonal strokes perfectly symmetrical on the right and
left at once, sliding down from the outside around the
curve to the bottom edge where they lay against her
skin. Right in the place where she'd put a pencil.
In junior high when she was first getting her breasts,
that was the pencil test, the goal all the girls hoped
to achieve. When you could carry a pencil under your
breasts. Amy felt dizzy, and figured the drug must be
getting to her. She could almost feel a hexagonal pencil
pressed under each breast, and the light with the fly in
it was the one over her desk at school, but this was
nonsense.
Pain in her armpits again and she must be getting
another dose. Amy tried to hang onto rationality, and
her head did clear a little as she concentrated. She
wasn't in junior high. She was Ms. Amy Wilson, the
receptionist and unofficial secretary, she was twenty-
two years of age, and that was not a pencil. But what
was it?
The sticks under her breasts curved upwards as if made
of flexible plastic or even metal, and met in the little
groove just under her cleavage. Then she felt something
pressing up between her breasts. It was cold and
metallic, made of small pieces linked together like a
chain, and it had a lot of sharp points that left
minuscule scratches on the inner surfaces of her
breasts.
As the tip poked up through her cleavage it started to
press hard into the surface of her body, another hard
cold thing similar to, but smaller than, the one that
had gone up her spine earlier. It continued its journey
upwards until it hit the little indentation at the base
of her neck, where it suddenly snapped into place, sort
of hooking onto the top of Amy's rib cage.
Now she felt more touches on her breasts, more than
touches now but actual pressure like fingertips probing
randomly at her flesh. The fabric of her ruined blouse
was pulled this way and that, often coming up tight
against the objects in her armpits, driving in the sharp
points which she now thought of as needles. The blouse
was scraping against her nipples, which hardened
defensively. For some reason all she could think of was
that the objects moving across her body weren't actually
touching her nipples. The strokes always ended, the
pressure lifting away, as they approached her areolae.
But even the friction of the fabric at her nipples
seemed to focus and concentrate the crawling sensation
from the drug. A soft fuzzy warmth spread down across
the front of her body. Her breasts were being kneaded,
pressed together, and scraped against the sharp edges of
the metal object in her cleavage. Amy was lost in the
rustling sounds as her breasts, and whatever was
clutching them, slid around under the remnant of her
blouse.
Suddenly all the movement, and the faint rustling
sounds, stopped. She could only hear her own heavy
breathing. Amy blinked up into the greenish haze around
the light. There was a squeaking sound. The door of the
washroom! Another woman was walking in. Amy struggled
against what was holding her and tried to cry out.
Footsteps approaching, passing the door of this stall.
The woman must be going into the next stall over. Would
she be stuck to the seat, too? Amy jerked forward with
all her strength and at the same time strained her vocal
chords trying to yell. She felt a cracking pain along
the edge of her left hand; perhaps the skin there had
torn rather than come free of the seat.
She heard her own voice as a pitiful squeak. As it came
out, she heard the loud rushing noise of the other woman
urinating and realised that she had no chance of being
heard. There was a pause, a tearing of toilet paper,
then the toilet flushed. Amy heard soft clothing sounds
and tried to make another noise, but had no strength.
More pain in her armpits.
Amy felt again all the built-up weariness in the muscles
of her neck, where her head was still held firmly back
by the pressure across her forehead, face pointed
straight up at the ceiling. The tickling sensitivity of
her skin picked up another notch, and she felt as much
as heard the woman in the next stall exit the stall,
walk to the door, and leave the washroom. The other
woman didn't even wash her hands.
The light fixture wavered in Amy's vision, she felt
coldness on her face, and she realised that tears were
overflowing from her eyes. They slowly ran down her
cheekbones, paused at the edges of her ears. As she felt
the first drop slide into her left ear canal and nestle
in the tiny hairs there, the kneading of her breasts
began again, stronger than before. Amy's body twitched,
and the tear from her right eye dribbled into that ear.
Amy's breasts were being rubbed and squeezed in a
continuous circular motion now. She could feel each
nipple tracing a little circle in the tight fabric of
her blouse. The tips of the nipples felt hot and raw
from the friction, but there was no respite. The object
in her cleavage was pushed back and forth by the motion
of her breasts, its sharp points digging into them and
the hook like tip rubbing in the indentation below her
neck.
She felt the warmth spread from the tips of her nipples,
back along the sides of each cone, where the fabric
didn't touch, and then across the areolae. Heat slid
down Amy's abdomen onto her thighs. The toilet seat
under her seemed to be warming up, too; it was now
almost hot where her left hand was stuck.
Although Amy's attention was focused on what was
happening to her breasts, she did become aware of
something taking place below her. It felt as if there
were a source of warm air, like a fan, in the toilet. A
warm wind came up between her thighs. It caught in her
blouse and was funneled up across her body. She became
conscious of a smell, strange and heady. Yeast, she
thought. It smells like yeast bread, cooking. The same
overtone of alcohol.
The flow of air became stronger, faster. It made the
torn edges of her blouse flap against her back. It
whistled through her tuft of pubic hair. With her skin
sensitized by whatever drug had been pumped into her
veins, even just the feeling of air on her bare skin was
almost unbearably intense. And still, Amy's breasts were
manipulated in steady circles, grinding her nipples
against the taut fabric of her blouse. The haze across
her vision darkened a shade further. The light fixture
now looked sky-blue, with the dead fly a midnight
splotch near one corner.
Something started to burn on her left inner thigh. A
pointed object was being dragged across the skin there,
in a complicated pattern. A pointed object, but not
sharp like a needle. It felt red-hot but wasn't exactly
painful and didn't seem to be breaking the skin.
Writing, she thought suddenly. Someone's writing words
on my skin with a ballpoint pen. Amy tried to focus on
the point as it scratched along, starting almost at her
crotch and continuing in a straight line all the way to
her knee. She kept thinking that if she could only
recognize what letters were being written, she'd
understand everything. But she could not make out the
words.
When the pen reached her knee, it started a new line
exactly under the first; then when that was complete, a
third only half as long. During this time the squeezing
of her bosom had slowed. By the time the writing was
complete, the rhythmic squeezing and rubbing had stopped
entirely. Now her breasts were still held in a firm
grip, the nipples pointed up and pressed into the fabric
of her destroyed blouse, but they were held still.
There was a pause. Amy waited, feeling her heart pulsing
in her chest and listening to her own rough breathing
and the flow of warm air from below, up over her body.
It tickled her pubic hair. She felt the three burning
lines of writing on her left inner thigh. The right felt
cool by comparison.
Then the grip on her breasts relaxed, little by little,
although the hard metallic object between them remained
hooked in place. Under her right hand, which she had
forgotten even to think about for a long time, she felt
the ropes and lumps shifting around, forming a new
configuration. She tried to clench her fingers, tried to
interfere with the movements of the things under her
hand, but they moved with the inexorable grace of
machine parts. She felt light-headed and took several
deep breaths, smelling the yeasty odour of the warm
wind. The wad of paper in her mouth tasted bitter and
disgusting.
The tickling in her pubic hair intensified and she
realised it was more than the wind. Thin things, like
wires, were combing through the hair just above her mons
veneris. They started to move more vigorously, every now
and then dipping close enough to scratch her sensitive
skin. Each time that happened, Amy jerked against her
firmly stuck hands and thighs, and tried to cry out,
producing only tiny squeaking noises.
Suddenly something that felt like a tiny creature with
sharp toenails, like a mouse or gerbil, skipped quickly
up the front of her body, all the way from the tickling
in her pubic hair up across her abdomen, under the
blouse, diving through the tiny space between her
breasts in front, and then scratching up her neck to her
chin where it stopped. The entire process took only a
fraction of a second.
Amy's body convulsed involuntarily and a little peeping
scream, the loudest sound she had made in a long time,
escaped through her nose. She felt a pain around her
left shoulder and thought that she must have pulled a
muscle. Her left foot had fallen asleep and she tried to
wiggle her toes to restore circulation. She closed her
eyes for a few moments, trying to block out the glare of
the light above, but with her eyes closed the sounds and
other sensations seemed to jump in and overwhelm her, so
she soon looked again.
Two thick curved things like shallow hooks slid into
place on either side of Amy's crotch, right in the
little hollows where her labia joined her body. Cold and
moist, just like the objects in her armpits. They
pressed in harshly, popping open and spreading the lips
so she could feel the air flowing across the delicate
organs inside. She could feel her blood pulsing around
the objects and braced herself for the sting of
injections like the ones under her arms, but none came.
Now another cold wet thing touched her, this time on the
sensitive skin just between her genitals and anus. She
reflexively tried to pull her body backwards and up,
avoiding the touch, as far as the fastened skin of her
thighs would allow. But it followed, maintaining the
contact. When her strength gave out and she had to relax
her muscles, the hard fingerlike thing didn't move down,
so it was left pressed firmly into her flesh. It began
to move in little circles as if searching for the right
spot.
Then it did touch a place that was softer than the
surrounding flesh. Amy felt an unusual sensation, like a
crunch of little grains of sand, and she simultaneously
had the impression that the hard pressing object was
vibrating softly against her skin, and also sliding up
into her body right through the skin. As if a little
hole had opened up in herself to welcome it.
Warmth spread from that point, diffusing throughout her
pelvic area and then up her spine. At the same time she
felt yet another prickling in her armpits, and an icy
tingling sensation began there under her arms and moved
downwards. She imagined two drugs like two different
coloured liquids, red and white maybe, flowing through
and mixing within her bloodstream. There was a soft
popping sensation, and the tingling in front of her anus
vanished. The cold wet touch there had been taken away.
Then it was back, a tiny distance ahead of its previous
location, just at the lower tip of Amy's vulva. It slid
to the right, just skirting the rim of that narrow
opening, then slowly up along the inside of her right
labium. It pressed all the way along the groove inside
her lip, leaving a trail of cold moisture as it passed.
The touch lifted away as it approached Amy's clitoris,
and then began again at the bottom of her right labium,
sliding slowly all the way up. At the end of the second
stroke it did touch her clitoris, just for a moment and
just barely. It left a tiny burning dot of moisture
there on the shaft. Amy wondered if that had been
accidental.
The small hard object pressed at the base of her vulva
again, now sliding to the left and up along the inside
of the labium on that side. Again, it stopped and lifted
away as it was about to reach her clitoris. But instead
of feeling it slip in again at the bottom, she felt
something grab her labium about two thirds of the way
up. It felt like some kind of clip; not a really strong
grip, not tight enough to be painful, but sort of firm.
It was pulled out to the side, curling her left labium
neatly open.
Something sharp and warm touched her near the bottom of
the curled-open lip. Amy decided that it was the pen
again. Sure enough, it moved in a complicated pattern
she interpreted as writing, but she couldn't make out
the words. The point wrote just a single line on the
inside surface of her labium, a few words, stopping
neatly at the edge of the clamp. Then it lifted away.
Amy felt a shifting under her right hand, which she
assumed meant she would get a few moments to rest before
something new happened to her. She tried to shift
position, but her thighs, feet, and hands were still
stuck firmly in place. She did feel a little bit of play
in the bands holding her head back, and she tried to
twist her face around or at least ease the pressure on
her neck. But although she managed to release a little
of the stress in her neck muscles, her face remained
firmly pointed at the ceiling. She could see nothing but
the light fixture with its trapped fly corpse.
Then something new did happen. The blouse fabric resting
on Amy's now-flaccid nipples was pulled upwards, and
something pushed its way up the front of her body from
down between her thighs, barely brushing her skin.
Something warm and soft pressed down over her right
nipple, a small prickly thing that clung around the cone
of her nipple like an elastic band. It itched like wool
underwear, constant and irritating. The nipple hardened
immediately. Then one was placed around her left nipple.
The sharp metallic thing held in her cleavage was
roughly yanked out, leaving deep scratches on the
sensitive inner surfaces of Amy's breasts. It dropped
free, and she felt it fall down over her abdomen and
bounce off her left inner thigh, in the spot where she
could still feel traces of the writing. The metal object
landed in the toilet bowl with a clatter and a splash.
With its removal, the firm grasp on her breasts seemed
to melt away, allowing them to dip forward. The nipples
felt swollen and raw; each little movement of fabric
against them sent shivers through Amy's upper body.
Amy breathed deeply, puffed out her chest, and tried to
heave her body around, hoping to dislodge the things on
her nipples by catching them against the inside of her
blouse. She thought that at least her nipples were part
of her body where she still had some freedom of
movement. But her efforts had no effect; the elastic, or
whatever it was, was just too tight.
Her struggling made the hard hook like restraints dig
deeply into the hollows on either side of her genitals,
and at one point she even managed to pull painfully
against the clip holding her left labium open. Amy was
forced to conclude that she could not escape from any of
the objects currently stuck to, pressing against, or
inserted in her body.
As Amy gathered her breath for another attempt at
screaming, she lost it again.
Something big slid in between her legs, pushing her
right labium aside, and grabbed her clitoris, halfway
along the shaft, in an extremely tight pinching hold.
She was too overwhelmed by the pain to even try to make
a sound. Her pelvic muscles spasmed, trying to pull her
most sensitive, private organ away from whatever was
holding it, but since the thing did not move with her,
the only result was to stretch her tender flesh in a
dozen horrible ways. Tears poured from Amy's eyes and
her breath came in fast, deep gasps. The fluorescent
light seemed to wheel around in her sight.
Slowly, her heartbeat and breathing slowed, although not
to normal. Amy felt the tingling of her blood in her
hands and feet and knew she'd been hyperventilating. The
pain in her clitoris was still agonizing, but as she got
her breathing steadied and her pelvic muscles relaxed,
it became a little more bearable. She hardly noticed the
pricking in her armpits as more drugs were injected into
her blood, although a few seconds later she did have a
vague sense of the light getting dimmer again.
Her thoughts seemed narrowed down into a trickle of
consciousness. She supposed that must be the effect of
the pain. Dreamlike she became aware that her clitoris
was being pulled up, the hood opening and stretching to
expose the tiny bud inside. Then something was pressed
onto the sensitive tip of Amy's clitoris. It was prickly
and warm, like the things stuck over her nipples. But
Amy welcomed that, because that awful pinching relaxed
and then released completely as the elastic was fastened
onto her. The prickling fuzzy warmth was a relief,
almost comforting.
Something touched her, something wide and round that
pressed against her vulva in a hard ring perhaps an inch
in diameter. It felt smooth and blood-warm, and seemed
to be hollow in the centre. Perhaps the mouth of a
bottle? It was gentle at first but steadily pressed
inwards in tiny little jerks. Slowly it parted Amy's
inner lips and moved into her vagina.
It wasn't a bottle because there were no threads or lip
for a cap. It felt like a perfectly smooth tube of
plastic or ceramic. Even the edge was polished. She
could barely feel it sliding into her body, could only
feel the strange cool spot, slowly moving deeper inside,
where the hollow tip of the thing exposed to air the
inner recesses of Amy.
The tube took several minutes to slide all the way to
the end of Amy's vagina, pausing twice to change angle,
because she was curved and it was not. It pushed just
deep enough to hurt her a little, then stopped. Although
the tube was not wide, she felt completely full, her
vagina pulled to the limit of its depth. She hardly
dared to breathe, conscious of the thing's length.
It didn't seem to be forcing itself any further, but it
was fixed, immobile, like the hook like things pressing
into the hollows on either side of her crotch. Each of
her own tiny movements seemed to drive her body down on
the tube. There was no chance of expelling it with
contractions of her vaginal muscles; it was too smooth.
She clamped uselessly, frictionlessly around it.
For a time she seemed to hang breathlessly in the moment
with the thing inside her. Then Amy had an odd sensation
of something moving down below, although the tube was
perfectly motionless. The cold spot at the back of her
vagina seemed to be expanding to fill her body.
It took a little time to figure out what was going on,
but she decided that the tube must be slowly enlarging
like a balloon, pushing out her vaginal walls as it did
so. It still felt perfectly smooth, solid, and round.
Now it felt like it had doubled its original diameter.
Not big enough to really hurt yet, but the growth showed
no sign of stopping, and she worried how large it might
become.
Amy felt the throbbing pain increase at the tip of her
clitoris and realised that that organ had now swollen
enough that its fuzzy covering was touching softly on
the upper surface of the tube. Each step of the tube's
growth, however slight, shifted her clitoris in its
confinement, sending a jolt of electricity through her
lower body and causing her vagina to spasm. All the rest
of her body felt taut and strained in sympathy with the
muscles there.
It felt like it must be three inches wide or more. Amy
could feel it parting her labia, pressing them out
against her inner thighs. The surface of the tube was so
smooth that she could still hardly feel it, could only
feel the pressure, and the clamp digging into her left
labium where it was squeezed between the penetrating
tube and her thigh. Her clitoris felt like a ball of
fire, fastened at the top of the tight circle of her
vulva.
The steady flow of air from below, up over her body,
still felt a little warm on her outer skin, but it was
colder than body temperature. Deep inside, the patch of
moist tissue exposed by the end of the tube quivered in
every draft. The tip was so perfectly rounded that she
couldn't locate it, could only sense a place where the
stretching seemed to leave off and the odd dry sensation
of the air began.
Amy's eyes felt gritty and burning. She had been so
consumed by the sensations below that she had forgotten
they were still open, forgotten to blink. She blinked
several times now, closed her eyes for a few seconds,
opened them again. The light was like a light in a
doctor's office, she thought. That was where she had
felt some of these sensations before. It was like when a
gynecologist put his speculum in, stretched her open to
examine her secret places from the inside. But this was
a thousand times worse than that. And still, the thing
kept growing.
When it was grinding against the inside edges of her
pelvic bones and she was sure she could take no more,
any further stretching would split her body in two right
up the middle, the tube did stop growing. Amy waited,
breathing heavily, feeling a droplet of sweat slide down
her back a little to the left of her spine.
Then the tube quivered for a moment and started to pull
steadily out of her body. Amy could feel the tension
releasing deep in her vagina, working its way to the
front as the tube slid out. There was a little "schlup"
sound as it popped out of her vulva. A jolt of pain from
the bud of her clitoris, which caught on the edge of the
thing for a moment, and then it was gone.
Her entire crotch felt loose, distorted. She wondered if
her muscles would ever be as tight again after this.
Before she could recover she felt another touch at her
inner lips. Was the tube back? No, this was something
solid with a wide, rounded tip. It was cool and hard and
had just a little more texture to its surface. It felt a
lot like an egg as it parted her vulva, roughly the same
size, and it was dry and scraped harshly against her
walls where her mucous had been partially dried and
rubbed away by the passage of the tube. But at least the
new thing was smaller. Amy gasped at the cold as it
pushed steadily into her vagina.
She concentrated on its shape, feeling every tiny
feature of it as it moved inside her. The upper surface
was a perfect round dome, but there was a scooped-out
hollow with a hard edge on the underside, containing a
few small pointed bumps. The wide round head was
supported by a thinner stem, hard and ropy with a lot of
little lumps, the same kind of construction she could
feel under her right hand but in miniature.
The wide round object seemed to nestle in a little
pocket at the back of Amy's vagina. She could clamp the
muscles near her entrance and feel the bumpy surface of
the supporting stalk, but the head was too snugly
embedded for her to feel anything but its size and the
hollow on its underside. Then, it started to move.
At first she felt only a slight pulsing, and could not
even tell just where the feeling was coming from. As it
continued, it got stronger, or her senses became more
precise, and she realised that it was the round thing
inside her, shifting from side to side like a tiny
pendulum. It pulled her vagina to the left, then the
right, then the left again.
She imagined a little snake dancing for a snake
charmer's flute, slowly dipping from side to side. Amy
could feel the bumps on the underside of the thing
digging a little horizontal groove in the spongy floor
of her vagina. The upper surface was less distinct, but
she could feel it rubbing against something. Her cervix,
she thought, her brain dredging up indistinct memories
of feminine anatomy cross-sectioned in a high-school
"family life" filmstrip.
Amy became conscious that the movement inside her body
was speeding up, becoming more jerky. It stepped up its
rate to match the beat of her heart. She felt her
vaginal walls involuntarily tightening around the stalk
of the thing. Her heart began to beat faster, and she
could feel the throbbing around her nipples and under
her clitoral hood increase with the strength of her
pulse. The object in her vagina wiggled faster to keep
pace.
She felt short of oxygen, no longer able to inhale or
exhale smoothly as her pounding heart made her breath
come in fast, short gasps. Compounding the problem,
every movement of her rib cage shifted her breasts under
the tent-like fabric of her blouse. Each touch against
the fuzzy elastic covers felt like thorns pressing into
her swollen nipples and areolae, and other parts of the
surfaces of her breasts were now becoming
hypersensitive, too. A warm pool of sensation burned in
her cleavage and along the undersides of her breasts.
The warm wind coming up between her thighs was no longer
steady; it came in occasional gusts every few seconds
that made the lower edge of her blouse flap against her
abdomen. Each light touch there tickled and made her
body jerk reflexively against the places where the
toilet seat stuck to her skin. And still, the round egg
like thing burrowed from side to side in the warm hollow
deep inside Amy's vagina.
It started to jerk, less controlled, more like a part of
a poorly adjusted machine and less like the smooth head
of a charmed snake. Amy had no way to measure exactly
how far it was moving on each stroke, but sensed that it
was covering more ground, digging deeper and deeper into
her vaginal walls on either side. She felt her own
muscles squeezing back, resisting it, even without any
conscious effort. The knotty stalk bulged inside her,
seeming to struggle against the contractions of her
body. She wondered how strong it really was, and what
would happen if she succeeded in breaking it off.
Then it began bumping up and outwards with each side-to-
side stroke, hooking into the roof of her vagina, up
behind her pubic bone. At the same time, Amy felt the
stalk lifting where it entered her body, sliding up
between her inner lips. She felt her clitoris
withdrawing into its hood to escape, the pressure
driving fuzzy prickles into the throbbing tip.
The egg-shaped thing buried inside her was now pushing
straight upwards with every thrust, curving her vagina.
She felt its pulsations against her bladder, bursts of
fiery sensation spreading up through her abdomen. As the
round head of the thing curved up, her cervix slid
neatly into the hollow on its underside, and the bumps
there seemed to grab and hold it, the egg like lump now
perfectly filling her depths.
Every surface of her body felt flushed now, and the haze
in her eyes almost entirely obscured the view of the
fluorescent light. She was dimly conscious, over the
pricking at her nipples and under her clitoral hood and
the pounding in her vagina, of an additional pain, two
needle stabs buried in her armpits. Then as Amy
fluttered and clutched around it, the thing broke
through her vaginal roof, destroying itself in so doing.
She was filled by globs of icy fluid mixed with sharp
fragments, and a river of fire flowed out of Amy,
burning her clitoris away in a flash of white flame and
draining her senses into the pool of water in the toilet
bowl.
When Amy Wilson regained consciousness, she was lying
face down on the tile floor, her body stretched out
neatly in the washroom stall with her feet just touching
the back wall beside the toilet and her head almost at
the door, face turned to one side. There was a large wad
of wet toilet paper sitting in a pool of liquid next to
her mouth. It smelled stale. Her back felt cold and she
realised that she was still wearing her blouse, cut open
along the spine. She was also wearing her shoes and
socks, and her panties, although hopelessly stretched
out of shape, still hung loosely around her ankles.
There was no trace of her skirt or bra.
She raised herself up on her hands and knees, and looked
down at her body. Muscles ached in a lot of places,
especially in her neck, shoulders, and upper arms. And
her vagina. Cautious finger probing could find no damage
inside. The surfaces of her nipples and areolae were
rough, red, and her clitoris was swollen and painful.
She couldn't find any actual wounds except a thin
irregular line of a scab along the outside edge of her
left hand. No words written on her skin. Not anywhere
she could see. Amy wondered what time it was, how long
since she had first walked into the stall and sat on the
toilet seat. Her watch was missing. The light was still
on but probably was left on all the time anyway, so that
was no clue.
Amy turned to examine the toilet. Nothing looked out of
the ordinary. She reached out to touch the black plastic
of the seat, realising a half-second later that that was
a terribly foolish thing to do in case it should still
be sticky. But it wasn't sticky. Just a regular black
plastic toilet seat, slightly cold to the touch. She
peered into the toilet bowl and saw that the water was
still yellow with her urine. Automatically, she reached
out and pulled the flushing lever. There was a loud
roaring noise as the water swirled around in the bowl.
Two drops sprayed up and hit her in the face.
---- --- -- -
Please forward all comments, criticism, reviews, etc.,
to me by email to my pseudonym. My access to the
newsgroups is sometimes unreliable.
Story 1, revision 1, date 20010610
John Fitzgerald Porter
jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 16