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.

The End