Vacation in Rio, part 1
We start the first half of this story at an exclusive Oceanside resort, where two long lost college mates have accidentally run into each other. Both of these men attended the same expensive Northeast College together, and before graduation, both would be “sworn in” as members of an underground fraternity.
The two men spend the first couple of hours of their conversation catching up on what each other has been doing for the last thirty or so odd years.
Stanley Pitt, an established real-estate investor, brags about multi-million dollar land deals, reaching from coast to coast, as well as holding several accounts that are overseas.
Maxwell Abner on the other hand, has somewhat failed to reach such meaningful social as well as financial success. Although having made much progress in the research of mechanical sciences, a felony conviction that occurred back in the late seventies has marred Maxwell’s otherwise impressive Robotic Engineering resume . .
* Rio De Janeiro, Brazil (current day):
Two men are seated at an outdoor café in Rio: One sips his martini with an olive, the other drinks rum and cokes . . . Almost two at a time. There is a slight breeze blowing in from the ocean, causing Maxwell Abner’s big floppy beach hat, to tilt its brim forward and back, and the light clothing that both men are wearing, wrinkles beneath the power of the wind.
The open-air seating of the ocean side café allows the Salsa music that’s playing in the distance to drift through the air, like a lazy plume of cigar smoke.
In the distance, beach goers slowly begin to pack it up for the day. However, just ten feet away from the café’s patio, there is a group of bronzed teenage bodies (both male and female), that continue to run back and forth in the sand, playing an “upbeat” game of volleyball. The micro-bikinis that the girls are wearing are a tantalizingly bare minimum compared to the beachwear allowed on most American beaches. The two aging men that are casually seated close by surely didn’t complain!
Mr. Pitt: “Maxwell, have you noticed that all of the woman down here, regardless of how young or old, are friggin’ gorgeous?”
Mr. Abner: “Dark hair, tanned skin and full curves . . . (Without being fat, mind you) . . . It’s all in the Latin genes my friend!”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, I bloody guess so old chap!”
Stanley Pitt starts on another glass of rum and coke, and then turns his attention away from the youths that are yelling and laughing below them.
Mr. Pitt: “So, you mentioned something about getting pinched?”
Mr. Abner: “Yes, I’m afraid I did.”
The scientist pauses for a moment to swirl his drink and chomps down his olive. He removes his sunglasses, placing them on the table, and then continues on with the conversation . . .
“I was working at a rather large amusement park out in California. The owners had hired me on to breathe life into the place, and put me in charge of incorporating some animatronics displays. Unfortunately, these guys were running out of money. That’s not that they weren’t successful, they just never reinvested the money that they were making back into the park.”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, I’m afraid I see it everyday old chum. I say, a man can’t hesitate about investing back into his business, if he expects it to prosper.”
Mr. Abner: “Exactly! So anyway, I had been working with these realistic animatronics displays. Some were various animals placed around the park. But my pride and joy was the haunted house exhibit.
Mr. Pitt nods his head, and drinks another dose of rum from his glass . . .
Mr. Abner: “Anyway, business was really picking up and my work was creating quite a “buzz” in theme park circles, up and down the west coast. My haunted house exhibit was the biggest money maker that the park had at the time, but it was total hell trying to build those damned things!”
“Hmm, I see. So, how did you manage to get the job done?” asks Pitt, now waving an open hand at the bartender, signaling for another round.
Maxwell leans forward in his wicker chair for some privacy, and then lowers his voice just a bit . . .
“Well, it all started when these punk kids started showing up and messing with the displays. The security guys were all working through the union, so they didn’t give a shit about what happened. They knew they were going to get paid regardless,” says Max with a note of disgust.
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, those bloody unions . . . They mess everything up!”
Abner: “So anyway, I thought: What if I could apply this sort of technology that I was using, in another way?”
Pitt nods his head, and then urges Maxwell to “go on.”
Abner: “So . . . I capture these punks using a couple trap doors in the haunted house, and decided that they would be my first test subjects.
Mr. Pitt: “Test subjects for what?”
Mr. Abner: “Nano-manipulation.”
Mr. Pitt: “Nano what? . . . I have never heard of that.”
Mr. Abner: “Well it’s pretty high-tech, very cutting edge stuff.”
In the background, the sound of sandals can be heard scuffing across the concrete patio behind them. As Stanley Pitt looks over his shoulder, he sees his trusty waitress, dressed in a skimpy white bikini with a wispy sarong cover-up. As the bronze-bodied beauty walks toward them, her sun-bleached dirty blonde hair blows around her face and shoulders from the ocean’s breeze.
In very broken English, the smiling cutie asks: “Ah, umm hola! No, speaka- Engleeesh! Ah, veddy goo! . . . You, ah . . . drink si`?”
Mr. Pitt smiles and nods his head, then politely says, “You’re doing just fine, young lady!”
The waitress continues to smile, even though she has no idea of what this man just said. She leans forward, to set the drinks from her tray, down on the table. As she does, her bronze tinted globes shift forward inside her white bikini top, just inches away from the two leering men’s eyes!
Once the waitress straightens herself back upward, she once again produces a friendly smile and says, “Por favor?”
“Yes, very good my dear,” answers Pitt, now digging out a roll of cash from inside his chest pocket of his Hawaiian print shirt. The old man peels off a fifty-dollar bill, then motions with his hand to come closer.
The waitress steps in closer to the seated man with her toned athletic abs just inches away. She wears a tiny jewel in her navel.
Stanley reaches his hand out casually towards the woman’s slim waistline, and then tucks the fifty down inside the front of her bikini.
The waitress slightly flexes her stomach muscles, and then giggles a bit. She then nods her head and cracks an even bigger smile saying, “Sim! Tank you.. muito!”
Mr. Pitt winks at the hot Brazilian and replies, “That’s ok, just keep them coming!”
The waitress turns and happily walks away . . . Wagging her butt from side to side just a little bit harder. As she does, the two men admire the curves of her gorgeous ass through the nearly transparent material of her sarong.
“God, I love this place!” exclaims Pitt, as he reaches for a fresh rum and coke. “I mean that bird was bloody hot!” The old man takes a gulp out of his rock glass, and then winces momentarily, saying “And that’s one loaded drink I mean to tell ya!”
Abner shakes his head, as he watches the shapely woman disappear through the door-less kitchen of the café, and then comments, “I would swear that girl looks exactly like that Latin pop singer . . . Shakira!”
Mr. Pitt shakes off the harshness of the drink in his hand, and then replies “I’m afraid I’ll have to take your word for it chum, as I’m not much of a pop music fanatic.”
Abner: “Trust me, she’s hot . . . And she looks just like that girl!”
Mr. Pitt: “So, you said you were about to test this nano-what-zit on these meddling punks?”
Abner: “Oh yes, so, anyway . . . I managed to catch the three of them. There were two guys and a girl. They looked like street trash, and so I figured they wouldn’t be missed. The process did take me quite some time to get the bugs worked out, but in the end, I figured out how to adapt the method to work on humans. Of course the result worked out way better than I had planned.”
Mr. Pitt: “So, exactly what did you do to them?”
Abner: “Well, using nanotechnology, I created a control module that when connected directly to their central nervous system, could overtake and totally control their bodies.”
Mr. Pitt continued to look at his old college mate with a mixture of confusion, as well as curiosity, expressed on his face. With one eyebrow raised higher than the other, the old man says, “I’m not quite sure that I follow you.”
Abner: “Ok look, let me try to explain this in a simpler way. I must first inject the nanobots into them, those are considered the “workers,” if you will. These microscopic critters overcome the body by traveling throughout the blood stream and effectively take over all the vital organs . . . Just like the poison from a snake venom. The brain and essentially the entire nervous system shuts down, slowing the life process, but yet . . . Allowing the body to live.
“I then place a control module at the back of their neck that contains a programmable chip inside. On the back of this module are two prongs, made of beryllium-copper; the best for conductivity purposes. The two needle-like prongs must be pushed to puncture the skin, coming to a rest within the subject’s spine. The nanobots, which have already spread throughout the host’s body, pick up electronic signals from the control module at the back of the neck, effectively allowing control of the subjects mind and body. Thus the term “nano-manipulation.”
Mr. Pitt sets his rock glass down on the table, offering his full attention to Maxwell . . .
“So let me get this straight; you inject somebody with this special serum, then press this so-called “control module” into the back of their neck. As a result, the person turns into . . . What? Some type of zombie?”
Maxwell Abner cracks a smile while stirring another martini, then leans back in his wicker chair and says “Yep, that’s the idea!”
The robotics engineer takes a long swig of his drink while waiting for a reaction from the man seated across from him.
Mr. Pitt leans forward and exclaims, “That’s bloody brilliant!” He looks around with caution, then in a lowered voice asks, “So this scientific mumbo-jumbo of yours actually works? I mean you tested this stuff on more than one person?”
Abner: “Oh, absolutely! By the time I was done at the amusement park, I had a half dozen of them in full operation. Unfortunately, one of my best subjects turned out to be the daughter of a cop. Eventually I was caught, convicted, and sent away for twenty years!”
Mr. Pitt: “So these folks that you, well for a lack of a better word . . . turned into robots, they all recovered then?”
Abner: “Oh, of course. I didn’t have the level of technology back then that I do now. And unfortunately, the state of California doesn’t exactly approve of kidnapping or forced immobilization! In addition to my prison sentence, they also confiscated all of my equipment and had it destroyed.”
Mr. Pitt: “So when you got out, you said you started working at some Robotics Institute?”
Abner: “Yes, that is correct. In fact, I remember being totally amazed at the progress of technology while I had been locked up. But unfortunately, somebody dug deep enough into my sordid past, and I eventually got fired from the institute too. Besides, there were a lot of corporate politics involved, as well as the moral issues with what we were doing . . . It all had to end sooner or later.”
Mr. Pitt: “And, yet you could just walk away from it like that?”
Maxwell Abner laughs while scanning the patio and then looks back at Pitt replying, “Stanley my friend, that’s an awful lot of power to be put in one man’s hands.”
“Yes, I could only imagine!” says Pitt before pausing in thought for a moment, then asks, “So these nanobot things of yours, what else can they do?”
Abner leans forward once again, saying, “Well, the chip is programmable as I mentioned, so I could program a subject to do pretty much anything you wanted eventually.
Just then, and without warning, a volleyball comes flying through the air and bounces twice on the concrete patio before dribbling to a stop beneath the table that the two men are sitting at!
The two old-timers look up in surprise at first, but gradually let out a laugh, as one of the micro-bikini-clad beach babes runs up a small set of stairs to retrieve the volleyball.
Mr. Pitt leans down beneath the table to grab the ball at his feet. As he arches back upward from beneath, his eyes slowly glide up the two tanned legs that have just stepped up beside him. His leering eyes notice a slight camel toe at the bottom of a yellow g-string, and then slowly pass over two protruding hip bones as well as a deep, oblong belly button that’s planted in the middle of a nice flat tummy. Glancing further upward, Mr. Pitt sees two small, but firm, globes slightly squishing out of the yellow material that barely contains them. A light coating of perspiration glistens over her petite body, as two arms outstretch to receive the missing ball.
“Ah, here you go darling,” says Pitt, now offering the ball to the cute young girl that stands before him.
What remains of the hot Brazilian sun, reflects off of her oily, jet-black hair, which is pulled tight over her scalp and gathered in a bun in the back.
The young girl flashes a big white smile, as her dark twinkling eyes suddenly offer a flirtatious wink to the man. She quickly grabs the ball and unexpectedly smooches the balding man on the forehead, then steps back a bit to cup a hand over her giggling mouth. The girl bows her head and emits a sunny “Obrigado!”
The mischievous Brazilian quickly turns and “pitter patters” her bare feet back across the concrete, with one hand holding the volleyball to her waist, as her other reaches down to pull out the yellow wedgie that’s creeping up her tight little buns . . .
“Dammit, I tell ya this place is going to drive me over the bloody edge!” exclaims Pitt, still watching the girl step down the wooden stairs and back on the beach.
Abner looks on as well, then continues: “So as I was saying, the control module can be used on anyone . . . Stanley . . . Stanley?”
Mr. Pitt continued to intently watch the girl, now offering a serve to the other side of the net. “Anyone you say?” asks Stanley, still staring towards the beach.
“Well, within reason of course!” says Abner, now noticing his friend’s extended “rubbernecking” session. “Stanley, that girl was probably fifteen, maybe even sixteen at best! . . . One thing you have to remember: the women down here aren’t afraid to flaunt it, and sometimes it’s hard to tell their age when they are hanging halfway out of their bikini.”
Mr. Pitt turns away from the activity on the beach, and then says “Oh hell ya bloody loon, I was just having me a look! . . . Besides, that girl was a bit well-developed to be that young; she has to be at least eighteen!”
The old man reaches over for his rum and coke, and then shifts himself into a different position in his chair to cope with his unexpected arousal . . .
Maxwell Abner shakes his head and says, “I’m not so sure, my friend!” He then leans back in his chair, raising both hands and locking them together behind the back of his head. Max then cracks a smile and asks his old classmate “So, what do you think of my work?”
Stanley Pitt reaches out across the table and removes a Cuban cigar from its protective case, then chomps off the tip, spitting it off into the distance.
“Well . . . (stops to light cigar, then takes a couple deep tokes) . . . I think if this “nano” stuff works, it’s actually a brilliant concept,” replies Pitt.
The real-estate investor leans back to cross a leg over his knee while blowing a cloud of smoke off into the air, and then casually asks, “So you think there’s a market for this sort of thing?”
Abner: “I believe there’s an emerging business in the design and sale of lifelike robotic companions. What I would like to do is to supply an elite group of clients who can afford to pay for such a prized possession of luxury . . . A doll that would be as close to being 100% realistic as possible. These dolls would be an accurate representation of state-of-the-art robotics being used in a personal, more private medium.”
Mr. Pitt blows another smoke cloud off into the air, nodding his head in agreement to whatever Maxwell is saying. However, the entire time that Max has been talking, Stanley has been intently watching the hot blonde waitress lean over another table, where a young, good looking, young man is seated . . .
The Brazilian woman bends in close to the man, as he reaches up and slides a white lily through her hair, leaving it placed just above her ear. The woman quickly cracks a big bright smile . . . (The same smile that she flashed Mr. Pitt just a few moments ago) . . . then the waitress suddenly bends over to meet the young man with an open-mouthed kiss!
“Son of a bitch!” . . . I should have known: a girl that hot would already be taken!” thinks Pitt in silence.
Maxwell continues to carry on from across the table, “I figure if I can create a place where my clients can gather and talk about my work in a relaxed atmosphere, then they will be more comfortable with purchasing a piece.”
Mr. Pitt nods his head in agreement again, however still looking a bit doubtful and confused . . . “I mean think of it: Actually having the ability to turn a living human being into a robot! I’m afraid this bloke may have dropped a little too much acid back in the day!” thinks Stanley in silence.
“Because if you think of it, the robots coming out of Japan are so over-designed to look realistic that they actually become unrealistic, even grotesque, by the time they are produced! Researchers are calling that the 'Uncanny Valley' since those Japanese simulacra came out. But by using subjects that are real living, breathing human beings in the first place I can completely eliminate this problem. . . . And I don’t think I’ll have any difficulty convincing my potential clients that my subjects look realistic enough!” brags Maxwell.
Mr. Pitt raises a doubtful eyebrow, and then mumbles, “Well, I would suppose so.”
Max notices his college mate’s unconvinced expression and asks, “So Stanley Pitt, what would it take for me to make you a believer?”
The old man across the table taps his cigar ash, sending it floating to the concrete below . . .
“Oh, it’s not so much that I don’t believe you, Max,” assures Pitt. The man pauses momentarily, wondering if he should even mention what he’s about to say. Stanley exhales, and then confesses, “I only wish I knew about this kind of technology before I handed my Josephine over to Jack Claussen.”
Abner: “Wait . . . You don’t mean the same Jack Claussen, from college?
Mr. Pitt: “Oh hell yes! As a matter of fact that fellow is working on a personal project of mine right now!”
Abner: “And what is that sneaky bastard up to these days?”
Mr. Pitt: “Well, old Jack has an interesting hobby of his own.”
Abner: “And what would that be?”
Mr. Pitt: “Well, that lucky bastard has his own little collection going, hidden beneath his parent’s old house in the bomb shelter. Jack isn’t building any robots down there, but he does have an entire harem of women . . . all placed in some kind of suspended animation. He keeps them all in this museum that he built, underneath the house. There must be two dozen of them, pickled away down there!”
Abner: “You’re kidding me!”
Mr. Pitt: “No I’m not. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen the collection up close and personal! Like I mentioned before, I sent my Josephine over there, when she was getting ready to divorce my ass, just to avoid a big settlement. Jack turned her into some kind of “clock work doll” and did a bloody good job of it, if I do say so!”
Abner: “You don’t say . . . And where does he get his subjects from?”
Mr. Pitt: “Well, he’s still a professor at the University, so some of them were his students. Others he found on back roads: hiking; jogging; biking or whatever. I remember him telling me about loading up a bunch of kids into his van who were out parking on the state lands one time. In fact, he even has Fonda’s wife and his two daughters . . . All three are preserved away down there as well!”
Abner: “Damn; you mean Kathy Lee? Now that would be something to see! So does Pete know about this?”
Pitt: “Of course he doesn’t! Would you let something like that happen to your wife or daughters, if you knew what was going on?”
Abner: “Good point. So how does he do it? . . . You know, his process?”
Pitt: “I don’t exactly know. It’s like he embalms them with some kind of special serum . . . not sure what it is, but I can tell you that the results are incredible! I mean these girls remain totally life-like in every way. Jack is real particular about the detailing too. They’re absolutely perfect. In fact, I’ve got one of his dolls hidden in a liquor cabinet back in my office in the city, and trust me: That girl gets a regular workout!”
Abner: “You can move their limbs? Are they dead or alive?”
Pitt: “Oh, they definitely are not alive, and Jack’s process isn’t reversible as far as I know. But you can move the limbs around into all kinds of positions with a little bit of effort. They’re fully poseable.”
Abner: “Damn, I’d sure like to sit down and talk shop with him sometime.”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, I’m quite sure he’d get a bloody kick out of seeing you, too, after all this time. Hell, one of those little robot kits that you’re talking about, might be right up his alley. . . I know I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a couple of those little control modules or yours myself!”
Abner: “I’ll tell you what; you get me in contact with Claussen and I’ll see what I can do about that!”
Maxwell Abner glances at his watch, and then suddenly gathers himself up out of his chair.
“Oh shit! I have a meeting in less than two hours with some folks up in the mountains. These guys are pretty shady. Every time I go over there, they are messing around with a horde of guns, and there are always scantily clad women hanging around up there. I could never figure out what those girls see in them, maybe it’s just the money, but who knows?”
Mr. Pitt: “Maybe they aren’t there by choice . . . I hear the Brazilian mob lives up in those hills.”
Abner: “Well, there’s no doubt that they have something illegal going on. As it turns out, they are interested in buying some bootleg chips from me for stealing from digital cable systems. These guys only buy in bulk and they always pay in cash.”
Mr. Pitt gets up out of his own chair, saying, “Business mixed with pleasure; I believe I like your style Maxwell!”
Abner grabs a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, and tosses it onto the table for his tab. Then he pulls out a personal business card, and hands it to Pitt.
“And what’s this?” inquires Stanley, now looking at the card with curiosity. The card reads:
You are cordially invited to a private auction
at the Abner Estate House on the evening of:
November Twenty First, 2007 at Eight P.M.
Featuring: “Interactive Art” by Maxwell Abner
(For open minded adults only!)
“I will be having an auction coming up soon, as the card states. This auction will feature some of the technology that we spoke of here today,” says Maxwell. “Now I only have this auction once a year, and it is held at my country estate house in Stepwood Connecticut. This sale is very private, and I do have a rather “unique” clientele, ranging from international businessmen, oil sheiks, doctors, lawyers, playboys, and even a shady politician or two.”
Mr. Pitt: “You don’t say? And just what are these clients interested in purchasing?”
Abner: “Well, let’s just say that they like to acquire my “Interactive Art” for their own personal collections.”
Mr. Pitt: “Hmm, I see. Well I do believe that you have made me curious Maxwell and I just may have to plan a trip over there in November!”
Abner: “Excellent! Now, the address for the event is printed on the back. Just be sure to bring cash or bearer-bonds for payment because I can assure you that it will be well worth your trip!”
Maxwell Abner glances at his watch once again and says, “Well Stanley, like I mentioned before, I must really be going. After all, there is money to be . . .”
. . . the man pauses in mid sentence and nods his head towards another two scantily clad beauties that are sauntering by in the background!
The two older men gaze at the bronze-bodied beach bunnies as they walk across the patio to head out to the beach.
The brunette on the left wears a bright red thong and top, while the other tanned beauty has curly black hair, sports a pink tube top and a pair of cut-off denim shorts. The white strings left over from the cut off pants legs dangle in place across her flexing behind, qualifying them for the “extreme Daisy Dukes” category!
Mr. Pitt takes a long toke off of his cigar and blows it off into the air. “I believe you were about to say that there’s a lot of money to be made down here!” says the businessman.
Maxwell Abner nods his head and replies, “Yes, that’s exactly what I was about to say!”
The two men shake hands once again, and before Maxwell gets a chance to walk away, Mr. Pitt grabs him by the shoulder . . .
“Aren’t you forgetting something Maxwell?” asks Stanley, with an accusatory look. “We have spoken of many taboos this afternoon. I mean, after all . . .”
“Yes my old friend, I do suppose the oath is in order . . . even after so many years,” replies Abner. Max reaches out once again and meets Pitt with a firm handshake. “Doohrehtorb noilamgyp!”
Mr. Pitt nods his head in agreement and repeats the cryptic phrase himself: “Doohrehtorb noilamgyp!”
Moments later, Stanley Pitt watches his old chum walk off into a row of parked cars, disappearing from view. The old man plops back down into his wicker chair, only to find that his rock glasses are both empty. Pitt digs into the pocket of his baggy white cargo shorts and pulls out his flip phone to make a quick call back to the states. As he patiently waits for somebody to pick up on the other line, the man makes eye contact across the patio with his favorite waitress. Stanley waves a hand in the air for “One last round”, and then nods his head at the smiling woman.
Finally, a voice picks up on the other end: “Hello?”
Mr. Pitt: “Hello Jack, you bloody loon! You’ll never guess who I ran into down here!”
Claussen: “Where the hell are you?”
Mr. Pitt: “I’m down here in Rio, looking at a beach full of near naked birds!”
Claussen: “I thought you were going to Europe?”
Mr. Pitt: “I did go to Europe . . . For a week; it was raining, and then I came back to the states and had my pilot fly me down here.”
Claussen: “You didn’t happen to run into your missing wife down there, did you?”
“Hey, that’s not funny Jack.” says Pitt, (even though the business man was cracking a smile). “Anyway, I went down to this café on the beach for a drink and who do I run into, but ol’ Maxwell Abner!”
Claussen: “How the hell did he get out?”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, well . . . he said that’s over now. The point is, he is out and I think he might have his hands on something that you just might be interested in old chum.”
Claussen: “Oh really? And what would that be?”
Long Term Vacation
* The United States, (Three weeks ago):
On the tenth floor of an upscale business complex, a thirty-two year old woman carefully inspects her recent manicure. She admires the intricate detailing of the design on her nails, (a two hundred dollar a month habit, gladly paid for by her sixty year old male admirer).
“Milk him for all it’s worth!” thinks Ms. Benes, as she reaches into her imported designer purse to grab a fresh stick of gum.
Elaine glances at her Cartier watch (another expensive gift from her admirer), then mumbles under her breath, “Just ten more minutes and I’m out of this dump for an entire two weeks!”
She is referring to a much-needed vacation to the Bahamas, a trip that she has been planning out for almost two months now . . .
“Anything to get away from that pervert!” she thinks to herself, just before the silence of the waiting room is suddenly interrupted by the dreaded “BEEP” of the intercom placed at the edge of her desk. It’s followed by brief static, and then the familiar sound of his annoying voice fills the room . . .
SSSKRSH: “Elaine Honey, please step into my office for a moment, won’t you?” . . . SSSKRSH.
The woman rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted look. “Well speak of the devil!” she mumbles, as she regretfully eases up out of her chair and then approaches the two large oak doors that divide her boss’s office from the outside world. She pulls the bottom hem of her pinstriped black business suit down so that it presses tight to her body, then brushes out a wrinkle with her right hand. With a practiced fake smile, she enters the office.
Mr. Stanley Pitt looks up to see his “ideal” mate standing a few feet away from the edge of his giant mahogany desk.
Pitt: “Elaine my dear, I have one errand I need you to run, before you leave town,” he says, while tapping a personalized pen lightly, in the palm of his hand.
Elaine: “Are you kidding me? I leave first thing in the morning, and you know that I really need this vacation!”
Pitt: “Oh, don’t throw a hissy! All you have to do is pick up a file at an associate’s home. It wouldn’t take more than forty five minutes, and you can give the file to me when you come home tonight.”
Elaine: “Can’t they just fax the file over?”
Pitt: “No, I would much rather you pick the file up in person. Besides, I don’t believe this fellow owns a fax machine . . . he’s a bit of an eccentric character.”
Elaine: “You can’t just send one of the other girls over to pick it up?”
Pitt: “No love, I would only trust you with this matter. Now please, don’t be so difficult.”
Elaine takes a deep breath and her breasts slowly expand beneath her suit jacket, causing Pitt to stare. She exhales and crosses her arms over her chest to cover herself in disgust.
“Fine then; just give me the address so I can get outta’ here!” she says with a sour look on her pretty round face.
Pitt already has the address and directions printed off of the web. He holds out the sheet of paper as he swivels his puffy leather chair around from beneath the desk, then motions for Elaine to come closer.
“Now what?” asks the woman, somewhat hesitant to walk around the desk.
The old man rubs a hand across his thigh, motioning his secretary to “take a seat.”
Elaine warns him: “What did I tell you? . . . No fooling around in the office any more! What if somebody comes in?”
Pitt: “Trust me: nobody will say a bloody word, especially if they want to keep their job. Now sit yourself down!”
Elaine rolls her eyes once again, waits momentarily, then decides it would be for the best just to get it over with and plops down on the old man’s knee, carefully balancing her rump in place . . .
Pitt brushes her long black ribbony locks out over her shoulder, then leans forward to nuzzle her neck. Between the smell of perfume misted behind her ear and the warmth of her undercarriage now permeating through his pants onto his leg, the businessman needs no medication to achieve this arousal!
“Now you are going to behave yourself while you are out of town, correct?” asks Pitt, now holding the woman’s round chin with the tips of his fingers in side profile.
Elaine, now feeling her boss’s erection pressing at her left butt cheek, smiles and kisses her elder on the cheek playfully. She then looks him in the eye and assures “Of course I am, daaahwling.”
Pitt: “You do know that I’m going to miss you?”
Elaine: “Well I’m only going out of town for two weeks, what are you worried about?”
Pitt: “Oh believe me, just the thought of you walking around the beach in a bikini, with all of those leering eyes trying to undress you in their dirty little minds . . . It just makes me bloody jealous, I guess.”
Elaine: “Staring at little old me? Please; it’s all in your imagination!” She runs her fingers through what’s left of the old man’s gray hair, and then concludes, “So I’ll just wear my one piece!”
Pitt glares back at her, unconvinced . . .
Elaine decides to change the subject before digging herself a deeper hole, and asks, “So I‘m curious, who is this special client of yours anyway?” She looks at the piece of paper, then reads aloud “This Jack Claussen guy?”
Pitt: “He’s an old college mate of mine. We roomed together the entire length of our schooling. The ladies found him quite charming . . . Still do, in fact.”
Elaine: “Oh really? And what does this charming guy do for a living?”
Pitt: “Well, the chap managed to somehow land himself a job over at Beaumont University. He’s been a chemistry professor over there for as long as I can remember.”
Elaine: “I see. So I take it that this guy is good looking?”
Pitt: “I guess he could be considered a handsome fellow. But he’s more gifted in the socializing aspect. In fact I’ve seen him chat the bloomers right off a few ladies in my time. The bloke never did get married, though.”
Elaine glances at her watch and says, “well, if I’m going to pick this package up I had better get going.”
As the woman gets up off of her boss’s knee, Pitt notices the woman’s panty line just beneath the light fabric of her black and silver pinstriped dress slacks. He likes the way they hang just right off of the upper curves of her precious little ass . . . But unfortunately, she quickly pulls the lower hem of her suit jacket back down over it, ruining the view.
Pitt: “Ok, so I’ll see you back at the mansion before you leave then, my dear?”
“Sure” she says reluctantly as her business pumps quickly “click clack” across the marble office floor.
Pitt continues to admire how Elaine’s suit cinches in at her waist, only enhancing her petite hourglass figure. Then he quickly yells out from behind his desk: “Oh and Elaine honey . . .”
The woman makes a disgusted look, before turning around to face her boss with a wise-assed “Ah, yeeaah?”
“This chap is a bit of a stickler about time, so please . . . NO STOPS on the way over, understood?” demands her boss.
Elaine: “Right, of course not, Mr. Pitt.”
Elaine leaves the office, grabs her purse and cell phone, and then heads towards the elevator. By the time she makes it to the parking garage, she finally starts losing the dirty look on her face. As the “clacking” of her shoes echo off the concrete that surrounds her, the frantic ring of her cell phone starts to come from her purse . . .
Elaine checks the caller I.D., expecting it to be Mr. Pitt barking more orders, but quickly cracks a smile when she sees the number for Sidra Holland, a close friend who is single and always on the make to find her “Mr. Right.”
Elaine: “Hey Sidra, what’s been going on? I haven’t heard from you all week?” As she waits for a reply, she aims her keyless entry remote at her fire-red BMW, and it emits a familiar “BLIP-BLIP” noise.
Sidra: “Well, I figured you were either busy shopping and packing all week for the Bahamas, so I didn’t want to be a bother. Besides, I can’t believe you’re going down there without me, you little shit!”
Elaine: “Hey, I told you two months ago to plan ahead and get off from work.”
Sidra: “Yeah, yeah, I know. But they really need me at the gym right now, since we’re only down to two aerobics instructors for the day shift.”
Elaine: “Well anyway, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. God, I thought this week would never end! I must have looked at my watch a million times today alone!”
Sidra: “Yeah, I could just imagine. Well anyway, I need to ask you for a quick favor.”
Elaine: “Sure, what’s up?”
Sidra: “Well, my Explorer conked out on the way into work this morning, and the dealership just called and said it won’t be up and running until Monday. Do you think you could pick me up on the way home? . . . There just might be a couple of Manhattans in it for you over at the Eclipse.”
Elaine pauses in thought for a moment. It had been a couple of weeks since the two stopped in for happy hour at the Eclipse dance club, which was their Friday afternoon tradition. Then she remembered Mr. Pitt’s specific instructions . . .
Sidra: “Hello, are you still there?”
Elaine: “Ah yeah . . . Sure, I’ll pick you up, but my boss wants me to pick up some file folder at this guy’s house, some old college buddy of his.”
Sidra: “So we stop at the Eclipse, slam a couple down quick and then grab the file on the way home.”
Elaine: “Yeah, but he said this guy is a real stickler about punctuality or something. I really can’t stick around for very long.”
Sidra: “Oh please! . . . It’s your last night in town for two weeks. I’ll be left here in the city by myself, while you’re out lying on the beach and having margaritas delivered to you by some hunky beach boy.”
Elaine: “Yeah, you bet I will. Ah . . . Yeah, what the hell!” The woman runs her hand through her hair, then glances at her watch. “I’ll pick you up in front of the gym in ten minutes.”
Sidra: “That’s my girl; now don’t keep me waiting!”
Elaine fires up the BMW, then weaves her way through the levels of the parking garage. As the hot afternoon sun beats down, she cranks up the CD player and opens the electric moon roof. As she cruises up the entrance ramp towards Front Street, she thinks to herself . . . “Life is good!”
* Meanwhile, back at the business complex, a very eager Mr. Pitt picks up the phone and begins dialing a familiar number . . .
* * * * * *
In a hidden studio beneath his home, Professor Jack Claussen carefully applies a layer of “metallic candy apple red” lip-gloss to a young model that stands perfectly still before him in matching metallic red high heeled shoes. Stripped nude, she silently waits with both arms placed straight, but angled out and away from her still drying skin. The models palms are thrust open, with each finger equally splayed from the next, to prevent them from sticking together. The overhead lights of the studio reflect off the fresh “clear coat” enamel that covers her light brown body.
The continuing pressure from the lipstick applicator causes the woman’s supple lips to slightly give, stretching the skin back and forth ever so slightly.
“I knew I should have just painted the lips with enamel! A brush would have made it so much easier!” the professor complains to his newfound collectible.
Suddenly, the old rotary phone begins to ring from the other side of the room, breaking the perfectionist’s concentration and causing him to flinch! It’s a costly mistake, as Claussen misses the outline of the woman’s supple lips!
“Damned telephone!” shouts Claussen, now trying to wipe away the unfortunate smudge mark that mars the corner of the woman’s slightly opened mouth. The professor briefly inspects the results, then requests: “Hold that thought for a moment, won’t you, Cherri?”
The woman obliges unknowingly, remaining just as still as ever.
Claussen, unfamiliar with the newly cleaned and organized studio (a solid week long project in itself) mistakenly reaches for an empty spot on a nearby shelf . . .
“Yes, of course . . . It would be on the desk, right where it should be, you idiot!” exclaims Claussen, reveling in his own unexpected neatness.
If the frozen form of a woman standing mere feet away had the ability, perhaps she would have rolled her eyes or even cracked a smile at the precious moment!
Claussen: “Hello? (The old man tangles with the troublesome cord, while trying to balance the awkward phone between his chin and shoulder).
Pitt: “Yes Jack, it’s Stanley. Listen, she just left about five minutes ago.”
Claussen: “Ok, and exactly what did you tell her?”
Pitt: “I made up some bloody story about picking up some file. I told her that we were old chums from back in the college years, and that we were about to be doing some business together in the near future.”
Claussen: “Very well, and she bought it?”
Pitt: “Oh yes, I’m quite sure. That little lass is a pain, but she is very professional about her job. It was the second reason I hired her in the first place (laughs), but she’ll be there.”
Claussen: “Ok, and what do you plan to do with yourself?”
Pitt: “I’ve planned a trip to Europe, should last a week or two, then I think I’m going down to Rio again for a bit. I figure that should leave me in the clear, old chum.”
Claussen: “Good, very good. And the car she’s driving, what do you want done with that?”
Pitt: “I don’t give a damn about the car! I bought it for her in the bloody first place, so dispose of it like you usually do!”
Claussen: “Good deal.”
Pitt: “So about the outfit, you located it without any problem?”
Claussen: “Yeah, yeah . . . Came in the mail from Frederick’s earlier in the week.”
Pitt: “And the stockings and garters, you got the exact ones that I requested?”
Claussen: “Yep, everything from your list, it’s all right here. I’m just waiting for the canvas to do my magic with, so-to-speak!” The old man chuckles, then digs a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket.
Pitt: “Great, I can hardly wait to see the results. I tell you Jack, I got a frickin’ hard-on just thinking about it!”
Jack cringes at the thought of the last comment, then lights up his smoke. He takes a long drag, and then blows the smoke off into the direction of his patiently waiting project just a few feet away. As the cloud slowly envelops her body, she retains her blank expression. The professor lets out a chuckle as he watches the cloud dissipate from around her nude form, knowing that as a “former” smoker, Cherri would most likely appreciate it.
Claussen: “Well, I was kind of in the middle of something when you called and I better get going if your girl is already on her way over.”
Pitt: “Yes, I’ll bet you had your hands full with something you bloody loon! Giving some young bird another rogering, eh?”
Claussen: “No, I actually was just doing some detail work on her.”
Pitt: “Yes, go on . . . Who is she Jack? A love smitten co-ed? A lost jogger from another desolate road? Some bored housewife?”
Claussen: “Nope, none of the above. But she is just as delightful as any you can name, if I do say so myself!”
Pitt: “Yes, I could only imagine, mate!”
Claussen: “Look, I really have to get going here . . .”
Pitt: “Right old chap. If you could, just give me a call after she arrives . . .”
Claussen: “Yes, I will be sure to let you know how things are going. Bye now.”
After hanging up the phone, the professor pauses for a moment as if in deep thought . . .
“You know, Cherri, I would almost swear that I had a prior engagement this evening, but I’ll be damned if I can recall what it was,” the professor says, as he reproaches his model. From the looks of it, Cherri most likely doesn’t remember either. Claussen shrugs his shoulders, assuming that it was just another one of his “senior moments” of forgetfulness.
On the other side of town, Mr. Pitt hangs up his phone, and then swings his overstuffed office chair around to look out over the city through a large window. As he kicks his feet up on the windowsill and lights a Cuban cigar, he says out loud “Life is good Stanley Pitt; life is good indeed!”
* * * * * *
Back in Claussen’s studio, the life-sized doll once known as Cherri, still patiently stands with slightly outstretched arms, waiting for her admirer’s undivided attention.
As Claussen butts out his cigarette, he begins to converse with the unconscious subject and offers his apologies: “Well, Cherri, my darling, I hear that we have a new guest coming, so I’m afraid I will have to put you on hold for a while longer.”
Cherri stares back vacantly from the abyss, to assure him stoically that she understands what being left “on hold” is all about.
Claussen carefully taps a finger on her shoulder to see if the woman’s body is still tacky to the touch. He briefly touches her other shoulder, her thighs then reaches around to squeeze her tight rear end. (It indents beneath his finger, but just barely!)
Satisfied that the woman is dry enough, he grabs a nearby handcart and wheels it over to the location of the doll. Standing the cart upright behind her, the professor then carefully shifts the frozen woman by the hips, pulling her back and forth until both feet are firmly planted on the base plate. He then leans her back against the cart, until her ebony ass cheeks come to a rest, with the backing bar of the cart sinking directly between them. Now staring upward at the ceiling, the woman is wheeled over to the large cooler in the back corner of the shop.
Balancing the moving cart with one hand, Claussen lifts the pull handle with his free one, opening the door to the cooler. (As he does, a rush of chill air escapes from around him.) Moments later the Professor wheels his latest edition inside, then sets the cart upright next to another frozen figure in the darkness. Jack reaches up and pulls the cord on an old circular fluorescent light above, which soon sparkles to life, illuminating the refrigerated room.
The professor and Cherri are greeted by three frozen forms, all standing with their backs to the wall, their identities somewhat obscured by the clear plastic sheeting that covers them from head to toe. Two of the victims are dark skinned in nature, the third appears to be Caucasian. Had she been conscious, Cherri would recognize two of them as working girls from the street. The one woman, with obviously large breasts (now squished against the plastic), was her old friend Missy. The second was a woman by the name of Lakeesha Jones, a hooker who disappeared from the streets a short time before Cherri and Missy themselves were abducted.
Claussen shifts Cherri’s body back off the handcart, eventually placing her beside Missy. A few minutes later, Jack retrieves a plastic cover for her as well, protecting her immobilized body while being careful not to mess up her freshly primped “up-do” hairstyle.
Once Cherri is covered, Claussen steps back, looking over the line of new arrivals. Each woman stands perfectly upright, with her arms and hands posed stiffly at their sides.
He walks past Missy first: her large breasts press at the plastic; her nipples appearing as two dark brown smudges against the clear surface. Her chest is so large that it pulls the plastic away from her head at an angle, to the point where her identity can be barely recognized. Claussen lifts the sheet up, his eyes looking over the very light misting of frost that covers her slightly chubby body. Eventually her pretty round face is revealed, still holding the wide-eyed look of surprise that was frozen in place when confronted by the professor’s Ansco time-suspending flash. Her black hair is styled in a classic “china doll” cut, with bangs hanging just above her dark eyes, while the rest curves inward to frame her face and neckline. The professor glances back downward at the perfectly trimmed v-shape of black pubic hair that sprouts up beneath her slight belly, that so many men had undoubtedly soiled in the past . . .
Claussen drops the plastic back down, stepping to the next victim beside Missy. This woman is petite, with slightly darker skin and has a more athletic body in comparison to the others. She stares out through the plastic in defiance at the old man with her fists clenched . . .
“I’ll have to do something with that hair,” mumbles Claussen, referring to his distaste for the woman’s “cornrow” styled hair.
Stepping in front of the last figure, the professor slowly lifts up the plastic sheeting. Beneath it stands an eighteen year old girl with jet black hair having a large purple dyed streak running through it. Found skating in an abandoned shoe factory parking lot, Claussen had befriended the high school drop out who was living on the street after running away from home. The old man looks downward at the poor girl’s chest, wondering how he’s going to get those small “hoop” piercings out of her nipples.
The skater girl stares straight ahead, not the least bit concerned . . .
* * * * * *
Several hours later, the two drunken females recklessly cruise along, carrying on about the current (or the lack of) loves of their lives. The red BMW darts back and forth between the slower moving cars on the freeway as if they were standing still.
Elaine: “That accountant was hot, I can’t believe you didn’t take his number.”
Sidra: “Ah, no great loss there (brushes her hand off in the air). He just wanted to get down my pants, that’s all. . . . just like the rest of them.”
Elaine: “And the problem with that is?”
Sidra: “Oh, I don’t know . . . I guess I just want somebody who is looking for something meaningful for a change. My clock is ticking away here, and I’m going to be thirty in another year. Then it all starts to go downhill from there.”
Elaine: “Hey, speak for yourself there, girl!”
Sidra: “Well, you know what I mean.”
Elaine: “Sidra: you’re a fitness instructor who gets paid to stay in shape everyday and you’re surrounded by gorgeous guys on an hourly basis. What more could you possibly want?”
Sidra: “Hey, I’m not complaining, but as far as the guys at the gym go . . . I want somebody who can carry on an intelligent conversation. Somebody who will pay attention to me, instead of checking out themselves in the mirror every two minutes!”
Elaine: “You mean somebody who can carry on a conversation beyond asking if your boobs are real or not!”
Sidra: “Oh shut up! I still can’t believe that Jerry had you go into the sauna to check me out like that!”
Elaine: “Oh please, I told you a dozen times that it was just a klutzy mistake!”
Sidra: “Whatever. I think you both need help!”
Elaine: “Well, it could be a hell of a lot worse, look what I’m dealing with.”
Sidra: “Hey, that horny old guy puts roof over your head and pays all of your bills. So you have to suck him off every now and then; so what?”
Elaine: “Yeah, well until you’ve been there . . . Believe me, it’s no treat!”
The two women laugh hysterically, as they take the next exit ramp that eventually leads them to Pine Hollow Road . . .
Elaine: “Alright, start keeping an eye out for 119 . . . It should be on the right hand side.”
The women begin turning their heads back and forth, reading the house numbers out loud to each other . . .
The curiosity soon gets the best of her and Sidra asks, “So who is this guy we’re supposed to meet? Is he single?”
Elaine: “Actually, I heard he is. From what Stanley told me, he roomed with this guy back when they were in college. He’s a professor over at Beaumont University.”
Sidra: “Hmmm, an older man with plenty of knowledge . . . Sounds interesting. So is this one good looking?”
Elaine: “I don’t know, I’ve never seen him in person before. I do remember Stanley mentioning that he was charming and quite popular with the ladies though.”
Sidra: “Great . . . Meaning that he’s popular with his female students. How am I supposed to compete with a campus full of bouncy co-eds?”
Elaine: “Please . . . With that tight little body and those long legs, I don’t think you have much to worry about.”
Sidra: “Well thank you . . . But I’m still not letting you fondle my boobs again!”
Elaine: “Hey, what did I tell you about that?”
Suddenly, Elaine slams on the brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of the road . . .
Elaine: “I think I just passed it . . .(the woman arches her head back, looking over her shoulder), Yep, crap, that’s it . . . 119!” She puts the car in reverse and squeals the tires while backing up, then pulls the BMW into the white concrete driveway.
Sidra: “Wow, nice house!”
Elaine: “Yeah it is!”
The two women look over the yard, admiring the neatly trimmed hedges, as well as the ornate landscaping that surrounds the home. There were even little intimate lights that lined the walkway.
Sidra: “It looks to me as if this guy has some extra time on his hands.”
Elaine: “What makes you say that?”
Sidra: “Well, either he has a lot of free time to put that kind of care into his yard, or enough money to pay somebody else to do it for him. Either way works good for me!”
Elaine: “So what happened to Mr. Caring and Sensitive?”
Sidra: “Hey, a girl can’t always get what she wants right in the beginning. Sometimes you have to mold a man into Mr. Right!”
Elaine: “Yeah well, try to keep your pants on if you’re going in. I have to get up early enough in the morning as it is, to catch my flight. I really don’t want to be stuck here chatting it up all night with somebody who is old enough to be my father.”
Sidra: “Oh . . . You never want to have fun anymore!”
As Elaine gets out of the car and heads toward the walkway, Sidra lags behind a bit to check her hair in the car’s rearview mirror, then climbs out and slams the door. Sidra quickly walks around to catch up with Elaine, and as she does one of her high heeled business pumps catches on the edge of one of the slate squares that make up the walkway. The woman quickly loses her balance and falls with a pronounced “Thump” on her shapely tush!
Sidra: “Oh shit! I can’t believe I just did that!”
Elaine pushes the doorbell, then turns to see her friend brushing off any unwanted grime from her ass. “Walk much?” she asks, while trying not to laugh.
Sidra laughs and jokingly gives her friend the finger, then quickly makes here way up the remainder of the walkway.
The two tipsy women begin laughing hysterically in a drunken stupor, until the entrance door of the house suddenly opens . . .
To Jack Claussen’s surprise, there’s not just one, but two delightfully gorgeous women standing there giggling on his front porch! And from the look of it, they’ve been doing some drinking . . .
Claussen: “Well please (opening the door wide), come on in, ladies!”
Elaine walks in first. Then as Sidra steps in behind her, Claussen courteously places his hand at the small of her back to guide her inside the doorway. . .
Sidra jumps a bit at the gesture, and then smiles back at the old man in a coy manner.
Claussen quickly glances at the woman’s backside, secretly admiring the way the light polyester fabric of her business slacks clings to her toned behind. “Good lord!” he thinks to himself.
The two women quickly glance around the living room, checking out the expensive antique furniture as well as the decorative art that adorns the area.
Sidra quickly pulls on the black material of her turtleneck, stretching the top until it clings to her breasts just a little more closely . . .
The professor rubs his hands together, as if he were a boy scout trying to start a campfire out in the deep woods somewhere. Then he asks “So, which one of you is Elaine?”
The woman nearest to him, wearing the business suit and slacks, raises her hand and replies, “Ah . . . Yep, right here . . . that would be me!” She flashes a big smile, but quickly loses it when she notices a nude statue on an end table just behind the professor. “Great, another sexist pig,” she thinks to herself silently.
Claussen sizes the woman up, noticing the cleavage showing from her low-cut top that’s beneath her black suit jacket . . . And the way the waist of the garment cinches at her shapely hips.
Elaine notices the man’s rudeness, and quickly pulls her jacket together to hide herself from view.
“Yes, you certainly are just as beautiful as Stanley described!” Claussen says, as he winks at the woman. Then he steps in front of the second woman, reaching for her delicate hand. “And who might this beautiful vision of loveliness be?”
The woman gives her hand to the gentleman, excepting his kiss . . . “Hi there! I’m Sidra, Elaine’s friend.”
Claussen: “Well Sidra, it’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”
The professor’s eyes lock onto Sidra’s gaze, he feels as if he could drown into the deep, staring green marbles.
Sidra begins to blush ever so slightly, then looks away as her hand drops back to her side.
Elaine looks on with a note of disgust beside her friend, then thinks to herself, “Oh great . . . She’s giving him the shy routine . . . totally an act!”
“So . . . I was just about to crack open a bottle of vintage wine; would you two care to join me for a glass?” asks Claussen. (His mind begins to stir like a witch’s brew of evil, just thinking of the evening that could soon unfold).
Elaine snaps back in response, “No... I don’t think that would be a very good idea. I have to leave first thing in the morning . . . A flight to catch actually, and we’ve both already had enough to drink this evening as is.”
Claussen reacting quickly, says, “Oh, what’s another glass going to hurt? Besides, Stanley tells me that you’re leaving on vacation for the Bahamas. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to lie about and bake in the sun when you get down there, so what do you say?”
Elaine: “No really, we must be going . . . I’m truly sorry that we got here late, Professor Claussen, and I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience for you.”
Her apology falls on deaf ears as Claussen turns to Sidra . . .
Without hesitating, Sidra cracks her big white smile and excitedly says, “Sure, I would love a glass!” She slips her hands into her pockets, glanceing over at Elaine . . . (who stares back with a disgusted look).
“Great, I’ll be right back in a minute!” says Claussen, quickly heading towards the kitchen.
Elaine: “Ah, professor . . . The file please.”
Claussen: “Oh, yes of course . . . Ah, just one moment, darling.”
Claussen, (having planned ahead), quickly grabs a medium sized, leather bound folder off of his kitchen counter. A locked, thick leather strap wraps around the outside to hide the folder’s contents from prying eyes. (Those contents simply being yesterday's evening’s paper!) The old man rounds the corner of the kitchen and reenters the living room foyer area, handing over the file folder.
Elaine takes the leather folder from the old man’s hand and obliges him with a curt “Thank You.”
Claussen: “Now let me get this young lady her glass of wine; you’re sure you don’t want one, Elaine?”
Elaine: “Ah, no really, professor . . . I think we should be hitting the road now, but thanks again for offering.”
Claussen ignores the woman and disappears back into the kitchen.
Elaine turns to her friend in disgust and asks, “Are you frickin’ nuts?”
Sidra tilts her head and replies, “I think the guy is kind of charming.”
Elaine shrugs her shoulders and lifts her arms upward as if to say, “What gives?”
Sidra: “I’m being serious! He seems really sweet . . . And he isn’t all that bad looking either. You know, some guys get better looking with age . . . Just think about Paul Newman!”
Elaine suddenly shoves Sidra in a playful manner, nearly knocking her friend over, yelling “GET OUT!”
“I’m being serious! . . . Besides, you already have your own sugar daddy!” Sidra reminds her friend.
Before Elaine gets a chance to reply, Claussen returns . . . now carrying Sidra’s glass of wine, along with his own.
“For you Madame,” the professor says, while handing her the glass. Then Jack begins swirling his glass within his hand for effect . . .
Sidra begins doing the same, and then takes a light sip of her wine. “Mmm . . . Thank you!”
Elaine arches her back and rolls her eyes, as if to silently protest a “Come on, lets go!”
Claussen takes another drink from his glass, then asks Elaine once more, just to be sure . . . “Come on Elaine, it’s very good . . . aged since 1959!”
Elaine: “No professor I’m fine. . . but you could direct me to the ladies room.”
Claussen: “Oh yes, but of course: Right down the hall there and it’s the third door on the left.”
Elaine says, “Thank you!” and proceeds to clack her heels across the professor’s hardwood floors with her ribbony black locks bouncing between her shoulders. She soon disappears down the hallway . . .
Claussen turns back to see Sidra taking a curious interest in a nude painting that’s mounted on the wall just above the fireplace.
The woman in the painting has her arms raised and crossed behind her head of stacked black hair. She is nude, but wears a sheer cover-up across her waistline, and is seated on a small stool that is covered by a red satin sheet. The model has her head tilted at a slight angle, with her eyes rolled upward, to stare longingly at the viewer. Her back is also arched, forcing her curvy rear end to hang just out over the edge of the flat base. The painting was very graceful and in good taste, yet held a certain underlying sense of eroticism.
Sidra: “Wow . . . She’s very beautiful!”
“Yes, quite,” agrees Claussen. “I purchased it at an estate auction in the Hampton’s quite a few years ago. The painter was Italian, and supposedly that piece was confiscated by the Germans during World War Two. It was found hanging on the wall in a German officer’s quarters after the war.” The professor swirls his glass once more, then finishes it off.
Sidra: “Wow, a painting that beautiful and with a history behind it like that, I’ll bet it was pricey.”
Claussen: “I paid a handsome price for it, I’m afraid.”
Sidra: “ . . . But you just had to have it.”
Claussen: “Yes, I surely did. I suppose it was something that I saw as inspiring . . . You can’t just put a price on something that drives you, but you can throw money at it all afternoon to keep it from inspiring somebody else!”
Sidra bites her lower lip, then decides to go out on a limb . . . “She has some incredible breasts.” The woman raises an eyebrow, then turns to glance at the man standing beside her . . . giving him “the look” . . . then looks back at the painting. “Not overly big, not exactly small . . . just over a handful.”
Claussen, caught off guard by the woman’s openness, blurts out, “ Ah yes, she surely does!”
Sidra: “They just look so . . . so natural.”
The professor’s fifty-something plus package, quickly springs to life beneath his trousers!
Sidra turns to the man beside her once again, and playfully rubs the tips of her fingers across his chest. Then she stops momentarily, and crosses her arms behind her back . . . “You know, men often ask me if mine are real.”
Thinking of the intimate direction that this conversation is headed, Claussen’s member begins to throb as his heart rate picks up the pace . . .
Claussen: “You mean that they actually have the nerve to ask?”
Sidra: “Yeah . . . Can you believe it?”
Claussen: “So . . . what do you tell them?”
Sidra: “Well, depending on how they approach me . . . sometimes I tell them that it’s not any of their damned business! But if someone knows how to talk to me, I just tell him: yes they are real . . . and they are spectacular!”
As the two break out in laughter, Sidra slowly sneaks her arm around to rub her palm across Claussen’s back. Then a moment later, she polishes off the glass of wine that’s in her other hand.
Claussen: “Would you like another glass, darling?”
Sidra tilts her head off to the side, brushing her long black silky hair out across her shoulder. The woman then looks up longingly at the professor, and whispers in a soft voice, “Yes, please.”
The old man quickly goes back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle with a large grin, because he knows, “he got his mojo working!”
* * * * * *
In the bathroom, Elaine wipes herself, getting up off the toilet to pull her red satin panties and dress slacks back upward into place. She quickly pulls her designer belt buckle together; latching it in and then adjusts her jacket. The woman leans over the sink to wash her hands, and then checks her make-up and hair in the mirror, primping it properly in place. As she does, Elaine says to her reflection, “I hope that little shit Sidra is ready to go, it’s getting late enough already!”
Elaine flushes the toilet, grabs the file folder, and then pauses in front of the mirror at the last second before opening the door. Looking at her reflection once again, she says “Paul Newman my ass!” The woman opens the door, turns off the light and then proceeds to clack her shoes back down the hallway . . . .
Elaine: “Ok honey, it’s time to go. I’m going to be lucky enough to get out of bed as it is!”
Elaine enters the foyer at the front door and notices Sidra staring at a nude painting with her glass of wine still raised in hand, alone in the living room.
“Hey, if you want to study art, go to the county museum on your own watch. I really want to get home!” exclaims Elaine, now stepping up next to her friend.
Sidra continues to stare up at the painting in contemplation . . . ignoring her friend’s request as if she wasn’t there.
“Come on, drink up!” commands Elaine, now reaching for her friend’s glass to give her some assistance. However, she notices that the wine glass is empty. Elaine nudges her friend in the arm, making it bobble slightly . . . “Come on let’s go, before he offers you a re-fill.”
Sidra continues to ignore her friend in defiance . . .
“Hey, did you here me? Enough is enough . . . NOW LET’S GO!” demands Elaine, growing more impatient by the minute.
“Are you ready for that glass of wine now, Elaine?” asks the professor from somewhere in the kitchen to her left.
“Ah, no . . . that’s ok professor, we’re going to take off now, I have a very long day ahead of me tomorrow” replies Elaine, now shouting over her shoulder.
Elaine notices movement in the corner of her eye, and as she turns around, she is very surprised to see Professor Claussen standing there . . . with a very noticeable erection poking at the zipper of his trousers! With a confused or better yet chagrined expression on her face . . . the woman points at the professor’s crotch and says, “IT’S DEFINITELY TIME TO GO!”
It is only then, that Elaine looks upward and notices the odd looking goggles that the man is wearing, and the weird looking camera that he is now raising in the air.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing there?” asks the woman in a sarcastic tone, before she is . . .
. . . into submission!
Jack stands and waits momentarily . . . Watching the aqua-blue like glow of stasis immediately overtake the secretary’s frozen form. After several moments, the haze begins to fade away, leaving the thirty-two year old female standing paralyzed, stiff as a board, in the middle Claussen’s very own living room!
The leather bound file folder drops to the hardwood floor unexpectedly with a pronounced “thud”, insuring that the process is complete . . . While Elaine continues to stare forward at the strange man, a surprised expression now permanently etched into her beautiful face!
The professor sets his trusty camera and welding goggles down on his kitchen table, and then slowly approaches Elaine first . . .
The shapely woman stands straight, with one arm relaxed at her side, her other hand is still attempting to grip the file folder that it held only moments before.
“I must say Elaine, Stanley was quite right when he chose you to be my next creation. But I had no idea that you would be so adorable in life . . .” states the professor, now brushing the back of his hand across her rounded cheek. He picks a few of the stray black ringlets away from her eyes . . . then focuses his attention on the row of buttons lining the front of her jacket, anxiously plucking them one by one. Slowly, he pulls the jacket open, letting it rest off the sides of the woman’s full breasts. Like so many times before, Claussen pulls the low cut neckline of her red satin top forward just to “sneak a peak” at what the woman has to offer. Looking down inward, he soon spots the two globes, nestled warmly together inside . . . Held in place by a matching red satin push-up bra.
Claussen lets the top retract back in place, then slowly steps around behind the woman, noticing her equally frozen friend Sidra, still patiently staring at the painting that’s mounted on the wall in front of her. The professor stares longingly at Sidra’s perfect rear end, then turns to the back of Elaine and reaches for the lower back hem of her business suit. “And what are we hiding under here?” asks Claussen, just to tease himself. As the professor slowly lifts the hem upward, he is greeted with the sight of yet another great tush!
Although slightly wider than her friend’s, Elaine’s firm behind reflects the countless hours she has spent sweating away on a stair-master in some gym, or even while jogging in a local park perhaps? The black fabric of her business slacks is highlighted by thin silver pinstripes that run the length of Elaine’s legs. The pinstripes only serve to enhance the perfect form of her behind, each bowing “inward” in unison as they stretch out over her ass, then work their way towards her beltline.
“Thanks for all of your hard work and dedication darling. You have kept yourself in prime condition . . . And it definitely shows!” says Claussen, now sliding his opened hand from her tailbone, down over the perfectly formed curves of her ass. “You must have spent many hours searching for a pair of slacks that could flatter your body so well . . .”
If Elaine were able, she might have thanked her admirer for such a fine complement . . .
The professor drops the hem of the jacket, then circles around the frozen woman, at first admiring her side profile, then steps up directly in front of her. Claussen dips his fingers into the waistline of Elaine’s slacks, pressing her soft tummy inward. His freehand reaches for the chrome buckle of her belt, unclasping it apart and letting it fall off to the side. The shiny black button is unsnapped next, followed by the slow, downward drag on her zipper. The old man parts the two halves of her slacks, then reaches inside her jacket to pull them down over her hips . . . the thin material slides gracefully down her thighs on its own, eventually landing at her feet and exposing her red satiny briefs.
“Ah yes, so I see, we are color coordinated from top to bottom,” says Claussen with a sly smile. “Just as I figured you would be!”
Bing-Bong-Bing-Bong . . .Bong-Bong-Bing-Bong!
Claussen’s heart drops into his gut, as the doorbell unexpectedly ruins his intimate moment with Elaine!
The old man yells out “Just a minute!” in panic, as his mind begins to swirl! “Shit, I cannot believe this!” says the professor out loud, as an instantaneous plan goes into action.
The professor quickly grabs the waistline of Elaine’s slacks, yanking them violently upward, causing her arms and head to bobble slightly from side to side. The woman’s stiff form soon loses its balance and slowly begins to tip backwards! Reacting quickly, Claussen grabs hold of both sides of her open jacket, preventing her from completely falling over. As a result, her loose pants soon slide back to down the floor!
As if he were a linebacker tackling his target, the old man slams into the woman’s mid section, buckling her over onto his shoulder. With one arm bracing the backs of her legs, his free open hand plants itself onto her firm behind and the professor hoists the girl upward over his shoulder . . . attempting to carry her off into the bedroom. As Claussen marches down the hallway hunched over, Elaine’s ribbony black hair sways to and fro along with her arms, which dangle lifelessly behind the old man’s back.
By the time the professor reaches the bedroom at the end of the hall, he’s nearly out of breath. He quickly tosses the stiff woman on top of his bed in haphazardly fashion . . . She lands with a noticed “bounce”, with her arms now spread outward from her sides, as her legs remain tangled in the pants and sticking straight out from the edge of the bed.
For whatever reason, the professor tries once more to pull the troublesome slacks back upward, but only manages to bend the prone woman’s legs straight up in the air and pointing upwards at the mirrored ceiling above her.
“Screw it!” says the desperate old man, as he leaves the room with Elaine still lying there on the bed. Her legs remain pointed upward at the ceiling, which causes her “cooter” to press outward from the seams of her satin briefs, exposing it to whoever might walk into the room!
With his heart racing and now sweating profusely, Claussen speedily makes his way back down the hallway . . .
BING-BONG-BING-BONG . . . BONG-BONG-BING-BONG!
Claussen comes to a sliding halt inside the foyer, nearly plowing into the door itself. He takes a deep breath, wiping off his brow on his shirt sleeve.
“I swear, if that’s Stanley Pitt standing on the other side of this door, I will kick his ass clear down to the other end of the street!” mumbles Claussen. He yanks the door wide open, expecting to see his former college mate standing there with a perverse grin . . . But instead, he gasps out loud as his heart drops to his gut once again . . .
Beyond the doorway stands a rather demure looking lady that looks to be in her late forties. Dressed conservatively in a knee length light blue dress, with a fuzzy throw over sweater wrapped around her shoulders, she clearly resembles a typical high school librarian. She also had a stacked hairdo atop her head that was dangerously reaching near “bee-hive” proportions!
“Ah . . .um, Mrs. Cunningham?” Claussen asks, with a tone of disbelief. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Well hello, Jack!” greets the woman, with a beaming smile . . . “I was headed over to the meeting tonight at the college, and Howard called saying that he was backed up with paperwork at the store, and he wouldn’t be able to make it. So, since you were on the way, I figured I would pick you up and you could save some gas!” The woman then clasps her hands in front of her, and somehow manages to stretch her smile out even wider.
Claussen: “Ah, . . . what meeting?”
Marion: “You know . . . The school board meeting.”
Claussen: “That’s tonight?”
Marion: “Yes, It is tonight at 8 pm sharp. Don’t tell me that you completely forgot, you’re on the board of directors!”
Claussen’s heart is beating faster in pace, and he starts to feel just a bit light headed . . .
“Ah dammit, I knew I forgot something!” says Claussen, (whacking himself in the forehead for effect).
“Yes, I’m afraid it happens to the best of us, Jack!” says the woman in a cheerful manner. But then she changes her expression and tone of voice, when she notices Claussen’s pasty white skin, covered in perspiration.
…The professor wobbles slightly, as if he were going to collapse!
Marion: “My goodness Jack, are you feeling alright?”
Claussen: “Ah yeah . . . Well I mean, I’m not exactly sure. I think I have a touch of food poisoning . . . I’m not exactly sure.”
Marion: “Well for goodness sake, did you call the doctor?”
Claussen: “Well no, not exactly . . . But I had planned to.”
Marion: “Well come on then, I’ll drop you off on the way, darling.”
Claussen, knowing Marion’s caring nature, added to the fact that Sidra still remains standing frozen and staring at the artwork on the wall just ten feet away . . . decides to stall the older woman for time. “Could you just wait right here for a moment, while I gather up some things?”
“Absolutely Jack!” says Marion, still beaming from ear to ear.
“Great, I’ll be right back in a minute,” assures Jack, quickly closing the door on the woman, but leaving it open just a crack . . .
He frantically runs back into the living room, until he reaches the stilled figure of Sidra, who remains staring at the painting in frozen contemplation. As Claussen reaches around the woman’s thin waistline, the phone begins to ring in the background!
“Are you f*cking kidding me?” yells the old man in anger.
As the professor tilts Sidra’s trim body back towards his chest, he jerks her body just a bit too harshly . . . Somehow causing her raised hand to lose its grip on the empty wineglass. The glass quickly drops to the hardwood floor, missing an expensive Persian rug by inches . . . shattering outwards into a hundred pieces!
“Oh shit!” exclaims Claussen, now dragging the woman’s body towards the kitchen with her heels scraping against the wood surface.
The front door quickly swings open and a worried looking Marion lets herself inside!
“Jack, honey, are you alright? I thought I just heard you drop a glass! Jack, for goodness sakes, where are you?”
. . . Meanwhile, the phone continues to ring in the background.
Jack Claussen knows that his time is running out. He quickly pulls a chair back with his foot, and then quickly seats the suspended Sidra in it at the head of the kitchen table.
“Just a minute Marion, I’ll be right there!” yells the professor, now sliding the seated woman harshly back towards the table. As he turns back around, Mrs. Cunningham has already found the kitchen . . .
“Oh . . . Oh my, I didn’t know that you had company, Jack!” exclaims Marion, already extending a hand to his seated guest in courtesy. “Hello there, I’m Marion . . . I‘m on the board of directors with Jack, over at the university!”
Claussen: “Um . . . Oh yes, this is uh . . Um ..”
But before Jack can even make the introduction, his answering machine picks up on the ringing phone, with its volume set on high . . .
*BEEP* . . . “Ah, yes Jack . . . It’s Stanley Pitt. I’m just calling to see if Elaine has arrived yet. If she has, I hope that you’re respecting my wishes. I wouldn’t appreciate you soiling Elaine’s panties . . . And that means no frozen hand jobs, or bloody blow jobs either, mate! I know how dirty you can be, ya bloody loon . . . Now pick up on the damned phone over there!”
Claussen quickly runs into his den to get to the answering machine in an attempt to shut off the intercom button, but hears a blood-curdling scream coming from the kitchen!
“Holy shit! What the hell could have happened now?” the professor yells out, as he gives up on the answering machine and speeds back towards the kitchen. As he rounds the corner in the living room, he notices that Sidra has fallen forward, planting her face square into the surface of the dinner table!
“Jack, oh thank goodness you’re here!” Marion yells frantically . . . “I’m afraid this girl may have food poisoning too; do something!”
The professor, knowing that he’s run out of options, reaches for his camera that’s still sitting on the dining room table.
“All I did was introduce myself, and she just sat there staring straight ahead like a dummy . . . Then all of the sudden, she started leaning forward and wound up face first into the table!” explains Marion, now flipping open her purse to dig out her cell phone . . . “I’ll call 9-1-1!”
Claussen starts winding up the camera . . .
Operator: “Hello, you’ve reached 9-1-1 services . . . What is your emergency?”
Before Marion lets out a single word, there is a sudden:
. . . That fills the room, leaving Marion frozen in place . . . with her phone still open and raised to her cheek!
Operator: “Hello . . . You’ve reached 9-1-1, what is your emergency? . . . Hello, is there anybody there? Hello . . . ?”
The operator suddenly hears loud static on the other end. Looking at her monitor in confusion, the address that was automatically registered when the emergency call was made . . . suddenly vanishes as her screen turns a bright color of blue, immediately freezing her in place while she remains seated in her chair!
To her co-worker’s surprise, the immobilized dispatcher would “re-animate” on her own in an emergency room several hours later . . .
Meanwhile, back in his kitchen, the professor’s heartbeat begins to slow down slightly as he attempts to catch his breath. He begins to look around the room to take into account the series of events that have just unfolded right in his own home.
Claussen approaches the kitchen table and carefully sits Sidra back upright in her chair . . . Her arms are now bent upward against her chest, as if she had just crashed into an invisible door that failed to open. The old man manipulates both arms downward onto the surface of the table, to stabilize the young woman, and then straightens her hair back over her shoulders.
Once satisfied with Sidra’s temporary position, the professor turns to the calmly frozen form of Mrs. Cunningham, with a slight look of regret upon his face. He slowly manipulates the woman’s fingers, releasing the cell phone that is still clenched in her hand. He flips the cover closed, setting it on the table with plans to properly dispose of it later. Next, he pulls the woman’s raised arm back downward, leaving it to rest at her side. The forty-six year old remains looking downward towards the floor . . . as if she were somehow ashamed of her present condition, or was about to be scolded.
Claussen soon offers his apology to the woman: “Marion, darling . . . I’m so very sorry to get you mixed up in all of this madness,” the professor says, now running a finger along her lower jaw line. He comes to a stop at the base of her chin, then tilting her head upward to look her directly in the eyes.
“To be perfectly honest, I had completely forgotten about the board meeting this evening . . . However, I will have to go now, just to have an alibi. You will remain here instead. If you had only waited outside the door, none of this would have happened. Unfortunately, due to the delicate nature of my hobby . . . I can’t afford to leave any loose ends.” The old man whisks a few stray hairs from her eyebrows, then adds, “I do hope that you can forgive me.”
Mrs. Cunningham stares back coldly, in total silence . . .
“However, all that I can offer you at this point, is a highly respected position . . . standing side by side with a collection of some of the most beautiful women that I have ever known,” promises the professor, now carefully taking the mature woman’s hand in his, as if he were about to propose. “I don’t believe I have met a more considerate woman or anybody who is quite as pure as yourself, Marion, and it would truly be an honor.”
The professor gently rubs the woman’s hand between both of his, feeling her wedding ring slightly catch on the wrinkles of his palm. A brief moment later, he watches a single tear slowly form, then cascade down the woman’s cheek. He quickly produces a hanky from his pocket, slowly wiping the tear away, assuring her that he will always look after her . . .
* * * * * *
Several hours later, Ms. Elaine Benes slowly begins to awaken to the familiar smell of fresh brewed coffee. She soon feels the after effects of the night on the town, and the many drinks that she and her friend Sidra slammed down, in the form of a splitting headache and the worst case of cottonmouth she can ever recall having. In fact, even her cheeks and mouth hurt!
Elaine’s eyes begin to blink open, and at first the woman finds it hard to focus on the objects before her. She attempts to raise her arms to rub her weary eyes, but neither seems to be able to move. She slowly arches her head down and to the side, only to barely see that both hands are strapped in place to some sort of armrests!
“What the hell?” Elaine thinks to herself, now trying to remember what those drinks may have gotten her into. The woman feels a slight coolness in the air, then suddenly notices her bare legs, which also seem to be bound and restricted from any sort of movement!
Elaine quickly jerks her body in place, attempting desperately to get up from whatever chair it is that she’s confined to, but the effort is worthless. The woman begins to panic, shifting back and forth, and frantically yelling out for help. Unfortunately, all that comes out is a muffled “mmmm” sound, due to the red rubber ball-gag that divides her upper lip from her lower one.
Elaine’s mind begins to spin in horror, as she suddenly remembers the unfortunate errand that she was asked to run for her perverted boss. That errand ended up taking her and her equally drunken friend Sidra to an older gentleman’s house on the outskirts of town . . . But how she ended up gagged and strapped to a chair in just her underwear, was beyond her comprehension!
“Mmmmph!” . . . The poor girl looks around the room she’s sitting in, her eyes beginning to come into focus a little more clearly now . . .
The room is clean, painted white, and for the most part . . . reminds her of her gynecologist’s office. It even has that same sweet, sterile smell that would make you feel sick if you thought about it. Several storage cabinets line one wall of the room, while a large stainless steel table with wheels stands in the middle. The table looks like something one would see in a horror movie, placed in some mad doctor’s lab, or worse yet . . .
“Oh God no! . . . not in a morgue!” Elaine thinks to herself in terror!
Hearing some sort of mechanical winding noise behind her, Elaine cranes her neck back as far to the right as it will go. In her peripheral vision, she can barely notice some type of movement in the corner of her eye.
Jerking her body back and forth with all of her strength, the woman somehow manages to get the wheelchair that she’s strapped in to roll backward to face the noise. The first thing that comes into sight, is the man that they had met earlier this evening . . . now standing with some sort of hand held remote control. The yellow controller was about six inches in length, and attached by a thick power cable to some sort of mechanical winch that is mounted to the rafters in the ceiling, looked like it belongs on an assembly line in a factory somewhere . . .
As the mechanical winding noise continues, a sling made of heavy straps, pulls a nude body upward in the air, slowly releasing it from sort of chrome plated tubular framework placed below. The body appears to be female: judging by the long black hair that hangs from her head; the soft flowing curves of her hips; thighs and legs; and the exposed breasts that lean back onto her chest. The body continues to rise upwards, eerily swaying from side to side, until the old man grabs hold of the figure’s bare foot to steady it in place. Now guiding it along, he slowly works the controls of the remote, until the body is hanging above some sort of tubular moving cart below. The figure slowly tilts back at an angle, then eases its way downward until coming to a rest, standing upright and in place on the cart.
If it weren’t for the fact that the realistic looking mannequin had its back turned to her, Elaine would surely be far more terrified than she already was!
Meanwhile, the professor carefully removes all of the heavy support straps away from the rigid feminine form that stands before him. First the neck support strap falls away, followed by both ankle straps. Claussen then unhooks the large waist strap that supports the weight of the torso, and also holds the woman’s arms at her sides.
Professor Claussen walks to a nearby storage cabinet to retrieve a plastic shower cap. He gathers the woman’s long black hair and tucks it carefully inside the cap, to prevent any accidental overspray. He then reaches around behind the cart and pulls out both halves of the support belt, clicking them together at the figure’s waistline.
Once the body is secured on the cart, Claussen stands back up. The professor looks over the aerobic instructor’s toned abs, along with her other exposed treasures . . .
With a sinister grin, Jack Claussen reaches open palms outward, feeling up the figure’s perfectly symmetrical and 100% natural breasts . . . just as he did when he undressed her for the conversion process earlier.
The figure stares ahead, open-eyed, almost with a hint of grandeur in both her expression as well as her body language . . . even as she is helplessly felt up by the stranger that’s standing before her.
“Well my darling, I must say . . . they certainly look and feel as magnificent as you said they would!” says the professor, now toying with one of her nipples . . . “And I can fully assure you, that once I complete my work, they will remain just as firm and bountiful for all eternity!”
Sidra stares back from limbo, simply having to take his word for it . . .
The professor leans Sidra back and wheels her into an adjacent room that contains a paint gun, a large compressor, and an opened can full of clear coat enamel paint. A single line of copper tubing runs the length of the wall, providing the spray gun with compressed air.
As soon as Claussen sets the cart on end, he chats with the frozen figure while he methodically unlatches her waistline belt: “Now your conversion is almost complete. As soon as I hook up your friend Elaine over there to the rack, I will come in and give you a fresh coat of enamel . . . How does that sound?”
If Sidra were conscious, she might have noticed an older woman standing perfectly still beside her. That figure would be forty-six year old Marion Cunningham, who is now wearing nothing more than a complex body-forming girdle, which is nude in color and appears to be one size smaller than that required! The constricting combination of latex and elastic manipulates her aging body into the shape it may have been nearly twenty years ago. The strapless top half heaves her sagging breasts up and outward; the restricting front, side and rear support panels mold her dropping tush into a round, almost perfectly pear shaped delight! In front, the lips of her vagina are divided by a tight, double-stitched seam that glides over her flattened tummy, down between her thighs, then curves straight upwards . . . forcefully dividing her ass cheeks. In side profile, the woman could surely pass for being in her late twenties.
Despite being dressed in such a restricting undergarment, Marion’s face holds an expression of elation, as her beaming white smile is spread without any effort, what-so-ever. . .
The professor wheels his handy moving cart around Sidra, then maneuvers it in behind Mrs. Cunningham. He leans on the woman’s bare shoulder, pushing her slightly forward to allow the base plate of the cart to slide beneath her feet, then tilts her back against the cart. Once strapped in place, the former housewife and school board member is now methodically wheeled on over to the cooler, to join Claussen’s other victims who remain in storage. They all stand in frozen silence, waiting for their planned displays . . . some of which have already been completed.
* * * * * *
In the adjacent room, Elaine continues to weep alone in fright, still strapped helplessly in place within her wheelchair. Dazed and confused, her tired body leans back in the chair, fatigued from the constant twisting and turning motion in hopes of wiggling herself free from this madness.
Several minutes later, the lonely silence of the room is disturbed as the professor returns . . . wheeling in another female statue.
At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a storefront mannequin. But as Elaine studies the figure’s details a little more closely, the realism of the motionless figure sends an eerie chill up the girl’s spine.
The woman’s skin texture, along with her stacked grayish/blonde wig, would seem appropriate on someone who was in her mid forties or even fifty.
“Did they even make mannequins that age? . . .and what woman would want to purchase a wig that was made to look old on purpose?” Wondered the secretary in silence. “. . . and is that arm fat?”
Elaine also noticed that the figure was wearing a skin-toned undergarment that looked like the standard girdle, except that it appeared to be a few sizes too small. Judging by the tight crease running down the front and up the back of the garment, it appeared to be molding the figure’s undercarriage into near perfection. She soon considers that if the undergarment were to be worn by a real woman, it would surely be quite restricting, not to mention uncomfortable!
“Wait a minute . . . Why the hell would a mannequin need a girdle?” questions the girl, becoming even more suspicious of her predicament and the surroundings.
Suddenly, Elaine jolts in place, as her eyes make direct contact with Professor Claussen’s! The woman quickly struggles against her restraints: “Mmmmph!”
“Well hello, Elaine! . . . I’m glad that you could finally join us!” says Claussen, with a smile that at one time seemed charming and now was just plain creepy. “If you can wait for just a moment . . . (opens the stainless steel door on the cooler), I promise that I will be right with you.”
“Mmmmmmmph!” . . . Elaine continues her struggle, as she watches a cloud of fog roll forward from the opened door.
The professor proceeds, rolling the mannequin into the darkened room. He momentarily disappears into the darkness, until a small fluorescent light begins to sparkle to life.
Elaine frantically squirms about . . . The straps beginning to cut past her already raw skin. Every few seconds, she looks up . . . Expecting the professor to return.
During her struggle, Elaine thinks: “Where the hell is Sidra hiding at?”
Claussen steps out of the doorframe moments later, leaving the moving cart off to the side. He opens a door to a storage room that is adjacent to the cooler, and then steps inside. He soon returns to view, carrying what appears to be a large sheet of clear plastic, then disappears into the poorly lit room.
Breathing heavily, Elaine jerks back and forth violently . . . but her efforts fail to free her once again.
The professor soon returns to view, closing the large stainless steel door, latching the handle in place. He then walks over to a row of overhead cabinets that are mounted on the wall furthest from where Elaine is sitting. He takes out a rack that holds several test tubes that contain a fluorescent light green substance, then opens a nearby drawer. The professor removes a small leather pouch, unzips it open to remove a hypodermic needle. The old man bites the plastic protector tip off and spits it onto the countertop before him.
With his back turned and blocking her view, Elaine can’t imagine what he’s doing over there, and she surely doesn’t want to find out! She once again begins to writhe about in her chair . . . “Mmmmmph!”
The professor turns around a few moments later, approaching the terrified woman. Within his hand, is the syringe and needle . . . with the mysterious lime green substance in the chamber!
Elaine’s eyes go wide, her head snapping back and forth, from side to side . . .
“Now, now . . . This will only hurt a bit. The sooner you accept it, the quicker we can get started!” warns the professor. “Then it won’t hurt anymore…”
Claussen crouches down behind the wheelchair, locking up the brakes. Then he aims the needle for her seated, red satin covered tush . . .
Elaine jerks back and forth repeatedly, however the wheels don’t want to roll . . . The poor girl lets out one last muffled squeal, as the professor jabs and injects his special serum into the expected target!
The woman’s hands and feet outstretch to their fullest length beneath the restraints. Elaine suddenly arches her back away from the chair . . . The muscle tissue in her thighs and ass cheeks tenses up, then begin twitching repeatedly with reckless abandon!
The professor watches the woman’s reaction with admiration; feeling his rod arise to the occasion . . . “This is my favorite part to watch!” admits Claussen, to himself.
“OH-MY-GOD!” thinks the woman in silence, as she continues to spasm uncontrollably with ecstatic pleasure!
After a few intense minutes, the sudden gyrations of the climaxing woman soon begin to fade. Elaine’s perfectly round tush, slowly grinds to a halt against the material of the wheelchair’s mesh seat. The woman’s extended hands and feet slowly release their tension . . . dropping downward but remaining spread. Her arched back finally gives, relaxing back in place against the chair.
The professor lovingly strokes the woman’s black ribbon-like hair, cherishing their moment together in silence. The old man runs his hands down over her bare shoulders, then slowly walks around the seated figure to enjoy her involuntary expression . . .
Elaine gazes straight ahead without the slightest reaction to the movement in front of her . . . completely content with her unexpected enrapture.
Claussen steps in closer, admiring the look of fulfillment that reflects back from her dark eyes. He reaches around the side of her face, to release the clasp on the red ball that’s still planted in her fully opened mouth. It takes quite an effort, but the old man eventually removes the device by pressing down on the woman’s jaw and pinching the sides of the ball inward. Strings of saliva strand across from the rubber gag, to Elaine’s slack mouth . . . her jaws slowly lose tension, but still retain their prolonged “O” shaped position . . .
* * * * * *
Less than twenty minutes later, Elaine’s nude body gently sways within a sling, hanging helplessly above Claussen’s custom made conversion rack. Her black hair hangs down free from her scalp, as she is slowly lowered by a remote controlled winch into the framework of tubing.
Within minutes, the professor has already strapped her delicate white-skinned body down to the clamps that will hold her in place during the conversion process. (This is due to the fact that the entire frame rotates 360 degrees). All appropriate electrodes are taped in place and double checked, as well as her front and rear sterilization probes.
Claussen slides one final ribbed plastic tube into Elaine’s mouth, forcing it down deep into her throat, then an I.V. bag containing more of the mysterious lime green substance is rolled into place beside the framework.
As Claussen is about to hook up the I.V. bag, he casually looks over Elaine’s petite body, lying still in the chrome plated tubing beside him. He admires the way her breasts lean back, relaxed on her chest plate; the way each hipbone presses up beneath her skin at the top of her thighs; and he especially like the way her flat stomach, with its deep oblong navel, gently glides downward . . . smoothly blending into the curly hairs growing from her pubic arch.
As the professor leans forward, he feels his throbbing member press against the cold stainless steel framework. He manages to take one last caress, before the conversion process begins . . .
After pulling an all-nighter, Professor Claussen calls his old college buddy the following morning, with weary, bloodshot eyes. He is happy to confirm that Elaine, as well as her best friend named Sidra. . . have successfully been taken into custody. . .
Vacation in Rio, part 2
The flight back from Rio De Janeiro was a fairly quick, but bumpy one. Even though the plane that Stanley Pitt was flying in was personally owned, the real-estate investor couldn’t quite afford to buy off Mother Nature . . .(at least not just yet anyway)
The small private jet was rocked back and forth by a tropical storm for almost the entire return flight, leaving Stanley’s own personal pilot white-knuckled by the time they landed in the states. But Mr. Pitt didn’t care; that’s what he paid the man for. The fact that the businessman had been “liquoring it up” ever since they left the ground didn’t hurt much either.
The road trip from the airport back to the mansion wasn’t much better either. The sporadic torrential downpours over the last two days had left behind many flooded roadways and downed tree limbs. As a result, Stanley’s limo driver was forced to use the Interstate, instead of the many secondary road short cuts, which he was used to taking.
To make matters worse, Pitt’s longtime employee sensed that his boss wasn’t in a particularly “chatty” mood to begin with (which was fine with him!) Leon, along with Pitt’s staff: a personal chef; the lawn maintenance crew; the pool boy and two personal maids . . . were all paid to keep up an empty (and quiet) mansion for almost a month. Their boss even paid them their standard rate while he was out of town, which was also considerate.
The limousine driver and the two maids were the only ones that were actually required to live at the mansion, to be on call 24 hours a day if needed. So for the most part, the guy had the place to himself and even managed to invite a former employee over for some company . . . (his home girl was unfortunately fired from her maid position well over a month ago, for refusing to wear one of Pitt’s required uniforms!)
Surprisingly, Mr. Pitt’s secretary-turned-mistress had also failed to show up while the old man was away. The thirty-two year old had become quite “comfy” staying around the mansion, ever since Josephine Pitt had run off. Perhaps Mr. Pitt and Elaine had managed to have a “spat” before he left on vacation, and she wouldn’t be coming back at all . . .
“Nobody’s luck is that good!” thinks Leon to himself.
Regardless, if Mr. Pitt didn’t ask of Elaine’s whereabouts, the driver wasn’t going to mention it on purpose! Leon also wouldn’t bring up the fact that Pitt’s stepdaughter, (a result of Josephine’s first marriage) had stopped by once again, looking into the slow progress of her mother’s “alleged” disappearance investigation . . . (He would leave that up to the maids!)
Leon hits the tinted glass partition button on the dash, sliding it open. He then asks how the trip went . . .
“So how was your trip down to Rio, sir?” asks Leon with a big smile.
Mr. Pitt: “Oh, hey there Leon, how have you been son?”
Leon: “Just great sir, can’t wait to get back to work!”
Mr. Pitt: “What? . . . Can’t wait to get back to work? Well then what have I been paying you to do over the last four weeks?”
Leon: “Well, you know what I mean sir . . . as in I can’t wait to get back into the swing of things!”
Mr. Pitt: “Yeah, I’m sure. I just hope you clowns looked after the place and weren’t just hanging out by the damned pool, drinking “forties” the entire time.”
Leon: “Oh no sir, everything is exactly the way you left it.”
Mr. Pitt: “You weren’t shagging that new maid that I hired, then, I hope . . . What the hell was her name?”
Leon: “Marisa sir. She’s from Mexico.”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes that’s the one . . . Melissa. A exceptionally fine looking woman. If I was a young man, I would chase her down myself!”
Leon shakes his head, knowing that it’s not worth mentioning the girl’s name a second time. . .
Mr. Pitt: “You know, for such a petite little thing, she has a fairly good sized ass on her. Not exactly big and definitely not small! That’s how you guys like em’ isn’t that right Leon?”
Leon: “Ah yes, of course sir. Nothing wrong with a little ‘junk in the trunk’! She reminds me of a young J. Lo.”
Mr. Pitt: “Jay who ?”
Leon: “Ah, J. Lo . . . You know, the actress/singer/socialite . . . You have heard of Jennifer Lopez correct?”
Mr. Pitt: “Mmm . . . Was she ever in a film with Errol Flynn?”
“No, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t even born before that era, sir!” says Leon, now arching his eyebrows.
“Well that’s a bloody shame!” yells Pitt from the back seat, now grabbing a bottle of vodka from his personal bar and refilling his tumbler.
Leon: “I could imagine there were a few good looking women down in Rio, isn’t that right sir?”
Mr. Pitt begins pouring himself a large glass of Absolute, then replies “I’ll tell you what Leon; I saw so much hot Brazilian pussy down there and I honestly didn’t think I was coming back!”
Leon: “Well sir, they say that it’s all in the genes down there!”
Mr. Pitt: “It sure as hell is, my good man. From fifteen to fifty, they let it all hang out down there . . . In all shapes and sizes too!”
Pitt shotguns the entire glass, then pours another and slams down the second glass as well! His head bobbles around a bit . . .
Leon: “So those Brazilian women don’t have any shame, sir?”
Mr. Pitt: “Cripes no . . .“URRRP!”. . . It’s a whole ‘nother . . .‘nother country . . . No city? . . .what the bloody hell, I can’t think of the phrase!”
“A whole different state of mind sir?” offers the driver, not sure if he’s on the same page as his boss.
“Yes! State of mind! . . . It’s a whole different state of mind my boy!” barks the old man, now starting to lean off to one side of the rear seat.
Leon: “Well sir, I’m glad that you enjoyed your vacation.”
Mr. Pitt doesn’t speak any words, but mumbles something to himself beneath his own drunken breath. He burps up a little vodka puke in his mouth, but swallows it back down . . . Then raises his arm in the air and manages to mumble in a incoherent mess: “Izzz everybody in? Izzz everybody in? The ceremony . . . Izzz bout to begin!”
Leon: “Excuse me sir?”
Mr. Pitt, reeling with his blood shot eyes nearly closed, yells “God save the bloody queen!” . . . then immediately topples over onto the seat, blacking out! The opened vodka bottle drops to the floor and drains its remaining contents, making a slow “glugging” noise.
The limo is quiet, with the exception of the windshield wipers flipping back and forth, and the road rumbling away beneath the tires.
Then, Leon suddenly remembers to mention the delivery. “Oh by the way, sir, I forgot to mention that a delivery truck stopped at the gate two days ago to drop off a large wooden crate . . . and sir?”
Leon looks up at the rearview mirror, but no longer sees his boss in the reflection. He glances over his shoulder quickly, to see Mr. Pitt passed out across the rear seat.
“Damned chicken head . . . Well, screw it then,” says the driver, now reaching for the switch to bring the divider back up. A minute later, he slips “Otis Redding’s greatest hits” into the CD player for the rest of the ride home . . .
The next morning, Stanley Pitt wearily summons up all of his will power to pull himself back up from bed. The old man yanks back the covers and slides his big ass off the edge of the bed, then scratches his nuts as he trudges to his private bathroom.
After popping a couple of aspirin caplets and spending the next twenty minutes in the can, the old timer creeps back to his canopy bed and parks his sorry ass on the edge of the mattress. His toes poke around the thick carpet, but something seems to be missing . . .
“Socks! . . . Where are my bloody socks?” yells the old man!
Stanley opens his bloodshot eyes, then reaches over to his polished black marble nightstand and presses down on the intercom . . .“Socks! Where are my damned socks?”
The old man rubs his weary eyes, pressing the button once again less than a minute later. “Dammit! Juanita, Leon, Melissa; get yourselves up here!”
The sound of hurried footsteps and squeaking sneakers can be heard running up a circular stairway, then running down the hallway, until making it to the door of the master bedroom. The heavy wooden doors swing open and a young pretty Mexican woman who looks like a young J. Lo comes running in.
“Si senior?” asks the Latino, smiling exuberantly, then slightly bowing her head for the man, her new boss.
“Socks . . . Feet . . . Cold!” says the old man, now grabbing both of his arms, as if to shiver.
“Si Senior!” repeats the girl, now running quickly to the sock drawer at the side of the bed.
As she bends over to open the drawer, Mr. Pitt looks the girl over, admiring how the rear hem of her uniform just barely covers her tush.
You see, ever since Stanley Pitt’s wife Josephine had mysteriously “run off” with some young stud, the old man took it upon himself to make a few new rules for his female staff. After all, it was his mansion and money, and they were his employees.
All of the maid’s uniforms, which had been just a standard short sleeved, white trimmed cotton dress type of affair of a baby blue in color, were to be altered to stop at mid-thigh, per Mr. Pitt’s request. These new uniforms were also cut to fit snug to the maid’s figure, in order to avoid a what he had called a “frumpy” appearance. Nylon stockings were optional at the employee’s discretion; however if they weren’t worn, shaved legs were a must!
Two of Pitt’s former maids had quit, after hearing such a chauvinist request, so he simply replaced them with this new girl instead. Gazing at her, he knew he’d made the right decision.
Marisa was hired simply on the merits of being incredibly good looking, and the fact that her Aunt Juanita was already working for Pitt. Juanita was a widow herself, and had taken her young niece in under her wing after the girl’s parents perished in an automobile accident in Mexico when the girl was just nine years old. Marisa didn’t speak English very well, but in this household . . . that might actually be a good thing!
Stanley Pitt continued to watch the girl, as she quickly shut the drawer, and then returned to where the man was sitting. Marisa squatted down, letting her knees drop to the floor as the girl leaned forward to pull up one sock and then the other . . . Her perky breasts pushed up against the old man’s knees and her tush gave a pleasant curve to the back of her uniform. From his viewpoint, Stanley had a clear view of her cleavage beneath her unbuttoned collar.
The girl quickly arose to her feet, flashing her big glistening smile at the crabby man who was looking down her dress. “Si Senior!” said the helpful maid. “Bueno?”
“Still cold!” barked the old man, now grasping his arms once again. He then pointed at a black satin robe, trimmed with gold piping along its edges, that hung from a hook nearby.
The girl nodded her head to show that she understood, then retrieved the robe for her boss. His eyes followed her, watching how nicely her legs looked in their shiny stockings.
Mr. Pitt in return stood up from the bed, bent both of his arms behind him, allowing Marisa to pull the robe on for him.
As Marisa stood there tying the sash in front, Stanley once again looked the girl over, admiring how the under-bust of her uniform fit snugly to her chest. The old man also noticed that the young lady smelled good too, like a bowl of freshly picked strawberries. It was hard to believe that the woman standing in front of him, was the same tangle-haired nineteen year old (then wearing thrift-store clothing) that showed up with her aunt and looking for a job just over a month ago. She had cleaned up very well.
Now finished, Marisa took a step backward, brushed a wrinkle from her white apron, and then stood at attention awaiting her next task.
“Very good job!” said Pitt, with a reassuring nod. He then waved his arm towards the doorway, as if to exit. “Please, ladies first!”
The girl coyly stepped forward, at first with hesitation . . . then giggled when she realized that the gentleman was being polite.
“Mucho gracias!” said the girl, before exiting the room.
Mr. Pitt followed the young Mexican girl all the way down the stairs onto the first floor, his eyes never wandering away from the rump that shifted back and forth beneath that tight, baby blue skirt.
It was only then that the old man noticed that she was wearing her white pantyhose today, instead of the customary nude colored hosiery that she usually wore.
When the two reached the polished marble floor at the end of the stairs, Marisa’s clean white, low-top sneakers let out a squeak against the hard wood floors. She quickly turned to her boss with a shocked expression, and raised a hand to cover her mouth.
“It’s ok my dear, you’re doing just fine,” assured the old man, sneakily running a hand down her back, then letting it slip bellow her waist to brush lightly across her fanny.
By the time Stanley makes it to the kitchen, he looks like Tony Soprano rolling in at two pm in the afternoon!
Soon the smell of fresh brewing coffee brings him back to reality, reminding him that he’s the boss.
“Where’s my coffee, and where the hell is my paper?” yells the grumpy old man. But before he gets seated, a second maid arrives holding two mugs up in front of him.
“Would you like your coffee hot or iced this morning, senor?” Inquires the forty-year old maid.
“Ah, Juanita my dear . . . You save my life, yet once again!” complements the old man, now acting all sweet. He takes the mug of hot coffee in one hand, and then raises the woman’s empty hand to kiss with his other.
The woman smiles (although not impressed), then turns to dump yet another mug of iced coffee down the drain. (Another habit that that yuppie girlfriend of his brought into this house, the maid recalls).
With her back turned to her boss, Juanita says “and the paper is in the same spot that it have left it for you, the last ten years!”
“You know me too well Madame,” confesses Mr. Pitt, now seating himself at the table. “But I do wonder from time to time why I never married you off, Juanita.”
The woman glances over her shoulder with a dirty look on her face, then looks at her nearby niece and rolls her eyes. Marisa just raises her eyebrows at her aunt, but continues to stand patiently inside the doorway . . . (Just in case she’s called upon).
Mr. Pitt sniffs the fresh aroma of the steaming hot coffee, just to tease himself, then opens up the morning paper. As he does, he glances over at Juanita, who is currently bending over the sink, and casually rinsing out the unused mug. She too was wearing one of Mr. Pitt’s short “regulation” uniforms. Although a bit “plump” now in the mid section, Juanita was admittedly holding up better than most women her age. At four foot eleven, her large “D” cup chest looked almost cartoonish on her small frame, but her strong sexy legs with their sculpted calves almost made up for it.
After all of the years she spent scrubbing his floors on her hands and knees, Mr. Pitt thought the woman still looked amazing. She also never backed down from the man in an argument, which he also respected.
“Wait, now I remember why I never married you,” says the old man, now raising his mug to take a sip. “I would gain a wife, but then I wouldn’t have somebody to pick up after me!”
Pitt breaks out in laughter, but his maid doesn’t seem amused.
The old man then turns to look at Marisa, still standing erect in the doorway, and looking straight ahead. Her eyes nervously dart towards her boss briefly, but then go back to their fixed position.
“Juanita, does this girl ever talk?” Mr. Pitt inquires.
“No, my niece doesn’t speak much English,” replies the older maid from inside the kitchen area.
“Good, because I kind of like her that way,” says Mr. Pitt, now winking at the girl once to get a reaction.
Marisa blinks twice quickly, smiling briefly, but remains in position . . .
Pitt chugs down some coffee, then looks towards the kitchen again and asks, “Did I get any important calls while I was away?”
Juanita: “Didn’t you take your cell phone with you?”
Mr. Pitt: “Yeah, you got a good point there. How about the mail? Did you sort out all of the junk mail for me?”
Juanita: “Si`; of course I did. And Leon asked to remind you, that there was a crate in the garage. He mentioned it last night but you were… resting. Also, Miss Josephine‘s daughter stopped by again wanting urgently to speak with you.”
“Great, that’s all I need right now,” says Mr. Pitt as he continues to glance over the headlines of the paper. The man then pauses for a moment . . .
Mr. Pitt: “Did you just say there was a crate in the garage?”
Juanita: “Si` . . . They deliver for you two days ago.”
Mr. Pitt: “What kind of crate?”
Juanita: “A wood crate . . .it’s big.”
Mr. Pitt: “Well, who sent it, dammit?”
Suddenly, Juanita goes off the deep end! She throws her drying towel at the floor and comes charging out of the kitchen area, waving her arms around frantically and shouting at the man in Spanish. The woman is talking so fast, that she has spittle flying out of her mouth!
Mr. Pitt winces several times, slightly ducking his head . . . All he can make out from the Spanish is something about “not being your personal slave!”
“Alright, woman!” yells Pitt, grabbing his mug and paper in hand. “I’ll friggin’ go out there and bloody see for me own self!” says the old man as a wooden spoon goes flying past his head!
The old guy charges across the dining room area, walks down a landing, then slams the door to his garage, leaving the shouting older maid behind on the other side at the top of the steps . . .
Mr. Pitt reaches for the light switch, once safely inside the garage . . .
. . . Overhead lights begin to flicker to life, eventually illuminating not only the twelve-bay garage but also the ten meticulously restored vehicles parked within. The cars, parked along two neat rows, represent Mr. Pitt’s third favorite passion in life.
The first row contained American muscle: a 1969 Camaro SS/RS; 1970 LS-6 454 Chevelle ; 427 Shelby Cobra roadster; 1971 Hemi Cuda; 1963 409 Impala and a 1957 Bel Air convertible. The row behind that one contained several vintage foreign sports cars . . .
And yet, it was the mysterious wooden crate that lay flat on the painted concrete in an empty parking spot immediately to his left that Stanley came out here to see . . .
The old man walked around the crate, sizing it up at first. The object was a good six feet long and was as deep as it was wide . . . possibly two or maybe even two and a half feet in that dimension. The box was made of unfinished wood and unfortunately had been sealed shut with many nails. ‘Fragile’ was stenciled with red paint on every side.
Mr. Pitt looked over the mysterious box, expecting to find a shipping order sealed in plastic, or at least taped to the side, but found nothing.
“Well, what the bloody hell is going on here?” says the old man; now trying to pick up on a corner of the crate and finding it was much to heavy for a man of his age to lift.
Now starting to get anxious, Mr. Pitt grabs a crowbar from inside a giant red snap-on toolbox, then quickly gets to work. The old man wedges the tool into a small gap where the lid lay flat against two butted sides.
Using the bar as a lever, Pitt began rocking the curved jaws back and forth. Nails began to squeal in protest, as they slowly gave up their grip on the wood. Working his way up along the edges of the lid, Stanley conquered the nails one by one. After a few minutes, Pitt made his way around to the other side, looking for another gap to start at. Eventually, he wedges the crowbar inward, and works his way through the nails there, just like before.
Then, while stopping to catch his breath and wipe off some perspiration, Pitt notices some small, stenciled, print in black on the side.
The old man winces and curses at himself for leaving his reading glasses in the kitchen, so he leans in close to the print, while getting down on one knee . . .“Now I’ll see what the hell this is all about!”
Still squinting his eyes, Pitt does his best to read the printed label:
FMBT: 15 model
Production number: 28
“Hmm, well those are just some type of part numbers from the looks of it!” says Stanley in disgust.
Now growing impatient, the old man picks up the crowbar and goes “gonzo”, like some spoiled kid tearing through wrapping paper on Christmas morning. A few last nails squeal in unison, until the wooden lid is released upward, sending the old man tumbling backwards in a cloud of flying peanuts. Stanley brushes his favorite morning robe off, and then grasps the side of the crate to pull himself back up into a standing position.
Looking down at the interior of the crate, all Mr. Pitt sees is an endless ocean of Styrofoam packing peanuts. Oddly enough, Stanley notices the scent of buttery sun tanning lotion now drifting around the area . . .
The old man starts brushing the foam peanuts away from the center of the crate with great curiosity. Then with one startling swipe of his hand, Mr. Pitt emits a prominent gasp from his mouth as he shockingly discovers a pair of big dark wide eyes staring back at him from beneath the peanuts!
“Holy shit!” exclaims Pitt. Then in a lowered voice, he asks, “What the hell is this?”
His heartbeat picks up in pace as Stanley carefully brushes more peanuts away from the area around the eyes, gradually revealing the tip of a nose, a pair of cheeks and two slightly parted lips of a very pretty face.
Judging by the long, thick eyelashes and the faded metallic pink lip gloss, the old man belatedly realized that he was looking at the face of a female.
Stanley quickly continues to dig handfuls of packing foam out from around the head and neck area, with each scoop revealing more of the figure’s tanned looking skin.
The old man then turns his focus to the shoulder area and pushes a large pile of peanuts out over the sides of the box. His aged hands quickly brush across two small mounds of flesh, covered by a bright yellow bikini top.
Still in shock from discovering the crate’s contents, Mr. Pitt stops for a minute to rest his back. As he rests, he studies the mysterious figure a little more closely . . .
The girl’s face was cute, with round youthful features that appeared to be of Latin descent. She even had a small beauty mark on her cheek, with light freckles sprinkled on both sides her nose.
Her mouth was parted and held the hint of a smile. However, her facial expression looked as if she were slightly bemused or even preoccupied with something that was just beyond her comprehension . . .
Her wide-open eyes were brown in color and noticeably dilated. Distant and cold, those eyes had been helplessly staring at the halogen light that was mounted in the ceiling above her ever since she had been uncovered.
With his back rested (but his heart beating faster than normal), Mr. Pitt began brushing away more of the peanuts, eventually uncovering the girl’s arms, which were crossed over her mid-section. Tucked beneath her folded hands was a plain white envelope.
A bead of sweat runs down Stanley’s cheek, which he quickly wipes away with the back of his hand. He then reaches down and tugs at the envelope, carefully sliding it out from beneath the figure’s hands.
Pitt feels his heartbeat ringing in his ears as he looks over both sides of the blank envelope, and then begins peeling it apart with his fingers. The old man finally reaches the brief letter inside, and removes it from the envelope. Unfolding the letter, he begins to squint at the hand written print:
It was good to see you again after all of these years!
Before leaving Brazil, I decided to cash in a few favors - It seems that my new business associates have a little more power than I realized. The occupant of this crate is a good example of that power . . .
Take good care of her! She’s already been pre-programmed at my shop, but I included an owner’s manual just in case. It’s in the crate beneath the peanuts somewhere!
Hope to see you in November!
“Holy shit; you gotta be kiddin’ me!” says the old man loudly, then cupping his hand to his mouth. Stanley glances over his shoulder, wondering if somebody may have heard him, then asks in a lowered voice “Maxwell, you kinky bastard . . . What have you done to this poor girl?”
Mr. Pitt folds the letter back up, sliding it into his robe pocket. He then looked down at the lovely girl who lay there silently with wide staring eyes within the confinement of her shipping crate . . .
It was only then that the old man recognized the mystery figure as being the same Brazilian girl that he had watched playing a spirited volleyball game on the sands of Rio only days before . . .
In fact, the day that he ran into the girl was the very same day that Stanley had ran into Maxwell at the café!
Stanley Pitt felt a slight “yearning” in his heart, as he continued to look down at the attractive young girl. He thought she looked so peaceful and content, just lying there . . . nestled within the safety of the packing peanuts.
“You poor thing, now look at you!” Pitt said in a lowered voice. “I’ll bet that they’ve been looking everywhere for you, haven’t they?”
The old man bent downward and picked a few more peanuts out from beneath her forearms, then reached upward and brushed a single piece of Styrofoam away from her forehead.
The frozen girl continued to stare up in silent wonder . . .
Then in a moment of clarity, Mr. Pitt remembers his servants, working in the kitchen just beyond the interior door of the garage. He quickly grabs the wooden lid that he had pried off earlier and places it back over the crate, pushing a few of the nails back into their holes. He then rubs his sweaty palms together and thinks up a plan . . .
Mr. Pitt walks over, swings the interior door to the garage open, and takes a few steps up onto the dining room landing. The old man quickly rounds the corner and nearly walks head first into Marisa, who stands there in patience, exactly where she was ten minutes ago - just inside the kitchen archway!
“Oh my goodness!” says Pitt, stopping just short of the pretty maid. “I wasn’t expecting you to still be waiting there!”
The woman continues to stare forward, standing straight at attention, with both arms crossed behind her back . . . Causing her chest to thrust out beneath her tight regulation uniform.
Pitt glances down at her buxom chest, watching it slowly rise and fall . . . “Ah, Melissa,” Stanley begins . . .
“Marisa!” says the maid, still standing stiffly, but looking at the man out of the corner of her eye.
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, Marisa . . . Would you (points at girl), like to go home (makes the fingers walking sign and points at the front door down the hall), for the rest of the day?”
Marisa, not speaking English, thinks that she has just been fired. Her bottom lip starts to quiver, as her eyes begin to well up with tears and her chest begins to rise and fall just a little quicker!
“Marisa no waaandu geet fire!” says the emotional girl, just before breaking down into full-blown tears. “Marisa need job, wear muy caliente clothes for you (brushes a hand over her uniform) . . . And now, you no like!”
Mr. Pitt, totally not expecting the woman to get upset in the first place, yells “Juanita, get your ass in here on the double!”
But Juanita has already heard her weeping niece from the other side of the living room and she quickly comes to her aid. The two women begin talking to each other in Spanish in a calm, reserved manner at first, but then Mr. Pitt decides to interrupt . . .
“Juanita; I’m not sure why your niece is so upset. I simply asked her if she would like to take the rest of the day off. In fact, why don’t all of you take the next couple of days off… with pay!” says Mr. Pitt. He quickly grabs the crying woman’s hand and rubs it within his own hands to calm her down.
Juanita grows a big, gap toothed smile then nods her head in agreement and says “Si` I understand senior. My niece thought you had fired her!”
Mr. Pitt: “No, absolutely not. She’s excellent. I just need to catch up on my sleep and would like the have the place to myself for a while, dear. . . In fact, where is Leon anyway?”
Juanita: “Leon went do clean de limo . . . from de ah (makes the puking sign with her finger in her mouth) . . . He shampoo car all morning Senior.”
Mr. Pitt: “Oh . . . Oh dear! I had forgotten all about that bloody mess that I left behind last night!” (Pitt wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a guilty look) . . . “Well, please send my apologies to Leon and tell him to take off the rest of the day on your way out, and the next one too; could you do that for me?”
Juanita: “But, where will we go, senior?”
Mr. Pitt: “Ah . . . Hold that thought!”
The old man quickly runs upstairs to his secret vault, which is hidden behind a wall in his walk-in bedroom closet. Pitt quickly grabs a roll of money out of the safe, and then runs back downstairs in record time!
Mr. Pitt peels off two grand and says, “Here, give one thousand to Leon and keep a thousand for yourself. You should be able to find a decent room at a posh hotel and get a good meal for the next few days with that, ok?”
Juanita: “But I have no car!”
Mr. Pitt: “Tell Leon to just take the Suburban!”
Juanita: “I will do this senior, mucho gracias!”
“Yes, you're welcome Juanita!” says Pitt, kissing the woman on the hand.
Unfortunately, as soon as Pitt turns his back to the women, Juanita begins scolding her niece for her foolish behavior. The two women begin arguing in Spanish rather dramatically, raising and swinging their hands wildly in the air. Soon, they both turn red in complexion as the speed of their voices increases.
Pitt grabs their purses and handbags to speed them along out the door, as the two women continue to argue while walking through the foyer. Juanita pauses in the doorway, waving her fist in the air at Marisa, and Pitt presses his hands against her somewhat full, yet firm “bubble like” behind.
Juanita turns around abruptly with dark piercing eyes and a scowl on her face . . . “No no!” she warns, raising her finger in protest. “You no touch Juanita!”
“Ok, ok . . . I’m very sorry!” says Pitt in apology, (his cheeks turning red in embarrassment). “Now please, get going, ladies!”
Moments later, Pitt watches from behind closed drapes as Juanita, Marisa and Leon all motor down the driveway past a pair of iron gates in the jet black suburban that they usually use for errands and picking up groceries. He quickly turns, and makes his way back to the kitchen to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee. Stanley also grabs his glasses from the kitchen table, straps them over his neck, and places them on his nose. Once finished, he wanders back out to the garage to get acquainted with his unexpected guest!
Mr. Pitt takes a long, stimulating sip from his cup of coffee, letting out an audible “ahhh” afterwards, then sets the steaming mug down onto the top of a red tool cabinet.
The old man interlocks his pudgy fingers together, and then cracks his knuckles loudly . . . As if about to open a safe. He quickly removes the wooden lid from the crate, and then leans it up against the same red tool cabinet that his mug is on.
“Ok, Stanley Pitt, lets see what kind of muscle you have left in this old back of yours!”
Now standing directly above the figure’s head, Stanley leans downward and braces his hands beneath the backside of the girl’s shoulders. He carefully lifts her upward, slowly raising the stiff-as-a-statue body from the confines of the crate and the remainder of the foam peanuts until she stands upright.
Next, Pitt squares himself up behind the body. He reaches around her waist to embrace her “bear hug style”, effectively lifting her up high enough so that her bare feet clear the top edge of the shipping crate. (This wasn’t achieved without a struggle!)
Now out of breath, Mr. Pitt sets the girl on the garage floor in an upright, freestanding, position. It is at this point, that the man notices that the figure’s body actually holds normal warmth, which was rather odd, considering how rigid she has been the whole time.
“Wheeew!” exclaims Mr. Pitt, now leaning forward to catch his breath. He wipes his brow, and then walks over to take a sip from his mug. However, a sip turns into a gulp, as he downs the coffee, and then winces from the extreme heat. Stanley sets the empty mug down, rubbing his hands together in a dastardly fashion.
Ok, let’s see what we’ve got here!” exclaims the man excitedly, now approaching the silent figure and her emptied shipping crate. . .
Now that she was standing upright, the Brazilian girl surely looked more like the one Pitt remembered. Although petite, the girl made up for what she lacked in height with her sexy features: small, but perky breasts that were the size of oranges; an attractive flare to her hips that resembled the curves of an old glass coke bottle; and a tight little tush that “bubbled” outward from the deep curve of her lower back.
Then of course, there was that skimpy yellow bikini; the top contained her breasts for the most part, allowing just the swells beside her arms and the cleavage in front to show. Two tied bows on her hips, keep her low-rise g-string in place, showing off the muscles in her lower abdomen (currently covered by her crossed hands. The clingy material of the g-string is “bunched up” in the back, creating the cutest little wedgie. The bright yellow color of the swimsuit only enhanced the beach girl’s tanned skin tone, making her nubile body look as if it had been dipped in golden honey!
The girl continued to stand in silence, with her forearms crossing over at her hipbones, as if waiting for the old man to complete his initial inspection.Mr. Pitt looks at the girl’s cute, youthful looking face in side profile, admiring her softy-rounded cheeks, chin and nose. The girl also had narrow eyebrows that were plucked to perfection and they bowed slightly upward. Stanley steps in close, studying the emotion (or lack of) in her precious face . . . “That bemused look in her expression is so priceless!” thinks Pitt to himself.
Still leaning in close, the old man places a light kiss on the girl’s forehead . . . Just as she did to him, that day far away in Rio. Mr. Pitt knew that he would never forget how incredible she looked standing there on the patio, with that look of mischief on her face. However, the girl that Pitt remembers had rich, alive, sparkling brown eyes. Now those brown eyes were distant and lifeless, the glimmer of innocence now lost . . .
Mr. Pitt, showing his rarely-seen softer side, rubs his hand on the female’s shoulder and says “I wish I knew what your name was, darling . . . And I do hope that you’re not taking all of this personally.”
In stoic response, the immobile beach girl stares directly through the old man as if he didn’t exist.
Mr. Pitt waits a second for a response that doesn’t come, and then says “I see. The silent treatment. . . Well, why don’t I take a look at your little instruction booklet so we can get started, shall we?”
Mr. Pitt takes a step, and then leans over the crate, bracing a hand on one of the sides, while the other hand digs through the sea of packing peanuts. His hand brushes against a plastic bag containing the booklet and a small remote control. He hooks the plastic pouch with the tips of his fingers, and pulls them up to the surface. Stanley quickly pulls at the plastic seams of the pouch, stretching it to the point of tearing open. He drops the empty bag back into the crate, after removing both the remote and the manual.
Mr. Pitt looks over the small remote in his palm, which closely resembles the keyless entry remote for his car, both in size and design. He temporarily slips the item into his pocket and then focuses his attention on the booklet.The owner’s manual was slightly larger than a pocket-sized note book,and wasn’t very thick . . . which was surprising, considering the subjectmatter that it was intended to cover. The booklet was professionally printed, spiralbound, with a jet-black leather-bound cover. Embossed into the cover inscrolled silver print, were the words:
“Getting To Know Your Nanobot Companion”
“What a neat little book: simple and classy!” states the old man, while quickly scanning through the pages. He is surprised to see that the directions are also printed in French, German, Japanese, and Spanish in the back of the manual. . . . “I guess old Maxwell plans on expanding his market!”
Section 1: Getting started
Activating your companion . . . . . . . . . . Page 1
Powering her up or down . . . . . . . . . . . Page 2
Section 2: Understanding how your companion works
Lifelike features of your nanobot . . . . . . Pages 3-4
Selecting functions and options . . . . . . Pages 9-10
Voice Command . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 11
Storage mode . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Page 12
Section 3: Changing her settings
Quiet mode . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 13
Vibration mode on/off . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 14
Group settings/ multi partner . . . . . . . . . .Page 15
Pitt raises a curious eyebrow, “Multiple settings, eh?” He cracks a smile and shakes his head, and then flips back to section one . . .
Activating your companion:
Your nanobot companion is equipped with a control module that is placed beneath the hairline at the back of her neck. This module is always hidden from view by the nanobot’s hair, unless a short hair style has been chosen.
During shipment, your nanobot companion has been placed in “stasis” mode, to protect her in transit. You must first press the activation button on the side of the control module at the back of the neck, in order to bring your companion out of stasis mode. To gain access to the control module, simply lift her hair upward. After pressing the power-on button for a few seconds, watch for the small LED light in the center of the module to light up and the module will sound a small “beep” to confirm the sequence.
NOTE: the only time stasis mode is used is during initial transport.
“Hmm, sounds simple enough” says Pitt, now turning to lift the beach girl’s slick, jet black hair, which is now held up by a cool looking seashell clip. The hair is pulled tight to the scalp, but hangs in a length that is even with the girl’s shoulders in the back. (in Rio, it was tied into a tight bun).
The old man lifts the oily hair upward to reveal the control module, which like Maxwell described, was just a bit smaller than a matchbook . . .There was also a soft tanned neck that flowed smoothly into the girl’s shoulders that begged to be nibbled!
Mr. Pitt presses the small tab-like button on the side of the module and the small LED light glows red. In conjunction with the light, a brief “bleep” is emitted from the module at the same time. . . Its tone and volume sounded exactly like the hourly indicator on a digital wristwatch. There was also a slight “wirrrr” noise, emitting from the module, much like a disc being read in a hard drive.
Powering your companion up or down:
To turn on your new companion, simply aim the remote at her and compress the green button.
Pitt digs the small remote out of his pocket, momentarily looking it over in the palm of his hand. He was surprised that such a small device would be able to fully control the beautiful girl that was standing before him.
“Well, we shall see,” says Pitt, now pressing down the green button.
There is another “bleep” from the module; suddenly the girl jerks her body even more erect: her hands drawing apart first, followed by her arms. The limbs move stiffly away from her stomach until dropping to her sides and slowly coming to a halt. Showing that the nanites are doing their job.
“Whoa, its ALIIIIVE!” exclaims Pitt, now watching for a reaction in her face . . . But her frozen expression remains unchanged.
A slight “wirrr” noise emits from the module again, lasting for only three or four seconds.
Pitt raises the remote and presses the red button just to see what would happen . . .
“Bleep!”- The beach girl drops her head, automatically hunching her shoulders forward, as if to stare helplessly at her feet. Her arms drop forward too, as if she were about to reach for an unseen object on the floor. They come to a stop, once they reach their fullest extent.
Because of her new body position, the Brazilian’s perky breasts now slightly “squish” up against each other, shifting forward on her chest plate.
“Whoopsie! I guess I don’t want to use that one!” says Pitt, raising his remote to press the green button for a second time.
“Bleep!”- The girl jerked up at attention immediately, thrusting her perky breasts outward and raising her head high, until she stared blankly across the room again. There was the initial “wirrr” noise coming from the module, and then it stopped after a few seconds.
There was a slight pause of silence in the garage for a moment. Mr. Pitt leaned forward, intending to approach the girl, but flinches as the nanobot unexpectedly speaks out for the first time in a mechanical, dead-pan tone:
“Well I’ll be going to hell, she speaks . . . And in English now, to boot!” says the old man, now jumping around and laughing like the joker from the old batman series!
The old-timer quickly examines her pretty face, but it still holds the same bemused-looking expression that it always had, even after she spoke. Stanley flips the pages . . .
Section 2: Understanding how your Nanobot Companion works . . . The life-like features of your nanobot. . .
“Well I can see those from where I’m standing!” exclaims Pitt, flipping to the next page. “Ah yes, here we are” : “Selecting functions and options.”
Section A: Using the voice command
Using the voice command function is simple, due to the fact that your Nanobot was “pre-programmed” at our facility before being shipped. To use the voice command, just simply give your nanobot a name by depressing the green key for five seconds, then speaking her chosen name.
“Hmmm, what would be a good name for you?”
. . . Stanley reflects back in time, to when he was a young lad back in London. He had been courting a beautiful Portuguese exchange student that physically resembled this cute girl from Brazil. However, their love was fleeting: Pitt would soon graduate and travel to the U.S. in the fall to attend college. Katrina, or “Katie” (as Pitt had affectionately called her), would soon return to Portugal, her education abroad now complete. They never saw each other again.
“Fair enough!” Pitt holds the green button for five seconds, and then says the name “Katie” out loud.
There is another “wirrr” noise, and then the nanobot speaks out:
There is another “wirrr” noise, and then the nanobot speaks out:
The girl pauses for a moment, waiting for the chip to copy the old man’s voice within the mic . . .
Pitt looks back at his manual and continues to read:
Now, using your voice, you may simply give your nanobot a clearly phrased command, such as: “Nanobot, sweep the kitchen floor”, remembering to use her name before each command.
Mr. Pitt looks over at the bronzed beauty and gives her a voice command to test her out: “Bend over at a perfect right angle!” he says, with a perverse grin.
The girl continues to stand erect in silence, ignoring the man’s request.
“Well what the bloody hell?” asks Pitt, with a disappointed expression. He looks back down at the book and re-reads the instruction again carefully.
. . . simply give your nanobot a command with your voice, such as: “Nanobot, sweep the kitchen floor”, remembering to use her name. . .
“Oh, I forgot to say her name, fer crying out loud” says the old man. He commands: “Katie: Bend over forward at a perfect right angle!”
The girl suddenly jerks, slowly bending over forward in a mechanical nature. Oddly, the girl’s arms also extend outward, as if she were leaning against the edge of an invisible table just in front of her. Katie freezes in place, balancing herself in what was surely a perfect right angle, without any outside support!
“Well by golly, that position could sure come in bloody handy!” shouts the old man, before commanding the girl “Katie, stand at perfect attention!”
The girl twitched a bit, and then raised her torso upright . . . Slightly jerking, before locking into place in her previous position!
“Oh I think I can get used to this!” exclaims the old man, slipping his small remote into his robe pocket, taking two steps towards his new toy.
Mr. Pitt circled around the girl to size her up. Then he stepped in behind her, looking her up and down from her oily shoulder-length hair, to the tanned humps of her calves.
Stanley reached forward to trace the outline of her spine with his index finger, slowly running it downward until reaching the deep curve of her lower back. He paused there for a moment, leaning his head back at an angle, to admire her perky rear-end.
The beach girl’s butt was tight and compact, but had a bit of a “bubble” to it, dramatically jutting out from the small of her back. (Pitt had noticed this quality earlier, when looking at her in side profile).
The old man plucked the rear, upper waist seam, pulling it away from the small of the girl’s back. He looked down beyond the material, admiring the tight, deep curves of the little rump that was hidden inside.
Mr. Pitt re-adjusts his glasses at the tip of his nose, pushing them upward, then looks over her goods even closer . . .
“Whoops, what do we have here?” asks Stanley, now reaching down into the suit to pluck a forgotten packing peanut from between the warm, lower curves of her butt crack. “Damn; that’s nice!” says the old man, letting the g-string snap back against her rump.
Mr. Pitt gets down on one knee (with a grunt and some effort), then runs two fingers beneath the lower seams of the suit, drawing the material upward until it sinks in deeper between her exposed butt cheeks. He notices that her skin down there was smooth, firm and unblemished . . .
“This is one incredibly cute bum that you have here, Katie!” complements Pitt, now drawing his fingers out from beneath the yellow material of the bathing suit. He then opens up the palm of his hand, letting it slowly glide over the perfect curve of her ass . . .
Then suddenly, Mr. Pitt’s cellphone begins to ring erratically from within the pocket of his robe, ruining the intimacy of the moment!
“Bloody sons-a-bitches!” yells Pitt, as he quickly digs into his pocket to retrieve the annoying phone. As he does, the front of his robe parts, forced open by the throbbing member that stands erect beneath his boxers!
“Down old boy, down!” Commands Pitt, as he checks the caller I.D. to find that it’s Jack Claussen. The old man eagerly flips the phone open to greet his former college mate.
Mr. Pitt: “Hey you crazy bastard! I intended to call you up first thing this morning to see how you made out with my Elaine. But I’ve been a little preoccupied with my latest plaything!”
Claussen: “Yeah, I was kind of wondering what the hell happened . . . It’s almost two in the afternoon already! What could possibly keep you away from the pleasures of the frozen flesh?”
Mr. Pitt: “Well my friend, I got home from my vacation late last night and I’m afraid I was a bit intoxicated. Then this morning, I came down stairs to discover an unexpected gift . . . lying in a wooden shipping crate in my garage!”
Claussen: “A shipping crate?”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, a big wooden one. It seems that our old friend Maxwell Abner wanted to give me a souvenir to remind me of my trip to Brazil.”
Claussen: “A souvenir eh? And what would that be?”
Mr. Pitt: “The bloody loon sent me a young Brazilian girl in a wooden box! And she has been robotized, with one of those control modules that I was telling you about mounted into the back of her neck.”
Claussen: “Wait a minute . . . He sent you a girl, all the way from Brazil . . . in a shipping crate? How did he get her past customs?”
Mr. Pitt: “Hell, I don’t know how he got her here! Probably the same way they smuggle everything else out. But she must have spent sometime at Maxwell’s shop, too, because she’s not your typically normal, living breathing woman anymore!”
Claussen: “Well who is she?”
Mr. Pitt: “I don’t bloody know her name! She’s just some local girl that we watched playing volleyball on the beach one afternoon. Max must have remembered seeing me watching her, so he had those goons from the Brazilian mob abduct her off the street or something. Hell, she’s still wearing the same yellow bikini she had on then and still smells of tanning lotion! They must have grabbed her that same day, or soon afterwards. I know Maxwell was scheduled to leave a few days after I talked to him.”
Claussen: “Jesus, the Brazilian mob? What the hell was he thinking?”
Mr. Pitt: “All I know, is that the same girl is standing right here in front of me, barely covered by this skimpy bikini, staring dead straight at the wall!”
Claussen: “And she isn’t saying anything? Is she frozen?”
Mr. Pitt: “I’m telling you, she looks just like one of your dolls, only she’s warm to the touch. I think she’s still alive as far as I can tell, but it’s almost like she’s in some type of permanent trance. Max said he could turn a human being into a robotic zombie and the proof is standing right here in my garage. In fact she talks just like a robot, too!”
Claussen: “Wait a minute . . . she talks?”
Mr. Pitt: “Yes, but in a monotone voice. She even came with this little palm held remote control that turns her on and off. There was an owner’s manual that came with her as well. In fact, I was just giving her voice commands before you called.”
Claussen: “Voice commands? . . . Are you sure Max isn’t playing some kind of a prank on you?”
Mr. Pitt: “Trust me, this isn’t a joke. If this lovely bird is just acting, then she’s doing a hell of a good job!”
Claussen: “Damn! . . . And you said you were controlling her with just your voice? How the hell did he manage to do that?”
Mr. Pitt: “Look mate, I don’t know exactly how it works. I just remember Max saying something about injecting these nanites into them and using the module with a microchip in it to control their body. Somehow between the two of them, the human’s mind gets erased or shuts down. Somehow, the nanites take over the body . . . Almost like a disease, and they eventually take control of the body that’s left over.”
Claussen: “What a crock! That’s impossible! I have read about that kind of nanotechnology and it’s at least thirty, if not fifty, years off into the future!”
Mr. Pitt: “Well I’m telling you, its technology that exists right now and it’s controlling a young woman right here in front of me, as we speak!”
Stanley, now standing square to the front of the frozen beach girl, reaches a pudgy finger towards her bare midriff and pulls back at the front of the yellow bikini bottom. His old wrinkled finger brushes up against the taught skin of her lower abdomen, as Pitt glances inside for a peek at her groomed pubic region!
The poor Brazilian girl was powerless to do anything but stare back in silent bewilderment!
Claussen: “And this . . . supposed robot girl, she looks pretty realistic?”
Mr. Pitt: “Oh she’s absolutely realistic all right, especially from where I’m standing! Right down to the pubes Jack, I’m telling you she’s the real deal. And she’s bloody gorgeous to boot!”
Claussen: “I just can’t believe that he actually pulled it off!”
Mr. Pitt: “Oh, he pulled something off all right!”
Claussen: “I mean come on: voice commands; robotic zombies; smuggling bodies out of Rio? There has to be a catch somewhere . . .”
Mr. Pitt: “The catch is, the man is a bloody f*cking genius; one who is about to make a lot of money!”
Claussen: “Yeah, but a man can’t be driven to pull something off like this for money alone.”
Mr. Pitt: “Well, he handed me an invitation for that private auction of his. Maybe you should go too, just to see this shop of his and he might just show you how he does it.”
Claussen: “I don’t know, that’s a secret that he holds pretty close, I’m sure. I just still can’t believe that he pulled it off. . . I mean, I can remember him speaking of such unbelievable things as a young man . . . But back in the days of the “brotherhood” such dreams were so far fetched. I mean this technology could very well change everything.”
Mr. Pitt: “Well, I don’t know if it will change that much, after all, right now it’s all underground, black-markety type stuff. But Maxwell’s little control box could certainly “enhance” some experiences, if you know what I mean.”
Claussen: “Yes, yes indeed it certainly could . . .”
Mr. Pitt: “Well I’ll tell you what, why don’t you jump in that 64’ Lincoln of yours and come on over to see for yourself! I sent the hired help away for a couple of days, so now’s the time to do it!”
Claussen: “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
Mr. Pitt: “I’m sure she won’t mind. Besides, it’s not like she’s going to run off anywhere!”
Claussen: “Good point. I’m on my way over!”
Mr. Pitt: “I’m sure she won’t mind. Besides, it’s not like she’s going to run off anywhere!”
...To Be Continued, in C.S.I.: A Living Doll Investigation . . .