Teuser's Formula

Part 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!


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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

"Um.. forty?"

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

"Yes.  I'm sorry, I-"

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

"Thirty, officer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And is this your car, sir?"

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

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

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

"Yes officer, thank you."

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something like that."

"Poor old cow..."



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, just the G&T."

"Ice and lemon?" he asked her.


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

"Sorry, no."

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

"Sit down.  Let me get you a cab."

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

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

"Let go!  You're hurting me!"

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

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

"What time is it?"

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



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

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

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

"That's alright.  I'm fine now."

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

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

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


"Do you want a lift Ivana?"

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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

"Thank you for saving me earlier."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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

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



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


Conceptfan, May 2002.