Teuser's Formula

Part 3

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!


Jack was snoring heavily under the stinking blanket on the floor of the squat. His dog, Bastard, was curled up at his side, eyes open but not moving. Ian, one of the other members of the squat sat on an upturned fruit crate in another corner of the room, busily trying to extract enough unsmoked tobacco from a pile of cigarette butts to build another smoke. With a snort, he looked over at his dormant friend.

"Fuck, Jack. Stop snoring, for Christ's sake." The only response was a low moan from beneath the pile of cloth. Ian tried again. "It's only fucking nine o'clock. I thought you only went out to walk the dog. How come you're so tired? You taken something? I thought we said we'd share whatever we got." This time, there wasn't even a groan of acknowledgement. "Jack!" he shouted, exasperated, "Wake the fuck up!"

"Wha?" Jack mumbled, rolling over.

"Why're you asleep? You got some stuff?" Another moan. Ian stood up and stormed over, using the toe of his well-worn right shoe to encourage Bastard to move somewhere else. The dog slowly walked away, settling down a few feet away. Ignoring him, Ian yanked the covers off of Jack's prostrate body and looked down at him.

"Fuck! You sick or something?"


"I said you sick? You look fucking awful. You sure you haven't taken something?"

"Just tired." muttered Jack. "Let me sleep."

"You look like shit, man. I'm going out. You coming?"

"Nah. Sleeping."

"Fine. See you." And as Ian climbed out through a broken window, Jack rolled over and fell deeply asleep once more, his dreams filled with the strange dark-haired girl who'd given him his ever first blow job in the park earlier.



In the taxi on the way to his flat, Sam Teuser cursed. He cursed Professor Lindstrom who'd failed to turn up and give him a lift home from the hospital. He cursed his broken arm that was now wrapped in plaster and hurt more than ever. He cursed his pounding head and the desperate urge to have another drink to make all his troubles fade. And, he cursed the terrible traffic that was keeping him from his waiting bed. A bed that he'd probably have to kick Lindstrom out of before he could climb in. The stupid old man was only supposed to be having a quick nap, but that was hours ago. Teuser imagined him snoring noisily, having completely forgotten where he was or how long he had originally intended to be there.

The taxi edged forward another few yards and then stopped again. Why was the traffic so bad? Rush hour should've been over by now. He leant forwards towards the driver seated in the front and slid the window between them open. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded.

"Some sort of accident up ahead. It's blocked two lanes. Sorry, mate, nothing I can do about it. There's police there and everything."

"Hrrumph!" Teuser voiced his annoyance as he sat back. The driver edged his vehicle forwards another few yards and stopped yet again.

"We should get through this in the next ten minutes and then it'll be clear on the other side." the cabbie opined.

"Fucking hope so." said Teuser.



"Just popping out for a bit, love." Gary's booming voice filled the house, comfortably reaching Lynne in the kitchen. "See you tomorrow."

Tomorrow? thought Lynne. That means he's going to be out half the night again. What the hell does he do when he goes off like this? She wished she could ask him without incurring his wrath. Or at least ask him to stay with her. Now she would be completely alone until he crawled into bed at three a.m. or whenever. She hated him going out like this. But experience had taught her to fear his temper above all else. Meekly and with false cheerfulness she called back "Bye, dear."

For a second, she thought about secretly following him out of the house, finding out once and for all what he did, where he went on these nocturnal excursions. But she knew that if he discovered her, he would beat her senseless once more, as surely as night follows day. Gary was not a man who had learnt to control his anger. Lynne picked up an tatty women's magazine from a pile she kept on top of one of the kitchen units and, resigned to the situation, began leafing disinterestedly through the glossy pages.



"No I won't do it!" the girl exclaimed once more, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh, come on, love. It's no big deal." The fat, balding man crouched behind the tripod-mounted camera was trying to sound reassuring. He wasn't succeeding. But he persisted: this girl was definitely beautiful, and he was pretty certain, looking at the way she filled out her clothes, that she had what it took to make it as a glamour model. The only problem was, she was utterly refusing to take off her shirt, or any other garment that would reveal an intimate part of her flesh. True, she hadn't come into his studio intending to take her clothes off but then perhaps she hadn't realised just how much money she could make if she did. Or rather how much they could make.

He took a deep breath. "Look," he said, trying a new tack, "I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to. But I think that you should be aware that this fashion catalogue stuff you're doing is never going to pay the bills. You're still going to have to get a job. But half-an-hour with your kit off will earn you more than you could get in a week as some sad bastard's secretary..."

"I don't care!" The girl was practically sobbing now. She stormed off the set towards the changing rooms, leaving the photographer to stare hungrily at her perfect, tight, retreating behind.



Ivana sat on the stairs, staring at the remains of the street door, waiting for the landlord who was on his way, supposedly "as fast as I fucking can, OK?" She had called him as soon as she'd recovered from the shock of seeing her little feminine hands destroying the thick heavy wooden door. She couldn't just leave all the flats unprotected. Anybody could walk in from the street. Of course, she hadn't told him that she had accidentally smashed the door herself. Instead she had invented some story about coming home and discovering the work of some unknown sledge-hammer-wielding vandal. Not that he'd have believed the truth anyway.

As she waited, she studied her hands. What was happening to her? She kept getting these strange, overpowering urges to suck a man off. Each time, after she had performed the act, she felt a wonderful, warm sensation first in her belly and then all through her body. And then she felt fantastic. She didn't understand it.  Also, she was getting stronger.  A lot stronger. Strong enough to smash a two-inch thick slab of heavy wood with her fists. Strong enough to deform a chunk of metal with her fingers. Was it permament?  It was a little scary, but she wasn't sure she didn't like it. After all, if she was that powerful, she was unlikely to be beaten up any more...

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Ivana was snapped out of her thoughts by the familiar sound of the landlord's voice. He stood by the ruined door, his exclamation an understandable reaction to the state of it. He reached a couple of stubbly, nicotine-stained fingers towards the rough edge of the broken wood. Ivana could see his filthy car parked only about a dozen yards away, yet the journey from kerb to door seemed to have left him sweaty and puffing. His face was red. The few hairs he still had were matted against his shiny skull. He removed his hand from the door and fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

Lighting up, he took a long drag, exhaled and muttered "This is really going to fucking cost." Leaving the burning cigarette between his pale lips, he reached into his dirty sports jacket and extracted a battered-looking mobile phone. "Shit. No signal." Then looking up, his yellow, bloodshot eyeballs lighted on Ivana. Clearly, he hadn't noticed her until then. His eyes suddenly opened wide and his scowling face softened a little. She saw his gaze lower a little, coming to rest on the top half of her T-shirt.

"Dirty old man." she thought to herself. She made a living from guys like him, but she still found them rather pathetic.

"Er... mind if I use the 'phone in your flat?" he asked her, without bothering to look up at her face. She did mind, but she knew that the sooner he made his call, the sooner the door would be repaired and the sooner the greasy bastard would stop staring at her tits and go. Without bothering to answer him, she stood up and headed up the stairs towards her one-and-a-half-room apartment. She could hear his heavy footsteps and rasping breath behind her and wondered if he was now ogling her arse.



At last, they pulled up alongside the two crashed vehicles that had caused the traffic jam. Sam was relieved - the road would be clear as soon as they got past the mangled car on their left. It had driven into the back of a truck; the front was crumpled almost beyond recognition, the windshield smashed. It was obvious that the driver hadn't walked away from the impact. Whoever it had been had long since been pulled out. Teuser stared at the wreck through the taxi window. There was something familiar about the destroyed car. What was it?

Recognition dawned in his alcohol-and-pain-killer-fogged brain. It was the same make, model and colour as Professor Lindstrom's car. As the cab pulled past the destroyed front of the vehicle, he caught a glimpse of a piece of smashed license plate lying on the road. Most of the registration was still visible. Sam's face turned white. "Pull over! Pull over now!" he shouted to the driver.

"OK, OK, mate. Keep your hair on." the cabbie replied, steering his taxi to the side of the road. Teuser grabbed the handle to open the door and pulled, but nothing happened. "Where's the fire?" joked the driver. "That's locked, mate. Too many punters trying to do a runner - y'know how it is."

"Let me out!"

"Soon as you settle up. Thirteen sixty, mate." Sam thrust his hand in his pocket and extracted a couple of crumpled notes. He didn't bother to count as he threw them at the gap in the partition between the back seats and the driver. The man in front gathered them, glanced briefly to make sure there was enough and flicked a switch on his dashboard. Noticing his passenger's sudden hurry, he made sure the man was well out of the door before calling out "Don't you want the change?". There was no answer. The cabbie pocketed the forty pounds.

Sam had already forgotten about the taxi as he rushed up to a policeman who was standing by the ruins of Lindstrom's car. "Where's the guy who was driving?" he demanded.

"Do you know the driver, sir?" asked the constable.

"Yeah. Where is he?"

"Are you a relative, sir?"

"No. He's my professor. Where is he?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you."

"Fuck that! Where is he?"

"No need for that. Calm down, please."

"Just tell me where he is, for fuck's sake!"

The policeman leaned in towards him. "Have we been drinking, sir?"

"What the fuck is it to you?"

The constable put his big hand on Teuser's shoulder. "I think you'd better come with me."

"Let go of me you fucker!" Sam shouted, wriggling.

A moment later, the copper had Teuser's uninjured arm behind his back in a painful half-nelson and they were marching towards a waiting squad car.



Gary drove the car through the familiar streets, his face an expressionless blank. It was completely dark now, the last dregs of twilight well exhausted. He slowed to a crawl as he passed under a railway bridge, turning his head to the side. From the shadows of the central arch of the bridge, three young women emerged. As they entered the pool of light cast by his headlights, Gary studied their legs, exposed beneath tiny skirts and their heavily made-up faces. His gaze moved from one girl to the next, studying them carefully like a man sizing up second-hand cars in a salesroom.

One of the trio began started to step towards his slowly moving car. Gary lifted his hand from the steering wheel and waved it dismissively in her direction. She stepped back and he accelerated away. Nothing there had caught his eye. He was looking for a certain type of girl. One with just the right kind of face. A face that would look just as he wanted it to as he slapped it about. The thought excited him. He sped up, heading for another part of town where he knew he could find more prostitutes. He was in no hurry. Lynne wouldn't complain no matter how late he got back. She wouldn't dare. And even if she did, well, he quite enjoyed giving her a slap too.



Ivana watched as her landlord stood by her bed and used her telephone. The thought of his podgy, slimey hands on her personal property sickened her almost as much as the way his dull eyes were glued to her chest. She wondered if she'd ever seen such a disgusting, fat old pervert - even amongst some of her more pathetic clients. Even the way he talked, speaking to some - no doubt disreputable - builder about replacing the front door, repulsed her. The words seem to fall from his lips like great blobs of saliva. She hoped he would make his arrangements quickly and go, but he seemed to be involved in some ridiculous bargaining over the price of the work.

Finally, he came to an agreement and, with a quick "OK, see you then." he hung up. He smiled at Ivana, revealing chipped and yellowing teeth. "Right," he said, "the builder's going be here in half-an-hour to sort the door out. I don't suppose you could make us a coffee in the meantime?" He was still staring at the area where her breasts pushed out her T-shirt.

"I'm up here." Ivana said, acidly, pointing to her face.

"What? Oh, sorry, darling. It's just that, well, you know, I'm a bloke. Can't help it. You know, you've got a great pair there an' all.. Tell you what, I'll let you look at my nuts if you like - fair's fair.." he started to laugh, a disgusting laugh that quickly degenerated into a coughing fit. Ivana was about to slap him. He made her want to puke. She thought she would rather die than have to see his... his...

"Oh fuck!" she thought to herself. "It's happening again." And it was. The word "nuts" seemed to echo inside her mind. Nuts were attached to a penis. A penis! Who cared if he was the most repugnant male on Earth. He had a penis and she, suddenly, wanted one. Needed one. Desperately, inexplicably desired one. Every fibre of her being burned with a single yearning. It was just like the previous two occasions with the old man and the skinny punk. She seemed to be loosing control of herself. She knew she couldn't fight it. She had to taste a man's cum. Now. And there was no other man there. But she couldn't. Not with this grease-ball. And yet... and yet...

Before she was fully aware what she was doing, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Frantically, she reached up to the belt of his trousers, an elaborate thick leather affair. Urgently she grabbed hold of the strap either side of the buckle, desperate to unfasten it. She was amazed to see the stitching around the square metal loop and even the robust-looking leather itself tearing in a couple of places. Experimentally, she tugged her hands apart a little. A violent ripping sound accompanied the sight of the belt being torn apart. The buckle was a little misshapen, but nonetheless still fastened as it hung uselessly from her landlord's trouser-loops.

"Hey! Easy! That cost me fifty quid!" he exclaimed. But Ivana was too impressed with herself to care.

"How much did you pay for these?" she asked, curling the fingers of her right hand around the top of his trousers. Before he could answer, she had yanked her hand down, ripping the waistband of the still-buttoned strides. Her wonder at the ease with which she destroyed the landlord's clothes was surpassed only by her uncontrollable desire to wrap her thick, soft lips around his sexual organ. She pulled the remains of his trousers down to his ankles and then used a single finger to snap the elastic of his boxer shorts, letting them fall to the ground. He was already fully erect. He looked as unimpressive in that exposed, aroused state as he had appeared when fully clothed. But Ivana's mouth was already wide open in anticipation.



Claire walked out of the photographer's studio, pausing for a moment to get her bearings on the unfamiliar street. Then she spotted a large video rental place she'd walked past on the way from the tube station and headed towards it. In her hand a plastic bag swung with her stride. It contained the three head-shots the filthy pervert had taken at their previous session - the reason she'd come to him in the first place. Why she had allowed him to persuade her to come back on another occasion, she didn't know. She certainly wouldn't have come if she had known what he had in mind.

In her disgust as his attempts to cajole her into posing topless for him, she'd almost ran out of there without her photos. But he had called after her, apologising and holding out the prints in a display folder and she had taken them. They weren't bad shots either; they'd be a useful addition to her portfolio. She wasn't all that excited. Becoming a model was something she was trying mostly because so many people had told her she was attractive enough to do it, rather than because she had any great ambition in the field. She certainly had no desire to show off her tits (although her last boyfriend had called them "magnificent") for the benefit of sad old men looking for a cheap alternative to viagra.

What Claire wanted was an easy job. Something which could provide a decent, not neccessarly huge, regular income without requiring any great effort on her part. The world of work just didn't appeal to her - the thought of waking early every morning to go to the same place to do the same thing for eight or nine hours filled her with dread. But her family had very little money, certainly not enough to support her, and the idea of marrying a rich man did not appeal. She was young and she wanted to sample many different dishes before she finally decided on a main course. As she turned down the stairs into the Underground, she was wondering if it were possible to make a living as a model without having to expose herself.



Lynne had given up on the magazines. There were full of the same old crap. The only thing that had caught her eye was a letter on one of the "problems" pages. A woman had written in saying that her husband could only get aroused when she started ordering him about and that he enjoyed being beaten and slapped during sex. The writer wanted a "normal" relationship with him and wondered how she could make him change. Lynne had laughed when she read that part. Her experience told her that husbands don't change. But she had thought it weird the way the wife had to hit her man when they made love. On the rare occasions that Gary had sex with her, he usually struck her once or twice during the act.

Of course, Gary lifted his hands to her aggressively in all kinds of different situations. It just seemed to be his way. Most of the time, it was OK if she did everything the way he liked it and kept a low profile, but sometimes he'd just hit her for no reason anyway. And when she did something he didn't like there would be no stopping him. She was really scared at those times. She wondered if one day he would kill her. She'd been in hospital a few times already. She hated it. All those questions from the doctors, the nurses - the police even - about how she'd been hurt. Of course, she didn't say anything, so they kept asking. But she knew what Gary would do if she told them about him.

Bathed and dried, she lay down in bed, naked under the duvet. Once again, she was alone. Briefly, she wondered what Gary was doing, out so late. But she knew such thoughts were a waste of time. Instead, she started thinking about the letter in the magazine. It must be really strange for that woman to feel so much in charge of her husband. To tell him what to do and to hurt him. She tried to envisage herself sitting on Gary's groin, reaching down to slap his cheek. Subconsciously, her fingers worked their way down her body and slid between her thighs. She was already wet as she began stroking herself.



It must've been the fastest blow-job in human history. Taking into account the speed with which the girl had gotten his clothes out of the way, it probably was. Rodney had seen it all stunned. He'd never have believed that his beautiful, sexy, young tenant would do something like that for him. He'd only been flirting with her because she was so stunning-looking and she'd caught him looking at her breasts and he'd been embarrassed. He had thought that his remarks would be rewarded with nothing more than a slap on the face. Instead, she had suddenly dropped to her knees in front of him. At that moment, as a jolt of excitement ran the length of his body, he still thought she was merely teasing him.

He'd watched her as she went for his belt and then gasped as it seemed to come apart between her slender fingers. She had torn it off! He heard himself complaining about the cost of the leather strap, and inwardly chastised himself for worrying about money at a time like that. Before he could think of anything more appropriate to say, the girl had started tearing his trousers, ripping the thick, tough waistband with what looked like one-handed ease. She was incredible! Could she really be so strong? She seemed so confident, so utterly sure of herself as she split the elastic of his underwear with a single finger.

He looked down at her graceful, powerful hands and the top of the curve of her breasts that stretched out the fabric of her T-shirt below. He was fully exposed now, the sight of the girl's stunning face so close to his naked organ heightening his arousal still further. He didn't think he'd ever been so turned on before in all his life. She parted her full lips, exposing two rows of beautiful, straight feminine teeth and leant towards him. He began to think about how wonderful it would feel to be inside her warm, soft mouth. Feeling himself quivering, he held himself still, worried that he might peak to soon.

Just them, he felt a wave of her hot breath washing over the sensitive tip of his erection and he knew it was too late. "Ohmygoddd...." he groaned as the muscles in his groin suddenly and violently contracted. The small portion of his brain still capable of rational thought expected to see the beautiful brunette moving quickly away, out of the range of the imminent spurting. But she did not. The first spasm was still underway, a huge muscular expulsion of fluid from his very core as she dramatically closed the distance between her face and his groin, opening her sexy lips wide to bury him deep in her mouth.

It was as if she had been starving and his seed was the only food on Earth. She took him into her hungrily, like she was concerned not to let a single drop of his cum go to waste. The touch of her soft, darting tongue on his throbbing shaft only increased the force of his ejaculations until he was spasming in enormous, painful bursts. All the while, she kept her lips closed over his organ, swallowing occasionally as her mouth filled with his sperm. When his ejaculations finally began to die down, she pulled in her cheeks, making Rodney think she was trying to suck even more fluid from him. It felt as if his shaft was being crushed in a tiny vice whilst being forcibly and violently stretched. He screamed in agony.

Those yells finally got through to the girl who opened her mouth and released him. The sense of relief that spread through his body was chased by an aching, empty feeling that grew and grew until it seemed to be consuming him. He felt himself becoming unsteady on his feet, his rapidly deflating penis throbbing with pain, his head spinning. He'd never felt like this after an orgasm. He reached out for something to hold on to for balance but his judgment abandoned him and instead he swotted vaguely at empty air. Then his legs just seemed to give way beneath him and was heading for the ground.



Sam Teuser looked around the tiny police station cell he'd been thrust into and felt sick. Sick because his mentor, Professor Lindstrom had been killed in a car crash when he had been on the road purely for Sam's benefit. Sick because he'd managed to end up behind bars despite being a promising young scientist with a huge research grant and the world of human biology at his feet. And sick because the last vestiges of alcohol-induced high were quickly evaporating from his brain leaving nothing but a hangover, a deepening depression and nausea. He lay down on the thin, uncomfortable mattress in the corner.

He was best off sleeping. Certainly, there was nothing he could do for poor old Lindstrom now. It was well past midnight and they wouldn't release him until morning. They'd told him as much just before they'd locked him in. At least this way he could get some much-needed rest. It was just that his arm, heavy in its plaster, was hurting more than ever. If only he could have a little drink, he thought, he would sleep like a baby. Instead he was stuck in a grim police station, feeling sick and forced to wait for the humiliations that morning would surely bring.



Gary drove slowly around the corner, turning into a dark, deserted alley and pulling over by the side of the road exactly as the blonde girl sitting next to him instructed. She obviously worked these streets a lot, and Gary trusted her local knowledge. He reckoned that she ought to know where they would be least likely to be disturbed by the police. Being out of sight doubly suited him. Firstly, he didn't want to be arrested for paying for sex. And secondly, if the bitch decided to make a fuss when he got a bit rough, then no-one would come charging in to rescue her. Gary switched on the tiny overhead light to dispel the enclosing darkness.

He glanced over at the girl's overly-made up face and her long stockinged legs that were amply displayed by her tiny, tight skirt. She was pretty alright. But, he thought, she was a filthy, cheap street girl and she needed to be taught a lesson.

"Fifty quid, then." said the girl, holding out her hand. It was not a relationship that required small talk. Gary was familiar enough with the routine. He handed over a few well-used banknotes and waited impatiently while she carefully examined the water-mark in each one. Then she screwed the bits of paper up tight in her fist and shoved them into her stocking tops. She turned to him and, without the slightest hint of romance in her harsh high-pitched voice asked "How d'you want it?"

Gary opened the door on his side and climbed out. "In the back." he said, sounding almost disgusted. The girl got out of the front passenger side and climbed in at the back. She arranged herself so that she was lying on the long back bench, one leg resting on the driver's seat in front, the other raised and hooked over the top of the back seat. She pulled up her micro-skirt. She wasn't wearing any knickers. Gary noticed with contempt that she wasn't a natural blonde. She looked almost comfortable in her contorted position, as if she'd done this many times before.

"You got a rubber?" she asked.


She fished an individually packaged condom from her stockings and handed it up to him. Gary placed it between his teeth and he pulled down his trousers and underwear. He took off his jacket and flung it onto the front seat but didn't bother removing his shirt. Then he ripped open the contraceptive and pulled it onto his erect organ. He didn't wait for any invitation as he dropped heavily on top of her and violently rammed himself into her.

"Ouch! Easy, there!" she said.

"Shut up." snapped Gary, continuing his aggressive thrusts.



Ivana stood by her bed, looking down at the unconscious form of her landlord lying on top of her sheets. She couldn't believe she'd gone down on such a repulsive creature. But she knew she had. That strange compulsion had struck her for a third time. And, just like on the two previous occasions, once she'd sucked the man dry, she had been rewarded with a wonderful, warm sensation in her belly that spread rapidly throughout her body, leaving her feeling fabulous. As for her landlord, the experience seemed to have been too much for him. He'd collapsed as soon as she was finished and now he was out cold, snoring loudly.

Meanwhile, she was growing increasingly certain that the weird increase in her strength was connected with her impulsive fellating. The clincher was when she had decided to move the fallen body of the landlord from her floor. She'd got her hands under his shoulders, intending to drag him towards her bed. But when she straightened up she found his whole, huge frame rising easily in her grip. She raised and lowered his limp form a couple of times, amazed at the way such an overweight man felt as light as a thin bath towel to her. Then she tossed him on to the bed like he was a piece of dirty laundry, laughing at the sheer ease of it.

There was a shout from downstairs. "Rod? It's Danny! D'ya want me to start on the door?"

The builder! Ivana had completely forgotten the busted front door. "Just a minute." she called down.



Teuser sat bolt upright on the uncomfortable mattress. He'd almost fallen asleep. Suddenly, he was pulled back to full consciousness by the sound of many voices shouting. Something was going on outside his cell. Something that involved a lot of angry people. He didn't hear the lock turning above the din, but he did notice the dramatic increase in noise level as the heavy metal door swung open. A young, harassed-looking constable entered the cell.

"Right, mate," the copper said, patronisingly, "Looks like it's your lucky night. We've got two van loads of gentlemen who will be needing these facilities, so you're free to go early. Come with me please." Sam followed, shuffling meekly behind the tall young man. At the front desk, he signed some forms and listened humiliated as the sergeant told him to go home and drink some coffee and never end up back there again. Then he walked out of the police station into the cold night air, almost tasting the drink he had promised himself. But he had no money at all on him. Bollocks! He would have to walk home first.



Gary drove quickly away from the area, heading towards his home. He smiled as he thought of the encounter that had recently finished. It had been nice just thrusting violently away at the girl, but it was only when he'd given her a couple of sharp, harsh slaps with the back of his hand that he'd orgasmed. He loved showing these girls who was in charge. She'd called him a bastard as he'd shoved her unceremoniously from his car, but he didn't care. And besides, he thought, why did they always complain? He'd let her keep the money, the little bleached bitch. She should have been grateful for that, rather than making a fuss about a couple of little slaps.

As soon as he felt secure, he eased off the accelerator a little, driving carefully; what with all the business with his strangely disappearing license he didn't want to attract any attention. It took him quite a while to get home, despite the streets being almost empty at that time of night. By the time he finally crawled into bed, he was tired. Lynne was fast asleep, breathing heavily. He didn't bother waking her as he lay down beside her. He had already got what he wanted from the blonde girl. In minutes, he was snoring loudly enough to temporarily wake his wife.



Ivana had watched the builder expertly removing the smashed old door and then installing the new one. He chatted with her as he worked, making no secret of the fact that he found her attractive. Inevitably, the conversation worked its way to their mutual acquaintance. "So, " he enquired, "where's Rod then?"

"You mean Mr. Myrtle?" checked Ivana.

"Yeah. I thought he was here."

"Er, he had to go somewhere in a hurry."

"I hope you've got my money, then. The deal was strictly cash-in-hand."

"Hold on a moment." Ivana stalled. She jogged upstairs, bounding up two steps at a time, delighting in how effortless the climb was. In her room, she located the torn remnants of Myrtle's trousers, still wrapped around his ankles. Shoving her hands in the pockets, she quickly located a small folded stack of notes and headed back downstairs.

Soon, the new door was in place. Danny the builder handed her a small key. "You'll have to get this to Rod soon. He's gonna have to make copies for all the tennants."

"Ta." said Ivana, taking the key. "How much did Mr. Mrytle say he would pay you?"

"Three hundred and fifty."

"What?" she asked, shocked. It had to be a lie. There was no way a cheapskate like her landlord would pay out so much. "Come on," she said, "I wasn't born yesterday. How much did you guys agree on?"

Danny's face suddenly hardened. His eyes stared straight into hers, his teeth clenched and he drew himself up to his full height. She knew that he was trying to make himself look as intimidating as possible, and she had to admit, he was succeeding. "Three hundred and fifty." he stated, firmly.

"That.. that can't be right." Ivana said, bravely, though her voice did quiver a little. He seized on her nervousness.

"Three fifty. Now." and he held out his palm. Scared, Ivana pulled the folded notes she had taken from Myrtle's pocket and began counting. She wasn't sure that there would be enough. But the sight of the cash seemed to have an intoxicating effect on the builder. Without waiting for her to finish counting he reached out and grabbed her wrist in his large, rough hand. "I'll just take the lot and we'll call in quits. OK, darlin'?"

She could see from the tendons on the back of his hand that he was gripping her slender feminine forearm very tightly. But, it felt to her as if nothing more than a lightweight piece of cloth had been laid over her wrist. Immediately, she realised that this was another effect of her increasing strength. She was almost immune to pain! Then, it occurred to her. She had no need to be frightened of the man holding her. Experimentally, she placed her free hand over his knuckles and gently squeezed. There was a series of cracking sounds. He screamed, letting go of her and clasping his hand to his stomach. She could see the area she'd touched already turning dark blue. There were tears in his eyes!

"Tell you what," she said, growing in confidence by the second, "Why don't you just piss off and I'll say no more about it."

"You bitch! What've you done to my hand?" he yelled. He swung his uninjured fist at the side of her face, catching her unawares. The blow struck her squarely on the cheek, but it was he who shouted in agony for the second time while she remained unmoved. In truth, his punch had felt more like a mild tap than a knockout blow. Now he was clutching both his hands to his belly. He looked ridiculous. She had to laugh. She was beginning to enjoy having extra strength. She put her hands defiantly on her shapely hips and stood tall and straight in contrast to the doubled-over builder.

"Get out!" she said firmly. He moved immediately, wincing as he used his injured hands to open the door he'd just fitted. He made sure it was firmly shut behind him.



It took nearly an hour, but Teuser eventually made it home. Wearily, he made his way upstairs to his flat. He opened a cupboard and began checking the pockets of the jackets hanging there. Eventually, he pulled out a crumpled banknote. "Thank fuck for that!" he exclaimed out loud. He must've left it in his pocket when he'd worn the thing earlier. He slipped his good arm into the jacket, leaving the other sleeve empty and headed out to the street once more. He passed the hallway clock, noticing that it was past 3 a.m., but thought nothing of it.

The first couple of all-night supermarkets he staggered into refused to sell alcohol out of licensing hours. He argued with the guy behind the counter in the third place he tried, saying that he "didn't give a fuck about the fucking law."

"Neither do I." answered the middle-aged man, suddenly producing a large metal hammer and wielding it like a weapon. Teuser left immediately.

He tried the softly, softly approach in the fourth shop, with much more success. After glancing furtively around, the shopkeeper wrapped the bottle of whisky in four layers of cheap polythene carrier-bags so that the label and shape of the bottle were hidden. "Keep it under your jacket when you walk out." he advised Teuser.

"Cheers." Sam replied, with genuine gratitude. Out of respect to the guy who'd put his license to sell booze on the line for him, he waited until he'd walk around the corner before going for the bottle. He tore the layers of polythene away with his nails and twisted the cap off the top of the whisky with his teeth. He took a big swallow. And then he took another.



Up in her room, Ivana was still coming to terms with the way she'd dealt with the aggressive builder. It was all just so incredible. Being strong enough to crack the bones in his hand just by squeezing them was awesome. But the way he'd really hurt himself punching her face - a blow which had felt soft to her - well, that was brilliant. Looking down at the deeply sleeping landlord on her bed, she thought of what she had done to him just before he lost consciousness. Then, there was the subsequent ease with which she'd hauled his big body off the ground. Now, she felt she knew for certain. "I get stronger every time I give a blow job!" she exclaimed out loud.

It was so obvious. It had been happening ever since the episode with the old stranger in the car park. Whatever was giving her the urge to perform the oral sex act was also giving her incredible power. And what power! She'd destroyed a door and beaten up a man. If only she'd have been able to do such amazing things when she was with her last customer - the bastard who had slapped her about. Then, she remembered his driving license in her handbag. And the address printed on it. Now that she was supercharged, could there possibly be a better time for revenge?



The clatter of the milk float broke the pre-dawn silence. The whining of the electric motor driving the open van slowly through the suburban streets as the dozens of bottles of milk on board clinked against one another was a familiar enough sound to anyone awake to hear it. From time to time, the driver stopped, walking up to the front of various houses, picking up the empty bottles left on doorsteps and replacing them with full ones. All the while he kept a hand-rolled cigarette clasped tightly between his thin, cracked lips, occasionally re-lighting it, but never taking more than a couple of puffs before letting it go out again.

The first hints of daybreak were beginning to manifest themselves on the Eastern horizon as the float whined past a drunk shuffling unevenly along the pavement, his arm in a plaster-cast and sling. "You look like you could do with a coffee, mate!" the driver called out.

What gave this guy the right to talk to him like that? Sam was fed up with people telling him to go home and drink coffee. "Fuck you!" he slurred. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his jacket, looking for some loose change to hurl at the bastard. His drink-dulled senses detected something cold, hard and round in his palm and his boozed-up brain interpreted it as a coin. He didn't bother to try and focus on the object in his hand before he lobbed it at the slow-moving milk-float. Teuser heard the sound of tinkling glass, turned clumsily on his heels and ran. Having just been released from police custody, he didn't want to get in a fight with a milkman.



"What've you done to your hands?" the cabbie asked as he opened the door for the big guy who had franticly flagged him down.

"Er... I had an accident." said Danny

"Whaddya do - get 'em caught in a machine?"

"Um.. yeah, sort of." the builder lied. "How long's it gonna take to get to the nearest hospital?"



There didn't seem to be any damage. None of the bottles had broken. The sound of smashing glass he'd heard must've been whatever the drunk had thrown at his van. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened recently. The idiot had probably lobbed a miniature bottle of booze. There were a few shards of glass on the floor of the float that looked as if they'd once been part of a tiny bottle. The milko decided not to waste any more time over the incident. A couple of the milk bottles were a little wet, but when he sniffed them, there was no tell-tale whiff of alcohol, so he didn't bother to wipe them as he left them outside the next house on his list.



Her landlord was still snoring heavily on her bed, out for the count. Ivana smiled. "Another satisfied customer." she said to herself as she turned her attention back to the matter in hand. That matter was a large, heavy, nineteen-thirties wooden wardrobe. And it was, quite literally in her hand. She was experimenting with her new strength and the only thing she could find to properly test her was the wardrobe. So, she had bent low next to it, wrapping the fingers of one hand around one of its short, stubbly legs. And then she had lifted, delighted to see the huge piece of furniture rising smoothly from the ground.

It felt about as heavy as a Sunday newspaper to her as she raised and lowered it as if it were a piece of fruit in the market and she was guessing its weight. She looked at the wardrobe, remembering it was full of her shoes and winter clothes. Two big men would struggle to lift it, and yet here she was, doing it one-handed, not even straining. It was fantastic! Lost in thought, she was shocked by a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood. "Ooops!" she said, carefully lowering the wardrobe to the ground.

She'd forgotten the low ceiling and had lifted the thing a bit too high. The top of it, a large, thick single slab of wood, had smashed into the plaster overhead, knocking off big chunks of it. The sides of the wardrobe had buckled and snapped near the top, so that the huge cupboard was now roofless.  Three broken chunks of it former lid were lying amongst her things inside along with countless little white flecks of plaster. Ivana decided she had better go out where she was less likely to cause damage testing her strength. Besides, the wardrobe was the heaviest thing in her flat, and she already knew that she could lift it with no trouble at all.



Two hours later, Lynne opened the front door of her home and bent down to pick up the regular delivery of two pints of semi-skimmed milk. The bottles were damp, which she put down to a light coating of condensation. The kettle had already boiled and the teabags were floating in the two mugs she'd prepared. She used a finger to remove the foil seal from one of the bottles and poured a little milk into each mug, not noticing the tiny drips of colourless liquid that fell from the outside of the glass into the drinks she was making. Then she got a teaspoon, stirred the brews and removed the bags, throwing them in the kitchen dustbin. She sipped her tea as she carried the other mug upstairs to Gary.



Two hundred yards away, Teuser lay fully clothed on top of his messy bed, snoring heavily, a three-quarters-empty whisky bottle in his hand. He was still half-wearing his jacket. He'd staggered into his bedroom and searched in his pocket for the little phial he was certain he'd put in there earlier. There had been no sign of it so he had decided that he must have dropped it somewhere. His last action before falling deeply asleep was to glance over at the cupboard in which he'd hidden his stash of his formula. He had no need to worry about one tiny phial of the stuff. There was plenty more. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would stay sober and find a test subject.



A grey, cool morning had dawned. Across town from Teuser's flat, Ivana's landlord slept on her bed, completely unaware of the rising sun. The tattered remnants of his trousers and underpants were still wrapped around his ankles. On his slowly rising and falling chest was the new front door key and a note from Ivana. Two streets away, Jack the punk rolled over on the floor of the cold squat. He'd been asleep for more than twelve hours, but he was nowhere near ready to get up either. Both he and the landlord were simultaneously dreaming of the same girl.


Conceptfan, Aug. 2002.