Teuser's Formula

Part 5

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!


"Steady on there, mate!"

Sam Teuser ignored the barman's friendly advice and threw the contents of his freshly-refilled whisky glass down his throat, slamming the empty tumbler back down onto the bar with a force that owed more to ill-judgement than anything else. The landlord took it as a defiant statement. "Right, that's enough for you, then." he announced.

Teuser thrust his good hand into his trouser pocket, intending to pull out a note and demand another drink, despite the finality of the barkeep's words. But his fingers encountered nothing but fabric. Muttering a silent, slightly slurred curse, he pulled his hand out and redirected it into his coat. He felt the cold, hard metal of coins and curled his fingers to try and scoop them all into his fist. The weight of the haul was promising; but when he brought his hand in front of his face and opened it, he saw that most of the coins were copper-coloured.

He didn't even have enough for another single shot, let alone the treble he wanted to order. "Fuck!" he said, more than loudly enough to be overheard. That earned him a reproachful glance from the landlord. With a snort, Teuser turned his back and began to walk, a little unsteadily, towards the exit. After a couple of steps, he paused. The scowl on his face shifted and then vanished, to be replaced by a mischievous half-grin.

He'd just remembered something. He'd woken up that morning clutching the previous night's bottle. And he had left it, back in his flat, still at least a quarter-full. He didn't need money or disapproving bar-staff to drink. He just needed to get home. He could worry about what to do next when he got there. After he'd had another whisky. Or three.



Everyone who used the squat was there, all of them in the front room. Ian was crouched next to the dormant form of Jack, angrily listening to the sleeping man's deep breathing. Bastard the dog lay curled at his master's feet, anxious for the moment when he would waken. Daz, a wannabe DJ and part-time soft drugs courier, stood in deep thought, looking down at his comatose housemate. Next to him, scratching his belly beneath a filthy, tattered T-shirt was Cal, the oldest member of the group.

Cal was a veteran of the drop-out scene, a man who had been living rough off his substance-addled wits when Jack was just a baby. His experience had led to him becoming the unofficial leader of the loose group, a role which he accepted grudgingly. That reluctance was unsurprising in a man who'd spent his adult life avoiding responsibility. Nonetheless, he knew that the others were waiting for him to speak first and that, for some reason, they seemed to value his opinion more highly then their own. Cal cleared his phlegm-filled throat.

"He's just sleeping." he pronounced.

"So how come he can't wake up then?" Ian spluttered from his position near the floor. "I'm telling you he's taken a ton of something and now he's sleeping it off."

"Calm down, Ian - for fuck's sake!" hissed Daz. "If Cal reckons he hasn't taken anything then that's good enough for me. Maybe he's just knackered - you know, not slept for a couple days and now he's-"

"Bollocks!" Ian interrupted. "Look at the facts, man! He goes out with the dog yesterday, comes back an hour later walking strange and goes straight to sleep and stays there for twenty fucking hours. The fucker scored some shit and finished it before he came back so he wouldn't have to share it with the rest of us. I thought he was supposed to be a real punk! What's he gonna do next? Get a fucking job?"



It was one of the quieter hours of the day to travel by Underground. Well past the morning rush, even for "media types" whose office day rarely started before half-past ten, and still before lunchtime. With no-one sat opposite her, Claire took advantage of the space to stretch out her long legs and slumped back in her seat, the posture causing her shapely, firm breasts to become even more noticeable beneath her T-shirt.

The Tube rattled noisily through its tunnel, rattling its contents but she paid no mind to the sound or the shaking. She was deep in thought, trying to comprehend the events of the past hour. She had fainted, albeit briefly, in a public toilet. She'd never lost consciousness like that before. But that was an insignificant occurrence in the light of what had happened after that.

She'd been seized by a compulsion. An irresistible, inner compunction to fellate the first man she laid eyes on as she left the lavatory. And she had obeyed the need, performing the act for the first time in her life with genuine enthusiasm and discovering, to her surprise, that she enjoyed it enormously. And it had left her feeling so wonderful afterwards, as if her recent spate of restless nights had never happened.

Claire had never been an impulsive girl. She couldn't fathom the origin of the sudden desire to do something she'd always thought of as distasteful. Was it connected in some way with her temporary black-out moments before? But that itself was strange. She hadn't felt in any way unusual prior to that.

She recalled the peculiar sequence of events. She hadn't felt dizzy when she had stood up to go to the toilet, even though she had risen rapidly to her feet because that creep at her table had put his hand on her leg. She shuddered at the thought of the unwelcome, intimate contact. And then, she suddenly sat up straight with a jolt. Had that bastard in the cafe spiked her coffee with some kind of sex drug? That would explain her black-out in the lavatory, not to mention her out-of-character behaviour afterwards.

She felt a little sick as she considered the possibility that she'd been the victim of a pervert's potion. She'd been fooled into carrying out an act she would never execute normally. There was no way, no way on Earth she would ever contemplate willingly taking a man into her mouth. She would never choose to do all that... licking the length of his shaft, tasting him... tasting.... tasting... Oh, that taste! That delicious, wonderful, taste....

Claire dropped her head into her hands, struggling to fight against the all-conquering sensation that was sweeping through her. "What have you done to me, you bastard?" she asked out loud. There was no answer from the empty carriage.



"Pedro! Pedro!" the fat man's booming voice echoed around the cafe kitchen, almost rattling the windows, but somehow failing to rouse its intended audience. Its owner's heavy footsteps followed into the room moments later. "Pedro, what's going on with that sausages an- Jesus!"

He hadn't expected to find his cook slumped on the work surface. "Pedro!" he shouted. The short frame with its head resting on the counter stirred slightly. The fat man went over to him, placed his huge hand on his employee's shoulder and pulled him up. The cook's eyes flicked open for a second and then shut again as if the effort required to keep them ajar was simply too great.

"Are you alright?" No answer. It was only then that he noticed the little man's trousers and underpants had fallen around his ankles. "What the hell happened to your clothes?" Again, there was no response. The cafe owner shook his cook violently by the shoulders. "Pedro!" he practically shouted in his face.

"Eh?" the chef asked, weakly.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You sick or something?" The muttered reply was inaudible.



Ivana just could not believe how wonderful she felt. She was far from home - far enough to consider taking a train or, in good times, hailing a taxi - but she was enjoying being on her feet too much. It was as if she had springs in her legs, each stride an effortless joy. Although earlier that same morning she'd already run further than she'd ever done before, she found herself breaking into a jog.

It was all so amazing. Running seemed to require no more energy than walking had. Her feet propelled her with utter ease as she tore down streets, weaving between other pedestrians who stopped and stared at her. Her large chest bounced beneath her top with every stride. That, added to the fact that she was running at a speed that only a handful of men on the planet could have hoped to have matched, drew even more attention to her.

She began to notice the people staring, and wondered why. It did not occur to her that she might be moving extraordinarily rapidly. After all, she was just enjoying a comfortable jog, keeping well within herself. Getting increasingly concerned by being the focus of so many strangers' gazes, she turned down a side-street, not reducing her remarkable pace in the slightest.

Of course, following the back-roads would stretch out her journey home even further. But Ivana didn't mind that. In fact, she was looking forward to a long run. At that moment, she felt as if she could run around the circumference of the globe without tiring.

She thought of the cyclist she’d left in the laundrette – the latest man to benefit from her bizarre urges - and the way the energy she had absorbed from him was now coursing through her. There was no doubt in her mind anymore. The way she felt was the clincher. Each time she obeyed that strange impulse to pleasure a man orally she was rewarded with a boost of energy. Not just energy, she reminded herself. Energy and strength. She smiled as she continued to run.



The old woman's screams brought people running into the laundrette from the street and the neighbouring shops. "Over there!" she shrieked at the first to arrive, her bony, wrinkled finger extended towards the far corner. They turned to look where she was pointing. Two of the men and one of the younger women in the group began to laugh. Two other women glanced at each other, then at the sky before turning to leave.

There, sitting on a bench, his back against the wall, was a completely nude young man. His genitalia were on full view and it looked for all the world as if he, or perhaps some other joker, had painted them dark blue. Even from ten yards away, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was obvious. "Must be drunk." one of the remaining on-lookers suggested.

"I'll call the police." volunteered another.



Tempers in the squat had reached boiling point.

"Look, I'm telling you he hasn't taken anything behind our backs!" Daz was losing his temper. "Jack's always shared everything he's had in the past. Leave him alone!"

"Leave him alone?" Ian's voice was heavy with incredulity. He's the one who's bogarted a triple dose of... of whatever the hell he took!"

"That's just your opinion, mate." Cal commented, trying to act as a calming influence. "He's not breathing like someone who's on something. He just looks knackered to me."

"Oh yeah?" Ian was defiant. "Watch this!" He placed his hand on the sleeping man's chin and used it to turn his head rapidly from side to side as he shouted "Jack! Jack! Wake the fuck up!"

Jack's eyelids opened slightly and he blinked as the dim light of the room hit his retinas. His mouth was obviously bone-dry and he had to lick his lips before any sound could pass through them. "Wha?" he said weakly.

"What the fuck did you take yesterday?" Ian demanded, loudly.

"Eh?" Jack still could not fully wake up.



Lynne was a patient woman. Marriage to Gary had given her plenty of practice at that. But she'd been sitting by his side, waiting for him to wake up for nearly two hours now. Surely he'd had enough of a nap now. Normally, she would not have dreamed of disturbing his sleep. But everything felt a little strange at that moment. Looking at his sleeping form, she was struck by how vulnerable he suddenly appeared. Suddenly the idea of interrupting his rest wasn't completely out of the question, like she had somehow been given an extra dose of courage.

It wasn't just the sight of him that emboldened her. There was also something inside her that made her urgently want him awake. A peculiar, almost inexplicable compulsion. A need to... to taste something. An urge. It seemed to come from nowhere and then grow rapidly until it pushed every other thought from her mind. It began as a whim and quickly became an imperative that she knew she was powerless to ignore. She had to have him in her mouth again. She couldn't understand why, but she knew that she craved the taste of his seed and that the desire would not dim until she fulfilled it.

The cord of his dressing gown was unfastened, so she had only to pull apart the two sides of the garment, rather like opening a narrow pair of curtains. She gasped involuntarily as the object of her lust was revealed and immediately reached for it with her right hand. She took her husband's flaccid organ delicately between her fingers, moving it around a little and squeezing it ever so carefully as though it were a piece of fruit she was testing for quality and ripeness in the supermarket. It felt good in her hand.

She began applying a little more pressure and was delighted to see her efforts returned by a slight stiffening of his penis. Encouraged, she began to stroke its length carefully between her thumb and two fingers. That had a much more impressive effect and within a minute he was almost completely erect. She took her hand away for a moment so she could have an unobstructed view of Gary's shaft. She'd seen it in this state many times before, but it somehow looked different this time. It looked inviting. It looked delicious.

Bending over his lap, she let the very tip of him brush against her lips. The contact sent a thrill through her entire being. She heard herself letting out a low moan as she leant in to kiss it properly, the light press of her sensitive lips against his flesh delighting her. She licked him slowly, tracing her tongue around the circumference of the dome of his member, loving the way he tasted. She also enjoyed the way his whole shaft quivered beneath her tongue as he responded, even in sleep, to her.



The cab had arrived. Now all that was left was for him to help his cook into it. It was going to be hell trying to cope with the lunchtime rush without him, but the man was clearly in no fit state to work. He'd never seen anything like it. He just seemed unable to keep his eyes open, or stay alert for more than a few seconds. The only place suitable for a man in that condition was his bed.

As the fat man helped the chef out of the front of the cafe, he told him "Call me if you can this evening and let me know if you're coming tomorrow." What else could he do? The man was a good cook and hadn't missed a day's work in the two years he'd been employed. They staggered towards the waiting taxi.

"Watch out!" the cafe-owner's shout was aimed at the man with his arm in a plaster cast who was shuffling unevenly along the pavement towards them.

"'Salright." the man slurred, steering a clumsy path around them. The fat man narrowed his eyes in concentration. He knew he recognised the guy from somewhere. Realisation dawned quickly. He had been in the cafe that morning - sitting opposite the pretty girl who had jumped up and shouted at him to leave her alone. And now, here he was again, half-drunk. It was barely noon.

"I've got my eye on you, mate." The cafe-owner growled.

"Faarkoff" the man with the damaged arm replied, without breaking his shuffle down the street.



At first, Claire barely noticed the young man getting on to the otherwise deserted carriage. He carried a heavy-looking shoulder bag which was so stuffed, she could see the outlines of hardback books stretching out the material. Unkempt hair fell over his forehead, just above a pair of thin, round-rimmed glasses. Everything about his clothing - the scarf, the sweatshirt, the worn-out jeans - screamed "Student!"

He looked around at the dozens of empty seats before, almost in a double-take, he swept his gaze back towards her. Something about her appearance clearly appealed to him because he kept his eyes on her for a few moments too long once she had returned his stare. She was used to that, and did not let it trouble her. She turned away as the student carefully selected a seat that offered him a good view of her, without being too close.

She'd already been on the train for a while. With nothing to read, she'd studied every advertisement in the carriage twice and was thoroughly bored. The only "new" thing to look at was the young man. She knew he was checking her out, stealing glances at her whenever he believed she wasn't looking. She turned her head to return the favour. He wasn't what she would call ugly, but he wasn't really her type either. Too weedy-looking. She preferred them more substantial. More muscular.

Claire eyes wandered down from the student's arms to his lap. A sudden jolt of the carriage temporarily knocked his hands away from their resting point on his knees. In the brief instant it took him to rearrange himself, she saw the small, but tell-tale bulge in the fly-area of his jeans. "I bet that's in my honour." she thought to herself.

She wasn't entirely happy with the idea of being trapped in the carriage with this young man and his... his... Suddenly, she felt strange. Her mind filled with images of what she thought the erection might look like. The images were incredibly attractive. They inspired her curiosity. She wanted to see the actual penis for herself. She wanted to be close to it. To touch it. To taste it. She stood up and locked her eyes on the student's. A look of wonder and then surprise came over him as slowly, sexily, she started to walk towards him.



In the twenty-three years that Sergeant Rick Brown had been on the Force, he'd seen humanity in all its varied guises. Criminals and madmen, villains and nutters, alcoholics and users, drunks and junkies. Perpetrators and victims, the aggressive and the scared. He was completely unfazed by the radio call for a squad car to check out a case of indecent exposure in a laundrette. He grabbed the radio to respond to the request. "This should be a laugh" he told the man sitting next to him. Two decades his junior, PC Frank Forrest, was impressed by Brown's decision-making.

"You done a lot of these?" he asked the older man.

"Oh yeah. Dozens. Happens all the time. You'd be surprised how many fellas crack up and end up with their dicks hanging out in public." Frank giggled. "Seriously." Brown added, but in a tone that made his colleague laugh even more. They pulled up outside the laundrette and got out of the panda car.

They saw it as soon as they opened the door. "Step aside please, ladies and gentlemen." the Sergeant announced to the three members of the public inside. A man and a young woman were standing by the naked man in the corner. A third person was throwing dirty clothes into one of the washers, apparently oblivious to the bizarre scene.

The two who had been with the nude looked up, and at the sight of the two uniforms filled by tall, imposing men, moved to the side. That was when Brown and Forrest saw the man's limp, peculiar-coloured organ. "Is...that..painted?" the younger policeman asked out loud, stifling his laughter.

"No," the young woman answered a little too quickly. "I think it's bruised or something. Can't see any cuts on it or anything like that."

"Been conducting a thorough examination, have we?" Brown inquired of her. Forrest bit his lip to prevent peels of hysterics escaping. The woman blushed deep crimson.

"I was... concerned." she excused herself, unconvincingly. "We can't seem to wake him up."

The Sergeant approached the sleeping form. "Is that his bicycle?" he asked, pointing to a badly damaged bike that had been propped up nearby.

"Dunno." the woman replied.

"Not as interested in the bike as the prick." Brown muttered under his breath. He turned his attention back to following protocol. He faced his colleague. As a Constable, Forrest had the idea piece of police equipment for the first task they needed to complete. "Constable," he said, holding out his hand, "your helmet, please." Forrest handed over his ornamental headgear. With an expertise that hinted at considerable experience, Brown placed the hat over the comatose man's exposed groin.

The Sergeant lowered his face in front of the sleeper's. "Hello, mate. Had a good night?" There was no answer. Brown checked the man's arms for signs of needle-marks, but found none. He didn't even smell of booze. He put his hand on the guy's shoulder and shook it a little. "Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!" he called.

An eye opened, half-way. "Huh?"

"Sorry to disturb you, sir." Sergeant Brown was starting to enjoy himself. "I was just wondering if you might be able to tell me what you are doing sleeping in the nude in a public laundrette." There was a reply, but it was an incomprehensible mumble that quickly faded to nothing. Brown grabbed his radio. He called for an ambulance.

"No, we won't be requiring any assistance.... Special instructions for the medical crew? Well, the patient appears to be barely conscious... No, I don't think it's drink or drugs... Injuries? No, no breaks or cuts... Just, ah, a severe, er..." he briefly lifted Forrest's helmet and looked at what lay underneath. His face contorted as he reacted to the sight. "...um, severe bruising of the sexual organ... No, I said sexual organ.... His penis...."



A quarter past noon? That couldn't be right. Ivana glanced down the street, and checked the electronic clock and temperature gauge mounted outside her local pharmacy. It agreed with her watch. But that would mean she had ran all the way home in less than an hour. That just wasn't possible. And yet it had to be; she was home and the time was twelve fifteen. How fast must've she had been jogging?

She did the sum. She was surprised how easy it was; even her mind seemed to be quicker and more agile than ever before. "Fuck" she muttered as she considered the result. And she wasn't even out of breath. When she added that wonder to the knowledge that she seemed to be gaining increased mental as well as physical abilities, she shook her head in amazement. It was like being a superwoman.

She thought of how easily she'd lifted a full, heavy wardrobe the previous evening. She'd twice surrendered to the strange urge to fellate since she left her flat that morning. If each one made her more powerful - and the proof of that was in the astonishing speed and stamina she had just shown - then, how strong would she be now?

She needed to go up to her room and sit down and think for a while. She reached into her pocket where she normally kept the keys to her front door and stopped. The brand new door facing her reminded her that the lock had been changed overnight. She'd left the only copy of the new key with her landlord. And she'd left her landlord sleeping on her bed.

Pulling out her mobile phone, she found she had no signal. She walked a little down the street until she could dial his number. After ten unanswered rings she heard his familiar unattractive voice. "Hi, this is Rod Myrtle. I can't get your call right now, so leave a message after the beep." Frustrated, she hung up without speaking.

She returned to her door. Remembering how the door had come to need replacement - she had smashed it with her fists - she smiled. Myrtle will just have to pay out for a second new door, she thought. And find another builder to fit it, she added, recalling the brief confrontation she had had with the handyman which had left the big guy with two badly hurt hands.

She didn't want to make a big scene on the street, so she stood as close as she could to the door and pressed two fingers of her right hand on the lock mechanism. Something immediately started to creak. She hadn't even pressed down hard yet. She could see the metal lock housing bending beneath her fingertips and the sight excited her. Was she that strong?

She watched as her fingers continued to sink into the solid metal panel. From beneath the surface, she heard the unmistakeable sound of metal protesting futilely against the unbearable strain it was under. Then, with a dull thump, the lock gave way. A small chunk of door broke around the remains of the lock. Splintered wood and mangled metal fell inside the flat and the door swung open.

Ivana inspected the damage she had wrought. She'd only really rested her fingers on the lock. What would have happened if she'd actually pushed? Or used her whole hand? She bounded up the stairs to her flat, in awe at the raw physical strength she now seemed to possess. It was incredible to think she had absorbed so much power from the five men she had given head. As she slowly inserted the key to her bed-sit, taking great care to avoid causing more damage, she wondered if the men were missing whatever it was she had sucked out of them.



Jack just couldn't force himself awake. Despite his vague awareness of the small crowd of familiar faces that had gathered around him, and the insistent tone of the interrogation he was being subjected to, he was unable to find the strength to sit up and open his eyes. Nonetheless, Ian was persisting.

"What did you take, fucker?"

"Nothing. Leave me alone. Need to sleep." What did he have to say to make Ian understand that he was telling the truth?

"You've been sleeping for a whole fucking day! What did you take?"

"Nothing! Let me sleep!"

Ian grabbed Jack's chin and shook his housemate's head violently for a second time. "You're not sleeping 'till you tell us what you took yesterday!"

"Take it easy, Ian!" Cal chided, without moving. Typically, his involvement would remain purely verbal.

"I'm tired, man." Jack pleaded. "I'll tell you later. Just let me sleep.."

"No. Tell me now!" Ian shouted.

"OK, OK." Jack tried to sit up, but evidently the effort required was beyond him and he lay back down, his eyes barely open. "Fuck, I'm tired." he observed. "Look, I really need to sleep. I swear, I haven't taken anything. I just went out with Bastard for a walk, that's all."

"So how come you came straight back and went to sleep for a day then?" demanded Ian.

"I.. I... er.... I met.... a..... woman...and she... er... she gave me... er..."

Ian was impatient. "What did she give you, Jack? Heroin? Smack?"

"No... I swear I haven't taken anything!"

"What did the woman you met give you?" Daz asked, his calm enquiry providing a stark contrast to Ian's frantic questioning.

"She... uh... she gave me a blow job."

The unexpected reply caused an explosion of laughter as Cal and Daz doubled over, their bodies shuddering with hysteria. Even Ian lost his scowl and - briefly - chuckled. When he'd recovered sufficiently, he commented: "Must've been one hell of a performance if it's made you this tired!"

But Jack didn't answer. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slowing as he drifted back towards deep sleep. Daz and Cal were moving away, heading towards the window that served as their front door, still laughing.



Claire's tongue flicked frantically again and again, lashing the student's quivering penis as she parted her thick lips as wide as she could and leant forwards, taking him into her mouth once more. Her lips formed an air-tight seal around the base of his shaft, and she stretched it by sucking hard, now scraping her tongue over the sensitive tip of the organ.

She heard the young man's moans of pleasure somewhere above her, but was too absorbed in her own enjoyment of the act to acknowledge them. Something about the way he tasted was driving her into a frenzy, her tongue and lips working ever harder as she longed for the moment when he would convulse and fire his semen into her throat.

Drawing her head back and forwards as fast as she could, she kept her lips locked tight all the while on his erection as she let it slide into and out of her mouth, squeezing it, pulling it. She let her top teeth touch his wonderful warm flesh. Continuing the frantic woodpecker-like movement of her head, the slight scraping of her enamel along his length brought a new, more urgent sound from him.

Believing him to be on the verge of a triumphant explosion inside her mouth, she found from somewhere the necessary energy to increase the speed of her ministrations, lashing his member with her tongue as she sucked hard on it and stroked it firmly with her teeth and lips. The sounds from above became high-pitched. She bit down on him very gently.

Suddenly, the student's entire body shuddered. His penis seemed to draw into itself for one, brief, magical anticipatory moment and then, delightfully, he came in her mouth. She was amazed by the strength of the convulsions as jet after jet of thick, hot syrup hit the back of her throat, sliding down so deliciously into her stomach.

She pulled on him with her lips as if trying to draw out every last drop of fluid from him. Her tongue methodically licked all over the throbbing head and pulsating shaft, making sure that not a single drop of his exquisite cum went to waste. She gripped him with her lips, ensuring that he could not slip out of her mouth until she was completely satisfied that he had nothing more to give her.

When she was finally done, she stood up, licking her lips. Only then did she notice the rapidly growing and darkening bruises on his shrinking, limp organ. She also saw the twin red marks her teeth had left along his length. What had she done? No wonder he had made so much noise! She looked up at his face. His eyes were closed and his chest rising and falling slowly. He'd fallen asleep.

Claire suddenly became aware of her surroundings once again. How could she have done something so... outrageous? With a total stranger! On public transport! What was happening to her today? She was acting like an animal with no sense of control. Had she really been a victim of some kind of drug? What else could explain the fact that, having never considered oral sex as an attractive idea before, she now had a belly full of semen?

She sat down, confused. Thinking of the contents of her stomach made her realise that she could feel a warm glow deep within her. It was as if swallowing the student's seed had caused a fire to be lit in the centre of her body and its pleasant heat was spreading outwards, through her chest and on, right to the tips of her fingers. She was being refreshed - revitalised, even - by the warmth. In her mind, she felt concern for her bizarre behaviour. Physically, however, she felt fantastic.



"He's over in the corner" Sergeant Brown pointed as the first green-uniformed paramedic came through the door of the laundrette. "He's unresponsive, but there's no external sign of any substance or alcohol abuse. I haven't seen any other injuries other than, er... that."

"Blimey! What happened here?" the ambulanceman asked as his gaze settled on the unconscious cyclist's unnaturally discoloured sexual organ.

"Wish I knew." Brown chuckled. "As usual, no-one saw anything."

A second member of the medical crew joined the two of them. "Ouch!" was the new arrival's preliminary verdict.

"Ever seen anything like that before, Brian?" his colleague enquired.

"Only in a dodgy video." answered Brian. The three men laughed. A moment later, the paramedics began the careful process of moving the object of their amusement onto a trolley. Brown removed his partner's helmet and held the door open as the two men in green transported the gurney to the waiting ambulance parked outside.

"You chaps OK from here?" the Sergeant asked as he helped one of the medics close the back doors of the emergency vehicle.

"I don't think blue-dick needs an escort" the ambulanceman opined, with a nod in the direction of his charge.

The Sergeant walked over to his own car where PC Forrest was already waiting. Handing the Constable back his helmet, he said, with a chuckle "Here. You might want to give this a wash later."



Gary was experiencing the most vivid, most wonderful erotic dream of his life. His subconscious had taken him to a place where he lay naked and prone on an endless feather-soft mattress. All around him, infinite beautiful women cavorted in the nude, showing off their spectacular bodies, occasionally rubbing them against his own. They danced for him, moving suggestively as their eyes sought out his, as though pleading with him to show that their exhibitions pleased him. Everywhere he looked he saw more women competing for his attention. They reached for him, touching him, stroking him.

He let himself become lost amongst the sensations as the caresses increased in frequency and intensity all over his body. He was aware that he was naked in his dream, but when he looked down, he couldn't see the lower portion of his body. He wasn't sure why, but his vision just became lost in the mass of naked flesh. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't see anything below his waist. Still the women continued their extraordinary performances, oblivious to his growing unease at the inability to look down, their hands rubbing against his lower body, beyond his sense of sight, but well within his sense of feel.

Gary felt himself becoming ever harder, the inevitable response to the fantastic bombardment of his senses. Something soft and warm was running slowly up and down the length of his manhood, a beautiful feeling that filled his body with pleasure. Yet, at the same time, he was disturbed by not being able to see what it was. All he could see were a million naked female forms, their gorgeous bodies touching him everywhere. But he just couldn't see what was creating the wonderful pressure on his penis.

And that pressure kept on increasing. His feeling of slight discomfort grew too. The more he felt himself being so expertly squeezed and the more he was driven on towards an orgasm, the more he ached to know how it was being done. He tried to push away some of the women crowding around his upper body, hoping that by clearing them away, his vision would become clear. But each time he managed to move one of them, another would immediately take her place, pressing herself erotically against him.

He was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Discomfort gave way to anxiety which built steadily towards outright panic. He tried to shout "Get away from me!" but, as so often occurs in dreams, no sound left his lips. Still, the women continued to rub against him. Still the pleasurable sensation below his waist increased in intensity. He tried to swing his arms, to knock the closest female forms away from his body, but there were so many of them that his limbs could barely move at all before meeting soft, smooth, warm flesh.

What was going on down there? Why couldn't he see. He writhed around, but that only served to encourage more lovely naked skin to press against him. Everywhere there were long smooth arms, beautiful round hips and thighs, exquisitely shaped legs, soft cheeks and lips and generous full breasts with firm, pert nipples. They touched him intimately, pushed into him, stroked him, caressed him. He felt as though he was drowning, sinking beneath the surface of a sea of sexy nudes. He realised, in a panic that he had no control over the situation. He was helpless. This wasn't his erotic fantasy. This was an erotic nightmare.



Ivana managed to open the door to her room without smashing it to matchsticks or contorting the metal lock into a Dali-esque blob. But the joy of that achievement was instantly dismissed as she entered the tiny space. There, on her bed, torn trousers and underwear still around his ankles, lay the disgusting form of her landlord. His snores reminded her of the sound of a man sawing through a thick block of wood.

She felt nothing but disgust towards him. The sight of his body repulsed her. The thought that he had spent an entire night and morning sleeping on her bed sickened her. He was supposed to have made copies of the new door-key - or at the very least answered his mobile phone when she called him - so that she would not have been forced to break in.

Now, the building was vulnerable, open to the street and this fat bastard was doing nothing but lazing. This was her space, the only tiny place in the world where she could be in private. She paid him, heavily, for the privilege of having that space. And here he was, denying her that privacy with his ugliness.

Looking at him on her bed, she could not understand how it was possible that she had felt such a strong desire to give him sexual pleasure. He was so disgusting. She was angry. Angry with herself for performing such an act on such a repulsive man. Above all, she was angry with Myrtle, for letting her surrender to her inexplicable urge and for sleeping on her bed, violating her space.

She stood, straight, by the side of her bed, looking down at the object of her ire and disgust. The negativity was apparent in her tone as she said "Wake up!" The large man stirred but did not open his eyes. "I said wake up!" Ivana almost shouted.

"Eh?" Myrtle half opened his left eye, struggling to focus through it. He coughed several times. Horrid, phlegm-stirring coughs.

"Get out of my room!" Ivana scowled, her pretty face temporarily contorted in an expression of her distaste.

Myrtle yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. The brief glimpse of his yellow teeth and furred tongue turned her stomach. "Jus' give us another couple of hours, love." he mumbled, the half-opened eye closing once again.

"No!" she couldn't contain herself any longer. "Get out!"

"I.. can't. Let me sleep a bit more love." her landlord muttered. There was no way she was going to allow that. She looked down at him. The thought of touching him was unpleasant. But the thought of leaving him there was worse. She remembered the wardrobe she'd lifted the previous evening. Hadn't she wanted to experiment with her increased strength when she got home?

Tentatively, she reached down. It was difficult to decide which part of his overweight, greasy body to take hold of. Seeing the torn remnants of his trousers still around his ankles, she realised she could grab the big man's lower leg through the material without actually having to touch his skin directly. It seemed the best way to proceed so she slowly curled her fingers around the cloth covering his left ankle.

Knowing that she would need a good grip if she actually wanted to lift his leg, she gripped him firmly. A series of loud crunching sounds immediately filled the room. Before they came to an end, Myrtle sat up, his eyes wide open, and screamed. His cries did not stop once she let go of him. His pupils seemed to be rolling upwards into his skull and his arms thrashed about. He was clearly in agony. Ivana took a step back, away from him, as the understanding of what had happened sunk in.

She'd crushed the bones in his ankle - merely by gripping it with her little hand. And now the slob's screams were going to alert everyone within a mile radius to what she'd done. She had to shut him up. Unsure what to do, she tried placing her hand over his open mouth. Immediately, the volume of his yells was dramatically reduced. The muffled sounds escaping from him were far more acceptable, and she used the moment of relative calm to consider her next action.

She did not notice, for a few seconds, that her landlord had taken both of his fat, sweaty hands and placed them on her slender arm. When she did see it, she was shocked. Shocked because of the trembling of his forearms, the sweat pouring onto his brow, the whiteness of his knuckles and the extreme bulging of the tendons on his hands. He was trying to move her hand, with all his might. And she hadn't even felt his efforts!

Three key factors seemed to be in his favour: he dwarfed her, he was using two of his hands against one of hers, and leverage was on his side. And yet, it was no effort at all for her to keep her small hand over his mouth, virtually silencing his screams. The look of curious interest on her beautiful features contrasted completely with the agonised panic contorting his ugly face.

She was still marvelling at her strength when, suddenly, Myrtle's struggles faded and his hands dropped away, falling on to her bed. His eyes had shut again. She realised that he must have passed out. She paused for a moment to consider the implication of what she had done. She'd broken his ankle and then smothered him unconscious. She was in real trouble.



Claire bounded up the 93-step escalator that lead to the tube station exit, taking two stairs at a time. She wasn't sure what was harder to believe; the fact that she had just performed an act of oral sex on a stranger in a train carriage, or the way she felt so... alive. She reached the top of the giant stairway in no time at all, and was amazed to find that she wasn't even slightly out of breath. She felt ready, if anything, to run up another half-dozen escalators.

Mechanically slipping into well-practised routine, she inserted her ticket into the slot on the exit barrier and strolled through. From the ticket concourse, three separate short flights on stairs lead to the streets above. Choosing the one that would leave her closest to home, she walked towards it.

As she lifted her foot towards the first step, she reached, unthinkingly, for the metal handrail. The familiar solid chrome rail felt somehow strange in her grasp and she stopped dead in her tracks as an inhuman squeal echoed through the concrete tunnels. The squeal stopped instantly. It was only when she lifted her hand to take another step that she became aware of the noise's source. The shiny handrail had a deep dent in it, right where her hand had been. That hadn't been there before.

Tentatively, she placed her hand back onto the handrail, selecting a portion of it away from the new indentation. Slowly, she squeezed her fingers together. She felt the metal actually moving very slightly beneath her hand. The same tortured scream grated on her ears, although not quite as loud as before. She relaxed her fingers and the noise ceased. Moving her hand away, she examined the rail where she had gripped it.

Claire gasped as she saw the half-inch deep dents her fingers had imprinted in the dense chrome. She brought her hand up to her face and turned it around in front of her eyes, trying to see if it looked any different from that morning. But there was no sign of any change. Confused, she walked up the rest of the stairs without touching the handrail, and turned for home.



"Hey! Jack! Jack! C'mon, wake up!" Ian tried to shake his flatmate awake once again.

"Leave me alone, man." the skinny man croaked.

"Jack, Cal and Daz've gone. There's no-one else here. Tell me what really happened."

"I already did."

"I don't believe you."

"I swear it's the truth, Ian. I wouldn't take something without saving some for you - you know that, man."

"So... some woman just walked up to you and asked if you'd like her to suck you off?"

"Yeah. I swear... well, she didn't really ask. She kind of just did it."

"What? Completely out of the blue?"

"Yeah. Now let me sleep."

"Where did it happen Jack?"

"On that bit of park by the high street. I was taking Bastard to have a crap and she just started coming on to me and the next thing I knew she had my dick in her gob. I swear that's what happened. Now piss off so I can sleep."
Jack rolled over. Before Ian could think of his next question, the sounds of snoring were clearly audible.

Ian walked away and sat down on the best chair in the squat - an upturned packing crate. Turning to the dog, he asked with great sincerity: "Why doesn't that kind of stuff ever happen to me?"



Gary felt himself sinking below the surface of the sea of nudes. He tried to kick out, to push the uncountable, stifling, beautiful bodies away, but his limbs seemed to be paralysed. There were pressing against him so hard now, squeezing him from all directions, restricting his lungs and airways. He was already struggling to breathe but now it was becoming harder and harder to get oxygen. He feared he was about to die.

And that was the moment he awoke with a start. A small cry left his lips as his eyes flicked open. It took him a moment to realise where he was; the hallway of his home was familiar enough, but he did not expect to wake up sitting in one corner of it. He remembered flashes of his dream, and felt the same insistent pressure on his sexual organ. Now, however, there was nothing to block his view of his groin. Nothing except the back of his wife's head.

"Lynne!" he exclaimed, shocked at how weak and unauthoritative his voice sounded. "Lynne! What are you doing?"

She lifted herself slowly from his lap, letting his full length slide agonisingly from her mouth before turning to him with a grin on her face and a glint in her eye that he had never seen before. "Shh!" she said, soothingly. "Close your eyes and enjoy." She'd barely uttered the final syllable before she turned her head back to his erect, pulsating penis.

"Lynne, stop! Not now, I don't feel-" Without moving her head away from his groin, she brought her hand up to his face, extending the index finger and placing it vertically over his lips. The meaning was clear; she was telling him to be quiet. But Gary was shocked. She knew better than to tell him to be quiet. But to interrupt him, mid-sentence? There was no way he could allow her to do that.

"How dare you interrupt me!" he tried to bellow. But he could not generate anything like the force he hoped his voice would carry. Not only that, but he sounded slightly less deep than normal, the higher-than-usual pitch further diminishing the command of his words. Instead of making a threat, he sounded plaintive. To his horror, his wife, rather than jumping at his every word, seemed to be completely ignoring him. What on Earth had gotten into her?



Ivana was halfway down the stairs that lead from the door to her tiny flat to the street entrance when her mobile rang. Her phone was in her right jeans pocket and it required a complex operation to dig it out with her left hand. That meant she had to transfer what she was carrying in her right hand first. She accomplished the feat with a remarkable ease which surprised even her, and answered the call.

The unconscious, semi-naked form of her overweight landlord dangled from her left hand as she spoke. She had him gripped with her fingers wrapped around his armpit and shoulder, her slender arm raised in the air so that his hanging feet weren't dragging on the ancient, worn carpet of the staircase, holding him at arm's length as she might carry a bag of malodorous kitchen waste.

Supporting all his considerable bulk with her left hand felt just as effortless to her as using her right had done. In fact, she'd passed his fat form from one hand to the other as casually as she would have transferred a paper-back book. The only problem was that Rod Myrtle was a lot larger than a book, and she had banged his enormous rear against the wall of the narrow staircase in the process.

Not particularly concerned with the extra bruises she had given the big man, she spoke into her 'phone.

"Yeah, what?"

"It's me, Gerald." the caller began. When she didn't acknowledge the name, he went on. "You know, your Thursday morning regular." Still she didn't give any indication of recognition. "The... er... gloves man."

Of course, she knew who she was speaking to. She had offered her services to Gerald, a timid, pale man with an exceptionally well-paid position in the banking industry, most Thursday mornings for the past three years. He had a thing for elbow length leather gloves and insisted that she always wore a pair when she was with him. Not one to pass up a business opportunity, Ivana always charged a little extra to accommodate his request.

"I'm busy this morning," she told her habitual client, glancing down at the overblown form of her landlord, still dangling from her left hand. She should have worn Gerald's gloves to handle the fat greasy berk, she thought to herself.

"Please, love. I've had a bad week and need some cheering up." The banker's weedy, pleading voice did nothing to ingratiate its owner with her.

"That's not my fault." she replied, a little harshly.

"Ah, c'mon. I won't take a full hour..."

"I told you I'm busy."

"I'll be really quick, I promise. In and, er, out in twenty minutes." She could almost hear him blushing at the crudeness of his unintentional pun.

"Forget it, Gerald. I've got my hands full." Strictly speaking, it was only one hand that was full - full of the unpleasant blubbery flesh of Rodney Myrtle. Her experience should have warned her that a man with certain needs can be doggedly persistent. She should have hung up the phone but she was thinking of the correct words to use to get through to him; to explain that she would not see him that day no matter how much he begged, but that she still wanted him as a long-term client. No sense harming her future income.

Perhaps she was distracted by the fact that her arm was not tiring despite the weight it was supporting. Whatever the reason, she left enough of a gap in the conversation for him to continue his negotiations: "OK, OK. Just a blow-job then? Please!"

A blow-job? She'd said she was too busy. What made this idiot think that she would be any less busy because he wanted a different service to his usual? Here she was, trying to deal with her unconscious landlord and come to terms with the bizarre changes that were happening to her, and this guy was asking for... for... "Be here in twenty minutes." she ordered him, pressing the hang-up button on her phone. She put it back in her pocket and continued the task of carrying Myrtle out to the street.



Sam Teuser turned the whisky bottle in his hand upside down over his glass and shook it. Nothing but a tiny drop fell from the empty container. With a snort, he tossed it aside, not looking when it fell with a dull thump onto the carpet beside him. He brought his tumbler up to his lips and tilted it to ensure that every last molecule could enter his bloodstream. His eyes closed as he savoured the taste of the mediocre-quality malt on his tongue.

With his eyelids still down, he moved to place his emptied glass on the small table he was sitting at. A second passed before he heard the gentle tap of the glass landing on the carpet. He opened his eyes and saw that he'd missed the top of the table by a good few inches. For a moment, he considered picking up the fallen object and then stopped himself with a muttered "Fuck it." What was the point of a glass if he had nothing to pour into it?

He turned his attention back to the only object still actually on the table: a large glass bottle three-quarters full of colourless liquid. His formula. He studied its transparent contents, as if the atoms within could provide him with the answers he sought. This was his great creation; his passport to happiness and wealth. So, why was he alone, hopelessly drunk and knee-deep in the wreckage of his career?



"Stop it, Lynne!" Why couldn't he shout properly? It was as if he lacked the strength even to use his voice. Worse than that, his wife had started to disregard his words completely. When he recovered, he vowed he would give her a beating she would never forget. How dare she disrespect him in this way! She wasn't even looking at him as he spoke - or tried to speak. She was focussed completely on his groin, continuing her insistent sucking and licking.

His hands and arms ached as he raised them from his sides. He'd never felt so weak. He wanted to pull Lynne's head away from his aching penis, to grab her skull and shake some sense into it. To make her obey him. But the effort of placing his two palms on either side of her ears left him out of breath and in pain. He fought through it, straining as he tried to lift her head. To his horror, his efforts brought no result other than an unbearable ache in his muscles.

Not for a second did she seem to let up in her earnest ministrations. It was as though he hadn't touched her at all and yet the discomfort and exhaustion in his body was proof enough that he had tried. Gary was scared. If his wife had not felt - or at the very least chosen to ignore - his best efforts to physically intimidate her, then he was lost. He had nothing, no way to make her stop. No way to prevent her doing what she wanted to do, no matter how much it hurt him. No matter how tired he was feeling.

He thought back to his dream and remembered the sensation of drowning, of helplessness. Of not be able to fight back against the tide. There was nothing he could do. Nothing except surrender and let himself be pulled beneath the surface. Unless... Unless he forgot his pride and his arrogance and pleaded with his wife. But he'd never done that before and the thought of exposing his weakness terrified him. Almost as much as the ever increasing agony in his sexual organ.



Clare had never walked home from the tube so quickly. And she'd never felt so refreshed after the journey. Or so confused. Too much was happening to her. She'd left home that morning looking for work. In the short space of time since, she'd performed oral sex on two strangers having twice fallen victim to an irrepressible urge to carry out the act. She'd never even considered servicing a man in such a way before. She was sure she found the idea of it distasteful.

Yet, she'd done it twice, and with enthusiasm on both occasions. And now, she felt strange. Not "strange" as in uncomfortable, but "strange" as in marvellous. Recharged. Full of energy. And then there was that peculiar incident with the chrome handrail. Her delicate fingers deforming the metal like something out of a sci-fi film. As though she had suddenly becoming really, really... strong.

Approaching her front door, she reached into her bag for her keys, and failed to find them. She cursed. It was not the first time she had left them on her dressing table. She reached for the doorbell, praying that her flatmate would be both at home and awake, a rare combination in a young man addicted to night-club life. Her slender finger pressed the bell, and it sounded briefly inside the building before, to her shock, the button crumbled into its housing. The little white plastic box also collapsed beneath her fingertip, little chunks of it raining down onto the ground at her feet.

"What the fuck is happening to me?" she asked the universe, out loud. There was no reply.



She'd decided at the last moment not to leave Myrtle semi-naked and unconscious out on the street. Not when she realised that the cleaning cupboard under the stairs offered a much more discreet solution. It was locked of course, but like most things in Myrtle's properties, it was a crappy lock. Ivana broke it by pinching the bar of the padlock between her thumb and forefinger, whilst she kept her landlord suspended from her other hand.

With the lock as good as destroyed, she pulled open the door and swung her left arm, releasing her cargo. The cupboard was small, but virtually empty. She was anything but careful as she manoeuvred his bulk into the space, his back slamming against the far wall with considerable force. She brushed off her hands, and closed the cupboard door on him with her foot, being careful not to use too much strength and break the thick wood panel.

The door swung back open, and she shut it once more, but it would not stay closed. Understanding that the badly-built thing would remain open now that it was not held in place by the padlock, she bent down and picked up the broken lock. Squeezing it in her fingers, she completely remoulded the brass into a cigarette-shaped cylinder, the metal yielding completely to her whim. Impressed with what she had done, she inserted the tiny bar she'd made into the holes the padlock had hung from, keeping the door closed most effectively.

She was still admiring her handiwork when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching the broken front door. "Hello?" enquired a familiar, slightly pathetic voice. She looked up. Without bothering to return the greeting, she turned for the stairs to her room. "Upstairs." she said simply over her shoulder, leading the way. She heard Gerald the glove man picking his way through the damaged entrance as she climbed and the excited sound of his breathing. With a start, she realised that she could also hear his heart pounding.



"Lynne, please!"

Gary's words had a startling effect on his wife. As soon as he had uttered them, she stopped her ministrations and looked up at him almost in shock. Had he really said "please"? Like he was pleading with her - begging her not to do what she was doing.... Yet Gary never asked her for things - he just demanded. And then became violent if he didn't get what he wanted without delay. He'd never had to beg before. But he'd never seemed as... as weak as he was now. And she'd never wanted to do anything against his will as badly as she wanted to do this.

She looked into his face and read the helplessness and desperation in his eyes. It surprised her. She would never have suspected him capable of having such emotions. It was as if her husband had been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by a faulty clone. She knew that if yesterday she'd tried to do what she was doing now, Gary would have beaten her within an inch of her life. But today... Today, something had changed. She didn't know if it was just him who was different or whether she had altered too. Either way, the way she felt towards him was completely novel.

It all seemed to have happened in that brief spell where she had passed out and awoken to find him slumped in the entrance hall downstairs. One moment he was his usual, aggressive self and the next he was like a timid child. And as for herself... Before she lost consciousness, she had been terrified of him. Now, she just wanted to give him oral sex and she didn't care whether he wanted her to stop or not. She wasn't afraid anymore. She was in control of the situation. She was in charge. And she loved it.

Lynne's rich lips parted in a bright, genuine smile which she shone over her husband. "There, there." she soothed, patronisingly. "Everything's going to be alright. I'll make you feel nice again." She bent back towards his lap, her mouth opening in anticipation of resuming its task.

She didn't stop when his uncharacteristically pleading voice called out "No, please, no!"



She was waiting for him as he got to the top of the stairs. Gerald knew which was her room; he'd been in it many times before. Always on Thursdays, when his secretary thought he had a regular doctor's appointment and his wife believed he was in meetings at work. "Thank you for fitting me in." he puffed, genuinely grateful, even though he was the paying customer in the relationship. He turned to smile at her, but his expression soon shifted to one of disappointment, like a child handed a gift-wrapped parcel which turns out, when the first piece of paper is removed, to be a school book.

"You're not wearing the gloves!" he said, slightly accusingly.

"Do you want this blow-job or not?" she demanded back, pulling her T-shirt over her head at the same time, her aggressive tone taking him by surprise even as the fabulous sight of her wonderbra-clad breasts was revealed to him.

"Yes, yes. Of course!" he hurried to reassure her. "But with the gloves!"

"Too bad." she said, reaching over his shoulder to close the bedroom door behind him. Her body was close to his now. Quickly, she made the gap disappear altogether, so that her large chest touched his, through his shirt and her bra. She was astonished to note that she could clearly hear the quickening of his heartbeat as she leant into him.

"The gloves, please!" he pleaded.

"No." She placed the fingers of her left hand on his stomach and pushed gently. As she hoped, that was enough to make him take a stumbling step backwards until his back hit the door. Having all this strength was wonderful. She advanced on him until they were touching again and hooked both sets of her fingers around the waistband of his trousers. Tugging carefully, she effortlessly tore the thick, expensive material apart, letting the pieces fall around his ankles.

"Hey, my trousers!" Gerald exclaimed, shocked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you the blow-job you wanted. Now shut up." Her right hand flashed out, gripping the front of his shirt just beneath the collar and gathering a fistful of shirt and tie. Tentatively, she lifted her arm, delighted at the ease with which his entire body came off the floor. She barely felt the strain of his weight on her single, slim arm as she raised him higher and higher, his back pressed against the wall. He was spluttering above her head but she ignored him entirely.

He placed both his hands over her right wrist, desperately trying to prise her off him, but to no avail. Stifled sounds revealed that he was trying to speak or even shout, but her grip was robbing him of the ability to make coherent noises. Still she raised him higher until, just before the top of his head hit the low ceiling, his groin was level with her face. She studied it, contemptuously. "What's this?" she demanded. "How can I do anything with it like that? Have you gone off women? I thought you wanted a blow-job!"

If he had wanted to respond, she would not have known. He was making noises, but none that resembled actual words. Not that she was listening anyway. She leant towards his flaccid manhood, addressing it directly as she spoke, making sure her hot breath washed over it. "Looks like I've got to do everything myself. Come on, get hard!" she urged. She drew her right arm down a little, lowering Gerald's entire body until he was the perfect height for her to use her free hand to lay his penis on the balcony of her breasts.

That intimate contact had an immediate effect. The blood began to pump into his organ, and its size increased dramatically under her gaze. Encouraged by the success of her tactic, she placed her palm on top of his growing member, pushing it down against her chest. Now he was beginning to become really hard. She rolled him back and forth as if kneading dough over the top of her mounds, only stopping when a particularly urgent cry from above her head let her know that she was hurting him.

By then, he was completely ready for her. She straightened her right arm once again, lifting him quickly and holding him immovably against the door until his fully extended length was directly in front of her mouth. Subconsciously, she licked her lips in anticipation. Then, she parted them and moved her head forward, taking as much of him as she could into her warm soft mouth. Her tongue flicked out at him as her lips locked around the base of his shaft. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the deliciousness of it all.



Lynne sat back, running her tongue around her mouth, making sure that none of her husband's juice would evade her stomach. It had taken her quite a while to bring him to orgasm this time, and she had had to suck hard and long on him. Once he did cum, she was disappointed by the weakness of his spasms and the lack of volume of his ejaculation. She had pulled in her cheeks tight to draw as much as possible from him, but the effort had left her anything but exhausted. Instead, she felt the same warm glow in the pit of her stomach as last time; a glow that was slowly spreading outwards.

She had been vaguely aware of his moans as he finally began to orgasm, but did not notice as the sounds faded to nothing shortly afterwards. When she finally released him from her mouth, she was startled by the bright blue colour of his rapidly shrinking penis. She looked up at his face, and saw that his eyes were closed. His breathing was heavy and slow and his chest rose and fell in time with it. Smiling as she sat against the wall, her back next to his, she stroked his hair with her hand.

"That's alright, Gary, dear. You get your rest," she purred into his ear. "I'll be right here as soon as you're ready. Just don't keep me waiting too long."



Clare had been pleasantly surprised by the sight of her flatmate, fresh out of bed, opening the door for her. Ignoring the "Why can't you remember your keys?" questions, she went straight into her room and closed the door. She took off her coat and, standing in front of her full-length mirror, removed her T-shirt. She studied her familiar reflection, looking for signs of change in her physique. But there were none. Her figure was as slender as ever, her arms and shoulders as slim and shapely, her chest as rounded and proud. Nothing to suggest that she was now, inexplicably, much stronger than before.

Examining her waist, she suddenly froze. As a teenager, she'd had an emergency appendectomy, and the operation had left her with a subtle, but highly visible, two-inch long scar on her belly. Only now, she could barely see it. What had been a thick, red-tinted blemish was now a fine line and its colour was a much closer match to the rest of her skin. Was this unexpected healing a result of her acts of fellatio? She dismissed the thought as nonsense. But then, so was the idea that she was now powerful enough to dent chrome.

She strolled over to her bed, bending low and grabbing hold of one of its four legs. She'd moved the bed a few times before, mainly to retrieve items that had rolled under it. Each time, she had dragged it a few inches to the side. She would never have considered trying to actually lift such a heavy item of furniture. She remembered a former boyfriend showing off, trying to tilt the bed whilst she was still on it. He'd managed to lift the bottom end about half-a-foot before he'd dropped it with a curse. Two minutes later, he was going through the phone book, looking for a local osteopath.

Thinking of her ex-lover's back, she was extremely careful as she experimentally pulled at the bed-leg. She shrieked out loud, stunned by the sight of that corner of the bed rising smoothly towards her. It didn't feel all that heavy. Curious, she continued to lift it, her single hand easily taking the weight of that end of the divan, base and mattress. With her other hand, she gripped the other non-floor-bound leg. A gentle pull brought the whole thing two foot closer to her. She found herself laughing out loud. It wasn't even hard!

She lowered the bed back to the floor and looked around the room for something else to test herself with. But there was nothing heavier than the bed. The wardrobe was fitted and she'd always been able to move her small dressing table. Clare sighed. She was going to have to go out if she wanted to properly examine her new strength. She put her clothes back on, and left her bedroom. This time, she remembered to take her keys as she made her way to the front door.



Ivana drew her head back, satisfied that she'd ingested all that the glove-man had to offer her. She saw the increasingly familiar sight of a man's collapsing, discoloured penis. Looking up at her small hand holding him pinned high against the door of her room, she noticed that his chin was slumped downwards. His face was paler than she remembered it and his eyes closed. Only the slow, steady movement of his chest beneath her grip revealed that he was alive.

She muttered a small curse under her breath. She had forgotten to charge him up front. Just then, the sensation of pleasant heat deep in her guts kicked in, as it had done each time she'd swallowed a man's cum over the past few days. She luxuriated in it, anticipating and then marvelling in the way it gently spread outwards from her belly throughout her torso and right along the length of her limbs, reaching to the extremities of her fingers and toes - even, it felt to her, as far as her hair.

With a chuckle, she reminded herself that she was still holding her latest sperm donor against the wall. His weight seemed so insignificant to her now, she might easily have forgotten that she was supporting it with her arm. She released her grip on him and he slid, unceremoniously, down the door. His legs folded beneath him, leaving him lying in a heap on the floor. "Another satisfied customer," she joked to herself. She bent low over him. "OK, Glove-man! Time to pay and go." There was no response. "Glove-man?" she asked.



Lynne checked her watch for the fifth time in ten minutes, and then checked her husband. Fast asleep. His brow was wrinkled, as if he was deeply concerned about something. He looked somehow older than before, as if he'd aged about five years in the space of the morning. His skin-tone was lighter than normal too. "Perhaps he's sick" she thought. "Maybe he needs more special care..." She made a decision. She'd let him sleep for another thirty minutes and then she'd give him another dose of her exclusive cure-all. He looked like he needed it. Besides, she definitely needed to do it. It made her feel so good.



Across town, Clare was strolling down her local high street. She couldn't recall ever feeling as alive as she did at that moment. Every sense seemed to have been sharpened, and her whole being seemed to be almost vibrating with energy. She walked with purpose, her head held high. Her back was straight as if she were proudly displaying her ripe, desirable body to the world. She ignored the hungry stares of the men of all ages that passed her on the pavement and the jealous glares of the women, too. Her mind was set on her destination, and she refused to let any other thoughts get in the way. Clare was going to the gym. She was going to find out just how strong she had become.



Carrying the comatose Glove-man downstairs was easy - far easier than carrying Myrtle had been. For one thing, he was nowhere near as fat as her landlord. Additionally - although she did not know it for certain yet - Ivana was quite a bit stronger than she had been an hour earlier. She'd also slightly lightened the load by removing all the cash from his wallet. The only problem she faced was stuffing him into the cupboard under the stairs. Most of the space in there was already taken, and she had to squeeze Glove-man against Myrtle to get the door shut. She just about managed it, and, checking quickly to make sure she was unobserved, slid her make-shift bolt back into place.

She knew she couldn't keep the two of them in there forever, but it was a better temporary solution than leaving them in her bedroom. At least this bought her some time to think of something better. With the deeply sleeping pair out of sight, she thrust her hand into her jeans and extracted the fat wad of notes she had liberated from Glove-man. No stranger to handling cash, she smiled at the thought that she was handling a small fortune. There was only one thing to do under the circumstances. She ran up the stairs to her room to grab her coat. She was going shopping.



A trickle of warm saliva dripped from the corner of Sam Teuser's mouth. He was still sat at the table in his flat, but now his head was resting on the table top. A bottle and a glass, both empty, lay abandoned on the carpet. His unplastered arm was curled, possessively, around the large jar that contained his formula. His snores were loud, bearing witness to the depth of his sleep. Not even the cold air pouring in through the open window in his kitchen could disturb his drunken rest.


Conceptfan, Mar. 2005.