Retrovirus 666 Ch 01

Human retrovirus 666 infection and Gamuron by mouth as a potential gene therapy treatment for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) in human patients.

Heinrich Hospital main medical research staff:

de Sade DAF, Danvers LL, Portinari B, Lindermann T, Marker K, Snickett L.

Abstract:

Systemic infection with human retrovirus 666, produced by directed evolution of the herpes simplex virus (HSV-2) has been shown, in previous studies at this facility, to suppress the symptoms of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease, by directly deactivating the sticky mutant proteins implicated in the disorder. Preliminary experiments conducted following suggestions by T. Lindermann, RN, suggest that a combined administration of the fertility drug Gamuron (3-[2-methoxy-5- (4-methylpiperazin-1-yl)sulfonyl-phenyl] -7-methyl-9-propyl-2, 4,7,8-tetrazabicyclo [4.3.0]nona-3,8,10-trien-5-one; 2-hydroxypropane-1,2-bicarboxylic acid) and the introduction of viral RNA from human retrovirus 666 into the test subjects' somatic cells results not only in a decrease in motor neuron degeneration, but a novel type of cell growth that has not previously been observed by the medical community. Side effects in rats include increased sexual potency, stamina and increased sperm production, which are attributable to the clinically useful effects of the designer drug Gamuron in infertility treatment. Results of this study indicate that human research ought to be pursued given the availability of human test subjects.

VFD ID: 240215 (Also enclosed in the Snickett Files)

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Dr. Hawking

"Oh yes baby. I'm going to stick my cock in that hot black ass of yours. Say you'll be good to me baby, and I'll pound you until you come over and over again!"

I awoke with a start. I hadn't realized that I fell asleep while preparing my lecture notes. And what an odd dream! The sensation was so strong I almost thought it was real, that I was whole again and having steamy hot sex with my cute little intern. Granted, I've never been so vulgar in real life, though I've often thought that dreams had a life of their own quite separate from the reality of the dreamer. I suppose that much is obvious. In my current state there is no way I'd be teasing anyone's hot black ass with my member.

I'm at a stage of my disease where I require a team of trained medical staff to attend to my every function. They help attach me to the machine that speaks for me, to the chair that keeps my body upright. They feed me and bathe me and stick tubes into my bladder to collect my urine in bags. It is not the sort of prestige often granted to Cambridge professors, nor perhaps what one has learned to expect from a man of my status. It might even appear the sick manifestation of a peculiar masochistic perversion, but I can a assure you it is a far call from even that sort of dark glamour.

I can no longer keep my head upright on my own, yet alone lift a hand to tend to even the most intimate of my body functions.

But I've gotten used to it, as much as it is possible to get used to the idea of being little more than a living brain. A good respiratory infection could easily end my long and productive life. I've had to live with ALS, and yet I live, do research, write and teach. There is still quite a lot that I'm capable of doing, and much of the things like can't do like sports, I've never really been interested in. I have a tendency to feel a sorry for myself from time to time, and when I do, I think of the boy I vaguely know who died of leukemia in the hospital shortly after I had been diagnosed.

"Dr. Hawking, Dr. Hawking!" my personal assistant, Carmen Black, exclaimed, lolling me out of my dark contemplation and running towards me carrying a piece of fax paper. I tried not to notice the way her large breasts bounced in her dress shirt. I was her research advisor, after all.

"You wouldn't believe what was just sent to you from America!" She didn't bother for me to ask her what. That sort of thing was implied between us. She's been working for me, or perhaps more accurately as a part of me, since she started uni as a student in physics, five years ago. She understood my nuances. She quickly read to me a medical abstract by a group of American doctors at a hospital named after a head Nazi. "It's apparently not yet published, and top secret," she added, waving her arms theatrically. "I couldn't find anything about it on pubmed, and no one understands what they mean by VFD or the Snickett files. It's a total mystery. This was faxed directly from the hospital along with a list of convoluted directions and a reference to a writing with an eagle feather quill and an elusive jar of vanishing ink. Oh, and there was something about a sinking submarine, but that part was total rubbish."

"A prank?" I asked her seriously. I have seen too much to be overly optimistic. The world is full of miracle cures that turn out to be nothing more than castles in the air.

Carmen looked at me, and failing to find me hopeful, started to become disappointed herself.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to try to follow this lead anyway. You know, we're scheduled to visit several major U.S. universities a week from now. It would be lovely if we could drop by the hospital and chat with the researchers there while we were at it. I promise I won't let it get in the way of my other work. I just have this feeling about it."

I'm not big on hunches, but I figured that if a woman like Carmen was willing to follow a veritable treasure map so that I could be advised about an experimental treatment, it really wasn't my place to stop her.

She kissed me on the cheek and informed me that she was going to take off now, whether I wished her to go or not, and that she would find someone to fill in for her for a couple of weeks while she was out adventuring.

I wished her luck, of course, and went back to planning my lecture notes.

Twelve hours later I received a text message saying that she had arrived in America. I was just finishing discussing research with one of my graduate students and hardly noticed the interruption. I sent off a polite reply, typing with eye movements, and returned to the conversation.

I was being fed diner in the company of my married daughter when Carmen's next message arrived. It was typed quickly, with a lot of errors, and said something about trouble with hospital security and escaping though an air duct into the medical lounge. I found this rather peculiar and a bit unnerving, so I sent back a reply asking if she was all right.

Hours passed, but I received no answer. All calls made on my behalf went directly to Carmen's voicemail. She never checked into any of the nearby hotels. I had an attendant notify the embassy in America and Carmen's parents.

A week later, I went off to America on my scheduled book tour, without Carmen.

---

Carmen Black

Almost the moment by plane touched down, I jumped up, remembering to close my legs like a proper woman, and pulled my bag out from under my seat. It was still several moments before I could make my way out of the plane into the airport, but I was restless after the long flight and itching for an adventure. I brought two of my textbooks with me, quantum field theory and general relativity, and busied myself with homework problems while I flew over the Atlantic. But I was so restless the whole time, I never quite forgot where I was or why, and I made a lot of stupid mistakes in algebra, which I only noticed when the problems became completely intractable. Not good at all.

I nearly stepped on the feet of the woman in front of me as we all shuffled into a line in the way-too-narrow aisle. I was past all composure. After nearly twelve hours I was nearly there; it was a few hours' drive from the airport where I landed to Heinrich Hospital, but that was no bother. The most fabulous adventure of my life has just began.

Apparently, the fellow in charge of international arrivals had never heard of a black British woman and flatly refused to accept my British passport. He was extra suspicious since I had a one-way ticket and didn't bring much baggage. I showed him my driver's license and my Cambridge identification card, but I was hard put to keep him from confiscating these "fake ID's". Fortunately, his supervisor was a little more culturally knowledgeable and let me though, cards intact, though his gaze did drop to my breasts more often than I found comfortable. I distinctly felt his hand on my arse as I walked though the superfluous metal detectors and into the airport. I was feeling generous, so I didn't report him to the authorities, though honestly I wasn't sure who I could call anyway. This man WAS security.

I was feeling a little miffed when I flagged down a taxi. Though it was nearly dawn, it was still very dark and I was rather fatigued. Who would have thought that American security could be so uncultured? I sighed heavily. "Driver, would you please be kind enough to take me to Heinrich Hospital?" I showed him the convoluted directions I had received by fax for Dr. Hawking.

"You understand, that that is a three hour drive," the driver replied in an irritated voice. "I'll need payment in advance. Are you in some sort of international medical conference or something?"

"Yes, something like that. I was actually invited to speak with a medical research group there." This wasn't entirely truthful, but he didn't need to know that. "How much do I need to pay you?" I asked, reaching into my bag for my wallet.

"Just give me your credit card. I'll hold on to it until we arrive at the hospital."

I pulled out my credit card and handed it to him. It took almost five minutes before the card was accepted, and the driver was rather irritated. You'd think he would be used to international cards since he worked so near the airport, but that didn't seem to be the case. He cursed like a sailor without even bothering to apologize, it was as if he had no idea that I might find his speech vulgar.

"So are you part of some university or something, over where you come from?" the driver asked conversationally while we waited in the airport loading zone.

"Yes, Cambridge," I replied evenly.

"Hey, is that were that nerdy guy lives? I read one of his books once. Very well written, I didn't understand a word of it." The driver did a crude but accurate impersonation of Dr. Hawking by letting his head loll to the side and sticking his tongue out comically.

"You mean Dr. Hawking," I said, trying to keep my voice even, though I obviously was not fond of the impersonation. "I have the pleasure of working closely with him."

The fellow eyed me critically. For a moment I flattered myself to think that he was worried he might have insulted me, which he most certainly had, but after a moment his face went slack again and his expression softened curiously.

"So, can you tell me if he still functions, you know, down there?" the cab driver asked.

"I beg your pardon?" I responded, unable to believe my ears. The driver obviously thought I did not understand him.

He made a very rude gesture with his hand towards the bulge in his pants. I blushed a shade of bright red and tried to ignore him. But the credit card reader chose just that moment to confirm my card's validity, and the driver sped off, taking me with him, though at this point I thought I would rather have walked the two hundred miles than ride in his car.

"Can he still get a hard-on?" the driver asked bluntly after I didn't reply to his vulgar gesture.

"I don't know," I said, trying not to think about the matter too closely. I felt really weird even thinking of Dr. Hawking that way, and not exactly in the same way I might have guessed. "I suppose not," I said. I was a bit put out, though I wasn't sure whether it was because the driver had pressured me into answering or because I felt sorry for Dr. Hawking.

The rest of the taxi ride was long and uncomfortable. For some unknown reason I couldn't get the idea of Dr. Hawking with a huge erection out of my head. It was odd to think that he hadn't always been crippled. He even fathered a child in the early years of his marriage. If I was successful in getting him this experimental treatment, would he be able to have sex again? It seemed ridiculous to think of the potential sex life of a man who couldn't even keep his head straight on his shoulders. And it wasn't my business to think of such things!

I fidgeted on the cab seat. My arse seemed to be very sweaty and kept sticking to the upholstery. The skirt I was wearing seemed a little too short and kept riding up so my naked skin came into contact with the leather seat of the car, though I had thought myself conservatively dressed this morning, and my skirt rested only an inch above my knee. I probably shouldn't have worn thong panties.

I tried to compose myself, but it was no use. All kinds of naughty scenarios were running though my head. I was getting quite flushed. I noticed that I was getting rather wet between the legs, and the moisture was spreading down my legs all the way down to my knees.

Oh, if only the driver would have known to hold his tongue!

These little discomforts, combined with my general restlessness and the rudeness of the driver, made the hours in the taxi cab pure torture. I wanted desperately to reach down, pull my skirt up and give myself a good frigging.

I let my legs come apart just a little bit. I didn't feel safe with such a vulgar man in the car with me, but that uneasiness alone was a bit of a turn-on. I just sort of let my hand rest on my soft brown thigh, looking at the driver without really being obvious about it, so I'd know right away if something was wrong and stop myself. I felt so naughty being aroused at a time like this. I was supposed to be on a errand for Dr. Hawking, and all I could think of was my professor with a gigantic hard-on.

The image again made me blush.

I'd have to be very careful, the upholstery was getting really damp.

I imagined myself getting down on my knees so I could take the head of his cock into my mouth. Oh, it would be so hard against the roof of my mouth! I could almost feel it.

I let my hand slip a little higher. It was maybe half a foot from the leg band of my panties.

He would push his hips into me so his naked knees would knock against my breasts. His trousers would be around his ankles, his hands resting on my shoulders. His weight would bear down on me and his meat would push deeper and deeper into me so I'd rock my head back and let it go down my throat.

I pushed a couple of fingers underneath the elastic and let them rub against the tight curls of my public hair, tugging it slightly so it hurt just a little.

I glanced quickly at the driver. He seemed to be quite preoccupied with something he was listening to on the radio and didn't notice me. Good.

Of course, I couldn't let Dr. Hawking come too quickly. I was the sort of girl who liked my men to last. He'd push me to the floor and spread my legs apart.

I let my legs come apart in the cab just imagining it.

He'd be on top of me quickly, his hand navigating his great pulsing cock into me.

Oh! It was just like something out of a trashy romance novel.

My fingers crept in between the lips of my pussy. I was so wet down there and so sensitive. I felt my vision begin to blur and I felt the almost insatiable urge to just focus everything into the headrest behind the driver's seat, as though I could somehow make it catch on fire.

I let a slight moan escape my lips and then covered my mouth quickly, afraid that I'd be discovered.

That would be so embarrassing. What would the man do if he noticed? Would he give me a hard time? Could he make me pay to have the cab seat cleaned or replaced? It was all his fault I had suddenly become so horny!

He should have known not to tease a lady.

Oh, oh, it felt so good!

"Oh Dr. Hawking, harder! Oh please, please, won't you fuck me harder?"

I must have come at least three or four times before we got off the freeway.

It's not really anyone's business, but I masturbate pretty regularly. There's something about solving complicated physics problems that gets a girl worked up. I've always been too shy to ask, but I get a feeling that the men in my class have felt the same undeniable urge to pleasure themselves.

Sometimes, when a lecture drags on, which it does even in Cambridge, I let my gaze wonder around the classroom and think of all the chaps wanking into the toilet.

The driver pulled into the parking lot of Heinrich Hospital, which was full to the brink with patient's cars. All of these patients were presumably inside, waiting for emergency services. I straightened my shirt to the best of my abilities and waited with a pleasant smile for the driver to hand me back my card.

"Oh, I forgot to mention. There's a one hundred dollar additional fee for international credit cards to compensate the company for the phone call and monetary conversion. There is also a mandatory fifty dollar gratuity for all fares over three hundred dollars."

I groaned. We were talking about a four digit cab fare. Well, it was worth it, I told myself firmly. I was making medical history.

"You're over your credit limit," the driver said bluntly. "I'll need the last one hundred and fifty dollars in cash."

I raised my an eye brow. I may be the bookish type, but I knew enough about the way the world worked to recognize a con when I saw one. Asking for cash caused warning sirens to go off in my head.

But what to do about the uncouth fellow? I was at his mercy as it were, alone in a foreign country where I didn't know social customs. Wasn't I obligated to pay whatever fare he asked of me? What could I do, run from the car like some sort of barbarian? I reached into by bag and pulled out my wallet. I hadn't thought to convert my money at the airport. I was so anxious to get where I was going that I hadn't even phoned a hotel. And with my credit card maxed out, I didn't know how I could afford it. Fortunately I knew the conversion rate between pounds and dollars and did the math in my head. I barely had enough, but I handed what I had to the cab driver.

He looked at the notes as though I handed him Monopoly money.

"What the hell is this?" he exclaimed, thrusting the notes back at me. "Don't you know real money is green?"

I winked and bent over to pick up the scattered money. I couldn't help it if he was a fool. I had done what was polite and tried to give him money for the trumped-up services he may or may not have provided for me on behalf of his cab company. I wasn't going to put up with any more of this ridiculous abuse.

I gathered my things, including my credit card, which I had to practically steal from his reader, of all ridiculous things.

Then I said a choppy goodbye and slammed the cab door behind me. The driver grabbed my hand to stop me.

"You're going to pay what you owe me one way or another," he said with an evil glint in his eye, slowly unzipping the fly of his trousers, but I would have none of that. I stomped on his foot, the way my mother had taught me to do when I was little, to protect me from the bad men she had seen on telly.

And I ran.

"Bitch!" the man swore under his breath. Though it was sort of a bad time, I hurriedly text-messaged Dr. Hawking to tell him I had arrived. Now that I was standing feet away from Heinrich Hospital, I could think of nothing else. Well, maybe almost nothing else. I glanced behind me and saw that the driver had crumpled nicely to the ground the way I knew he would. Good, I was safe. I hit 'send' on my cell phone and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thief!" the cab driver yelled, but no one paid any attention, least of all me. "Terrorist!" he screamed and the breath caught in my throat. It was as if the very air around me had changed.