A Real Flexible Girl Pt 01 1

A Real Flexible Girl

by The Preve

Part One

"Cough! Huh? What? What happened?! Where am I?!"

The woman woke, naked and confused. Her last memory, a smell of roses in her yoga studio. She was in her plank pose, the rose scent filled the air, followed by a great feeling of drowsiness.

She couldn't move. She was strapped to a gurney; florescent lights glowed overhead. The room was large and otherwise low lit. The woman looked around. The room seemed industrial; large wooden crates placed against dark gray walls, insulated water pipes on the ceiling.

Am I in a warehouse?

The place did not look like a hospital.

Was I in an accident? Who brought me here?

She took stock of herself. She was nude. That didn't bother her; she practiced nude yoga, as well as home nudity. Tubes and wires were connected to her body. Two I.V.'s connected to the veins on her right arm, one connected to her left.

One of the right I.V bags contained a transparent red fluid, the other, a transparent blue. The left bag contained a silvery liquid, like mercury.

A final line led to a blood pump which, in turn, displayed lines leading back to the I.V bags.

Pads on her chest connected to a heart monitor, showing a slightly elevated heartbeat.

The woman felt no fear, only mild confusion.

This is not a hospital; I've been kidnapped!

The first chill at that realization, crept down her spine. Stories of young people, right out of "Touristas," kidnapped for body organs, prowled through her brain. She was strapped down and hooked up.

For lethal injection?

The woman went over the drugs, she heard were used in executions. The colored liquids could be sodium pentothal and potassium cyanide, but the silvery fluid.

Why would they put mercury in me? Won't that damage my organs?

Panic had not yet set in. Yoga and meditation training calmed her.

I have to be rational, calm, so I can figure a way out of this.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, not hard, not soft, slightly squeaky, indicating rubber soles on new shoes. The woman turned her head to the open corridor. Bright, florescent light illuminated the hallway.

The footsteps grew louder, stopped. A man's silhouette appeared at the entrance.

"Who are...?" she began.

The silhouette resolved into a tall, thin man. Thin described everything about him. His hair was a glossy black, shaggy carpet, set over a large head with a thin, sallow face.

His pale blue-gray eyes, topped with bushy eyebrows, were bespectacled with horn-rims. His long, thin nose jutted blade straight between high cheekbones.

A line-thin mouth slashed across his jaw. Finally, a whippet chin pointed like an arrowhead to the floor.

Two large Dumbo-sized ears stood out from his head like a pair of bat wings. A bobbing Adam's apple curved from his chicken neck. He wore a medium brown and khaki shirt; a variety of pens overstuffed the left pocket.

A simple brown leather belt served as a dividing line at the waist. Below, he wore a pair of faded blue jeans. His shoes were classic tennis, gray colored. A long white lab coat completed his ensemble.

The man looked familiar to the woman. She couldn't place where they met. She worked at an art gallery, where college students met often, but he looked too old.

One of the college professors?

A name popped in her head, "Mortimer..."

"Hamish," he answered.

She remembered now. She'd never spoken to him personally, not so much as his being beneath her standards, as his creepy demeanor.

She would see him at the gallery, occasionally. He'd look at her, or others, and take notes in a black book. If she didn't know better, he almost seemed a stalker.

A friend told her he was conducting some sort of research, no specifics. The woman filed him away, more concerned with preparing the gallery for an upcoming Picasso exhibit. Now, her suspicions of stalking seemed confirmed.

"Mister Hamish, what are you doing? And why am I here?" she asked calmly, masking her inner panic.

Oh God! He's kidnapped me!

Mortimer Hamish ignored her. He took a small recorder from his pocket, looking at her as an insect, right before sticking the pin into its thorax.

He glanced upward, at an object the woman was unable to see, pressed record, and spoke.

"Sarah McEnnis Swenson, age 27. Hair, light blonde, shoulder length. Eyes, green. Height, 5'7". Weight, 135 lbs. Measurements, 32C-25-33. Occupation, assistant curator, art appraiser, Carnegie Museum. Degrees, MA Art History, acquired at 26."

Sarah listened with growing horror. Mortimer rolled out details of her life, as if reading a resume. It spoke to the ease of which he acquired this information, some of it common, some private. He continued, his information becoming more intimate.

"Second generation Norwegian-American. Daughter of Albert, an engineer, and Martha, a teacher."

"Who gave you my info?!"

Mortimer continued, "Graduate of Theodore Roosevelt high school, attended William and Mary. Romantic relations included two boyfriends. The first moved across the country to pursue a job opportunity, the second turned out to be considerably less than faithful," he glanced at her, "Pity, a waste on his part."

"How did you know that?! Who do you think you are?!"

"Avid practitioner of yoga since fifteen, embraced nude yoga at nineteen. Athleticism indicated in her physical appearance, slender body, excellent muscle tone, obviously flexible. Absence of body hair confirms laser removal treatment. Skin tone is light tan, no lines. Described by friends, colleagues as friendly, outgoing, generous, adventurous, and open-minded. Observation of personal habits indicates penchant for nudity, with some exhibitionist tendencies."

Sarah, at this stage, was red-faced, not from so much from embarrassment as anger. This creep had peeled open her life like an orange. The information he presented meant he somehow gained access to her resume. The other information, not common knowledge, was a different matter.

Sure she liked nude yoga, and home nudity, plus an occasional skinny dip, but those activities were confined to close friends.

He had help! A stalker, I've been kidnapped by a stalker! Who helped this freak?!

She forced herself to remain outwardly calm as Mortimer continued.

"Lives at 405 Redfield Lane, a beach front property. Conducts yoga classes for extra income. Subject first came to my attention through one of my lab assistants, Michael Barnes."

What?! Mike Barnes?! My ex worked for him?!

"Subsequent inquiries of Barnes, while not flattering by his answers, presented Miss Swenson as a viable candidate for my Pygmalion project."

Pygmalion project?

"Surveillance, research, and further questioning of Barnes, along with others in her social circle, confirmed my assumptions as to her viability."

The chill racing up Sarah's spine lowered another ten degrees.

Surveillance?! Research?! Oh God, how long did he stalk me?!

Mortimer continued, answering her unspoken question, "Examination of the subject confirms near perfect health, promising great results for this three year project."

"Three... years...?"

"Note to myself: reminder to extend thanks to Boris Chavorov for supplying the knockout gas, to keep the subject docile during the surveillance and acquisition periods."

Knockout gas?

Sarah thought back over the past three years: her occasional headaches after waking from unusually sound nights' sleeps.

He pumped gas into my room while I was in bed!

The thought of this... man, going through her computer, her things, her life! Horror and outrage filled her to a level, years of yoga and meditation proved unable to contain.

"You! You! You bastard! I'll kill you, you son of a bitch! I'll tell the fucking cops! You are so fucked, you freak!"

Sarah strained against the straps holding her to the gurney. The red-faced, teeth gritting, spitting young woman unleashed a stream of profanity, uncharacteristic of her relatively demure nature.

"Tsk,tsk," Mortimer clucked. He reached into his lab coat and pulled out a syringe.

"What are you doing? Get that away from me you sick fuck!"

Mortimer plunged the needle into her left arm. The clear fluid within flowed into her blood stream. Euphoria quickly spread to Sarah's brain and throughout her body. Her angry thrashings subsided. She lay quiet, detached and numb as Mortimer continued.

"Now, where were we? Oh! The cooperation of certain parties, Miss Swenson's employer particularly, has proven very useful. His suggested cover story explaining Miss Swenson's absence should suffice, until further, long term arrangements are made. If I am successful in my project, I shall ensure he is one of the beneficiaries."

Mortimer looked to the ceiling, at the hidden camera behind the overhead light. He took an iPod from his lab coat to check the transmitted image of the room. Assured the camera was working, he continued.

"Now, the purpose of my project, while primarily focused on military uses, is currently purposed for the sex trade. The inherent difficulties, regarding personnel and equipment, are too numerous to mention.

Whereas acquisition of personnel is relatively easy, in spite of law enforcement and interference by aid organizations, longevity and durability still pose major issues. Quality control presents further problems as well.

Various criminal and corporate organizations, some of whom paid generously for my research, must constantly expend monetary resources, to replace personnel damaged by the wear and tear of the profession; whether by age, disease, or injury by overly enthusiastic or unstable clients.

Personnel also become less compliant, owing to influence from aid organizations. Those who cooperate grow less creative in their work.

As I discussed with the board funding the project, the issue can be tackled through three methods: first, increase the subject's libido.

I have created for this purpose, a concentrated solution of carbon tetra hydrogenate, a replication of a chemical found in a rare fruit, known by the Brazilian tribe who use it extensively in their fertility rituals, as Cumslutika.

Tests on animals injected with this compound, indicate a possible sex enhancer at least a thousand times more potent than Viagra.

Replication of the chemical posed a challenge. Some colleagues suggested there may be flaws in the process, given the limited funds. I am confident, however, that I've achieved success. The compound should increase the subject's sexual arousal through a chemical alteration of the brain. In its original form, with the fertility ritual, the effects were temporary. However, the concentrated solution, based on trials conducted with previous test subjects (I wish to thank certain individuals, who will view this tape, for their assistance. They will not be named for obvious reasons), should render the alteration permanent.

A willing subject, on constant readiness to perform the tasks required of her, will be a valuable commodity to a perspective owner."

Sarah listened to this madman with dulled horror.

Oh God, please get me away from this freak.

"The second problem regards stamina and endurance. It is all right and good if the subject has an intense libido. A sex drive, however, is nothing without the stamina to endure extended sessions including one or more clients.

To this end, I turned to a noted colleague, working in Peru, who came across a rare, and legendary bush, he believes was the actual plant, instead of coca leaves, the Inca used for endurance at high altitudes.

I've isolated the juice from the plant's berries, extracted the suspect chemical and, as with the Cumslutika compound, concentrated and refined it.

If my theory is correct, based on the effect upon test animals, the subject's stamina should undergo an exponential increase. Between the increased sex drive and stamina, the potential for a sex worker of long endurance is enormous.

This leaves us, however, with a third problem, and my piece de resistance, if I may use the term (chuckle); the aforementioned wear and tear.

Such flaws in the product require constant replacement, at increased risk to the employer/owner, owing to scrutiny by law enforcement. Resistance to, and resilience from injury, combined with great stamina and endurance, could greatly reduce the need for procurement, and allow for safer, longer term investment.

To solve this problem, I've attached an old project, originally under the aegis of the US government, exploring the theoretical use of nanomachines to repair injuries. Due to lack of funds and shortsightedness on my former employers' part (plus some 'sniff' ethical questions over my use of human subjects), the project was canceled. That I was on the verge of a significant breakthrough mattered little.

Owing to generous funding by my current employers, I am confident of the achievement of my original goal. If successful, it will mark a quantum leap in the field of medicine, plus the implications for military use are endless.

I shall proceed with an infusion of the Cumslutika chemical, followed by the Inca berry solution, and finally the nanomachines. It should be noted, this will mark the first time all three chemicals are tried in combination.

Ideally, I would prefer a nonhuman test subject prior to this attempt. Unfortunately, time constraints, and lack of supplies, compel me to proceed at an accelerated pace. Proceeding with the Cumslutika extract now."

Mortimer activated the pump.

Sarah lay and watched, helpless, as her blood cycled out of her body, circulated through the bags, and pumped back in with the chemicals, in sequence. First the red, then the blue, and finally, the silver liquids flowed into her veins.

Hamish's face wore a slight grin, like a perverted frat boy watching a coed stripper.

"I'd love to wipe that smug smile off his face," she thought, seething.

She experienced the change, at first as intense arousal. The more red fluid flowed into her body, the greater the boost.

Oh... fuck!

Her pussy, hot and wet, grew wetter each passing second. A gloss of sweat formed on her skin. Sexual heat, uncontrollable, and growing in intensity, spread through her body.

Sarah, while not conservative sexually, neither displayed the opposite. She kept herself balanced. She might get a little thrill, occasionally, at showing some skin. Her inclinations didn't extend to jumping bones on any whim either.

Sarah reserved sex for long term relationships. Thus far, she'd had two; one ended amicably, the other was a serious mistake, obviously. As to short terms: no one night stands, or sex after only a few dates, for her.

Scenes of arousal were also private. Sex talk was confined only to small gatherings with girl friends.

It angered her to be so aroused in front of this man. This grinning sadist who she would fuck in an instant, if only she were free from these straps.

And then I would kill him.

The blue fluid, made purple with her blood, compounded her arousal. An explosion of energy had her writhing in the straps.

Mortimer's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. It was working, so far. The efforts from years of research and experimentation, were about to pay off.

It bothered him none, the devil's bargain made with the criminal organization funding this project. It was the government's loss if he achieved success. Plus, the sight of this beautiful, nude, sweat-shined young woman, writhing on the gurney, had its own benefits.

The cameras in the monitoring room above, filmed everything. He wondered if certain of his employers would be interested in the footage.

I feel almost like a stalker.

Yes, he'd monitored and followed her over a period of months; watched her while she performed nude yoga or slept; knocked her out with sleeping gas several times, and observed her unconscious form; ultimately kidnapped and subjected her to scientific experimentation. Such acts, conceivably, would put him in jail for decades, but they didn't necessarily make him a stalker, did they? Besides, he had help. Other parties were as guilty as he.

Sarah's heart monitors and EEG were in overdrive. Her blood pressure spiked, dangerously, while her neurons fired on all cylinders.

The nano solution should stabilize her.

The silvery bag, stained lightly with red, drained as the solution pumped into Sarah's veins.

Here it comes.

Things went wrong.

First she screamed, then all vitals spiked; heart beat, blood pressure, brain pattern, body temperature... everything.

"Aw fuck," Mortimer cursed, with mild dismay.

Sarah began to convulse. "AAAAUUUURRRRR!" she shrilled.

Her skin changed color, matching the fluids in her veins. First a deep red, then a dark blue, like a bruise covering her entire body.

Her body arched up, nearly breaking the straps, in a position shaming the most supple contortionist.

Mortimer marveled at the monitors' readings. He did nothing he should have done as a doctor and scientist.

Sarah's convulsions, in her restrained position, should have wrenched her arms out of their sockets, even broken bones. Mortimer never observed this reaction with previous test subjects.

He checked his iPod, double checking the images, to ensure the cameras worked. The fact of Sarah's dying disturbed him not. Only mild disappointment seeped into his brain.

Such a waste of a fine specimen, sigh.

Only when her skin turned a deathly white, and she exhaled a final gasp, followed by a death rattle, did he bother to search for the crash cart.

Shit, back to the drawing board.

Mortimer left the room. The still, dead body of Sarah Swenson lay on the gurney, light green eyes staring, sightless, at the ceiling. The monitors were flatlined. The buzz of the EKG droned through the room.

The buzz became a beep. Another beep followed, and then another, and another, with increasing frequency. The flat monitors began to wave again, with peaks and valleys.

Sarah's brain activity resumed. Only an expert would detect the difference between her old pattern and new.

If Mortimer had stayed, he would seen the slight, but notable change in Sarah's eyes. A tinge of glowing silver to compliment the emerald green. Next came her gasping breath, as her body remembered to breathe again.

She lay for a few seconds, then looked around, her expression cold, alien, and very new.

Mortimer wheeled the crash cart into the room. He didn't expect much. Sarah was likely dead. He didn't like the prospect of going back to square one. The last sight he truly expected was the empty gurney.

"What the fuck?!"

The I.V lines dangled, the bags were empty, the EKG and EEG monitors disconnected.

The straps were still fastened. She'd disappeared without unbuckling the straps, like an escape artist.

"What the hell?! Where'd she go?!"

He searched the room, and under the gurney, nothing.

"Impossible, she can't just disappear."

A tap to his shoulder told him she didn't. When he turned to confront her, within a few minutes he wished she had.

To Be Continued.