The Mad Scientist had stood and brushed himself off. He'd left Jodi bent over the liftgate and made his way over to Tiffany, where he lowered himself again and stared at her bosom unflinchingly for a long time. He watched her chest expand and contract as she breathed. The fabric between the buttons of her blouse parted when she inhaled, exposing the furrowy shadow of her tanned cleavage and the thin bow stitched into her bra between the cups. Every so often Tiffany mustered a little whimper that bounced off the street pavement and the light posts in a hollow echo. But for the most part the only sounds were the wind through the leaves and Tiffany's deep breaths.
The Mad Scientist fumbled at the girl's collar, then began to unbutton her blouse. "You're such a pretty little tease," he said. He untucked Tiffany's blouse and fluffed out its flaps, then undid the second-to-last button. Her cleavage was exposed now, and the inner hemispheres of frilly white nylon that cupped the melonous curves of her tits. He practically rubbed his eyes on her chest. The rise of her breasts was defined in the seam that traversed her bra cups, describing the equator of each ample mammary.
"Looking is a disease. It is also a discipline." The Mad Scientist worked loose the last satiny-thin buttonhole and brushed the front of Tiffany's blouse to her sides. The realization sank in that she was being undressed without any concern for her will and she let two mewling whines, turning away from the Mad Scientist. She was oblivious to everything but her own plight and the invasive presence of the horrid, leering old man who barged in on her most guarded personal space with such undisguised lasciviousness, who so flagrantly violated her privacy, the modesties of her body. So she hardly noticed that her melodramatic turn of the head gave her the sultry lassitude of a girl in chains on the cover of a science fiction novel. Her pouty, dry sobs and fussy, trembling trepidation only reminded the Mad Scientist of girls he'd seen in magazines who he'd wanted to possess.
Unfortunately for Tiffany, she poorly understood perversion of the Mad Scientist's sort. She believed her only hope to be that he would see her misery and take mercy on her (although she also hoped once she remembered how to talk to plead with the scientist and convince him to exert most of his sickening lust on her friend, Jodi). So in a gamble for pity she transmitted as much of her suffering into her body and expression as she could, given the paralyzer that coursed through her veins and hobbled her. But this just made her enticing to the Mad Scientist, more the pretty, helpless damsel. It enflamed him.
"I've been watching you for a long time," he told the inert Tiffany. "I've memorized your body," he stared transfixed at Tiffany's nearly naked breasts, "by looking at you through the corner of my eye." He raised up to study her face. "You've seen me, haven't you?"
She looked back, desperate to know his intentions. Under the scientist's cruelties she had indeed waxed fretful: her brow was terraced with worrylines and her lips pulled into a tremulous frown, a girl afraid of monsters from the underbed.
"Haven't you?" the Mad Scientist repeated. "I've been halfway down the aisle at the grocery store." Tiffany sniveled, confused. He leaned in even closer, pressed the bony tip of his nose to Tiffany's cheek. She smelled of drugstore perfume and chewing gum. He groaned with pleasure; a cloud of foul breath settled in Tiffany's nostrils and covered her face with warm droplets.
"Behind you," he murmured, "in line," he groped one of her legs at the thigh and lifted it, "at the ATM." He played under the ornamental belt around her waist, still holding her leg with the other hand. He found the waistband of her skirt and tugged at it, pulling the silky petite apron down to the front of her legs. He glanced at her lap. Under the decorative belt she was wearing snowy white panties, bunched over the fresh little cherry of her pube.
