Author's note: This is my first submission and I've got a bit of stage fright. I'm posting three chapters of what I hope will be a long story. Because my story stretches the imagination a bit, I'm uncertain about what tags might be misleading.
I enjoyed writing about Art's adventures and I hope you enjoy reading about them. I appreciate all comments: good, bad or indifferent.
I offer this disclaimer: All my characters are purely fictional except for Art. He, along with all of his fantasies and obsessions, is for real.
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My name is Arthur Jones. Now, you can't get any more of a nondescript name than that. In truth, I'm a pretty average guy, but I'm not likely to turn the head of very many females. Don't get me wrong, I've had a few serious relationships in my thirty five years, but I've had to work at getting them to notice me. I doubt any woman would take me for being an alpha male at first glance for a number of reasons. What's that old saying about having an inferiority complex; maybe you really are inferior. At five ten and a hundred and sixty pounds, you'd have to say I have an average to small frame. I shave every day, but my beard's a bit wispy if I let it grow out. Despite my relatively small hands, the rest of my features are definitely male. Given all that, I'm comfortable in my own skin except that I wish nature could have endowed me with a larger package. When it comes to sexual activity, I really have to work at making it a satisfactory experience for my partner. No girl or woman has looked at me naked and said "wow", although a few of them have given me an "A" afterwards.
Without any living relatives or really close friends, I often wonder what life holds for me. I'm often given to daydreaming about my future and there's always a female companion. I can create this future companion in my imagination by concentrating on every woman I happen to see and focusing on her outstanding features. It isn't that the female body occupies all of my thoughts; let's just say that I have to work at it to keep them on anything else. OK, so that's who I am, so what gets me through the day when I'm not thinking of a glorious female body?
Well, I'm a lab technician working for a large research firm. My specialty is putting together different pieces of equipment. Whatever some brain can dream up, given enough time, I can generally build. The research firm I work for has a number of geniuses working on different projects in their own laboratories. There's a centralized well equipped workshop with electricians, machinist, fabricators capable of doing most any assigned task. Each researcher has one or more technicians working with them whose responsibility is to provide the workshop with enough detail to build what's required. In other words we take the genius' ideas and sketches and translate them into something the workshop can use.
My researcher, Professor Benjamin Waldo Jameson, is not only a true genius, but he's also a really sweet old guy. I know he has degrees and awards from around the world because others have told me so, but you'd never hear it from him. He was one of the first scientist this firm hired years ago and he's brought them fame and fortune, so no one questions what he's working on. Now that he's getting up in years and has a bad heart, the staff here all watches out for him. He looks like a stooped Albert Einstein with his frizzled hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose. For some reason he truly likes me and will not allow any other technician in the laboratory when he's working. He's only been to the central workshop a few times since I started working for him five years ago. The noise and hustle seems to throw off his creative juices, so that's my job.
He calls me Arty or just lad and explains everything like I have an idea what he's talking about, which I usually don't. Only when he gets down to a specific piece of equipment, I ask questions until I'm certain I know what he wants. He's never acted like my questions were dumb or anything. Truly I'd do anything for the "Professor". Now the two of us share a mutual love for a certain female, although not from the same perspective. The chief administrator of this research firm is a woman named Suzanne Joyce and she is one remarkable woman. Most of my idle daydreaming about the female form is based on the most desirable, Ms. Joyce. Did I mention that this is the Joyce Technology Research Company, so she's the daughter of the founder and current owner.
Besides drooling over the same Ms. Joyce at every opportunity, my ears always perk up when her name comes up. She's obviously respected as an administrator by the higher ups in the company, even though some of other employees refer to her as the "ball buster" or "ice lady". When one of the techs said, "I pity the poor SOB that marries that cold bitch", I put his name down on my 'get even' list.
Suzanne Joyce is a statuesque woman at least six feet tall. With her high heels, she has to stand at least six one or two. All I know is that when we're talking, I have to look up into her face. That's always a problem given that it's much easier and more rewarding to focus on her delicious looking mammary glands. She wears severe woman's business clothing and with her dark framed glasses, she gives the impression that she's a very serious person. It isn't that she's unfriendly, just unapproachable. With her hair piled up on top of her head, she's taller than most of the employees and I think many of them are afraid of her. Also, since she's the daughter of the owner, no one ever gives her any lip.
Let me describe the attributes of the aforementioned Ms. Joyce. With her severely tailored clothing, you have to use some imagination, but then I have a lot of that. I doubt there's any padding in her clothing so I'm certain those shoulders and breasts are all hers. But I go too fast. As I said, she has this coal black hair and beautiful green eyes. With her white creamy skin and strong jaw line, you'd not call her a beauty, but she's definitely a striking woman. From what I know about her from the Professor she's in her mid forties. With her narrow waist and flaring hips, together with calves that are just short of muscular, it's obvious she takes care of her body. Oh, and that glorious rear end. I could gaze at it for hours and only fantasize what it must look like unrestricted. To be able to grasp that particular part of her would be as close to heaven as I can imagine.
Suzanne Joyce calls me Arty, the same as the Professor. The Professor told me that when he left the halls of academia and came to work for Paul Joyce, some thirty five years ago, Suzanne was nine or ten. Joyce and the Professor spent hours discussing the various projects of the fledgling Joyce Company. Joyce was a widower and the Professor never married, so the two men doted on the little girl. She still calls him "Uncle Ben" and stops by almost every day to see him. I've no doubt she's friendly with me because of the Professor. Unfortunately, while we both love her; it's only the Professor she loves in return.
He's got to be in his upper eighties and because he's already had several severe heart attacks, she worries about him. One day when the Professor was busy she motioned me out into the hallway and said, "Arty, I'm concerned about Uncle Ben. I've hinted at retiring, but he just waves me off. He so loves working in the laboratory that father and I just can't insist he retire. Do you know where he keeps his heart medication?"
"He's showed me where it is and I've gotten it for him a couple of times."
"If he ever shows any sign of distress again, call me immediately. I've told my secretary that it doesn't matter where I am, come and get me. If I'm out of town I always have a heart specialist on call. I've offered to have medical personnel on staff just for him, but he'd never stand for it. I know he's very fond of you, Arty. Please watch over him."
I told her I would. I didn't tell her I'd also walk through fire and a brick wall if she asked me. She really didn't have to ask me to watch over the Professor, I was already doing that. He's ordered me not to tell anyone when he's had problems, but now I have an excuse to tell her because she's the boss.
I suppose I should tell what little I know about the Professor's research. All I can say was he has this theory that the cellular structure of a living organism can be made to expand or contract uniformly. He believes that every existing living organism has its own energy field. By bombarding the organism's cells with weak radiation he can excite this energy field and then enlarge or contract it magnetically. He tried it with single cell organisms, and then worked up through insects. He was encouraged when they all survived their normal life cycles. Right now we have a lab rat that's the size of a field mouse and a pair of field mice that are the size of lab rats. They seem perfectly normal and the interesting thing is that their offspring's reverted back to their original sizes. The large female field mouse was able to have a normal birth, but the small female lab rat died early in her pregnancy. The Professor did an autopsy and is satisfied that lab rat offspring would have been normal size if it had lived.
One of my jobs is taking care of the little critters. I named the field mice, Mickey and Minnie, and the lab rats, Fred and Ethel. Now that Ethel's no longer with us, poor little shrunken Fred seems lost. I swear he keeps looking over at the giant mice in the next cage like he can't believe what he sees. I've taken to slipping him little extra goodies now and then just to make him feel better. I wonder what would happen if I slipped a little female field mouse in with him. Mouse, like man, should not be without female companionship.
The Professors must believe he doesn't have much time left to complete his work because he's had me working all sorts of hours to construct a much larger machine to try with bigger animals. He long ago swore me to secrecy about what he's working on. He's even keeps Ms. Joyce in the dark. I've heard her ask several times and he just replies, 'It's a surprise, pumpkin'." Now only a beloved uncle could get away with a non-answer and the use of a childhood term of endearment.
Today he's even more hurried than ever, I've asked him several times to sit down and take it easy, but he's buzzing around the machine while I'm working. It's a complex looking piece of equipment; and it is. It took a lot of hours to put this baby together. Basically there's a low platform where we will secure the test subject and what looks like a huge x-ray machine that focuses down from above. The Professor has had me stand on the table several times while he focuses on my energy field. I told the Professor I'm not happy in the place of the lab rat. He said, "Don't worry, Arty, nothing will happen until I energize the magnetic field."
The last thing I remember was stepping up on the platform to make a minor adjustment and there was a bright flash. The next thing I remember, I'm flat on my back. I don't think I was hit with anything; I must have just passed out. I can't seem to get my eyes to focus. "There, what's that up above me? What the hell, that's part of the machine, maybe I did hit my head. But it can't be, it's too high up. Wait a minute, I'm laying on the platform, but that can't be. The platform's only forty inches square and my whole body's on it. What are all these rags I'm wrapped up in? And I'm naked under the rags. Holy shit, these aren't rags; it's the clothes I was wearing." When I stood up, I had to shake myself free of my clothes. I looked up at the machine and unless it grew, I couldn't be much more than a few inches over three feet tall.
"Professor, where are you? What's happened here?" My voice didn't sound right and there was no response to my call. I walked around the machine and there he was on the floor. I knelt beside him and started to shake him, but there wasn't any response and when I felt for a pulse, there wasn't one. "I've got to call for help. The wall phone. Shit, it's too high. OK, get a stool, dummy. Wait don't panic, think this through." I went back to the Professor and carefully checked his pulse again. Now I realized his body's already cooling. The last time I looked at a clock was three hours ago. The Professor could have been dead for several hours.
There's nothing more I can do for him. There'll be people coming soon, I'd best find some way to cover myself. I put on my shirt. The shirt tail reached below my knees and the sleeves are way too long. I laid the shirt on the floor and cut the sleeves off with a box cutter from my toolbox. Now, if I buttoned the shirt it should stay on my shoulders, but it billows out like a tent when try to walk. I keep bungee cords sorted by size hanging on the wall. I took one and put it around my waist, hooking the ends together. At least now I have some cover when someone comes.
