Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt 03

III

"Sorry to hear"

On the tube to work as I mulled confusedly over what was happening to me, I found myself thinking more respectfully of Uncle Albert. It seemed the old goat had known what he was doing after all. Apart from anything else, he had apparently saved my marriage.

Clearly in FUCK he had devised some kind of sexual super-drug. I compared it with what I had heard and read about drugs such as Viagra; they had had remarkable results in many cases, but surely nothing to compare with what Albert's invention had done for me. But I remained uneasy about what its effects might be, how long they would take to wear off, and whether I could handle them in the meantime. For instance, was I being successful in concealing from my fellow passengers in the crowded commuter train the rapidly firming stiffy that, in spite of all my exertions last night and this morning, was developing in my trousers? In particular, did the occasional glance I spotted from the very pretty girl sitting next to me mean that she had noticed something?

I had seen her before; several times, in fact, over the previous few months. She was already on the train when I boarded, so evidently she lived in some remoter suburb. She looked about eighteen, fresh out of school or college I speculated, obviously on her first real job in the City. She was on the short side, blonde, with a very pale complexion, beautiful blue eyes, an irresistible button nose, and, best of all, a very impressive pair of tits indeed. I always looked out for her in the mornings, and maybe once a week my vigilance might be rewarded. Until today, the highlight of this admittedly rather one-sided relationship had been the time I managed to sit directly opposite her and spent the entire journey stealing surreptitious glances over the top of my newspaper at her globes delightfully jiggling up and down from the motion of the train.

This morning, I had been pleased to see a vacant place next to her and had slid into it with alacrity. I soon regretted my choice of seat, however, as the journey progressed and my trouser bulge expanded. I was in an exquisite quandary. If I hid behind my newspaper, my incriminating lap was exposed; if I concealed the swelling by resting the newspaper on it, as I eventually felt obliged to do, I had no defence against the looks she kept shooting in my direction.

I thought my agony would end when she got off as usual at the stop before mine, but she chose today to stay on the train. I deduced she must have changed job. This seemed confirmed when we got to my station; as I got up to go, she appeared to realise at the last moment that this was her stop too and as I alighted I saw her very hurriedly gathering her belongings (an activity that involved bending forward so that her tits hung beneath her, a sight I was unfortunately in no frame of mind to appreciate). As I left the platform I noticed that she exited the train, looking rather flustered, only just as the doors slid shut. I did not see her after that; I was too busy trying to walk normally with the biggest erection of my life. So I did not notice as, keeping her distance, she followed me from the station to my office. She did not attempt to follow me inside; instead, she carefully noted the building and the name of the firm occupying it and set off to walk the half-mile back to her own workplace.

As soon as I entered the building I headed straight to the gents for a desperately needed wank. The spunk just kept coming, but eventually I ran dry. Only then, rather red in the face and feeling a little shaky, could I make my way to my desk.

Everyone was very understanding about my bereavement. Brian, my boss, readily agreed to my taking a few days off until after the funeral, so I spent the day delegating tasks to colleagues, rearranging meetings and generally ensuring that everything would be under control during this unforeseen absence from work.

"Sorry to hear about your uncle." It was the dozenth time I had heard these words, but this was different, for the speaker was little Connie.

Here a word of explanation is needed. When I call her "little" Connie, I refer to the fact that she is, maybe, five foot one in her socks. Ghanaian, twenty-two years old, with a pretty, round, ever-smiling face, she admittedly does not have the generous chest that normally so endears a young woman to me (she would be a fairly standard C cup I imagine). But anything lacking above the waist is more than made up for by an African ass of truly heroic proportions, amply supported by massive thighs. It was incredible to me that so small a woman could carry so much backside. She had been with us for three months and I had lusted after that ass from the second I set eyes on it.

Much as I cherished the ass, I had sadly to admit to myself that its days with us were surely numbered because its owner made no effort to conceal her lack of interest and commitment when it came to her work. Lazy and disorganised, she arrived late and left early. She was good company, and would chatter away cheerfully to anyone that would listen about clothes, clubbing, reality TV shows, her gorgeous sexy boyfriend, her family in Ghana, and all the rest of it. Work, however, did not appear to feature anywhere in her list of priorities.

Connie's normal manner with me, as with all men unless actively discouraged, was one of good-humoured flirtatiousness. I had, naturally, given her no discouragement at all so she generally looked on me as a friendly face; the rebukes I had occasionally felt obliged to administer following some more than usually flagrant neglect of duty were like water off a duck's back to Connie.

My bereavement brought out her nurturing instincts and she made me a mid-morning cup of tea and asked whether there was anything she could do in my absence. She was far too unreliable to be given any real responsibility but there were some minor but necessary tasks I asked her to perform -- ringing clients to rearrange meetings, that sort of thing. She stood next to me and took notes as I sat at my desk and explained what I wanted her to do. It took longer than I expected -- I had not realised how much information I kept in my head -- and quite suddenly, tired of standing and ignoring a chair that was readily to hand, she sat on the desk in a way that displayed her ass to particular advantage. Its sheer bulk was such that as she sat it pulled the waistband of her jeans away from her back, leaving a clear gap in which I could dimly perceive vast curves of chocolate flesh of an astonishing muscularity and firmness. In almost no time I could feel yet another massive erection swelling my trousers. To conceal it under the desk I had to pull my chair right up, which of course brought me even nearer the ass. Only by a preterhuman effort did I manage to stay focused on what I had to tell her, and when I had finished I thanked her for her help, and the tea, and off she went to resume her normal function of distracting other employees from their work.

Meanwhile, I needed someone to help me complete a major board report so I went looking for Fran Stewart. Fran was our graduate trainee, at twenty-two the same age as Connie but otherwise different in almost every respect. Fresh out of St Andrews University, Fran was exceptionally bright and capable and obviously had a great future ahead of her. She hailed from a tiny fishing village on the west coast of Scotland and had the cutest accent to prove it. She stood about five foot seven with a nice figure and had a pretty, slightly freckly face topped by the most glorious long red hair. (Why is it that red hair looks so terrible on men but wonderful on women?) I liked her a lot.

And I am choosing my words here; "liked her a lot" does not mean "fancied her rotten". I suppose I felt quite paternal towards her. She had, strangely, never been out of Scotland before she came to work for us and from conversation over the months I had gathered that her upbringing was not only relatively sheltered but also, in many ways, remarkably deprived.

Falling catches and increasingly strict European quotas had put the local fishing industry into terminal decline, and for boat owners like Fran's father the times were desperately hard, but these troubles scarcely registered with the young Fran as she grew up in her elder sister's much-patched hand-me-downs. She knew that anything costing money was out of the question; but who needs fancy clothes and consumer durables? She had her library books, the ruggedly beautiful countryside, and long solitary walks when she wanted to think. These were the things she valued most, and they were free; as was something even more precious, the love and support of a tight-knit family. Her parents, recognising that their precociously intelligent little girl had the potential to go far in life, rebuffed her dutiful offers to help with household chores as her big sister was required to do. Instead they told her to study. Her abilities were a gift from God, they told her, and it was her responsibility to make the most of them. The young Fran asked for nothing better, and thus encouraged she cultivated a deep love of learning, together with an instinctive aversion to anything remotely domestic.

In short Fran, so far as she was concerned, had an idyllic childhood. Not until she arrived at university -- incidentally the first person from her village ever to do so -- and saw the possessions that her fellow students took for granted did it dawn on her that she had been raised in dire poverty. It was a sharp blow to her self-esteem, but not half so bad as when, after four years of diligent study with every prospect of an excellent degree at the end of it, she applied for jobs and found herself well and truly patronised by an incredulous interviewer from a major Scottish bank when she innocently remarked that she had never been to England. Worse yet, not content with humiliating her, the man added injury to insult by failing to offer her a job on which she had set her heart.

Characteristically defiant in adversity, Fran determined that she would show them. She would get a job in London and live and work there until she could return to Scotland with credentials that no employer would dare reject. Hence her application to my company. It was not her first choice -- she wanted banking, not insurance -- but it was in the financial sector and in the heart of the City and frankly she was running out of time and options.

So were we. The fairly meagre salary we offered for our graduate traineeship had attracted no one remotely employable, so when this plausible-looking Scottish girl responded to our readvertisement and gave a nervous but adequate account of herself at interview, she got the job. It was not until she had been with us for some months that she discovered she had been the only candidate.

Nothing in Fran's background had prepared her for London. It utterly overwhelmed her. Her initial reaction to its frenetic pace and bewildering vastness was to go into a "little girl lost" mode that I found quite irresistible. So I took her under my wing. I advised her how to get around town, how to find a flatshare, and generally how to convert herself into a functioning Londoner.

When it came to her work, however, Fran was thoroughly confident and competent from the start and she had already helped me on some important projects. She was just the person to complete the report I was working on. I was disappointed to find that she was out meeting clients; she would be coming back, but not until late in the day. I left her a message to see me as soon as she arrived and meanwhile I got on with the board report.

The rest of the morning and the early afternoon passed without much incident. Colleagues I hardly knew -- people that had joined only last week and could not possibly have known that I even had an uncle -- came and told me how sorry they were to hear of his death. At half-past eleven and again just before three I had to retreat to the gents to relieve gigantic erections in the only possible way, and Wendy rang no fewer than four times to enjoin me not to be late home, but between these interruptions I worked diligently on the report.

As I lunched in the company's dining area, I was pleasantly surprised that Connie, instead of chatting with giggly secretaries as usual, came and sat with me, again expressing her sympathy and offering to help.

But the real shocker came at the end of Connie's working day (known as "latish afternoon" to the rest of us). There was no indication when she stuck her head round my office door that anything unusual was going to happen. "Sorry to trouble you, Mr Walker," she said, "but can I check a couple of things before I go home?"

I replied that of course she could, whereupon she sat on my desk again and asked a couple of reasonably sensible questions about what I wanted her to do. Then she asked what to do if there was a problem; I hardly thought there would be but I gave her my home number just in case and she seemed much reassured by this. As our discussion continued, I noticed that her questions became more hesitant and inconsequential. There was also something that I could not quite pin down about the way she looked at me. Were her eyes wider than normal? Did they sparkle more? She certainly seemed to be smiling even more than usual, and was clearly in no hurry to leave, even though it was now well after four o'clock. In the end the questions petered out altogether and she was simply sitting smiling on my desk gazing at me.

"Er, Connie," I felt obliged to say eventually, "there's some stuff I need to be getting on with, if you're finished."

She snapped out of it. "Oh, sorry, I'd better be going then. I hope everything goes well about your uncle. Don't worry about these calls. I'll see you next week."

She jumped off the desk and headed for the door. I watched her go; or, to be more specific, I watched the way her ass undulated in her tight jeans as she walked. And then it happened. As she opened my office door she stopped, quickly glanced around to check that I was still looking and that no one else could see, and then, eyes front again but with her ass pointing squarely in my direction, she powerfully clenched her right buttock. The jeans strained to contain this awesome movement of fat and muscle. She held it for a second or two, then relaxed the right buttock and simultaneously clenched the left. Then it was back to the right. Left -- right -- left -- right -- left, faster and faster; then firmly clench both, hold the pose for several seconds, and finally relax. Without looking round to see what I made of the show (she surely knew), she raised her right hand from the elbow, waggled her fingers in a playful farewell, and walked off leaving me staring at the door she had left open behind her with a strangely dry sensation in my hanging-open mouth.

I am not sure how long I sat there but I must still have been showing the effects of this display of precision buttock-clenching when Fran drifted into my line of sight because she looked concerned and asked whether I was all right. Pulling myself together, I said I was fine but still upset about my uncle. She offered her condolences and her assistance if required, and I gratefully accepted both.

I explained about the report. Its broad outlines were clear and I had filled in some of the detail but I had not got on so well as I had hoped and it still needed a fair amount of work and a thorough check for accuracy. I gave Fran a chair (she was not the sit-on-desk type) and we sat side by side at my computer screen as I told her what still needed to be done. "Get someone from Research to dig out these figures ... I think this trend could be illustrated with a graph ... You'll have to expand this bit from my rough notes ..."; the instructions went on an on. As usual when I worked with her I was struck by her ready grasp even of relatively technical points: "Attagirl," I thought when she made some particularly intelligent suggestion; "that's my Fran." But as I drew near the end I got the impression that she was maintaining her concentration only with difficulty, and she seemed to be looking more at me than at the screen.

"Well, that wraps it up," I concluded. "I'm afraid it's a lot of work for you. Do you think you'll be all right with it?"

"Oh ... er ... yes, I'll be fine," she assured me. "In fact, I'll make a start this evening." But her manner was strange; and as we moved our chairs back from the screen, she simply sat there looking at me. It was the same kind of wide-eyed gaze Connie had given me earlier.

I put it out of my mind. It was nearly six o'clock and I wanted to keep my promise to Wendy to be home on time. I gathered my stuff together, told Fran not to work too late, and headed for the tube station.

After all that has happened since, it is hard for me to recapture my frame of mind at this stage. I remember that I rejoiced at the sudden revival of my marriage; I even conceived the idea that I might ensure that this improvement was maintained by somehow working out a way to synthesise more of Albert's serum. This is a notion that, with hindsight, strikes me as truly absurd; it could occur only to someone lacking any understanding of what was really happening.

Notwithstanding my overwhelming relief at the apparent salvation of my marriage, I recall that I also found time to puzzle over the behaviour of Connie and Fran. It was almost, I thought, as if the serum I had taken had somehow affected them; but how could that possibly be?

I should have had even more to think about if I had known that two minutes after I had left the building, in fact only a moment after I disappeared round the corner on my way to the station, a cab drew up opposite and out of it got a very attractive button-nosed blonde girl with noticeably generous breasts. She looked out of temper and flustered; she was, in fact, furious with her bosses for holding her up with last-minute tasks when all she wanted was to take up watch on my company's office. She established herself in the coffee-shop opposite, never for a second taking her eyes off the entrance lobby, and watched as my colleagues emerged one by one. She was still there at eight o'clock when a pretty redhead was the last to leave. As the last light went out she sadly abandoned her fruitless vigil, drained her third and final coffee and made her disconsolate way to the tube.