Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt 22

XXII

"Everything you do"

"Well, James darling, I think even you are going to have your work cut out with this little lot."

It was Wendy that said this. She, Alicia and I were sitting at the dining table at home, reviewing the day's events and surveying the twenty-six notes, which I had carefully laid out in alphabetical order. (It must be the bureaucrat in me.)

There seemed to be little doubt that all these girls were "primed". If so, Albert's theories suggested and experience demonstrated that they would not rest until they fucked me. And it had to be done: not until the "capture" was complete could I reduce them to obedience and be sure they would not approach me in some embarrassingly public way; nor (nasty thought) could I be sure of their discretion. For all I knew they might be back at Cambridge at this moment telling all their friends about this gorgeous bald fat middle-aged married man they wanted to fuck the daylights out of.

So somehow I had to work my way through twenty-six women, or twenty-nine counting the twins and Yvonne. I looked at Wendy and Alicia helplessly.

"You can do it, darling," said Wendy encouragingly. "I know it will be awkward to arrange, but you'll enjoy it too. And we'll help, won't we Alicia?" Alicia nodded eagerly.

"You think I'm doing the right thing, then," I asked Wendy, "in capturing all these girls?"

"Everything you do is right," she replied.

She spoke these words in a tone so casual and matter-of-fact, as if they expressed a truism hardly worth the utterance, that it was a moment before I took in her meaning. "Wendy --" I began before words failed me.

She appeared puzzled by my reaction. Then it seemed gradually to dawn on her that she had in fact said something remarkable.

"James, darling, this FUCK is powerful stuff, isn't it?" she said eventually, slowly shaking her head in awe. "But it's still true, what I said. Even though I know it's the serum, I still think, in fact I

know

beyond a doubt, that everything you do is good and right."

"Just because I do it?"

"Just because you do it," she confirmed.

"Supposing," I suggested, "I were to dress up in top hat and tails and dance the boogie-woogie on top of Nelson's Column."

Wendy smiled and raised that sardonic eyebrow of hers. "You'd fall off," she observed drily.

"Never mind the practicalities," I persisted. "If I did it, it would be the right thing to do, would it?"

She pondered this. "Well, yes, I suppose it would be. I mean, unless it were right you wouldn't do it, would you?"

I looked queryingly at Alicia. She nodded her eager agreement to everything Wendy had said.

I could not get to grips now with the implications of this; tomorrow was Monday and we all needed a good night's sleep and generous helpings of hot rampant sex. But first I had to congratulate Alicia on a wonderful performance.

"Thank you," she blushed with an incongruous shyness. "It was lovely once I got used to it. Just think -- all those handsome young men, and they all wanted me. And thank you, Wendy, for showing me the walk. I can't wait to try it at work tomorrow. And I'll feel so much cooler and more comfortable without a tight heavy bra."

Wendy and I exchanged anxious glances. "Er, Alicia dear," said Wendy, "I'm sure everyone will love the walk but I don't think you should go without a bra in the office."

"But I must," she replied. "You see, after I showered when we got home I went through my bras and they're all too small, even the one I bought last week. I must have got bigger. Aren't they lovely?" And she thrust her chest out so that her tits burst free from the dressing gown that had been straining to hold them.

She was right beyond a doubt. The difference was noticeable even in the few days since I had first weighed those mighty orbs in my hands. "I've been eating so much, you see," she went on. "I've never had such an appetite."

"I've been eating more too," Wendy agreed. "All my clothes are snug. It must be all the love and attention we've been getting," she suggested, putting her arms round me and kissing me; "but Alicia dear, you can't work in a City office with a chest like that and no bra. Come with me and we'll see what we can do."

They went upstairs to fiddle with Alicia's bras and left me to ponder the implications of "Everything you do is right", to say nothing of how I was going to manage twenty-nine women.

I thought I should at least have a quiet day at the office to work out what to do, but no such luck. It was barely half-past nine when the first call came. The switchboard operator told me that an Emma Downham was on the line.

One of the notes had been signed "Emma" but I failed to make the connexion. "Are you sure it's for me?"

"Yes, Mr Walker. She asked for you most particularly."

"All right, put her on." There was a slight click as the call was switched through. "James Walker," I announced.

There was no reply as such; just a kind of nervous gasp. Only then did the penny drop.

I tried to keep my tone casual. "Hello, Emma, it's James here."

There was a sound of deep regular breathing as if the caller were making a huge effort to compose herself. "James, I -- oh god, it's really you -- er, it's Emma here -- did you get my note?"

Trying without success to think which one Emma might be, I thanked her politely for the note and assured her I had been going to ring her, but I told her very firmly that I could not talk to her from work. I could not resist asking how she had managed to track me down so quickly. She explained that she had gathered from overheard snatches of conversation at the party that I was a business associate of George's and was in insurance. So she had surfed the net, found the website of George's bank, read the press release about the tie-in with my firm, and followed the link to our site with its contact details. Then she had simply rung the switchboard and asked for me. It was childishly simple; anyone could do it. In fact, four further callers during the day had done the same, with slight variations, and they all got the same response that I gave Emma.

I had, I told them, received the note and was very grateful for it; but no, I could not see them today. I wanted to see them, too, but I had to make arrangements. I would be in touch as soon as I could with more information but meanwhile they were to say nothing about this to anyone and sit tight and wait for me to call. Yes, I can hardly wait either. Yes, really, I will call very soon. I promise. I'll be thinking of you as well, but I have to go now, really. Yes, I love to hear your voice too, but really I have to go. Yes, I'll call. 'Bye. No, I'm sorry, I really do have to go now. 'Bye. Goodbye.

I said nothing about the number of notes I had received, although a couple of the girls -- that would be Lucy and Charlotte (I was taking notes) -- mentioned that they had got the idea of the note from seeing another girl slip something into my pocket, so some of them at least must have had an idea that they were not alone. However, I did not want them gossiping about it even to each other (walls have ears) so I swore all of them to secrecy. I remained, however, profoundly uneasy. I knew that mere priming was not enough to guarantee respect for my wishes; for that they had to be fucked into obedience.

Some wonderful sex after work with Fran, Connie and Gabby left me feeling a bit better. Albert's brew was causing me endless worry, I reflected, but boy, did it have its compensations.

I got home and set to the task of calling the twenty-one girls still outstanding. I started with the nameless blonde in the photograph, who turned out be called Arwen. ("My mum and dad met at the Tolkien Society at Oxford. My dad's read

The Lord of the Rings

thirty-seven times and thinks Shakespeare is rubbish by comparison," she told me with the weary air of someone that had been explaining this to people all her life. I told her it was lucky she was not a boy or they would have called her Bilbo Baggins.) I then methodically worked through the remaining girls in alphabetical order from Abigail to Zoe, giving each of them, like Arwen, the same message as Emma and the others had received during the day.

About half-way through it struck me that something was odd: here I was, calling the cellphones of bright and attractive young women aged around twenty, doubtless enjoying full and active social lives, and each and every one of them answered within two or three rings at the most. I had no missed calls, no "divert to voicemail", no "please try later". All of them, I realised, were waiting for me; presumably they had been waiting ever since they left their notes.

It was a scary thought. I determined to talk to the twins tomorrow to set in motion the plans I had made to control the situation.