WARNING:
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upset you, or you are offended by subjects of a sexual nature - do not read any further!
This story is for entertainment only. It contains adult oriented material. This is a work of fiction. The acts and characters contained within are figments of my imagination and have no basis in fact. I do not practice, advocate, condone or encourage acts portrayed here. The characters in the story are entirely fictional. You need to believe that all of the characters are over the age of eighteen.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.
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[If you're trying to read these stories in their intended chronological order, this one occurs after Dots and Dashes of Color 9.]
What happens when Mr. Marcus performs his annual duty as Science Fair judge? There's bound to be some experimentation . . .
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Every year for the past twenty or so, I've volunteered one day to the local City-Wide High School Science Fair. As a technologist, I enjoy seeing the innovations the students come up with. As an eternal letch, I enjoy checking out the young ladies, dressed up to make a good impression with the judges.
Like every year, the judges have to check in and get their assignments - which projects they'll review. As an added benefit, sometimes the administrative assistants are good-looking women. Not young and barely legal like the high school seniors in high school. These are women in their twenties or maybe thirties who've gotten the low reward but necessary job of distributing and gathering the voting materials - clipboard, student papers, scoring sheet and the all important No. 2 pencil. And, at the end of the event, they pass out small tokens of the school district's esteem - a paperweight or clock/thermometer, maybe a vinyl bag with SCIENCE FAIR slapped on the side not quite straight.
I walked past the row of assistants, examining each face. An attractive young woman stood behind the BIOLOGY sign. We exchanged smiles. I wouldn't have been averse to discussing personal biology topics with her, but the judging would start soon. I had student papers to read, and oh yes, donuts to consume before hitting the project floor.
My stack of student papers was thicker than most. I had five projects this year, in both MATH and COMPUTER SCIENCE. I swore if I got another Fibonacci Numbers or Rubik's Cube Solver project, I'd punch my fist through the student's cardboard display. Fortunately, my five projects were much more creative, and advanced enough to strain my memory of calculus and software algorithms. I was actually pumped at reviewing these projects, but not distracted enough to ignore every young female I passed, making occasional eye contact when the chest or legs or face was pretty enough for more than a split second of undivided attention.
When I got to the MATH section, one of the projects was a no show. They get no score, and took zero minutes of my time. In the COMPUTER SCIENCE section, two projects weren't there. So, I was done much quicker than any of the other judges. I rechecked my scores and turned everything back to one of the assistants, a pimpled young man.
The young female assistant behind the BIOLOGY sign flagged me down. "Excuse me. Are you finished?"
Looking at her pretty face? Never. I straightened my tie and moseyed over. "I had three no shows. Just my luck. Their papers were quite good." I walked closer.
"Could you do me a big favor?" Her hands held out a single student paper, her arms squeezing her breasts together, making cleavage out of two modest molehills. "I had a no show judge, and this project requires one more review. Could you?"
I've performed more than my fair share of biological events, all of them involving young women. "Sure. Why not?"
Her voice was thick. "You're a sweetheart." One hand swept her hair behind an ear.
Would I get some kind of personal reward for my efforts? Best to do the judging and get back as soon as possible. "No problem."
I sat in the front row of the auditorium, munching another donut and looking up at Miss Biology more frequently than necessary. The student's paper reported the creation of artificial pheromones, the chemicals that cause attraction between males and females. Her experiments were documented with pictures, charts and graphs. One photo showed a microscope picture of two simple critters, too small to be seen with the naked eye. The next one was jam-packed full of the little buggers. This proved accelerated reproduction, but not pheromones. I readied a series of precise questions to expose this fraud.
I made my way through the aisles of projects, fantasizing about the Biology assistant. Maybe she'd have lunch with me. A spurt of white foam came across my path. I jumped to the side as a paper mache volcano threw up a combination of vinegar and baking soda.
"Sorry, sir." The junior high punk came at me with a handful of paper towels, but I waved him off.
In the next row of projects, a plain looking young lady slouched at her cardboard display. She was extremely skinny, no meat on the bones at all. Her hair was flat and greasy, with one strand draped across her forehead. She smiled. Crooked teeth to match. I turned my attention to the tri-fold display, adorned with the charts and photos from her paper. She hadn't even bothered with a backing, to make the project presentable. More lost points.
"Hello. My name is Harvey Marcus, and I'm one of your judges. Tell me about your project." Only fair to allow her to convince me that her work was legit.
She stuck out a bony hand. "Lillian Mutzman."
Her grip was loose and her hand was clammy. I wiped my palm off on my pants leg.
She recited her pitch from memory in a nasal tone. It sounded memorized, with no emotion for her work. She looked at her shoes, never at me. No eye contact, another deduction. This girl was going down in flames. Then I noticed the single capped vial in a wooden box on the table.
"Is this it?" I asked.
I had interrupted her high-pitched monaural whine. "Yes." She pointed to one of her microscope photos. "Now, this is a magnified picture of -"
"What? No tests with gerbils? Or bunnies?" As in, fucked like rabbits?
She finally looked up at me as if I'd cursed. "I haven't tried the formula on any mammals. Not even insects." Her expression of confusion, or perhaps anger, showed she wasn't used to being interrupted.
"You haven't taken even a little sniff? What does it smell like?" A reasonable question, I thought, under the circumstances.
"All of my testing was performed in sealed and sterile environments. Like I said, its not ready for human testing, just microbes and simple creatures."
Sterile? Not ready for humans? Sounded like a self-description. I folded my arms across my chest, a traditional skeptics pose. "Your paper is flawed, or inconclusive at best," I said.
Her eyes flashed daggers. Maybe there was some fire in the belly of this young woman after all. "But I established control groups, used documented procedures, made careful measurements –"
