Being a genetic scientist wasn't without its perks. Four full-time assistants, plush offices and let's not forget the new Lexus drop-top. They had head-hunted him from the Brewer Pharmaceutical Corporation the previous Fall, with the lure of new state-of-the-art laboratory equipment and the type of bottomless funding, only Government Agencies seem to have access to.
"Dr James Wilson - Senior Geneticist" proclaimed the somewhat ostentatious plaque residing at eye level on the door to his office. Using his swipe card, Dr Wilson gained access to his inner sanctum closing the door behind him as he had done two hundred and twenty three times already this year.
Drawing up the leather high-back, he glanced across at the framed photograph on the right of the expansive desk. Denise Wilson and daughter Melody posed there happily on the ski-lift at Aspen. Not a care in the world registered in their expressions - though why would they have any, when James was trucking-in more than two-hundred thou every year.
He smiled at the irony of so seemingly happy a picture.
Not six months since his wife kicked him out of the matrimonial bedroom and Melody's only conversation with her father was when she needed him to pay for repairs to the Viper or whatever bills had accrued at the stables. Just eighteen and she had her mother's bitchiness down pat, with every indication of surpassing her in that regard.
Little wonder he had immersed himself in his research. Molecular structures, DNA helixes and amino acids neither spent his money or undermined his self-esteem. Unlike his wife, they allowed him to do what he liked with them!
He gazed at the small vial on the left of his desk. Containing some one-fifty cc of colorless liquid, it was part of a flask containing the bulk of the serum he and his staff had prepared the previous day and which now was locked securely away in the adjoining laboratory cool-room.
Doctor Wilson had spent the last six months working on genetic ovarian disorders and associated infertility problems, commissioned on behalf of the State Medical Board. His work in principle was to study the effects of chromosomal abnormalities and to chemically engineer a re-agent that might artificially increase FSH (follicle-stimulating hormone) levels. Without invoking an excess of medical terminology here, let it simply be stated that Doctor Wilson discovered that the controlled introduction of clomiphene citrate into a previously unfertile ovum not only significantly raised localised FSH levels but had led to a physiological change in the cellular structure itself that appeared to render the oocyte (egg) now fully fertile. Pretty much the equivalent of a moon-landing in layman's terms!
It was certainly reason enough to stop-by Oscar's bar on the way home. If he didn't deserve a martini for his efforts- who did?
"Better take the vial, just to be on the safe side," he reasoned, and thus scooping it up, placed it carefully inside the zip-pouch in his document case.
Selecting a private booth at the far end of Oscar's, he was barely into his second dry martini, when a young woman surely no more than eighteen or nineteen, sitting alone in the booth next to him, turned around and asked if he had a light. Even in the ten seconds or so it took him to apologise, telling her he didn't smoke, he noticed the somewhat attractive girl's dilated pupils, unhealthy pallor and generally agitated state. Either 'Crack' or 'Speed' he figured.
At that moment his cell rang. It was Denise. Depressing the call button, all he could make out was garbled static. Having by necessity to make it to the sidewalk to engender a better degree of reception, it was hardly worth the effort. Other than demanding to know where he was and when he'd be home, she had nothing to say. Flipping the lid of the cell, he smiled wryly to himself. A passing shower was creating artistic patterns against the far street light as the scarcely dampening rain appeared to fall in slow motion.
Not ten feet from the booth and his peristaltic rate hit overdrive. No longer was his document case resident on the seat where he had left it momentarily. Equally unattended was the adjoining booth he noted. Looking around wildly - there was no trace of either the case or Miss quick-fix. Other patrons, fully engaged in conversation, their alcoholic support, or blissful daydreams...had seen nothing. The barman "thought" he might have seen the girl leaving from the rear entrance carrying 'something' but he couldn't be sure.
Exiting the fire-door, he found himself in a dingy alleyway littered with trash-cans and piles of rubbish. Half-expecting to come across Steven Seagal kicking the bejesus out of some street gang, he almost suffered cardiac arrest when a monstrous stray cat hissed at him from atop a dumpster.
The drizzle had pretty much subsided although the walkway was still slippery and the general atmosphere of his surroundings something less than enervating. Up ahead just inside a dank and unlit doorway he caught sight of some movement.
Drawing level with the niche, all he could see was a pair of slim calves, patent black leather girl's shoes and the barest hint of what looked like a cerise colored skirt. It was enough. He had seen them before.
Even as he inclined his head towards the doorway he heard a muffled "Ohh, UNREAL!"
Someone a couple of floors up switched on their bedroom light. It was enough to penetrate the girl's place of concealment. His document case lay there, forced open on the top step, while the girl lay slumped almost provocatively against the weather-beaten door that looked as if it hadn't been opened since Mrs O'Leary's cow had showed its distaste for lanterns. Beside her lay one of his syringes - and an empty small glass vial.
"Jesus girl...what have you done?" he muttered, leaning over her. From what he could see, she didn't look to be suffering any physically noticeable ill-effects at this stage.
"Needed a high," she giggled, "What IS that stuff anyway?"
"Nothing that's gonna get you high young lady," he replied, regathering his possessions swiftly.
"Oh I don't know," she giggled even louder, "Would you like to kiss me?"
The light was just sufficient to let him re-acquaint his eyes with what he had already seen in the bar. Nice fitting top which advertised more than it concealed. Slim hips and sculptured legs exiting that tight little skirt that are strictly the domain of teenage girls. If anything her face was prettier than on last inspection and those lightly glossed lips definitely an improvement on Denise's early seventies vintage. What cretin wouldn't want to take up such an offer?
He inclined his head to kiss her but was totally unprepared for the ensuing physical assault.
One arm around his neck and the other grasping at his jacket, she pulled him to her with such intent that he fell prostrate across her. Not that this was any great hardship, the sensation of her firm young breasts up against his chest could even have been described as vaguely pleasurable.
Her mouth sought his own like a tigress.
"Fuck me....please fuck me," she more or less begged, spreading her legs beneath him to the extent that particular skirt allowed. He felt her trying to tug the hem up with one hand even as she wailed her desire.
Breaking off the kiss, he managed to evade her clutches and stood up panting...half with exertion and half with enforced arousal himself.
"Best you go home miss," he stammered, not wanting to play the lead in a protracted rape case. "This is hardly the neighborhood for a young girl to be hanging out in at this time of night.
"Oh please....you have to fuck me," she was half sobbing, her skirt now crumpled indecently up around her hips. He was unable to wrench his eyes from her right hand, up now between her legs and rubbing her pussy hard through those rather skimpy light blue briefs. Spreading her legs wider than ever. She suddenly held her panties to one side.
"Do you think I'm sexy?" she pleaded, exposing her teenage cleft to his gaze, surrounded as it was by trimmed, yet obviously moist, light brown pubic hair. She brought the other hand up between her legs now pushing an index finger deep inside her vagina as he stared dry-mouthed at the unfolding scene..
This had to be a side-effect of the serum he pondered - uncontrolled sexual arousal. Perhaps some brief field-research was indicated here.
"You have a name sweetheart?" he asked her
"Julie," she whimpered, her hips beginning to wriggle suggestively on the step as she continued to finger herself deeply. "Oh please mister, fuck me, I need it badly, you have to do it to me."
So obscenely spread was the girl, that he could see her vagina was lubricated in the extreme, juices running down her fingers in rivulets. "On heat" did not adequately cover the situation he saw before him.
"Show me your breasts Julie and I'll think about it?" he whispered softly.
In less time than it would take to order a Big Mac with fries, the girl pulled her top up and wriggled out of it. It wasn't a warm night either he noted. Seizing her bra straps she then pulled them down her shoulders exposing both breasts to his not disinterested gaze.
Staring at those most beautiful mounds, much the same size as his own daughter's he chastised himself for imagining, her pretty nipples stood out, the proudest of sentinels on night duty.
"Come on, I've shown you my tits...now fuck me would you? I just can't wait much longer." As she spoke, she re-commenced fingering herself wildly.
"One last request Julie," he could barely bring himself to utter the words... "take your clothes off and get down on all fours for me."
Not even bothering to check whether anyone was coming, the girl stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the ground. Slipping both hands inside the waistband of her panties she wriggled out of them, kicking off her shoes in the process. Completely naked now, she gingerly descended the four stone steps and kneeling in the laneway, seemingly oblivious to the puddles of water, wriggled her teenage butt at him as she got down in as compromising a position as ever a girl can be.
Assuring himself there was no likelihood of imminent discovery, he knelt behind her, only then realising that beneath his own trousers was a caged serpent of hitherto unexperienced solidarity.
Foreplay was not on the agenda. She wanted to be fucked and that's precisely what he did to her.
Had "Sixty Minutes" been in the vicinity, they would have picked up the exclusive of the decade...perhaps the century! That no-one came along was just good fortune. Reaching a shared orgasm in something less than ninety seconds he wasn't even surprised when whimpering with lust almost, she got down on her forearms and presented her curvy rear-end as the designated target for the second-wave assault.
Despite never having had any inclination for the 'alternative channel' he acquitted himself admirably in filling her back-up portal while she gasped and wriggled in obvious pleasure, mud and dirt from the road adorning her legs and arms by this stage.
To his eternal disbelief, the girl then turned around, splaying herself lewdly on her back mid lane-way, pleading with him to fuck her again. So wide were her legs, an Indian elephant would have been in there with a chance.
Unable at this juncture to be physically capable of continuing the treatment, however pleasant the prospect, he ignored her pitiful demands and moved across to the sidewalk with the intention of retrieving the girl's clothes.
