This story Copyright ©, 1993 by the Flying Pen. Redistribution via electronic means as well as a single hard copy is permitted, as long as 1) this message is included; 2) the text is not altered in any way, and 3) no financial gain is incurred from its redistribution.
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WARNING: This story contains sex between (mostly) adults, and lots of “filler.” It is part of a work inspired by another author’s stories (thanks -Blackie!) The “filler” is extremely important to the story, and you will find yourself without a clue if you skip it. Should you find this and “dirty” words offensive, then please do yourself a favor and skip this article.
Tales of The Institute WC0006, Wilbur Cross
MEMO: WARNING: Classified Level 5
TO: Dr. Richard Malthus, Chair, Research and Development
FROM: Dr. Ann Weston, Chair, Psychomechanical Research
DATE: August, 1983
RE: Project PM46X—Subject: Wilbur Cross, WC0006 STATUS: FAILED
Dick,As promised, here is the detailed report on the incident involving device PM46X, the Carter-Moriat Mental Projector. We have had just an awful time in picking up the pieces here; fortunately, we have determined that the effects were localized to the clinic, and did not affect the administration, barracks or any of the surrounding communities. This report is a combination of interviews, the condensation of all video records, and the projector transcript until it was taken off-line. The participants were asked in the interview what they were thinking at certain times, in order to determine if the projector transcript had been contaminated with leakage. After careful review, it has been found that this is indeed true; curiously, Dr. Moriat’s thoughts seem to have contaminated the transcript the most. My post-mortem comments are bracketed. However, this memo contains my—personal observations that are to be deleted from the “official” record. As usual, our damned tech writers insist on the narrative form, but since we have so much information from sources other than the subject, the narrative may appear omniscient at times.
*** THIS DOCUMENT REQUIRES LEVEL 5 SECURITY CLEARANCE TO PROCEED ***
Subject background and selection criteria:
Mr. Cross was 78 at the time of the experiment. Eleven days prior he had suffered a debilitating CVA, resulting in right side paralysis, loss of speech, and left side weakness. Paradoxically, this made him a perfect subject. His impairment allowed us to test our concerns about the ability of Dr. Moriat’s output amplifier to give a strong enough signal for any practical application. His condition made him expendable with respect to our experimental subject pool. He was prepared for Dr. Carter’s technique without incident.
Day 0:
[The surgery to connect the projector probes went very well. Incredibly so, I would say. Although the project itself is officially declared a failure, Dr. Carter’s technique holds promise for invasive debriefing methods. The subject survived the surgery with excellent vital signs. He remained unconscious for an indeterminate time. Due to a monitoring error, we have no way of determining exactly when he regained consciousness.] [See file JB1714, “The Hypnotic Eye.” Security responsible have been terminated. -AW]
Day 1, 0930:
[The device seemed to be functioning, but there was no transcript output. After Drs. Carter, Moriat, and myself discussed this with the rest of the project team, it was decided to increase the output 15%. This did have some effect, and we began to get some projections from the subject.]
Nurse Sara Martin was performing yet another of her half-hourly checks on her lone patient. She felt funny, because the old man’s eyes seemed to follow her whenever she was in the room. She got the distinct impression that he was leering at her. She was safe, of course. He was paralyzed, underneath an oxygen tent with those horrible wires connected through his skull. She suppressed a small shudder as she left.
Wilbur Cross watched her leave. He was a tired old man, in pain, and his body had finally betrayed him completely. If only I was a young man again... That blonde nurse, so pretty, the green eyes, reminds me of... damn... her name... the stocky physique... that was OK, most women these days are too danged skinny anyhow, like that night nurse. The pain renewed its attack on his thoughts. The nurse will be back in a bit, he tried to tell it. I just wish I could communicate with ‘em, and tell ‘em that I need more dope. What he wouldn’t give to have a bottle of Ol’ Panther Piss now... Damn, he wished...
[This segment of the transcript is garbled. We continued to have uplink problems with the amplifier. After I met with the Carter-Moriat (CM) team, I gave permission to increase the output by only 5%, contrary to the wishes of Dr. Moriat. She wanted to increase by at least 50%. The subject’s vital signs showed some destabilization, but not to a critical level.]
Day 1, 2334:
When Wilbur regained consciousness, the pain was there to greet him, threatening to overwhelm his senses. The night nurse (she looked real young; too young) was studying his monitors carefully. Wilbur gathered up all his strength, and screamed as best he could at her, to tell her how much pain he was in. No sound came out. Ever since the stroke, he hadn’t been able to speak, or make hardly any noise. The scream echoed around his skull, augmenting the constant pain, and blocking every other sense.
Joanne Weber looked up, startled. She could have sworn that she heard a scream. She looked at the old guy in the oxygen tent. He looked like he always did, but she suppressed a shudder anyway. He gave her the creeps. She hated this job. If only she hadn’t partied so much in school, she wouldn’t have had to take it, and could have been a real nurse. She tried to console herself with the thought that at least the pay was great, even if the hours do suck (8 at night to 8 a.m.) Besides, she only had this one patient, it wasn’t like she was constantly on the go. Joanne left the room in a hurry.
Wilbur was startled, too. He saw the young, slender (a bit too skinny for his tastes—if I had any tastes left, he thought bitterly) red-head look up from her studious (I got a damn student nurse!) contemplation of his monitors as if she had suddenly heard something loud. She left the room before he could gather the strength to try again. Wilbur intended to try again, but the night nurse never reappeared. [This is contrary to instructions, but no disciplinary action will be taken. I feel sorry for the poor girl.—AW]
Day 2, various times between 0800 and 2000:
[Dr. Carter and I had left for the UCLA symposium the morning of day 2. In our absence, Dr. Moriat was in charge of the project. This seems to have been a grave miscalculation on our part, for she made some unilateral decisions that seem to be the most proximate cause of the disaster.]
Wilbur was still in pain, and the effort of remaining conscious became a larger and larger burden. The stocky blonde nurse would look at his monitors, write down the information, and then leave. The only people he ever saw other than her were the orderly who cleaned the room and the red-headed student nurse. He wished they’d figure out how to make those needles in his head stop the pain. [This seems to be the gist of the transcript for day 2, the words “pain” and “sleep” comprising approximately 58% of the words therein.]
Day 3, approximately 0150:
Dr. Vivienne Moriat was not happy. She looked at the computer readout for the thousandth time. It showed that the amplifier was only capturing at most 30% of the output from Mr. Cross’ brain. She pondered her options; at that rate, her device would be considered a limited success, with no practical application. That would prove her former colleagues in Paris had been correct; she would be called a failure, instead of the insightful genius she truly was.
Vivienne ran her hand through her jet-black hair. At age 40, she appeared ten years younger; a rigorous combination of diet and exercise kept her feeling young and enabled her to work the long hours her profession demanded without strain. If it weren’t for the fact that she wore frumpy black glasses, she could easily be considered quite attractive, with very soft green eyes that appeared gray under certain light, and a sharp, very individual, but striking face. The glasses were a concession she had made early in her career; it discouraged her more—glandularly-driven colleagues from unprofessional behavior.
She tapped impatiently on the video uplink (VU) console. One of these days, she would find a faster image enhancement algorithm. Finally, a heavily digitized view from 7:30 that morning appeared. Damn. She had had a hard enough time convincing that Weston bitch [Well, she certainly got her just desserts-AW] to increase the output enough to bring the VU online, but that piddling 5% didn’t do a damned thing for image quality. Now Weston was gone, Carter was gone, and they wouldn’t be back for at least two more days...
Dr. Moriat went to the project control center. No one was there. She had known all along that having a male/female tech pair assigned to the third shift was going to be trouble. Ironically, it now worked to her advantage that the moans coming from the cooling room next door were almost drowned out completely by the din of the equipment. Nobody was going to be around to ask questions. Vivienne doubled the VU sampling rate, which caused the projector to fail completely. [The additional power drain interfered with amplification of the primary signal. This would explain the 2 minute, 28.15 second gap in the transcript at this point.]
She increased the output level by seventy percent. Vivienne felt that she was leaving plenty of headroom to account for the subject’s weakened condition. [The amplifier itself was operating far below capacity. She could have trebled it and been well within maximum design capacity.] The annoying delay counter popped up on the screen, reading 3:02:17 until the power increase was complete. Dr. Carter had insisted on this as a fail-safe, in case any unanticipated side effects warranted shut down. He was being a fool; there could be no side effects. Dr. Vivienne Moriat left the room smiling, just three hours away from her greatest achievement. It was time to get some sleep. Soon there would be a cornucopia of data to be analyzed.
Day 3, 0522:
Nurse Weber sat bolt upright, awakened by the constant sound of screaming. She had dozed off while reading an Anne Rice novel. It had to be the old man. She ran down the hall and burst into his room screaming at him, “What’s wrong???!!! What’s wrong???? Please stop screaming, Mr. Cross!!!” Joanne hated this job. She was alone at five in the morning with a hysterical patient and the doctors would not arrive until 8 a.m. [Economies -AW] Her heart stopped when she looked at her patient. His eyes were open, but he hadn’t moved from the position he maintained most of the time. Wilbur’s mouth twitched. It was clear that he wasn’t screaming but why did she hear screaming and why wouldn’t it stop in her head and she wanted togetawaybecauseit wouldn’t stopandshewasgoingcrazy...
“PAIN!” Wilbur thought at her. “Help me with the pain...” He looked at the poor girl, who was cowering in the middle of the room, with her hands over her ears. He didn’t know why she was acting like there was a loud noise in the room, but he desperately wanted her to stay and do something, not run away as she had earlier.
“PAIN... Help... me... pain...” Joanne blinked as the words hit her with a near-physical presence. She staggered backwards at the impact, then she automatically walked over and increased the Demerol I-V drip with a steady, practiced hand. A few seconds later, the screaming stopped, and Joanne staggered to the door. She paused, wobbling on her feet, then collapsed to the floor, blissfully unconscious.
Wilbur wanted to help the young lady, to wake her up (please don’t let her be hurt). He hadn’t meant to hurt her, he only wanted to communicate and make her stop the pain. He had been in so much pain, but now it was better. The pain receded quickly, chased by the increased anesthetic. Wilbur no longer felt it after a while. In fact, he was feelin’ pretty darned good. After about three minutes, [determined via transcript record] he no longer felt so good, just sleepy. He drifted into a deep slumber rather quickly, with an extended period of REM sleep.
Day 3, 0638:
Joanne blinked sleepily, stunned and still woozy from—whatever it was. She got up and stood shakily, looking around the blurry room. Everything came back into focus when she saw the oxygen tent, and she snapped back to full awareness. Nurse Weber checked the patient; he was sleeping, and his vital signs had improved since her last reading at 5... It was 6:38! The noise of the custodian’s push cart told her that she was no longer alone in the ward, and had better regain herself and act her professional part. She composed herself and hastily left the room.
Jose Aguilar was making his first rounds of the day when the gorgeous red-headed nurse almost ran into him coming out of the patient’s room. She looked startled, almost frightened. There was a small bruise growing under one of her eyes. “What’s the matter? Can I help?” he offered, putting on his best concerned act. He had always wanted to fuck this nurse and figured that this might be the chance he was waiting for to “thaw the fucking ice bitch.” [Colorful expression, that-AW] Nurse Weber regained her composure and explained that she had slipped on the floor. She asked Jose to clean up any spot she had made. They entered the room together, so that she could show him where she had fallen.
Wilbur was having a very vivid dream about one of his escapades during the Roaring Twenties, when he was a young man, maybe 20 or so. [Dick—You absolutely must see the VU from this dream! Dr. Moriat’s device certainly performed as advertised! Security won’t let it out of the Administration building, so you’ll just have to watch it next time you’re here. With me. -AW] He was riding in the back of the family limousine with Ellen James, a fine young filly with blonde hair. They’d just left Jambo’s Snakepit, where Ellen had partaken quite liberally of Jambo’s “Purple Passion.” Jambo claimed that it was some voodoo stuff, and had been very insulted when Wilbur once suggested that it was just plain old Spanish fly. Whatever, Ellen could hardly keep her clothes on once they were in the car. Wilbur told Raul, the driver (and his closest confidant among the family’s servants), to take the extra-scenic route to her house. Ellen wriggled out of her flapper’s dress with incredible speed and pulled out his pecker in nothing flat. She virtually attacked him, stuffing herself full of Wilbur’s “best friend” before they had managed to get more than a block away from the Snakepit.
Joanne was panting loudly. “Come-on-FUCK-meee,” she growled at Jose. She was bent over the back of a chair. Jose’s hips made sharp, violent thrusts, driving his cock into her as hard as he could, and Joanne made a guttural moan each time Jose’s thighs would slap loudly against her butt cheeks. “Yes!!!” she hissed nastily, totally possessed by irrational lust.
Jose grunted with each thrust, pounding at the pussy he never thought he’d get. The stuck-up nurse felt so fine inside! This was prime quality, Grade AAA shit! Her cunt grabbed at him with every move he made as if it didn’t want to let him go. The ice bitch had not only thawed, she had melted completely, urging him to fuck her harder. He had no idea why the nurse had gone into this incredible heat, but Jose didn’t stop to think or ask questions; he was gonna fuck her like she needed. Joanne, (yeah, that was her name) had simply bent over to point out where she had fallen. When she stood up, she looked kind of—weird, and staggered over to the chair, leaning heavily on it. He went over to help her, and she had just looked at him like he was a piece of raw meat, dropped her uniform in about five seconds, and grabbed at his crotch. She took off his pants in a frenzy and positioned herself standing over his rock hard dick. He doesn’t remember how he got hard, but he’s pretty sure that the nurse didn’t stimulate him beforehand. [Mr. Aguilar’s recollections were obtained second-hand from another janitorial worker. Due to his condition, we were unable to interview him during the investigation.]
“FUCK-me!” Joanne complained. She drove her hips back at him with ferocity, but the cock inside her never reached the itch she felt, the itch that she needed scratched. She felt so incredibly hot, she just had to be screwed, hard, fast and as long as it took, wanting only the biggest, thickest cock she could find. “C’mon... DO me!” she gasped, sensing only the organ lodged within her wet, slick, itching tunnel. The man behind her (Jo-something... Jos... Will?) grabbed her hips and jabbed at her with violent, almost angry determination. “YES!!!” she grunted. “FUCK-me!!!” Joanne urged, her voice a barely civilized growl. That’s what she needed, and she greedily urged him on, using him to satisfy her innermost craving. She shut her eyes, concentrating on finding the tickling sensation inside her pussy. She wiggled her hips, trying to move the itch to the wonderful cock, seizing the cock inside her controlling it vibrating her and her tongue lolled out of her mouth and her eyes rolledupintoherheadandhernamewasEllen...
Ellen fingered her swollen clit as she rode Wilbur in the car, scratching at his chest as the young black-haired man pumped at her from beneath. Shock waves wracked her body, and Wilbur’s world stopped for an eternal instant. Wilbur’s log bust inside her, spewing thick, hot lava in intermittent eruptions, bathing her most secret treasures...
Jose grunted with joy as his dick sizzled every few seconds inside Joanne’s spasming cunt. Ellen screamed as Joanne’s head tossed in rapture, the inner itch being bathed in soothing warm cream, sooo goood... yesss, sooo gooood...
WIlbur pulled out of Ellen, his retreating soldier drenched in the copious essences of their mingled passion. The blonde woman slid slowly against him, cooing softly as the car stopped. “Accident, Mr. Cross,” Raul said through the window. She jumped, shocked at the servant seeing her in her present state.
Joanne turned and yelped in shock at the custodian. She had obviously done it with the lower-class worker. He raised his hands defensively, saying, “Hey, don’ do nuthin’, you attacked me, ‘member?” She gaped at him while she tried to remember. Her orgasm had fogged her mind, making it hard to think. Jose hitched his pants quickly, preparing to make a run for it.
“I think we just had sex,” Joanne said, in a tiny, awestruck voice. Jose froze, perplexed. “I-I-I, oh God!” she exclaimed. “Ummm... ummm... Please, I don’t think we should say anything to anybody about this,” she panicked, “We’ll both get fired.” Jose concurred, since he had gotten what he wanted, but no piece of ass was worth unemployment. If she was going to keep it quiet, so was he. [I have decided to forego disciplinary action against these two. Please respect my judgment -AW]
Joanne watched the custodian leave. At least he wasn’t too revolting. She checked the monitors and the old guy; it was almost 8, time for her to get home, and she could forget about this godawful night. She paused, assaulted by a feeling she hadn’t had since high school. Joanne wanted a cigarette.
Wilbur held the now-calm blonde around her soft waist, as she leaned against him, smoking a cigarette in her turquoise-studded cigarette holder. Ellen would hold the smoke a long time before exhaling. Wilbur thought briefly about taking Ellen to the Purple Passion Panther Piss Prohibition Party, but he was goin’ with Lucy Hall ‘cause her folks had more money, and his daddy insisted. But Ellen was a mighty fine girl, yep, mighty fine.
Day 3, 0930:
Vivienne Moriat was ecstatic. The device had functioned perfectly, returning clear, sharp images on the VU, and a complete transcription. The subject was alive, healthy, and there was a ton of data to evaluate. She grabbed herself another cup of coffee before heading to her office. There was work to be done.
Day 3, 1030:
Sara Martin checked her patient. The 33-year old divorcee had read with interest the night nurse’s notes. For a flighty kid, she had done OK in adjusting the anesthetic. The patient seemed to be sleeping much better and his vital signs had actually improved. Maybe those wires and needles in his skull were beginning to work. Sara looked at the old man carefully one last time, then left the room without her usual shudder. If she hadn’t known better, she could have sworn the old man was smiling...
Wilbur was at the Hootchie-Koo Club, dancing the Charleston with Lucy Hall. Lucy’s brown hair danced with her, despite the short, stylish cut. He had given Ellen the bad news about the party a little while ago. The vivacious blonde didn’t seem at all offended, except that she hadn’t known about the party. She promised Wilbur she’d be there, and that she’d be tactful around Lucy. I should marry that woman instead, he had thought. As the music ended, Lucy and Wilbur left the floor, thirsty as all get-out. “Fred!!! Some more o’that grape juice y’got for Lucy n’ me!” Wilbur called once within eyeshot of the bar.
Fred, a large, genial man queried, “The good stuff or the good stuff?” as he pulled two martini glasses from behind the bar.
“I want the good stuff, Fred,” Lucy Hall had replied. Wilbur looked at his date, a regular spitfire of a woman. She was a little more slender than Ellen, but just as pretty in her own way. Like Ellen, Lucy had taken a liking to Wilbur, but Lucy had one advantage: her father was W. Creston Hall, founder and owner of Hall’s Department Store. The additional social (and financial) stature was not lost on Wilbur’s parents, especially his father.
Lucy smoked and drank with the boys, much to the horror of her mother. Creston liked Wilbur, though, and both her parents fervently hoped that Wilbur could settle Lucy down. It might be possible, Wilbur thought, except that Lucy didn’t quite ever go as far as Ellen had. Lucy was a little stuck up, too, treating Raul like some servant, instead of the valued friend he was, and refusing to go to Jambo’s place “because he’s not—one of us.” That didn’t exactly set right with Wilbur. Jambo sure knew how to throw a do, and Raul...
Hell fire, Raul and Wilbur had been through a whole lot together. Like the time Wilbur, on a dare, foolishly decided to do some rumrunning. If Raul hadn’t showed up when he did, Wilbur would most likely be dead. And then there was the time...
Maria was a maid at the Cross residence. She was a young woman, about 21 or 22, from the wrong side of the tracks. Wilbur’s mom, always a do-gooder (she supported Prohibition, for heaven’s sake) hired her. Unfortunately, Maria had a mild case of sticky fingers. Raul found out and told Wilbur before he told anyone else in the house. He also told Wilbur about a great plan he had. One night, Raul was driving Maria home, supposedly on his way out with Wilbur, who rode alone in the back seat. Raul drove into the desert, where the two men confronted her. Of course she begged not to be fired and/or turned in. As the maid closed her mouth on Raul’s private parts, Wilbur was doing a little driving home of his own...