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.
NOTE: Since I now have means to transmit directly to the net via the anon server, feedback is extremely welcome.
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
Day 3, 1127:
Sara Martin looked up in shock. She was warm, her hands, thighs and chest were wet, and she was half-dressed. It was almost time for the patient’s next readings. What had caused her to masturbate to orgasm between the 11 o’clock reading and now? Why couldn’t she remember any of it? Sara quickly fastened her uniform before somebody could catch her in her present state, and searched for some alcohol to clean and get rid of the smell on her hands before...
Dr. Jeffery Martin was on his first day at his new job. He hoped that this would signal a turn in his fortunes. It had not been a good year. First, there had been the divorce, then the morals charge in front of the State Review Board. He had been extremely lucky to find this place. The pay was good, and they didn’t care about a little thing like his revoked license. [Human Resources screwed up. Dr. Martin’s employment invited some—delicate questions from various authorities. Personnel responsible have been terminated.—AW] It was strange that they only had one patient per floor, and that there were currently only two patients in the building: the old guy with the CVA on this floor, and the guy with eye surgery two floors up. Fancy, rich research places were strange anyway. Jeffery went to see the CVA patient; word was that they were trying some kind of experimental direct-brain treatment. Jeff believed that if he got in good here, he might even be able to get his license back if it turned out to be a breakthrough. If not, there was always the possibility of a new career in research.
He entered the patient’s room. There was a slightly stocky blonde woman over by the medicine cabinet with her back to the door. “Nurse,” he began. She must not have expected him because she jumped, clearly startled, before turning around quickly and... Awww, shit. It was definitely not a good year for Dr. Jeff Martin.
Wilbur’s hips began to move, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Maria was one hot tamale! He’d never had a woman kiss his “best friend” like she was! Maria made small moaning sounds while Raul availed himself of the blackmailed woman’s cunny. It’s impolite to talk with your mouth full, Wilbur drolly thought. The woman’s warm mouth seemed like it was everywhere at once, all over his body. Wilbur began to tingle, and his pleasure increased exponentially; he knew he was almost at the end...
Jeff Martin looked down in awe at the sight of his cock disappearing into his ex-wife’s mouth. He felt huge, far bigger than he’d ever felt before! And this was the bitch who had left him because they were “sexually incompatible.” Sara lovingly fellated him; she was on her knees, running her extended tongue slowly around the head of his dick. Her eyelids were slightly lowered, but she watched his reactions to the pleasure she was giving. The lewd, erotic stare added more electricity to his pleasure. One of her hands was wrapped gently around the base of his cock. His ex-wife kept looking at him with the same libidinous expression while she moved her head and soft, pink tongue along the length of his cock. She flicked her tongue teasingly around the crown, still making explicit love to him with her eyes.
Sara wrapped her lips around the cock she held firmly with both hands. It was vital that she did this well; her life depended on it. Her mother and brothers and sisters needed the money from her maid’s job to make ends meet. Sara knew that if she didn’t please this man, she could wind up in prison. She sucked gently at the swollen organ, trying to coax more blood from other parts of the man’s body. Sara dropped her gaze, the one that would help speed a man to the finish and closed her eyes. Nothing existed except the cock and its host. She rubbed the sensitive part with her tongue and made a loud slurping noise when she released it to the air for a few seconds. Her head twisted slowly around the cock as she slowly recaptured it, leaving most of it exposed to the air. Sara clenched at it with circled fingers on both hands and rolled her wrists in opposite directions. The man would finish very soon under this kind of stimulation.
His ex-wife’s warm mouth seemed like it was everywhere at once, all over his body. Jeff began to tingle, and his pleasure increased exponentially; he knew he was almost at the end... He grunted, spilling his cum into Sara’s mouth. She continued her circular masturbation of the base and shaft, sucking at the top, her tongue only stopping when she would swallow his latest spurt. Hell fire, if she’d been this hot and nasty at home, maybe he wouldn’t have... Nahhh. Every nerve in his body went off, erasing Jeff’s capacity for thought. Sara continued her attentions, cleaning him completely, hoping she would not get fired for stealing.
“Wilbur, do you have a light for me?” Wilbur’s recollections came to a screeching halt, leaving him a woody when Lucy waved her holdered cigarette under his nose. Wilbur pulled out his matchbox, a sixteenth birthday gift from his father. Lucy held his hands to steady the flame, giving him a coy, come-hither look, trying to light something of his. Wilbur knew that it meant nothing; Lucy was quite the teaser. He and Raul would probably wind up at the Pussy Kat Klub after they had taken Lucy home. Lucy posed while she smoked, batting her eyelashes at him. Just wait ‘til the party, Wilbur thought with evil glee.
Day 3, 1533:
Dr. Moriat walked swiftly, purposefully down the empty hall that contained the subject’s room. She wrinkled her nose distastefully; someone (probably a custodian) had recently been smoking nearby, in violation of the rules. Dr. Moriat wanted to see the subject for herself, for there was one major anomaly in the data: the subject’s vital signs actually seemed to be improving. Never one to leave her fame to chance, she wanted to double-check the monitors herself to make sure that the nurses were reporting correctly, and that the equipment had actually been connected correctly.
Nurse Martin was running through the duties of her scheduled patient check. She didn’t want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary around the patient. Strange things had been happening in that room. The log had showed that she had not checked the patient at 11:30 and noon. Odder still was her inability to remember where she had been during that time. The old man seemed to do nothing but sleep now, the increased Darvon keeping him placid. She still felt nervous.
She was also worried about working on the same floor as Jeff. Her ex-husband’s appearance in the patient’s room had unnerved her greatly. Sara didn’t know which was worse, the gap in her memory or Jeffery’s presence. The door flew open, scaring the already-rattled nurse. It was her, the lady doctor in charge.
Vivienne fixed the nurse with a withering glare. “I have come to verify your reports,” she said, voice authoritative, with an edge of suspicion. Sara inwardly sighed in relief; she had copied the readings from the computer during the missed visits into the nurses’ log. Vivienne decided that the nurse looked appropriately intimidated, and walked crisply over to the monitors. “I do not believe that you are reading these correctly,” Vivienne remarked imperiously. Insulted, Sara headed towards the snotty bitch with the French accent. Dr. Moriat turned to face Sara, and wrinkled her nose. “Nurse, have you been smoking?”
Sara blinked stupidly, the question catching her off-guard. Dr. Moriat stopped writing on her notepad, and turned her full attention to Sara. Vivienne frowned. “Need I remind you that smoking is restricted to the outdoor section of the cafeteria, and that violation of that rule is grounds for dismissal? In addition, it is a vile, foul habit, and should never be practiced by a member of the health profession.” She turned away and resumed inspecting the array of health equipment. Without looking at the stunned nurse, she continued, “It is fortunate for you that we are at a critical phase in the experiment, and that finding a replacement would hamper our progress greatly.” Dr. Moriat waved dismissively at Sara. When the nurse did not move, Vivienne firmly said, “You are dismissed.”
Sara Martin walked out of the room spitting mad. Just who did the foreign bitch think she was, anyway? [Nice to know I’m not alone in my evaluation -AW] Her fucking combined degree didn’t give her the right to treat Sara like that. Sara stomped back to the nurses’ station. This had rapidly turned into a rotten day, and her nerves were totally shot. Sara looked at the clock. She had about fifteen minutes before her next scheduled visit. Grabbing her purse, she headed for the cafeteria courtyard.
Day 3, 2207:
Dr. Vivienne Moriat had a problem. It wasn’t really a problem, it was closer to a loose end. After careful checking of the equipment, including a complete internal diagnostic via computer, she had determined that everything was functioning perfectly. The subject’s vital signs had indeed improved measurably. [The nurses’ log also agreed with the computer records. However, Dr. Moriat had no way of knowing that some of those entries had been copied from the computer. No visits were unmarked, which would have indicated that they’d been missed. Therefore, there was no sign that anything abnormal had occurred.]
Wilbur Cross’ vital signs were now in the range for a fairly healthy 40-year old. But why? Vivienne knew she’d need to explain this before her work was accepted; some of her more jealous colleagues may use it as an excuse to cry about possible adverse effects. Still more odd was the fact that the subject’s vital signs seemed to improve in irregularly-timed discrete jumps. The answer, as always, was hidden in the data, but Dr. Moriat had no idea of where to start looking. She yawned. Vivienne shut the light off and massaged her temples. A nap would refresh her and allow her to think clearly again.
Day 4, 0031:
Wilbur blinked groggily, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. He no longer felt any pain, but he sure had trouble concentrating and focusing on anything. Staying awake seemed to be a major battle now. Every so often, he would feel really good, really clear-headed, but it never lasted long, and he’d go back to sleep quickly. He looked at the red-headed student nurse in his room. He caught a fading glimpse of her from the side and her profile... looked so... so... familiar... Wilbur’s eyelids drifted shut. [The amount of Darvon he was given intravenously is normally intended for short-term relief only. The increased Darvon drip had been in effect far too long. Had this been a medical situation, we would have been liable for malpractice. The medical doctor responsible for overseeing the subject’s medical care has been reprimanded and transferred. -AW]
Wilbur quietly, slowly, opened the door to his room. There she was, five-foot-two, eyes of blue, barely all of sixteen years old. Standing at the mirror, posing for some unseen admirer was Sallie Ann Cross, heart of Wilbur’s heart. [She really is darling on the VU.—AW] She was wearing a flapper’s dress, a sixteenth birthday present from Lucy. Her blonde hair cut close, Sallie mimed a Charleston in the mirror. Wilbur, who had been silent until now, snickered aloud at his sister’s obvious imitation of Lucy. That was one good thing about Lucy; she and Sallie seemed to hit it off well.
“Will!” the surprised girl exclaimed, spinning around. “It’s not nice to spy,” she said, bouncing over to the door. She stood on her tiptoes and gave her big brother a hug and peck on the cheek. “Whadja bring me for my birthday, Will?” she begged. Wilbur just grinned at his little sister and her boundless energy. “Come on, tell meee,” she whined playfully. She was so cute! Wilbur couldn’t resist kidding her.
“Mom and Dad would have a real fit if they saw you now, squirt.” It was the truth. Their parents, especially Mom, would not be at all pleased by Sallie The Flapper. But Wilbur also knew that the times were a’changin.
His sister tapped out a cigarette from the pack on Wilbur’s dresser. She lit it and took a defiant, smacking puff. “So what? I’m a newly emancipated young woman. The woman of tomorrow.” Sallie picked a few tobacco crumbs from her tongue. “Besides,” she said, dragging again, “they won’t know if you don’t tell them. Mom and Dad have gone to the Wilsons’ again. You know Mom and her mah jongg.” Sallie smiled in her pixie-like manner after Wilbur said nothing. “So whadja get me, Will?”
Wilbur presented his sister with a wrapped narrow box. She eagerly opened it, tearing the paper off. Sallie had forgotten about the cigarette, yelping as the burning end hit her fingertip. She dropped it into the nearby ashtray, then finished opening her present. The loud, girlish squeal told Wilbur that he had chosen his sister’s gift wisely. Sallie waved the ivory cigarette holder around, smiling broadly. “Oh, thank you, Will!” She pranced around the room. “Now I can be like Lucy!” Sallie exclaimed. She danced over to Wilbur’s dresser and fit a cigarette in the holder. Wilbur lit it, playing the galant for his sister, who took a long, deep drag from her newest toy. The smile on her face spoke volumes to Wilbur. She hugged her brother again, then pranced around the room a while longer. Sallie stopped in front of the mirror and posed with her cigarette. Taking another pull, she tilted her head upward and exhaled leisurely. The young girl frowned; that wasn’t quite it. She adjusted her hat, and gave a sixteen-year old’s approximation of an incendiary look. “Wilbur Cross, you’re the best brother a girl could have...”
[Nobody noticed the 43.8% jump in the amplifier output at this point. The amplifier was now operating at 43.1% of maximum.] [Danny Bolton and Gina Franchetti were again having sex in the cooling room. Both Bolton and Franchetti have been terminated. In retrospect, it probably would have been prudent to put a security camera in the cooling room.—AW]
Day 3, 0058:
Joanne Weber stood in front of the mirror in Wilbur Cross’ room, oblivious to her patient. She took a long, deep drag from her cigarette, watching herself carefully in the mirror. She ran a finger across her tongue picking at the foreign object on it, and was surprised to find that nothing came off. This odd happening faded from her thoughts almost instantly. Joanne struck another pose in the mirror and took another pull on her cigarette. She held the smoke, tilted her head upward, then exhaled leisurely. No, that wasn’t quite it, either. She sighed, still ignoring her patient.
She thought about yesterday. Joanne had returned home, upset about her liaison with the custodian, and how the urge to smoke had continued unabated. She had tried to go to bed, but was unable to sleep, feeling edgy. Despite her fatigue, she had gotten out of bed, still feeling... “odd.” She had started to watch some TV movie about a young girl who had run away from home and turned to prostitution. Joanne’s thoughts at this time had turned to how she was ever going to meet Mr. Right to take her away from all of this when she had to work the hours she did. Tired, but still restless, she had been watching the movie when one of the actresses lit a long, brown cigarette. Joanne threw on some clothes, drove to the nearby 7-11 and asked for a carton of “long, brown cigarettes.” [The poor girl says she doesn’t know why, but she felt that she had to have those particular cigarettes.] She practically ripped the carton open and smoked two before leaving the parking lot, and a third during the ride home. She reports that after having smoked, she became very calm and drowsy. Joanne went to bed at 1130 and slept soundly.
She returned to work that night, on time, and made her appointed rounds up to, and including the 0030 one. It was shortly after that visit that the urge to smoke hit her again, very strongly. She was compelled to leave the nurses’ station, go to her car, and retrieve a pack from the carton that had been left there. It was again almost time for her to check the patient, so she just went straight to Mr. Cross’ room. Where she now stood, ignorant of her original purpose for being in the room, watching herself smoke a long, brown cigarette. Joanne sighed again, still unsatisfied. Something was missing...
Day 4, 0218:
Dr. Vivienne Moriat shook her head in amazement. She had just finished analyzing the subject’s brain activity. The improvements in the subject’s vital signs seemed to correspond with the end of REM sleep periods. She glanced quickly at the current activity scan; the subject was now drifting in and out of REM. Dr. Moriat immediately grabbed her notepad and headed upstairs to see if the phenomenon would repeat itself. [She had intended to check the VU, and see what he was dreaming about after she saw this. As we know, she never made it back to her office, let alone the control center.]
Wilbur was sitting by a lake with Lucy. The “Five P” party, as they had code-named it, was going to start in a few hours. Pete Ross’ folks had already left town for the Orient, leaving Pete in charge of the family estate. Everything was being set up now. It was a beautiful late summer afternoon, but Wilbur’s thoughts were in the future. “Penny for your thoughts,” Lucy said, breaking his reverie. A few seconds later, she exclaimed, “Oh! I don’t seem to have any cigarettes with me!” and batted her eyelashes at Wilbur. The cooing, syrupy voice she used told Wilbur that this was another of Lucy’s little “tests.” She knew darn well that Wilbur only had cigars with him. She was going to prove that she could be the emancipated woman, and “one of the boys.” He offered her a cigarillo from his pouch. She accepted it, daring him to comment with her eyes. He said nothing, lighting it for her. Lucy exhaled quickly, surprised by the strength of the smoke. Wilbur’s face remained carefully neutral. If all went well in a few hours, she would definitely not be “one of the boys.” He lit a cigar for himself. “Now this is a real smoke,” Lucy cooed, still daring him to comment. He just grinned stupidly, silently reminding his “best friend” to keep quiet.
Day 4, 0235:
Dr. Moriat became furious as soon as the elevator door opened. The smell of cigarette smoke assaulted her, and she almost ran to the subject’s room, prepared to fire the night nurse immediately. She prepared herself as she approached the door to the subject’s room, sealing off any well of compassion that might save the nurse’s job. [Cold-blooded bitch, wasn’t she?—AW] Vivienne opened the door and had shouted “Nurse!” even before she realized that the room was full of smoke. She coughed at the door, then stomped toward Nurse Weber with an evil, angry expression on her face, having temporarily forgotten about the subject. By the time she got to Joanne, who was still watching herself in smoke front of the mirror, Dr. Moriat’s steps had slowed, and her facial expression had changed. [As well as had her entire demeanor; it’s quite evident, even on the security video.—AW]
“Oh! I don’t have any cigarettes with me,” Dr. Vivienne Moriat cooed, batting her eyelashes at Joanne. The night nurse offered her one. She accepted it, daring her to comment with her eyes. Joanne said nothing, and lit it for the doctor. Vivienne exhaled quickly, surprised by the strength of the smoke. She cast defiant glances at Joanne while she smoked. Joanne’s face remained carefully neutral. After a while, Joanne ignored her, and returned to her contemplation of herself in the mirror. Joanne studied her own reflection; no matter how hard she tried, something was wrong with her pose. Something was still missing.
Vivienne Moriat removed another cigarette from the pack, but not before casting an irritated glance at the self-preoccupied Joanne for not offering. She lit it herself, peeved at being ignored by her partner. It felt so right, the cylinder between her fingers, the sucking action. A toss of the head, a purse of the lips and—exhale. Dr. Moriat looked at her cigarette for a moment. It was brown, but she needed a real smoke. Just like one of the boys.
Wilbur awakened and snapped to an amazing lucidity almost instantly. Smoke was thick in the room, and he panicked, thinking that the building was on fire and he had been left to burn. He moved his head, and then saw both Joanne Weber and Dr. Moriat standing at the mirror, smoking. The sight of the newcomer’s posture, short, dark hair and slim physique broke a piece of his earlier dream off to float to the surface of his thoughts. Wilbur Cross’ first word in two weeks was “Lucy.” [At this point, the output amplifier level was 52% of design maximum, and rising. Still, no one noticed. Joanne and Dr. Moriat were apparently trapped in Wilbur’s dream world, and the monitoring technicians were not available.] [We think they were napping after having played rabbits in the cooling room.—AW]
Day 4, 0451:
Dr. Moriat and Nurse Weber left the room, Joanne’s entire pack of cigarettes gone in less than three hours. The powerful craving lingered, for the women left the building and went to the parking lot. Joanne simply retrieved another pack of cigarettes and returned; Dr. Moriat did not. [She did not return for several hours. Apparently, she was continuing to act as “Lucy.” She does not remember a thing. We’ve managed to determine from her Visa bill that she went to the nearest major city, and visited a tobacconist. That cleared up the mystery of the cigars.]
Day 4, 0719:
The third floor was deserted, as well as the rest of the clinic building. [With the exception of JB1714 from the fifth floor. He had managed to make it out of his room, but his blindness kept him from finding the elevator.—AW] All the clinic workers were smoking in the cafeteria courtyard, and boisterous conversation seemed to be the rule. Gina Franchetti was the center of attention, wiggling flirtatiously between groups of security men, custodial workers and doctors. [We ought to consider installing a security camera in the courtyard. We were only able to piece this much together after having interviewed several dozen of the people present at the time.] Nobody was in the control room to see that the output amplifier was still gaining power. It was now at 94 percent of design maximum. And increasing.
Day 4, 0741:
Wilbur called for a nurse. His voice was back, although his paralysis remained. It had become easier to stay awake now; he had been conscious and alert since 0544. [Determined via transcript record.] This was the best he’d felt since the stroke. He had been calling for help for almost two hours, and was beginning to get frustrated that nobody seemed to be paying attention. He struggled to reach the call button, but his body wouldn’t work. He wanted some questions answered about these danged needles in his head, and now that he could talk, he was in no mood to wait. The effort of trying to reach the call button and continually calling had made him hoarse, so he relaxed, trying to work up some saliva. In the instant he stopped concentrating on getting someone’s attention, he felt the slight giddiness of the dope creep into his thoughts. Oh, hell. I’m goin’ back... backto... s-s-sleep... a-gain...
Day 4, 0746:
An alarm sounded in the empty control room. Dr. Moriat’s output amplifier was operating at over 100% of its design capacity. The digits on the computer readout continued their silent, unobserved march.
Day 4, 0828:
Wilbur walked over to Pete Ross. “Think it’ll work?” Pete asked hesitantly. Wilbur nodded confidently. He’d seen first hand what Jambo’s “Purple Passion” could do. As long as the men didn’t drink the ladies’ punch, and stuck to the “Panther Piss” that Jambo had supplied for them, it would be great. The young, well-to-do gentlemen of the town had all met at the Pussy Kat Klub one night, frustrated with the teasing and petting of the young, well-to-do, newly emancipated women. Since only a couple of said ladies would set foot in Jambo’s Snakepit, the men decided to bring Jambo’s Purple Passion to the ladies.
The set-up had been quite simple, really. The Ross estate was large enough for each of the twenty or so couples to have privacy, and Pete’s parents were going to the Orient for a month. Invitations had been sent in the form of two glasses with the recipient’s name on them. The young men had then ordered two batches of punch from Jambo, who had been very happy to oblige when he saw the “donation” they had managed to collect for him. The two barrels delivered were clearly labeled: Panther Piss for the guys, and Purple Passion for the gals. The bartenders had been instructed not to serve the other stuff to the other sex, under penalty of death. The bartenders’ laughter had died when they realized that none of the young men had cracked as much as a grin. The women had been persuaded that both barrels were identical; once poured, they looked the same. It was only a matter of time...
Lucy came over to Wilbur and Pete on slightly unsteady legs. Both men raised their eyebrows, and Pete said, “23-skiddoo,” very quietly.
“Guess who I invited as my guest, Willy-nilly?” Lucy cooed, leaning on Wilbur for support. Jiminy Christmas, he hated that nickname. Pete grinned, and left the pair alone. “I sent my driver for her, too.”
“Who, Lucy-wucy?” Wilbur asked, using the pet name that she thought was so cute, but made him gag. Before Lucy could reply, he heard his name called. The voice was extremely familiar, and Wilbur’s heart dropped into his feet. No, not her. Not here. Not tonight.
Sallie Cross, all sixteen years and three days of her, beamed at her brother from across the room. She held Lucy’s second glass in one hand, and an ivory cigarette holder in the other. Sallie drained the glass and grinned, before turning and getting it refilled. “I told your parents that Sallie and I would be playing mah jongg tonight,” Lucy said. Her legs were having increasing difficulty supporting her. “She’s an emancipated modern woman. Just look at her, Will.” Wilbur ached inside. There was no way he’d be able to get Sallie out without her getting upset, raising a ruckus, and spilling the beans. Wilbur knew how grown-up Sallie felt now, especially since she had been treated like an equal by Lucy, her idol. He shook his head, covering his pain with a weak smile. Well, squirt, you wanted to be a modern woman...