Part One: Organ Grinder
“As you can see, once administered, the serum effectively rewires the brain’s reward system almost immediately, ending one’s addictive impulses.” Milton was quite proud of his performance so far; he had practiced this part in front of his mirror repeatedly. Based on the lab rats’ reaction, they demonstrated a clear aversion to the drugs that once held them in the grip of their various addictions. Clear proof that he deserved that doctorate the university had dangled in front of him for the last several years.
“And you have verified this result through how many experiments?” His academic adviser, one Dr. Christine Busby, was being her usual brusque self. All business, all the time.
‘Usually,’ he thought to himself in reply. “Twenty two times, all with the same result, the only variable was in the potency via the amount of the dosage, which seems to determine how long the ‘rewire’ phase takes to complete.” He had practiced this part of his speech also.
Dr. Busby shook her head, which caused her shoulder length, blonde locks to swish about her neck. “Watch your verbiage, if this ever gets to actual trials how its described will frame how the public thinks of it. Saying you have the means to rewire a person’s brain could thrill people or scare the pants off them. Have you tested for any other behavioral changes?”
He had expected that question but did not bring the paperwork with him into the monitoring station. He stared at the computer displays for a moment, watching the rats barely move about in their near fugue state. Christine, he liked to refer to Dr. Busby as Christine in his mind, had yet to notice the listlessness in the rats in the maze. The control group was all squeaking around, high as kites; his rats (as he liked to think of the ones under the influence of his serum) were all just waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
He turned towards the door. “I’ll get the documentation on everything I’ve done to this point, give me just a minute to grab it.” She nodded her assent before turning back to the displays and he walked out and proceeded towards the break room. As he moved down the empty corridors of the research building, he thought of Christine.
‘Brilliant woman, kind of sad though.’ Milton knew that because, over the years that Dr. Busby had tutored him and helped him become a near official scientist, he had become part of her life. He walked her dogs, watched her two boys at her place when she was busy, they had even spent some long evenings together researching. There were a few nights she had him over for dinner.
A motherly nature wasn’t her only proclivity. She kept herself in shape, she volunteered as a tutor for disadvantaged kids, she liked to eat ice cream and watch sci fi shows. She was a bit of a middle-aged geek girl. But without a doubt she was a fine scientists and alluring woman. Data was her strong suit, so was her broad hips, and large breasts.
Milton smiled his secret smile, the one mother told him to never do because it made his little sister cry. Silly mother, you can tell your child not to do something, that doesn’t mean they won’t just go behind your back and experiment. Practice. Perfect.
He didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him leer as he walked down the hallway with its plastered walls painted a very soothing industrial blue chosen for its ability to decrease aggression. The same color used in some prisons. Milton knew he was immune to that however, as part of his degree program he had to complete extensive course work in the psychology program, he knew the only true prison in this world was the morality and empathy of others.
Alas, he had escaped that prison by the time he was nine years old. As plenty of neighborhood pets (and one neighbor kid) could attest. ‘Well, maybe not the kid,’ he said to himself and giggled.
Milton entered the break room and thought again of Christine. Given that he had scheduled this on an evening he knew one of her sons had a ball game and that she wouldn’t be free until now, Milton saw as evidence of his superior planning. He grabbed some files from the bottom cabinet that he had stashed earlier and began getting the items he needed to brew some coffee.
‘Divorced, lonely. Mentor to a younger man. A man seemingly interested in the same things she was, a man who got along with her kids. An intelligent man, a kind man.’ He chuckled as the coffee pot gurgled. Milton knew that Christine liked him, had he put forth the effort, he could have fucked her. But now he was near the end and he knew she would be in advisor mode. A woman as studious as her would sublimate her desires in accordance with propriety. Just like Mother. So prim, so proper, so very wanting to get dicked down. Just Mother had one face in public, one very different one at home. ‘I’m not the only one in the family with a scary smile,’ he thought.
He’d have her soon enough. He poured the coffee in two cups. Milton usually drank his like he liked his impending romantic prospects: Bleak, bitter and dark. The other cup he made to Christine’s preferences while he thought about his return trip home from the University. The women there would be so happy when he showed up.
‘Concentrate,’ he reprimanded himself, ‘this is important. You’ve wanted this woman on your terms from the moment you saw her gorgeous blue eyes. You wanted her even more when you two became friends, you wanted her the most when you saw how matronly he could be.’
He thought then of his earliest memory, not even two years old, he had fallen down the stairs from the second story, he rolled all the way to the bottom. His mother, sneering at the top of the stairs, shouting for him to get up, and to this day, he was not certain she hadn’t pushed him. Milton stopped walking to stare at his crotch, ‘yep, I’m up now, mother.’
Milton slowed his pace; he didn’t want to spill any of the light brown contents of Christine’s cup. His dry palms tightened. “Mother.” He recalled the testing, the talk of genius, her dragging his little carcass around to TV stations to show him off like some monkey on a leash. “Watch me dance,” he muttered.
The song sang itself in his head:
Here is my real headHere is my real head
He took time to straighten himself out at the door to the monitoring station. So far, the situation had not strayed from what he had planned as his ‘most likely to happen’ scenario. All he needed now was for her to ingest the coffee, then his first human trial could begin.
Upon re-entering the room, he was struck by her outline, highlighted by the glow of computer monitors all showing white lab rats engaged in typical rat behavior. Even the rodents he had given his serum too, if one wasn’t looking closely; one wouldn’t notice that they had all had begun to follow the rats given the placebo. He was glad their stupor hadn’t lasted for too long; Christine would have found it odd.
Milton’s attention shifted from his tiny test subjects to his larger one. White rats, blonde hair. It was difficult to discern much about her with her lab coat on, but things would have never progressed this far had he not found something about her physically that spoke to him.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat and, when she turned, handed her the files while he placed the cup on table in front of her. “For you, hopefully this won’t be much longer.” He allowed himself to appear nervous. This was his future, a big day indeed. Christine smiled.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much if I was you, this is remarkable on its own, the possible applications are endless.” She started to leaf through the papers as Milton stared intently at her shoulders. He imagined the slender straps of her brassiere slowly sliding across them until they met her perfect acromioclavicular joints (the protrusions some people had on their shoulders) and the tiny amount of extra effort required to pull the fabric over them. He would knead them, kiss them. Milton noticed her reaching for the mug.
“It’s a new flavored creamer everyone was raving about. I thought you might try it.” He watched as she gave an absentminded nod, too many things on her mind. Family, this, the research, him, coffee. Creamer.
“Also, I should tell you deeper in the research notes you’ll see I have experimented with the substance in different forms. Its far more effective as a crystalline extract.” Christine had the mug to her lips. Her kind smile drawing him in. Her eyes bright. Her shoulders… she was such a good mother. “It is soluble and ingestible and is even more potent and efficacious.” She drank, he waited.
She sat the mug down, glassy eyed, the kind smile gone. “What did you—“ before she could finish the statement, Milton leaned forward and caressed her cheek. He began to unbutton her shirt.
“What you are experiencing right now I like to term ‘reknitting’. Rewire has such distasteful naturalistic, paternal overtones. It is about function, particularly as relates to the brain. Reknitting is about wholeness, a tapestry, completely feminine. It’s about the mind.” He pulled her blouse down and traced the ridge of her shoulders. She sat, frozen and mute as back and forth his fingers moved across Christine’s warm, soft flesh.
“I believe that what will emerge is the same you, only new in several aspects. You will retain your memories, your capacity for language, and thought. However, right now the chemicals I added are making your emotional state totally open to verbal suggestion as well as allowing for the introduction of new memories, as suggested by yours truly.” He reached behind her back, unhooked her plain white bra.
“Christine, it is time for you to admit that you love me and think of me as a son. This thought used to distress you,” he slowly began to slide the left strap of her bra off her perfect shoulder, “but now, after tonight, you fully accept the reality of ours being a sexual relationship that you pursued. All those times you caught me looking, all those times I made you uncomfortable with my stares, now not only do you take comfort from those memories, you are flattered by them. You love them and cherish them; you lust for them, as you remember that you always have.” Milton paused, hooked a finger under the right strap, and slowly moved it off her shoulder. Christine’s bra began to descend, revealing more and more snowy white cleavage.
He knew it hadn’t been long enough for the process to complete. “In theory, what the processed extract allows is not just the negation of thought, or the reworking of the brain’s reward systems, it can actually reset long held beliefs, in this timeframe we are in now, it grasps at any outside stimuli to substitute for its lost, prior structure. This could be symbolic and indirect, or it could be linguistic, for example, you now find the sound of my voice to excite you sexually.”
He rubbed her shoulders. “Just hearing me speak now causes your vagina to moisten and increases your need to find sexual gratification, but you know this can only happen with my permission. Without my verbal command, you can only feel frustrated, empty, like a hollow vessel waiting to be filled.”
The straps fell from her shoulders, Christine’s large, soft breasts were revealed. They were droopy and white, her nipples were thick, her areolas red and the size of half dollars. She had begun to lactate. “I want to apologize now, one unintentional side effect I hope doesn’t happen, but in about twelve hours you will have a terrible headache. Sorry.”
“Another side effect I had to manually include, as it was quite intentional. Induced lactation.” He licked his lips at the sight of a single drop of milk rolling off one of her nipples. “Mother,” he whispered as he brought his face to her breasts. He nibbled, he suckled. “You love it when I suck on your tits. You orgasm from it.”
Her face blushed as her lips parted and formed in to an ‘O’. He heard her whimper. With one free hand he parted her legs and quickly felt along them as he pushed his hand up her skirt. Eventually he met the soft resistance that was her panty clad womanhood. He fumbled with her underthings until his fingers grazed the flesh beneath.
He felt her folds part as they enveloped his fingers. At the same time as he explored her crevice, he moved his head to the other breast and suckled on it, her milk warm and slightly grainy. He felt himself become light headed from the sensation. He knew the drug he’d given her would be filtered down to him as he suckled, but the trace amounts should not be enough to harm him.
‘How long have I waited for this,’ he thought to himself, ‘my whole life.’ He looked at his friend, mentor, matronly figure. “Mother,” he spoke around her engorged nipple, the milk gushing from his maw and splashing down her torso. “You find that you like pleasing me, it provides you both a feeling of contentment and sexual pleasure. These feelings never war with one another,” he said, as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
That distinction was important, as mothers could often feel an incredible sense of guilt to the reactions some of their bodies had to nursing. Just as fathers could become emotionally distant from their pubescent daughters once they began to develop as a result of unwanted desires, so too could mothers forestall or even neglect feeding their children out of a sense of shame. He pulled his fingers out of her. “Stand up, Christine.”
She did as she was told, and he, still on his knees, wasted no time wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging his face against her now upraised skirt. He inhaled the scent of her, a deep, earthy aroma. He reached up and tugged her panties down and found himself immediately confronted with her large, wiry bush. It was mostly golden brown in color; but shot through with streaks of gray. He pushed her hair out of the way and admired her glistening dark pink lips.
Life had fought free from there. The primal struggle. Part of him wished to return, but he knew that, as much as he loved her, he wasn’t from there. Christine wasn’t his home. He licked her anyway, as none of the prior facts could diminish his desire for her body. He noticed a liquid running down his head. His arm glided up along her form until it found a breast, he squeezed and aimed it as he opened his mouth and milk dribbled down onto his face. After he drank his fill, he stood and sat in the chair opposite Christine.
She had regained part of her old self; he could tell just by studying how much more alert she seemed. “Climb on top of me and ride me.” She did as he commanded, and he admired how gentle she was. He was there, inside her as he watched a discerning light return to her gaze while the sounds of her pleasure became louder.
“Unnn. Mmmm!” She buried her mouth against his ear, her breath hot against his neck. “My baby,” was the first words the new Christine uttered, “I love you.” She arched her back as she rolled her hips and worked his dick in and out of her. Her breasts, still leaking, wobbled in time with her movements.
Milton, virgin that he was, wanted to enjoy the sensation as well as observe her closely, thus he participated very little at first. However, once he heard her moans and the sweetest sound of all, her saying, “I love you,” he began to add his own thrusts in. This, in turn, would cause Christine to bounce while on top of him. As she still was lactating the milk would splatter on them both and run down between them.
Soon, all Milton could hear was her moans and the ‘thwick, thwick, thwick,’ of their bodies colliding while lubricated by Christine’s milk. All of his senses engaged, it wasn’t long before he splashed the walls inside her hidden hearth with a hot load of his sticky man glue.
They embraced tight enough that their moist flesh caused rivulets of various fluids to flow off their merged bodies. Milton’s face nuzzled deeply into Christine’s bountiful breasts. ‘I love you, mother.’ He smiled, though he knew his sentiment wasn’t entirely correct. Oh yes, the word he hadn’t said since he was a child, well he could say it now. Needed to say it, had to say it, as its utterance would complete him as a man. He pushed his mouth between her tits and bit the flesh there hard enough for Christine to yelp. He looked up at her.
“I love you… mommy!”