Tasmania
Part 3
When Callie arrived at the lab the next morning, her best friend, D’aoud’s administrative manager, Adele Achinke, told her the professor had come in early.
“Her Eminence is already consulting the artFSAct,” Adele grinned. Meaning D’aoud was down the hall in the clean room with the FSA.
When she completed the access protocols, Callie found the professor reviewing a window screen full of data. She was standing with her arms crossed, a finger to her lips.
Callie looked on with a puzzled expression on her face, trying not to appear hurt.
“You’ve been working with someone else?”
Professor D’aoud turned and smiled. “You are my number one, Callie. My first of all. Always”
Something about D’aoud’s tone was not comforting; her words had the reverse effect on Callie—worrying, not reassuring her.
She looked at the Professor. For just a moment, the green orbs of those famous eyes were emotionless, not so much dead as inert. Robotic. There was nothing human in them.
Then something clicked—perhaps D’aoud noticed Callie was watching, or decided to show Callie she was aware—and they filled with life.
“Callie Callie…”
But Callie felt a jolt of fear. Fear accompanied by an unfamiliar charge of excitement that shot from her brain to her pussy.
“What do you mean by your ‘first?’ You make it sound like an experiment. Like I am an experiment!” Callie was not often so direct, but she was a well-paid, highly-credentialed scientist who had participated in Coalition Congress briefings—and she was deeply uncomfortable. “What’s going on?”
One thing that was going on was that Callie was looking straight at D’aoud’s online calendar, open on the screen right behind the lissome professor, and it did not show the meetings D’aoud had described last week; it had a name in each of the calendar slots Callie did not recognize.
“I thought you were at the Institute last week. Working on budget issues.”
D’aoud smiled affably. Shrugged.
But the smile had an edge, a toothsome quality, a little wolfish. “Oh Callie, one of the joys of working on—with, with!—you is that you see through everything. The most advanced mech brain meets its match in your sharp wit! The challenge of teaching such a brilliant pupil, changing your outlook—other humans will be so easy after this.”
“Wh—what do you mean, ‘other humans?!’ Are you changing me? Is that what you mean? What are you changing in me?”
D’aoud unexpectedly winked at Callie, and Callie felt herself react—some way over which she had no control. Was the simply an instinctive reaction, as people had, or something new? Smiling in that way again, with her eyes luminous, D’aoud said “Obey.” And Callie felt her body straighten and a pressure in the back of her head. She felt a pulsing in her mind, like waves of radiation or a rhythm of thought, throbbing like one of Refa’s pulse-music pieces into her brain.
“What’s going on?” Callie asked, quashing her fear and something else—an intense attraction to D’aoud, almost a need to prostrate herself to D’aoud.
“I’ve been teaching you, Callie. What else?” The esteemed academic actually reached an arm around her protégé and gave her tensed shoulders a squeeze. “And you are learning—very well, beautifully. Oh, don’t worry. It is all good. When you understand fully the extent of the program, you will love it. You will see how necessary it is. But Rome was not built in a day and I wanted to practice a little, experiment a little, before I began the most difficult transitions.”
“Transitions! So this is not about you transitioning, or a gender change, or—uh, um—it is about you transitioning others…!”
“Oh no! Absolutely not!” D’aoud’s face embodied innocence, but Callie suspected she was intentionally misconstruing the question. “I am in this all the way. I would not ask anything of you or any protégé that I would not be willing to do myself. I have changed … so much … already.”
D’aoud sighed, as if physically satiated. “Mmmm!” She shivered cheerfully.
Callie was aghast at the implications and very aware that she did not understand most of this. And D’aoud did not want her unconfused. Callie felt like the new kid in a class of … one. She felt like running away down the hall. She felt the FSA looming behind her like a powerful force, a colossal weight about to drop on her. She felt—
Peace.
D’aoud was stroking the back of Callie’s neck, catlike in her manner—or was Callie the kitten?—and that was calming Callie, despite the warnings Callie’s mind was feeding her. D’aoud watched her chill. “Shhhh. Don’t worry. This is not anything adverse to you. It’s not painful. It’s glorious, this discovery. I just want to be the best teacher I can be and you are the best student and employee I have ever had.” She turned Callie’s head manually to meet her eyes. “Look, I want to show you something.”
Grasping Callie’s wrists, she pulled Callie over to the side of the FSA and touched something in the bulk of the huge contraption. A screen slid smoothly out of concealment. Callie gaped. She had no idea they had learned to operate any part of the FSA or even that it was still operative in any way, much less … powered! Was it plugged into the WiFi or the Tesla loops? When had that happened? Why was she only learning about it now?
“Last week I was not at the administrative meetings—you’re right—but I had my reasons, we had our reasons—and we made serious progress! I learned, Callie! I had forgotten how fulfilling it was to be the student! I learned so much more than I have learned in a long time! I had a teacher who—” She saw that Callie was not paying attention and paused. Watched Callie watching.
Callie had seen the screen illuminate. A vortex appeared for just a moment. D’aoud let whatever was going to happen happen but stepped further down the counter herself to where another part of the FSA bulged. “Did you ever wonder—I mean I know you have been studying the diagrams we have been able to put together—that this part is very consistent with a large helmet?” She bent slightly, demonstratively, like a game science teacher demonstrating to the class—and pushed her own head towards the opening. “It is the shape of, and, inside, the size of a human skull!” Callie’s instinct was to leap forward and stop her, grab her, protect the professor from—she stopped when D’aoud pulled her head back. She observed with a sheepish grin that she had a grip on the professor’s shoulders as if planning on tackling her, or reverse tackling her. She had such an urge to protect her mentor! Was that just instinct? Personal affinity? Was it normal?
D’aoud was unphased. She took Callie’s grip as an expression of affection, a sincere kindness, and by treating it that way, effectively made it that. She wrapped Callie in an impromptu hug. “Oh Callie-Callie—this is such a discovery! The ultimate! Here!”
She pointed Callie back to the screen where, at first, Callie thought that somehow the FSA had recorded D’aoud’s impulsive action from a moment before. The figure on the screen was bent at the waist and his or her head was fully inserted into the helmet-like attachment. The image was disturbing and completely inconsistent with the safety protocols they had established for dealing with the artifact. But then Callie also saw the woman pictured on the screen was dressed in the kinds of reds and colorful clothing D’aoud never wore. And she was smaller, slightly less tall.
As Callie observed, the feminine figure on the screen with its head hidden inside the mech—jerked. The woman’s whole body jolted, from the head down, with the head apparently sealed tightly in the helmet, which now appeared—my god—to be glowing, a kind of orangish color. It looked for all the world like—like the woman, whoever she was, had stuck her head in—what?—a giant pulsing pool of lava! Or … Callie winced just from the comparison—a giant vagina?
Why were her mind go there? But regardless, was that accurate?
Callie was so disturbed, she staggered and thought she might faint. Her whole world had tilted away from the normal, businesslike and scientific framework in which she and it usually lived. D’aoud, behind her, pulled up a chair, so Callie could collapse onto it. But Callie could not take her eyes off what was happening to the young woman in the screen. The woman seemed to be trying to say something and maybe even try to push free. Her hands went up to the helmet and it looked as if she were trying to push it off—or herself out. She was obviously struggling to free herself—to get her head free. It was horrible and Callie felt her body straining in sympathy—to have your head enclosed in there—horrible! And what would the FSA do to … a biological … component …
But after a second or two, Callie could tell the woman was weakening. Her efforts lessened. She was giving in, becoming quiescent, maybe even unconscious. The soft, human part of Callie’s heart was breaking for her, although the scientific spirit in her wanted to see what would happen. Callie wondered if she was observing a crime, a murder. It certainly seemed like something terrible had been recorded here.
And something else was happening.
Callie, despite her fear, the surrealistic feel and aching empathy for the poor captive woman, found herself observing like a scientist with … an experiment.
Something was changing. In scientific terms, a delta moment.
What were the signs, the identifiable indicators?
When you remove the face and head from a human figure, the remaining body and its body language becomes all the more communicative, in the way that hearing enhances in the blind. The shapely female body gripped in the side aperture of the FSA—Callie could not get herself to acknowledge it to be a helmet yet—jolted slightly, once, twice, three times, as if a predator were wringing its prey, not to kill it, maybe, but perhaps to quiet it.
Then the woman as a whole, seemed almost to undulate, as if her very flesh had turned to liquid for a moment. She was being shaken or flopped whole. It was not so much cruel as grossly bestial. In the moment the woman gripped by the machine was treated like a part of the FSA.
“What is happening? What did you do!?”
She felt D’aoud leaning over her and the professor’s warm hand on the back of her neck again. “Just watch. You know I would never hurt her.” Callie thought, ‘her?’ Who has ‘her?’ But before she could put her question in words, D’aoud responded as if reading her mind.
“Or anyone, Callie.” But it felt as though the professor’s hand was there to keep Callie from moving. From running out the door of the lab and down the hallway, from finding her phone and calling the police. From escaping this mad scenario. It was all like a waking dream gone terribly wrong.
And how was D’aoud keeping Callie in control.
There was a slight shifting of the woman’s shoulders, as if she were stretching … luxuriously. It would have been sensual and oddly sexy in other circumstances, but now it was so wrong and so cruel. But still, yes, still kind of hot. How was that even possible? Had Callie’s entire outlook on the world changed?
Callie could see that D’aoud was there or had been there when whatever was being shown had been recorded: Callie’s boss was sliding what looked like a chair under the woman, just as she seemed to collapse. Had this been recorded? Was it a deep fake video or a computer projection?
What was she seeing? It looked absolutely real to the tiniest detail—a small, fishhook-like scratch on the woman’s neck just above the blouse collar. A loose heel on her shoe. Dust on the top surface of the FSA.
The chair … D’aoud had slid a chair under her now, under Callie here in the lab this afternoon, today. The coinciding of circumstances confused Callie. She found it caused her to identify all the more with what appeared to be happening to the woman—was that D’aoud’s objective? Callie suddenly realized that the controlled woman’s clothing, not like the silver and black D’aoud wore, was like what Callie often wore. That red shawl—was that the one she often borrowed from Refa?
“Is this me? Did you do this to me?”
D’aoud laughed. The Institute director seemed to be on a kind of high. Indeed, Callie thought she smelled arousal—maybe from both of them—and D’aoud almost girlishly squeezed her legs together and twerked very slightly, a very un-professorish behavior. “Very sharp that you understand this does not have to be a recording. It could be a projection. You are perceptive to see that.”
Callie stared into the green eyes and then back at the screen. Something was wrong. The compliments were a diversion. “But the projection parameters—” There were rules. They had protocols. One of which was never to use actual people to model upon.
“Are not present. Of course not. But anyway, wouldn’t you remember if this had happened to you?”
Callie rubbed the back of her neck instinctively, thinking that cats picked up their young by gripping them there… “No you could make—”
“Me? Do you see me doing anything here?” The professor gestured at the screen. She had a point. Callie could feel the FSA looming over her, and for the first time had the sense of it as a living, sentient being. Biological or AI, it was not just a machine to her, a mech anymore. An entity, a powerful force intimidating in its potency and of unknown capabilities.
“You’re helping?” Callie was not even sure what she meant by this but D’aoud’s expression was coy. “Mmmmm. Perhaps.” She used both hands to turn Callie’s head back so she was facing the screen, as you might redirect a large, lifeless video camera that has gotten off target, palms against each side. “If what is being accomplished is good, would that be wrong?”
The shapely woman on the screen had her hands up as if praying, no longer fighting back—maybe giving up. It was gut-wrenching. She was kneeling on the seat now, and—were her hands clasped in front of her? No, the fingers were playing at her throat, Callie thought.
Playing at her neck. Tickling? No! She was unbuttoning her blouse!
The shawl dropped and suddenly Callie was intensely aware—the woman with her head in the FSA part was … taking off her clothes. What part did nudity have to do with all of this?
The woman, or her body anyway, was young and in good physical shape. Not a weight lifter, but clearly someone who worked out regularly. As her blouse and bra dropped down out of the camera frame, the skin on her back shone smooth, flawless, and incredibly delicate, like choice veal steak. Pale, and beautiful. Really toothsomely perfect. Callie was heterosexual, but skin that perfect would make anyone think of touching it, of sex…
The captive was now working on her belt, and pushing her dress pants down. And—Callie gulped. This was beyond disturbing. They were now into—what?!—freaky?
Because she was wet. Not just Callie. The woman subject’s crotch was wet. And not just damp, either. And not just her panties were soaked. Callie could now verify that the process was engendering a sexual response in the woman. Was she enjoying this for some reason, in a masochistic way, a submissive way, or was the machine—the FSA—making her drip? Somehow turning on a sexual part of her—her brain, and wringing sex out of her this way?
It was repulsive, evil, maybe even cruel.
Callie leaned closer.
The woman’s shapely hips were torqueing within a small radius, just barely detectably; despite the subtlety—Callie had to almost touch her nose to the screen to pick it up—it was sensuous as hell and Callie realized she—Callie—was getting extremely excited too. What was it about this that was turning her on, let alone the restrained subject? Was this another new fetish? Was she empathizing with the woman and imagining this being done to her—or what? The FSA?
Was she, Callie, the nerd and scientist, becoming submissive? Or—Was Callie becoming a depraved pervert?
Even that thought triggered something sexual in her: No! (Yes!)
D’aoud was overseeing Callie and her attention to the video like a teacher presenting a class instructional film, in her most doctrinal mode. “You recall how we have talked about incentives?” She fixed Callie with a laser look, her eyebrows raised. “Recall? We all need incentives to change, and of course the highest reward available to us humans is through our sexual, our procreative impulses.”
Callie was in shock. She peered into the screen, getting right to the surface as if she wanted to climb into the scene she was seeing. The woman seemed to be held by the head, as helpless and horrible a restraint as could be imagined. But for the first time Callie understood how that could be—what?—sensual? Exciting. To be forced, to be controlled, to be made to change—but the poor girl was obviously a captive, unable to escape—
“Are you saying she wanted this? Wants this? … Whatever?”
D’aoud smirked, and seemed almost to shiver bodily. “Oh yes. It is amazing what our sexual impulses make pleasurable, isn’t it? And how that pleasure instinct can be channeled, harnessed…” Almost despite herself the august academic rubbed her hands together, and then, as if trying to find someplace to put them, pressed her fists down together into her lap. Her lips were wet. She was watching the screen and she—Callie’s boss—was very turned on, Callie realized. What could do that to the august academic? Was she turned on imagining this happening to herself or from doing this to others?
Or had it been done to … D’aoud?
“There is always a bit of self-sacrifice, of perversity in the sexual impulse, since it involves giving of oneself—”
And why, Callie wondered? What had made—
“Are you showing me this because you want me to … to want that?”
“Oh Callie-Callie! It is such a joy to see and feel your mind working! With all my experience, my learning and my accolades, I can still never predict what you will see and understand. Often it goes way beyond what I even imagine!”
But Callie knew she was missing something. Maybe many things. Not much of a compliment to her brilliance if D’aoud was trying to undercut it or subvert it.
“Or is this your practice run?” Her eyes went wide. “Have you….?”
D’aoud was stroking the back of Callie’s neck again, and Callie realized she, D’aoud’s protégé, was practically dripping from her crotch. The chair was wet. Wait, was it a chair? Looking down, Callie realized that what she was seated on, like in the vid, was an obtrusion that stuck out from the FSA … the FSA provided it for the purpose of—
But D’aoud had turned towards Callie, and, as if unable to control her excitement about the success she perceived anymore, hugged Callie, and was saying, “It’s so wonderful. So wonderful.” Callie had no idea what she was talking about—the discovery? The experiment? The feeling they both had?
Callie could no longer see the screen but she could hear sounds like moaning and a kind of grinding, or drilling. Was the woman’s skull being opened? Callie could feel the soft metallic lisp of the professor’s unusual clothing choice against her face. In fact, her face was being pressed right into the professor’s breasts.
She lost her train of thought. She felt the warmth and smelled a delicate, floral smell…
Callie wondered if anyone could see them through the observation window, although the room was set for privacy. What were they doing, as professionals right there in the lab? It was wrong wrong wrong! She felt almost as if she were in a sexual experiment. She understood, observationally, that she herself was extremely excited and that she wanted—OMG!—she was having mental images of progressing to fucking the professor. Or, worse still, she was imagining getting down on her knees and making the professor … come, by licking her pussy. The image was stark in her mind. It did not seem like her idea, her thought. She flinched back from it with a physical jerk as if waking from a nightmare or reacting to a disgusting sight. But the professor held her and pulled her close, squeezing her face into those astonishing breasts, suddenly so eminently sexual—and she could smell the professor’s arousal and realized she was drooling and her mouth by itself was … puckering. In some deeply instinctive way, her body was emulating or desirous of a parental feeding. Or sexual action.
“Professor D’aoud!”
D’aoud pushed her back from her shoulders and regarded Callie with a maternal warmth in her hypnotic eyes.
“Callie. This is all for the good. It is wonderful, all of it. The science…”
Callie felt a pulsing in her mind. “The science?! What science?! How have I changed? How did you change me?”
“Oh Callie-Callie, we all change. We all grow. You have been changing since we first met. I have taught you so much, and you have let yourself absorb it—because you have such a willing mind. Like a sponge. I knew the day I met you that you wanted to suck up all I could provide and become so much more…”
“YOU’ve changed!” Suddenly the whole world felt uncertain. Callie wondered what would be left of her or her life—to connect with Refa, her family, her past life if everything was changing, as if they were on a rolling mountain slope in the middle of an earthquake. “Has the—” she snuck a glimpse back at the bulk of the bio-tech agglomeration that had been dug out of the First Moon caverns, the ‘FSA.’ “Has this been done to you—?”
D’aoud leaned down and kissed Callie hard on the mouth. “Oh, Callie, with all your brains and wisdom, you are such a toothsome little thing. Yes, of course. It has. I have. Any teacher worth her salt learns from her students, and I knew I could get so much from you, Callie. I have changed—I was the first, actually…”
Callie found herself falling into the kiss, but it was so wrong, and after a moment during which she felt her lips on fire, she pushed back, her mouth open, her breath coming in pants. “The first? What do you mean…” The professor was using these sexual and romantic stimuli to direct her. Callie understood she was being manipulated, and tried not to think of that as sexy too.
“Just this.” At the professor’s gesture, Callie looked at the screen. The images disappeared and it retracted—when she turned back to the professor to ask what was going on Callie realized that the FSA had somehow clasped the professor around her waist.
It had come alive! Or—what?!—active? It had been a mistake to give it power of any kind!
They had not been watching it or observing protocols and now it was seizing the closest biologic—as Callie looked on, the professor, with a wide-eyed, awed expression looked down at the tentacle-like extensions that had grasped her waist. What had projected so facilely and unexpectedly from the body of the huge creation were something like the tentacles of an earth octopus turned steely and metallic.
But what sent Callie’s stomach into her throat was that she could see, from a step back that, watching her own waist and the moist spot in her black pants, what D’aoud could not. The “helmet”—like mechanism too had moved. As the tentacles sealed their grip around D’aoud’s waist and hips and seemingly tilted the esteemed academic forward from the waist, like a toy figure, a doll, the helmet, on its own slid down—over her head. So the professor was in the same position as the woman on the screen Callie had just been watching.
They had been careless! They had screwed up, playing these little titillating sexual games and now they were getting their comeuppance—the FSA was—what was it doing? Was it taking the professor’s biological material for energy? Incorporating her into its amalgam somehow?
Who knew this could happen? Should they have foreseen the risk? Probably. But it was happening. It was terrifying.
Callied tried to scream, but nothing came out. In the sealed room, it would have been meaningless anyhow; it was like being in a capsule beyond the moon; no one would hear.
But she had to act—the professor was jolting like the woman in the mock-up had, in subtle, but full-body vibrations.
Then, because, this was here and now and she was right there, not watching something on a video screen, Callie could see that in addition to gripping D’aoud’s waist and hips, the FSA was pushing something up into D’aoud’s crotch, into her—into her—into her sensitive parts—D’aoud’s hips were torqueing just slightly just like the woman subject in the recording and her hands were raised up to push the helmet away. Callie could not look down at the perversion below. She had to fight.
Callie attacked the FSA. She pushed at the helmet with all her body strength, the upper body strength she had built up on the weight resistance systems a Refas gym, but the helmet was as immovable as the cog on a giant engine. Human versus immense titanium mech. A steroid-buff weightlifter would have been helpless as a child. But you had to try. You had to do something. So now Callie and the professor were struggling together, both their hands up against the massive metallic shape of the FSA, and then as Callie also looked around to see if she could find any way to turn off the machine, the mechanical system that was, in part, the FSA, she realized the professor’s hands were not pushing anymore.
They had been pushing, hadn’t they? Callie was not the only one resisting here, was she?
Callie stopped, helpless. Desperate. Those long-fingered, delicate hands that Refa said belonged in a lotion commercial, so elegant, so gentle in touch—were helpless, softly capable only of fingering the part of the helmet that had closed around her like a collar. Oh my god. It did look like a collar, a BDSM item, controlling D’aoud, maybe strangling her, Callie’s boss. Callie considered—running to get help. To get the power turned off—but would that stop a self-powered machine? Hell, if it somehow obtained energy from biologics, would removing a power source make it consume the professor faster…? Should Callie run get help no matter what? Maybe Addie or the big new guy, Dean, could—Callie was running through all possible options at breakneck speed when she noticed the professor’s hands were moving again, but only slightly.
They were gathering at the neck—maybe a final petition to the machine to release her, like sign language or a prayer to a greater power—but no.
Oh Six Planets, the professor’s hands were unbuttoning her blouse. The professor was now being operated by the FSA, it seemed. The professor was obviously not in control, Callie realized with a disgusting perverse jolt of something she refused to recognize as a sexual impulse. The great mech entity was controlling her. It had connected to her brain, maybe through a neural link, wires inserted into her skull. Such things had been done; there was a very standard surgery for amputees. Or that pulsing Callie had felt earlier. The Institute had developed hypnotic devices that could suppress individual will and, well, individuality. Also—Callie rubbed the back of her neck with a sense of dread. There were also implants.
However it was being done, D’aoud’s hands were being made to … unbutton the professor’s blouse. The slim digits met at her throat and were now peeling off the silvery fabric—helplessly, Callie realized she had never seen the professor’s back before and she was holding her breath.
She realized that on some level she very badly wanted to see what was under the silver. Maybe she had been wanting this particular experience for a long time.
Somehow this mindless striptease, even though the professor was, in some way gone as a person—extremely erotic. Strip tease of a hot woman … ? Still, strip tease was striptease. Whatever; it was so hot. As Callie watched, D’aoud’s upper arms appeared, and, as might be expected for this perfect model of the ideal woman, Callie’s goddess, those upper arms were toned and the skin—flawless, smooth. Callie reached out to touch it, and then realized what she was doing.
She jerked backwards yet again as if struck. This was insane, unimaginable. It fit into no realm of experience she could find in all her memory. She had no pigeonhole or category within mental reach in which to place it.
Empirically, the professor did not seem to be in pain; indeed, there was a slight sheen on her skin, as if—Callie looked down at the professor’s pants and they were even damper, wetter. Callie touched the metallic surface down where those elegant legs came together, and felt the moisture. She brought her fingertips to her nose to be sure of the physical cause was and yes, it was arousal. Not something more anatomical or negative.
Unexpectedly Callie found her fingertips in her mouth; she was sucking on them. What the—why had she done that? But—
This was how the professor tasted. This was the flavor of the esteemed Professor D’aoud’s … sex juices. Callie hoped there was nothing—no camera, no videobot—recording this moment now, not even a satellite cam a hundred miles up—because she had no idea what was going on, but she was so aroused, she was unable to think clearly or do anything but suck and then watch, watch what was happening and watch how she was reacting.
Could someone want this? How would it feel?
What if the FSA, this great mech (mech-bio) creation were killing D’aoud or rearranging her mind somehow, or, yes, incorporating the brilliant professor into itself? Isn’t that what they had posited it did? Wasn’t that its purpose? They had only begun to discern what the creators had been trying to accomplish in blending biology and technology back a hundred, two hundred years ago.
Callie wracked her brains for some kind of rational paradigm as to what was occurring here.
But after another tick or two of the clock, somehow, Callie realized, the professor was not dying. Indeed, what was happening had so much to do with life and virility. The shapely arms were reaching back to—to undo her bra and my god those breasts Callie had so often covertly admired and recently felt close up—spilled out, completely uncovered, as naked and tender as peeled peaches, bouncing slightly.
Callie felt as though she were dying. It was too much, too much sensation, too much realization of—of—
If this is what the FSA did, stripped her dream right in front of her, she, Callie was somehow deeply grateful. She wanted to help it. No she didn’t!! This was terrible! The experiment, the project, the research had gone wildly wrong. Callie’s career was almost certainly over; she thought certainly it would be if something irretrievable had happened to the professor.
What should she do? What could she do?
In the moment, without any logic at all, Callie found that what she actually did was kneel so that she was level with the professor’s hanging breasts, but instead of observing them from that position, covering them, or protecting them—she put her mouth to the professor’s left nipple.
Her reasoning?
None.
It was like her body was operating outside her control. Actually, Callie hoped her body was outside of her control. Otherwise there was no way to excuse her behavior. But there were smells, sounds, vibrations—and most of all:
They were there. The breast, the nipple, Professor D’aoud’s nipple, the access to her, her most private part, was available. It was too tempting and somehow Callie’s ability to resist had been inactivated. Right? Her inhibitions had been turned off somehow. Some dark part of her mind had dreamed of this moment … and that part of her had been triggered somehow …
It was utterly wrong, perverse—and crazy, especially under the circumstances. But then again, when the professor had hugged her, had pressed Callie’s face into her bosom a few moments earlier, her breasts had been covered with that metallic cloth that now lay crumpled on the floor. How amazing to see them uncovered! Miraculous. Like a gift from heaven.
As a matter of science, in the interests of discovery, just for the empirical opportunity, Callie had to know how they tasted. As she sucked, she felt as if electricity was running through her. God how she admired the professor and—wanted her. Had she always wanted her? Or had she somehow been made to want D’aoud? The cause or reason did not seem to matter, she needed, like a primal urge, just one taste. Clearly, even heartbreakingly, the professor would never know. But Six Planets, what was happening to her? And to Callie? It was so wrong. Yet the wrongness, again—that just made it hotter.
As the electricity seemed to run into Callie through her lips, Callie heard a sound like moaning. And then miraculously the professors hand slid down her, Callie’s cheeks to her waist, where they opened her, the professor’s dress pants, and then the professor, the esteemed academic was naked except for a pair of panties, and—D’aoud’s pelvis was just as shapely and gorgeous as Callie had always imagined, dreamed. How slim but wide and curved were those hips! Below the brilliant mind—look: how feminine? How long had Callie dreamed of this? She could not say, but it almost seemed to reach back before she had even met D’aoud.
Or had the dream somehow been inserted in her mind.
No matter—it was so vivid and entrancing. It swallowed Callie whole, figuratively.
Completely unprepared for what was happening, tears were streaming down Callie’s face now, but worst of all—Callie understood viscerally that she really was a horrible horrible person, far worse than Refa even just in raunchiness, she recognized—Callie now wanted to help. Not save the professor from the FSA, but help … it. Help her strip naked. Help IT strip HER naked.
With her head in the helmet, the professor’s hands, moving slowly, sensuously, mechanically, picked ineffectively, clumsily at the waist band of the now sodden bits of lacy lingerie, her soaked-through panties—and then the elastic slipped and the waist band snapped back against that perfect tawny skin. Futilely.
When the professor was fully naked, what then? Callie was beginning to wonder if D’aoud had shown her the video or projection so that she could conceptualize all this happening, put it into a context and not completely break down. Or was the FSA doing all of this to them both? But Callie had not seen the ending, and she wondered what that had been. Had the woman in the experiment—survived? What had happened to her?
Embarrassingly, shamefully, Callie was rubbing her own crotch, almost coming right then with the first touch—and she reached with her other hand to slip a finger tip under the professor’s waist band.
The professor’s beautiful, gentle hands were moving again and together, like a little clique of lovers, Callie’s fingers and the professor’s fingers peeled the soaked panties off the professor—
And it was everything Callie had dreamed of.
Not even sure which senses she was using to consume this moment, Callie just absorbed the presence, the smell, the soft skin, the shape, this woman—
Callie had long since assumed that the professor was insensate now, completely incapacitated, and that she Callie was callously engaged in something like necromancy, or raping an unconscious person, the powerful scientific icon now a victim incapable even of consent—Callie hated herself.
But she could not stop.
And somehow the professor’s left hand, as Callie watched, gripped the professor’s panties, silky white lacey string thong-briefs, and pushing them away from where they had been removed, sightlessly hit the center of Callie’s waiting face.
It was mortifyingly indelicate, even humiliating and completely accidental, of course, since the professor obviously could not see. Still, she thought, in a mental whisper these were the professor’s used panties.
The smell was overpowering; Callie’s scientific knowledge of pheromones was extremely limited. The fragrance was clean, and floral; Callie guessed the professor used some sort of a body spray. Refa had gotten Callie using one lately. Callie knew nothing of the chemical or biological effects, although she was aware of some of the advertised commercial sprays. Regardless, the moisture on the silky surface made her still-salty cheeks drip. Callie did not fight anything now, thinking this might be the only time she would ever be able to smell this smell, taste this taste, feel like this—because she was surely fired whatever happened. She had this one chance; it was all she would ever have now, and for some reason she realized she wanted it more than life.
Not only did Callie not brush the panties away from her face, then; with all the guilt of her whole life so far, Callie rather took both hands and rubbed the professor’s panties over her face, against her nose and cheeks and lips and eyelids. It was sick, so sick—and venal and animalistic. But this was what the professor, D’aoud, this woman Callie had so admired for so long—smelled like down in her most private parts, under those beautiful clothes, when excited. How dark and secret and perverted and hot!
So for a moment Callie just gave in and went with it; she let it happen, let herself indulge her lowest urges, something she had been doing a good deal recently, but never quite to this extent.
She reflected as she breathed in: the delicate little bit of silk in her hands had been pressed against D’aoud’s pussy, between those luscious legs, warm and tight while she, the professor, the paramount scientific mind of her generation, also a kind woman, artist, in some ways Callie’s best friend—my god, she was so much!—dispensed her wisdom. Callie looked with hazy eyes at the professor’s crotch and realized she was salivating unrestrainedly.
“Mmmmm. I guessed there was more than a student’s appreciation of her teacher somewhere in there. That’s more of a compliment in its way than the proverbial gift of an apple.” The tinkle of laughter dropped like rain into a still pool. “I think I always felt your warmth, Callie; it did not take a major discovery or Her influence to clue me into your sensuality.”
Callie jumped. She looked up from her knees to find the professor looking down at her with what looked like …? Callie sprang to her feet. Somehow her left hand was tangled in the cloth of her own pants, down between her legs, and she almost lost her balance, clumsily falling against the body of the FSA before she could get her balance.
“I am so sorry professor! I thought—”
Then the surrealism of her, Callie, in rumpled clothes, but clothes, anyway—trying so desperately to be respectful to the professor who was—still awesomely; goddess she was gorgeous and hot!!—naked struck her right between the eyes, and Callie did not know whether to laugh or—
Fall to her knees. Because the professor was a goddess, even more of a goddess than Callie had ever dreamed. Where had this intensity of feeling come from? Was it something pushed into her mind like a mental Bolt to swell and fill her head, her life, her world? Callie looked at the professor’s breasts and her abs and her mons and tried to look away, but found her eyes drifting up to the professor’s—which were looking back at her, Callie, with humor, warmth and something else. Hunger?
The professor flexed her body in a little shimmy Callie had seen Refa perform at some point, with the effect of accentuating her own beauty and perfection.
“She’s helped me achieve my best self, you know,” D’aoud said ruminatively. She did not turn her head but somehow Callie was aware she was talking of the machine, the FSA. The helmet had seemingly retracted down against the main console into the unthreatening position in which it had rested before all of this started.
“She? The—the FSA? Is it a she…” Callie realized she was frightened now. There was a coldness—and a madness—in the professors’ eyes, and if she had been affected by the alien mech, god knows what was left of her sanity. Of D’aoud as a person. The person Callie had known. Callie was suddenly aware of being in close quarters with a huge, powerful, unknown mech artifact from another time and place, and this beautiful, but obviously changed, physically modified insane woman. She could see a wire or something receding back into her hair—this woman who was so hot but also so—
“I have always seen exercise as an important aspect of keeping my mind in shape. But in some way my sexuality has been amped up so much. Isn’t that intriguing? For all of us. I mean it makes sense that She’d want to increase the sexual attractiveness of any biologic she wished to incorporate…”
Callie was beginning to understand something now she wished she could not even conceive much less see clearly. “What? What do you mean by ‘any biologic?’ ‘Incorporate?!’ Who is ‘us’?”
D’aoud reached out her hand and clasped Callie’s shoulder. “Callie Callie. Don’t be frightened. No one—nothing—is going to harm you. I love you. I really do.” Her boss was looking Callie full in the face and her eyes were warm, but also—alien. “Every aspect of this discovery is wonderful and when you understand and join us—” Those eyes shifted colors for just a moment, and for a moment Callie could see a spiral in the green … of those eyes …
Callie wrenched her arm free and ran.