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Reply-To: jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org (John Fitzgerald Porter)
Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Cooties {jfporter} (F, nc, drugs)
Date: Sun, 10 Jun 2001 17:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Cooties

It's funny how seemingly rational people can scare themselves silly
over the most ordinary things.  You take public toilet seats, for
instance.  If you could put a hidden camera in the average washroom
stall, you'd see people obsessively wiping the seat before sitting
down, attempting to cover it completely with toilet paper to prevent
their skin ever actually touching plastic, or even trying to "sit" on
thin air, hovering an inch or so above the seat.  Like it had cooties
or something.

It is true that sometimes some pretty yucky things go on in washroom
stalls.  Maybe the last person shat all over the seat and only barely
wiped it up.  Maybe someone was sitting there shooting up heroin from
a dirty needle.  There could be all kinds of viruses and God knows
what else lurking on the surface of the average public toilet.  A
nice, clean girl wouldn't want to be exposed to that.

But in this modern era, we have some powerful disinfectants, and the
vast majority of people who use a toilet are just ordinary everyday
people using the toilet, just like everybody else.  Also, the worst of
the diseases we associate with junkies and similar characters are
actually somewhat hard to catch.  Take HIV, for instance: you pretty
much need to have significant amounts of an infected person's body
fluids injected into you, in order to become infected yourself.  That
happens in sex, but it's not something that normally happens when you
just sit on a public toilet.

Amy Wilson was a nice, clean, and above all rational young woman.  Her
sober, calm approach to life hadn't made her popular in high school,
where all the social opportunities seemed to go to the blonde
airheads.  On a Saturday night when most of her female classmates
would be out with boys, Amy would most likely be at home watching
something mindless on the tube, or even doing homework, staring dully
into a book with her pencil tucked behind one ear.  Hey, she would
think, leaning against her locker in the hall between classes, trying
to catch boys' eyes, I've got tits, too!  She would spend a long time
in the morning brushing her straight dark hair, trying to give it just
that perfect curve, around behind her ears and up under her chin. 
Look at me!  But they seldom did.

After high school she spent a few years in dead-end jobs, waitressing,
that kind of thing.  At one point she sank so low as a telemarketing
boiler room, but she quickly gave that up because it made her feel
soiled.  By the time Amy was twenty-two, she was starting to feel
pretty depressed about work, life, and sex.  She'd had only a handful
of dates in her life, never more than one with the same man.  She'd
slept with three of those men; the first time just because she was so
sick and frustrated for having been a virgin so long, and the others
because she kept hoping it would be better.  It wasn't.  She just
never seemed to meet any men except at work, wherever her work at the
time happened to be, and the men she worked with always turned out to
be so disgusting that seeing them outside of work was almost
unthinkable.

When Amy interviewed for a job as a receptionist at a dot-com startup,
she hoped this would be her chance to get a life, finally.  This was
back in early 2000, of course, just at the end of the 20th Century
when "receptionist at a dot-com startup" actually sounded like a job
with a good future to it.  Anyway, the president and vice president of
the corporation seemed nice enough.  Sure, the two guys were young, at
most a year older then herself, and they obviously couldn't keep their
eyes off her breasts, but they were scrupulously polite, and kind
of sweet.

She guessed that they were techies, not business people, an impression
which was confirmed when she met the rest of the "crew" on her first
day of work.  Clearly this was a group of guys who had been staying
home on Saturday nights themselves for most of their lives, and now
they had a marketable idea and were trying to make money on it.  She
didn't quite understand what the company's product was all about; they
gave her a brochure, but it was full of three-letter abbreviations and
didn't make any sense.  These were obviously smart, though, and she
had high hopes for the future.

The company didn't really get enough visitors to need a receptionist. 
An office manager was what they should have hired.  During the next
few months Amy tried to make sure they got good value for her salary
anyway.  She started a filing system to keep track of all the
companies the geeks made connections with, and all the receipts and
tax papers and other minutiae.  After a few months she was firmly
convinced that they would have long since gone tits-up without her
efforts, and even if they didn't fully realise that, her employers did
seem to appreciate her in the vague shy way that male computer geeks
have with attractive young women.  Amy felt good about herself and
her job.

On a Thursday afternoon, at about 4:30, Amy sat back from the computer
screen she had been staring into and felt pressure in her bladder.  It
had been building, but not strong enough to intrude on her
concentration, for most of the afternoon.  She wondered briefly,
ever conscientious, if she could afford to leave the front desk for a
few minutes to take a pee.  All the geeks were in their offices at the
back, so nobody would be there to greet visitors.

But it was almost quitting time on a quiet day, and nobody expected;
she figured a quick pit stop would be no problem.  She got up and made
her way out of the office into the hall they shared with the other
three companies on this floor.  The door of the women's washroom was
just to the right of the elevators.  Amy pushed it open and entered
the stall nearest the door.  The hard soles of her shoes clicked
loudly on the clean grey tiles.

Amy lifted her short skirt, pulled her panties down around her ankles,
sat down, and started urinating.  The seat was cool and smooth under
her thighs, but as she sat there, she felt it warm with her body heat. 
It seemed slick, almost moist, with her sweat.  No surprise there - it
was a hot day outside, and they had never gotten all the kinks out of
the air conditioning.

The first hint that anything was wrong came as she shifted forward to
reach for a square of toilet paper.  Her bottom was stuck to the seat. 
She automatically lunged forward, trying to break the contact, but she
could not separate her skin from the black plastic.  She had to stop
herself from putting her hands on the seat too, to push herself up. 
Would they have gotten stuck?

Amy thought carefully.  She didn't know why the toilet seat was now
sticking to her body as if coated with instant-hardening superglue. 
Was it some kind of practical joke?  She had wiped the seat before
sitting down, but could there be such a thing as a time-delay or
sweat-activated adhesive?  Was someone standing outside the washroom
door at this very moment, laughing at her?  That wasn't really likely. 
Her co-workers were all basically nice people and, she thought
uncharitably, not really creative people anyway.  The same would go
for all the other high-tech workers on this floor and probably in the
whole building.  Rationally speaking, this was almost certainly some
kind of strange accident rather than anything someone had caused
deliberately.  She decided the best thing to do would be to play dumb,
like she didn't know what was going on and didn't suspect anything. 
"Hey, help!  Help me in here!" she yelled.

Then she paused and listened.  She didn't hear anything.  The only
other people on the floor would be the geeks, her own company's geeks
and those from the other companies, and if one of them wasn't playing
a sick joke on her, they'd all be off in their offices, each one in
his own programming trance.  If there was nobody within earshot, she
could yell herself hoarse and never be heard.  She decided to try
again at one-minute intervals.  It was certain that sooner or later
someone would be in the hallway, perhaps even looking for her, and she
could make contact.  In the meantime she wasn't exactly going
anywhere.

Sitting with her hands carefully on top of her bare thighs, trying to
make sense of it, she unthinkingly tried to lift her left foot.  It
refused to budge, and Amy realised that as well as her thighs being
stuck to the seat, her feet were firmly attached to the floor.  The
seat must be stuck to the porcelain bowl, too, she reflected, or else
it would have lifted at least a little when I tried to jerk myself
off.  She checked her watch.  Still twenty seconds before time to
yell again.

She felt a light tickle at the back of her neck, as if someone had
breathed there.  At first she thought she had imagined it, but in a
moment it was back.  She tried to twist around, and something hard and
slick suddenly slapped across her forehead, snapping her head back. 
There was a cracking, popping noise from the bones in her neck, but
mercifully, she didn't seem to be injured.  She was staring up into
the fluorescent light.  There was a dead bug trapped in it.  Her head
was held immobile, tilted back, by whatever was stretched across her
forehead.  Her spine was bent backwards, and she could feel her
nipples hard against the inside of her bra, pressing at the tight
fabric of her blouse.

Amy realised that she was screaming at the top of her lungs.  She
stopped, closed her mouth, tried to catch her breath, and thought
about the situation.  At least she could still move her hands, she
thought.  Then, stupidly, she reached backwards, feeling for whatever
was behind her.  There must be something behind me.  Her left hand hit
the toilet seat, and immediately stuck there.

Her right hand hit something, but it wasn't the seat.  It was
something warm, and softer than plastic.  Although her fingers
immediately stuck to it, she could still squeeze and press it.  The
thing seemed to have some kind of internal structure of ropes and
lumps under the surface.  Some of them were pulsing.  Amy screamed
again, and strained her head against its restraint, trying to twist
around, even for a moment, and catch a glimpse of whatever was holding
her.  But she couldn't move her head.  All she could see was the
ceiling and the light.

There was a rattling noise from somewhere down and to her left.  Amy
stopped screaming for a moment and heard rustling and tearing sounds. 
The toilet paper dispenser, she realised.  Then there was a soft touch
on her right inner thigh, and she screamed again.  A moment later, she
felt a second slap across her face and something was forced into her
mouth.  She choked and retched at it.  Salty.  It was a huge wad of
paper, she realised, dunked in the toilet.  She tasted her own urine
in the water.

Desperately she tried to spit it out, but seemingly endless amounts of
paper were forced into her mouth, and then something contracted around
her cheeks, holding it in, just like the thing across her forehead. 
Amy inadvertently swallowed some of the liquid, and it took all her
self-control not to vomit right out her nose.  She realised that she'd
probably choke to death if she did that.

There was a long pause.  Amy tried squeezing and pressing at the thing
in her right hand.  She couldn't really do anything else.  If it was
something alive, maybe she could hurt it.  She found a round lump
under her thumb which felt like it was filled with fluid, and she
pressed down hard on that, trying to pop it.  But her efforts had no
effect.  After a long minute of staring at the ceiling while nothing
happened, the tickling at the back of her neck was renewed.

Then it quickly became a hard pressure, and then there was a ripping
noise as something was rapidly dragged down her spine.  It must be
some sort of knife or claw, she thought, because it seemed to be
cutting or tearing her clothes as it went.  But there was no point or
edge touching her skin, only a hard smooth object.  She felt a sudden
cool draft against the newly exposed skin on her back as the cut
fabric of her blouse fell open.  Amy heard a snap when the strap of
her bra broke, and her breasts slumped forward, the cups falling
halfway off but still mostly held in place by the blouse in front. 
The blouse was now open in the back, sliced all the way from the neck
down, but her uncomfortably pulled-back arms in the sleeves still held
it in place, covering the front of her body.

But when the cutter reached the elastic waistband of Amy's skirt, it
didn't cut through that.  Instead, the band was pulled back, away from
her bottom.  Then it was suddenly released, slapping back against the
base of her spine.  It hurt, and Amy gasped, choked, and swallowed a
little more of the mixture of saliva, water, and urine that had
collected in her mouth.  She tried to vomit again and had to choke
that down.  She did her best to scream, but could only produce a
vague, nasal moan.

Again she felt the elastic being pulled away from her body, and she
braced herself for the snap, but it didn't come.  She, and whoever or
whatever else was present, just sat there.  The only sound Amy could
hear was her own muffled whimpering.  She looked up at the dead fly in
the light fixture, and felt her heart beating.  She counted her
heartbeats.  I am not really here, she thought.  This is not
happening.  Of course, it is not happening.  It is impossible.  This
is a dream.

Then the band was released, and snapped at her waist again, breaking
her concentration.  It had been pulled tighter this time, so it hurt
more.  She felt a warm line form across her skin where it had struck. 
Immediately, she felt the hard object hook into the band again,
quickly pull it back, and snap it a third time.  When it hit her
tender flesh she grunted and tried to jerk against her restraint, but
couldn't move.  After a few seconds, she felt the waistband pulled
away from her body yet again and tensed for another stab of pain.

But this time the elastic was not snapped.  Instead, Amy felt the
tightness all around the front of her body softly release, and she
realised that the waistband had been cut.  There was a swish and a
rustle, and she felt her skirt being pulled up and away, from the
left; the rest of the garment slid around the front of her body and
was quickly lifted away.  Now she felt completely naked, despite the
cloth of her blouse covering the front of her body.

Something touched her, right at the base of the spine.  It was cold
and wet.  Something smooth and hard like an egg or a rounded stone. 
It started to slide up her spine, the moisture rubbing off on her
skin.  In a few moments it was rubbing across the line of raw skin
where her skirt had been snapped, and pain flared as the liquid
soaked into her skin there.  Not water.  She wondered if it had
alcohol in it.

The hard smooth object continued moving up Amy's spine.  It felt
rougher now, as the lubricating fluid had mostly rubbed away.  It was
pressing hard against her body, grinding painfully over each bump of
her vertebral column as it passed.  She blinked into the fluorescent
light, and tried to breathe slowly and steadily, not think.  The
object moved slowly up her back, leaving a vague trail of pain behind
it.  The raw flesh at the bottom of her spine, just at the end of the
crack between her buttocks, gradually stopped stinging.

The fly in the light fixture seemed to be jiggling.  Was it alive
after all?  No, that was just her eyes playing tricks on her.  The fly
was perfectly still.  Amy realised that the point of pressure on her
back had stopped moving up.  Now it was just resting firmly against
her back, cold and hard between her shoulder blades, just at that one
point where she could never apply suntan lotion by herself.  She tried
hard to continue that thought and imagine herself playing on a beach
somewhere in the sun instead of stuck to a toilet here under that
sickly fluorescent.

The touch on her back pulsed softly.  Then there was a snap and she
felt coldness, moisture, and sharp things against her skin.  Amy
shuddered and made a tiny crying noise.  It felt exactly as if someone
had cracked an egg against her back.  But nothing dribbled down.  The
cold moist stuff on her back just seemed to be stuck there.  Then,
first imperceptibly and then faster, the patch of wet grew and spread
out.  It trickled to either side, and against gravity, up across each
of her shoulder blades and into her armpits.  She could feel it
touching the back of her immobile upper arms, too, as it slid into
position.  Not a flow of liquid after all, but some kind of solid
coiling thing much like the restraints across her forehead and over
her mouth.  But what was sliding into her armpits was colder and
covered in fluid.

The pressure in each armpit was becoming painful.  It felt like she
had a lemon, or a large stone, rammed into each pit, pressing
uncomfortably against her bones.  Amy could feel her racing pulse
throbbing around each intrusion.  Then she felt a sharp sting on the
left, and a kind of iciness started to spread through her flesh from
the point.  Was she being injected with some drug?  In a few seconds a
similar pain began in her right armpit.

Her heart beat even faster, presumably spreading the drug throughout
her body.  Amy's vision began to take on a yellowish tinge, then
green, like a photograph subjected to some nonstandard developer
chemistry.  She felt a crawling sensation like a thousand tiny insects
skipping across her entire skin surface.  But though she half-wished
it, she did not lose consciousness.  If anything, she felt her mind
concentrated and drawn firmly into her body.

She felt a series of light strokes on the outside surface of each of
her breasts.  From the movement of the cloth of her blouse, she
guessed that finger-like protrusions had thrust forward from inside
each of her armpits.  The fingers stroked back and forth in a line on
each breast.  Then, first on the right and then on the left, she felt
them flick downwards along the curve of her breasts, loosening the
dangling remnant of her bra, pushing it down and away.  There was a
rustle of fabric, which caused her to suddenly realise that she had
heard no sound but her own muffled whimpering for the last few
minutes.

The rustling continued as the bra fell free of Amy's breasts, landing
across her thighs.  It was lifted and pulled away from behind and to
her right.  Some part of the bra, probably part of the fastener,
snagged in her pubic hair.  It was sharply tugged, and came away in a
jerk, pulling out one or two hairs with it.  She felt the pain of
their removal, then the end of the strap sliding across the top of her
right thigh and around her hip, and then the bra was gone entirely.

The touches on Amy's breasts started again, a pattern of diagonal
strokes perfectly symmetrical on the right and left at once, sliding
down from the outside around the curve to the bottom edge where they
lay against her skin.  Right in the place where she'd put a pencil. 
In junior high when she was first getting her breasts, that was the
pencil test, the goal all the girls hoped to achieve.  When you could
carry a pencil under your breasts.  Amy felt dizzy, and figured the
drug must be getting to her.  She could almost feel a hexagonal pencil
pressed under each breast, and the light with the fly in it was the
one over her desk at school, but this was nonsense.

Pain in her armpits again and she must be getting another dose.  Amy
tried to hang onto rationality, and her head did clear a little as she
concentrated.  She wasn't in junior high.  She was Ms. Amy Wilson, the
receptionist and unofficial secretary, she was twenty-two years of
age, and that was not a pencil.  But what was it?

The sticks under her breasts curved upwards as if made of flexible
plastic or even metal, and met in the little groove just under her
cleavage.  Then she felt something pressing up between her breasts. 
It was cold and metallic, made of small pieces linked together like a
chain, and it had a lot of sharp points that left minuscule scratches
on the inner surfaces of her breasts.  As the tip poked up through her
cleavage it started to press hard into the surface of her body,
another hard cold thing similar to, but smaller than, the one that had
gone up her spine earlier.  It continued its journey upwards until it
hit the little indentation at the base of her neck, where it suddenly
snapped into place, sort of hooking onto the top of Amy's rib-cage.

Now she felt more touches on her breasts, more than touches now but
actual pressure like fingertips probing randomly at her flesh.  The
fabric of her ruined blouse was pulled this way and that, often coming
up tight against the objects in her armpits, driving in the sharp
points which she now thought of as needles.  The blouse was scraping
against her nipples, which hardened defensively.  For some reason all
she could think of was that the objects moving across her body weren't
actually touching her nipples.  The strokes always ended, the pressure
lifting away, as they approached her areolae.

But even the friction of the fabric at her nipples seemed to focus and
concentrate the crawling sensation from the drug.  A soft fuzzy warmth
spread down across the front of her body.  Her breasts were being
kneaded, pressed together, and scraped against the sharp edges of the
metal object in her cleavage.  Amy was lost in the rustling sounds as
her breasts, and whatever was clutching them, slid around under the
remnant of her blouse.

Suddenly all the movement, and the faint rustling sounds, stopped. 
She could only hear her own heavy breathing.  Amy blinked up into the
greenish haze around the light.  There was a squeaking sound.  The
door of the washroom!  Another woman was walking in.  Amy struggled
against what was holding her and tried to cry out.

Footsteps approaching, passing the door of this stall.  The woman must
be going into the next stall over.  Would she be stuck to the seat,
too?  Amy jerked forward with all her strength and at the same time
strained her vocal chords trying to yell.  She felt a cracking pain
along the edge of her left hand; perhaps the skin there had torn
rather than come free of the seat.

She heard her own voice as a pitiful squeak.  As it came out, she
heard the loud rushing noise of the other woman urinating and realised
that she had no chance of being heard.  There was a pause, a tearing
of toilet paper, then the toilet flushed.  Amy heard soft clothing
sounds and tried to make another noise, but had no strength.  More
pain in her armpits.

Amy felt again all the built-up weariness in the muscles of her neck,
where her head was still held firmly back by the pressure across her
forehead, face pointed straight up at the ceiling.  The tickling
sensitivity of her skin picked up another notch, and she felt as much
as heard the woman in the next stall exit the stall, walk to the door,
and leave the washroom.  The other woman didn't even wash her hands.

The light fixture wavered in Amy's vision, she felt coldness on her
face, and she realised that tears were overflowing from her eyes. 
They slowly ran down her cheekbones, paused at the edges of her ears. 
As she felt the first drop slide into her left ear canal and nestle in
the tiny hairs there, the kneading of her breasts began again,
stronger than before.  Amy's body twitched, and the tear from her
right eye dribbled into that ear.

Amy's breasts were being rubbed and squeezed in a continuous circular
motion now.  She could feel each nipple tracing a little circle in the
tight fabric of her blouse.  The tips of the nipples felt hot and raw
from the friction, but there was no respite.  The object in her
cleavage was pushed back and forth by the motion of her breasts, its
sharp points digging into them and the hooklike tip rubbing in the
indentation below her neck.  She felt the warmth spread from the tips
of her nipples, back along the sides of each cone, where the fabric
didn't touch, and then across the areolae.  Heat slid down Amy's
abdomen onto her thighs.  The toilet seat under her seemed to be
warming up, too; it was now almost hot where her left hand was stuck.

Although Amy's attention was focused on what was happening to her
breasts, she did become aware of something taking place below her.  It
felt as if there were a source of warm air, like a fan, in the toilet. 
A warm wind came up between her thighs.  It caught in her blouse and
was funnelled up across her body.  She became conscious of a smell,
strange and heady.  Yeast, she thought.  It smells like yeast bread,
cooking.  The same overtone of alcohol.

The flow of air became stronger, faster.  It made the torn edges of
her blouse flap against her back.  It whistled through her tuft of
pubic hair.  With her skin sensitized by whatever drug had been pumped
into her veins, even just the feeling of air on her bare skin was
almost unbearably intense.  And still, Amy's breasts were manipulated
in steady circles, grinding her nipples against the taut fabric of her
blouse.  The haze across her vision darkened a shade further.  The
light fixture now looked sky-blue, with the dead fly a midnight
splotch near one corner.

Something started to burn on her left inner thigh.  A pointed object
was being dragged across the skin there, in a complicated pattern.  A
pointed object, but not sharp like a needle.  It felt red-hot but
wasn't exactly painful and didn't seem to be breaking the skin. 
Writing, she thought suddenly.  Someone's writing words on my skin
with a ballpoint pen.  Amy tried to focus on the point as it scratched
along, starting almost at her crotch and continuing in a straight line
all the way to her knee.  She kept thinking that if she could only
recognize what letters were being written, she'd understand
everything.  But she could not make out the words.

When the pen reached her knee, it started a new line exactly under the
first; then when that was complete, a third only half as long.  During
this time the squeezing of her bosom had slowed.  By the time the
writing was complete, the rhythmic squeezing and rubbing had stopped
entirely.  Now her breasts were still held in a firm grip, the nipples
pointed up and pressed into the fabric of her destroyed blouse, but
they were held still.  There was a pause.  Amy waited, feeling her
heart pulsing in her chest and listening to her own rough breathing
and the flow of warm air from below, up over her body.  It tickled her
pubic hair.  She felt the three burning lines of writing on her left
inner thigh.  The right felt cool by comparison.

Then the grip on her breasts relaxed, little by little, although the
hard metallic object between them remained hooked in place.  Under her
right hand, which she had forgotten even to think about for a long
time, she felt the ropes and lumps shifting around, forming a new
configuration.  She tried to clench her fingers, tried to interfere
with the movements of the things under her hand, but they moved with
the inexorable grace of machine parts.  She felt light-headed and took
several deep breaths, smelling the yeasty odour of the warm wind.  The
wad of paper in her mouth tasted bitter and disgusting.

The tickling in her pubic hair intensified and she realised it was
more than the wind.  Thin things, like wires, were combing through the
hair just above her mons veneris.  They started to move more
vigorously, every now and then dipping close enough to scratch her
sensitive skin.  Each time that happened, Amy jerked against her
firmly-stuck hands and thighs, and tried to cry out, producing only
tiny squeaking noises.

Suddenly something that felt like a tiny creature with sharp toenails,
like a mouse or gerbil, skipped quickly up the front of her body, all
the way from the tickling in her pubic hair up across her abdomen,
under the blouse, diving through the tiny space between her breasts in
front, and then scratching up her neck to her chin where it stopped. 
The entire process took only a fraction of a second.

Amy's body convulsed involuntarily and a little peeping scream, the
loudest sound she had made in a long time, escaped through her nose. 
She felt a pain around her left shoulder and thought that she must
have pulled a muscle.  Her left foot had fallen asleep and she tried
to wiggle her toes to restore circulation.  She closed her eyes for a
few moments, trying to block out the glare of the light above, but
with her eyes closed the sounds and other sensations seemed to jump in
and overwhelm her, so she soon looked again.

Two thick curved things like shallow hooks slid into place on either
side of Amy's crotch, right in the little hollows where her labia
joined her body.  Cold and moist, just like the objects in her
armpits.  They pressed in harshly, popping open and spreading the lips
so she could feel the air flowing across the delicate organs inside. 
She could feel her blood pulsing around the objects and braced
herself for the sting of injections like the ones under her arms,
but none came.

Now another cold wet thing touched her, this time on the sensitive
skin just between her genitals and anus.  She reflexively tried to
pull her body backwards and up, avoiding the touch, as far as the
fastened skin of her thighs would allow.  But it followed, maintaining
the contact.  When her strength gave out and she had to relax her
muscles, the hard fingerlike thing didn't move down, so it was left
pressed firmly into her flesh.  It began to move in little circles as
if searching for the right spot.

Then it did touch a place that was softer than the surrounding flesh. 
Amy felt an unusual sensation, like a crunch of little grains of sand,
and she simultaneously had the impression that the hard pressing
object was vibrating softly against her skin, and also sliding up into
her body right through the skin.  As if a little hole had opened up in
herself to welcome it.  Warmth spread from that point, diffusing
throughout her pelvic area and then up her spine.  At the same time
she felt yet another prickling in her armpits, and an icy tingling
sensation began there under her arms and moved downwards.  She
imagined two drugs like two different coloured liquids, red and white
maybe, flowing through and mixing within her bloodstream.  There was a
soft popping sensation, and the tingling in front of her anus
vanished.  The cold wet touch there had been taken away.

Then it was back, a tiny distance ahead of its previous location, just
at the lower tip of Amy's vulva.  It slid to the right, just skirting
the rim of that narrow opening, then slowly up along the inside of her
right labium.  It pressed all the way along the groove inside her lip,
leaving a trail of cold moisture as it passed.  The touch lifted away
as it approached Amy's clitoris, and then began again at the bottom of
her right labium, sliding slowly all the way up.  At the end of the
second stroke it did touch her clitoris, just for a moment and just
barely.  It left a tiny burning dot of moisture there on the shaft. 
Amy wondered if that had been accidental.

The small hard object pressed at the base of her vulva again, now
sliding to the left and up along the inside of the labium on that
side.  Again, it stopped and lifted away as it was about to reach her
clitoris.  But instead of feeling it slip in again at the bottom, she
felt something grab her labium about two thirds of the way up.  It
felt like some kind of clip; not a really strong grip, not tight
enough to be painful, but sort of firm.  It was pulled out to the
side, curling her left labium neatly open.

Something sharp and warm touched her near the bottom of the
curled-open lip.  Amy decided that it was the pen again.  Sure enough,
it moved in a complicated pattern she interpreted as writing, but she
couldn't make out the words.  The point wrote just a single line on
the inside surface of her labium, a few words, stopping neatly at the
edge of the clamp.  Then it lifted away.

Amy felt a shifting under her right hand, which she assumed meant she
would get a few moments to rest before something new happened to her. 
She tried to shift position, but her thighs, feet, and hands were
still stuck firmly in place.  She did feel a little bit of play in the
bands holding her head back, and she tried to twist her face around or
at least ease the pressure on her neck.  But although she managed to
release a little of the stress in her neck muscles, her face remained
firmly pointed at the ceiling.  She could see nothing but the light
fixture with its trapped fly corpse.

Then something new did happen.  The blouse fabric resting on Amy's
now-flaccid nipples was pulled upwards, and something pushed its way
up the front of her body from down between her thighs, barely brushing
her skin.  Something warm and soft pressed down over her right nipple,
a small prickly thing that clung around the cone of her nipple like an
elastic band.  It itched like wool underwear, constant and irritating. 
The nipple hardened immediately.  Then one was placed around her left
nipple.

The sharp metallic thing held in her cleavage was roughly yanked out,
leaving deep scratches on the sensitive inner surfaces of Amy's
breasts.  It dropped free, and she felt it fall down over her abdomen
and bounce off her left inner thigh, in the spot where she could still
feel traces of the writing.  The metal object landed in the toilet
bowl with a clatter and a splash.  With its removal, the firm grasp on
her breasts seemed to melt away, allowing them to dip forward.  The
nipples felt swollen and raw; each little movement of fabric against
them sent shivers through Amy's upper body.

Amy breathed deeply, puffed out her chest, and tried to heave her body
around, hoping to dislodge the things on her nipples by catching them
against the inside of her blouse.  She thought that at least her
nipples were part of her body where she still had some freedom of
movement.  But her efforts had no effect; the elastic, or whatever it
was, was just too tight.  Her struggling made the hard hooklike
restraints dig deeply into the hollows on either side of her genitals,
and at one point she even managed to pull painfully against the clip
holding her left labium open.  Amy was forced to conclude that she
could not escape from any of the objects currently stuck to, pressing
against, or inserted in her body.

As Amy gathered her breath for another attempt at screaming, she lost
it again.  Something big slid in between her legs, pushing her right
labium aside, and grabbed her clitoris, halfway along the shaft, in an
extremely tight pinching hold.  She was too overwhelmed by the pain to
even try to make a sound.  Her pelvic muscles spasmed, trying to pull
her most sensitive, private organ away from whatever was holding it,
but since the thing did not move with her, the only result was to
stretch her tender flesh in a dozen horrible ways.  Tears poured from
Amy's eyes and her breath came in fast, deep gasps.  The fluorescent
light seemed to wheel around in her sight.

Slowly, her heartbeat and breathing slowed, although not to normal. 
Amy felt the tingling of her blood in her hands and feet and knew
she'd been hyperventilating.  The pain in her clitoris was still
agonizing, but as she got her breathing steadied and her pelvic
muscles relaxed, it became a little more bearable.  She hardly noticed
the pricking in her armpits as more drugs were injected into her
blood, although a few seconds later she did have a vague sense of the
light getting dimmer again.

Her thoughts seemed narrowed down into a trickle of consciousness. 
She supposed that must be the effect of the pain.  Dreamlike she
became aware that her clitoris was being pulled up, the hood opening
and stretching to expose the tiny bud inside.  Then something was
pressed onto the sensitive tip of Amy's clitoris.  It was prickly and
warm, like the things stuck over her nipples.  But Amy welcomed that,
because that awful pinching relaxed and then released completely as
the elastic was fastened onto her.  The prickling fuzzy warmth was a
relief, almost comforting.

Something touched her, something wide and round that pressed against
her vulva in a hard ring perhaps an inch in diameter.  It felt smooth
and blood-warm, and seemed to be hollow in the centre.  Perhaps the
mouth of a bottle?  It was gentle at first but steadily pressed
inwards in tiny little jerks.  Slowly it parted Amy's inner lips and
moved into her vagina.  It wasn't a bottle because there were no
threads or lip for a cap.  It felt like a perfectly smooth tube of
plastic or ceramic.  Even the edge was polished.  She could barely
feel it sliding into her body, could only feel the strange cool spot,
slowly moving deeper inside, where the hollow tip of the thing exposed
to air the inner recesses of Amy.

The tube took several minutes to slide all the way to the end of Amy's
vagina, pausing twice to change angle, because she was curved and it
was not.  It pushed just deep enough to hurt her a little, then
stopped.  Although the tube was not wide, she felt completely full,
her vagina pulled to the limit of its depth.  She hardly dared to
breathe, conscious of the thing's length.  It didn't seem to be
forcing itself any further, but it was fixed, immobile, like the
hooklike things pressing into the hollows on either side of her
crotch.  Each of her own tiny movements seemed to drive her body down
on the tube.  There was no chance of expelling it with contractions of
her vaginal muscles; it was too smooth.  She clamped uselessly,
frictionlessly around it.

For a time she seemed to hang breathlessly in the moment with the
thing inside her.  Then Amy had an odd sensation of something moving
down below, although the tube was perfectly motionless.  The cold spot
at the back of her vagina seemed to be expanding to fill her body.  It
took a little time to figure out what was going on, but she decided
that the tube must be slowly enlarging like a balloon, pushing out her
vaginal walls as it did so.  It still felt perfectly smooth, solid,
and round.  Now it felt like it had doubled its original diameter. 
Not big enough to really hurt yet, but the growth showed no sign of
stopping, and she worried how large it might become.

Amy felt the throbbing pain increase at the tip of her clitoris and
realised that that organ had now swollen enough that its fuzzy
covering was touching softly on the upper surface of the tube.  Each
step of the tube's growth, however slight, shifted her clitoris in its
confinement, sending a jolt of electricity through her lower body and
causing her vagina to spasm.  All the rest of her body felt taut and
strained in sympathy with the muscles there.

It felt like it must be three inches wide or more.  Amy could feel it
parting her labia, pressing them out against her inner thighs.  The
surface of the tube was so smooth that she could still hardly feel it,
could only feel the pressure, and the clamp digging into her left
labium where it was squeezed between the penetrating tube and her
thigh.  Her clitoris felt like a ball of fire, fastened at the top of
the tight circle of her vulva.

The steady flow of air from below, up over her body, still felt a
little warm on her outer skin, but it was colder than body
temperature.  Deep inside, the patch of moist tissue exposed by the
end of the tube quivered in every draft.  The tip was so perfectly
rounded that she couldn't locate it, could only sense a place where
the stretching seemed to leave off and the odd dry sensation of the
air began.

Amy's eyes felt gritty and burning.  She had been so consumed by the
sensations below that she had forgotten they were still open,
forgotten to blink.  She blinked several times now, closed her eyes
for a few seconds, opened them again.  The light was like a light in a
doctor's office, she thought.  That was where she had felt some of
these sensations before.  It was like when a gynaecologist put his
speculum in, stretched her open to examine her secret places from the
inside.  But this was a thousand times worse than that.  And still,
the thing kept growing.

When it was grinding against the inside edges of her pelvic bones and
she was sure she could take no more, any further stretching would
split her body in two right up the middle, the tube did stop growing. 
Amy waited, breathing heavily, feeling a droplet of sweat slide down
her back a little to the left of her spine.  Then the tube quivered
for a moment and started to pull steadily out of her body.  Amy could
feel the tension releasing deep in her vagina, working its way to the
front as the tube slid out.  There was a little "schlup" sound as it
popped out of her vulva.  A jolt of pain from the bud of her clitoris,
which caught on the edge of the thing for a moment, and then it
was gone.

Her entire crotch felt loose, distorted.  She wondered if her muscles
would ever be as tight again after this.  Before she could recover she
felt another touch at her inner lips.  Was the tube back?  No, this
was something solid with a wide, rounded tip.  It was cool and hard
and had just a little more texture to its surface.  It felt a lot like
an egg as it parted her vulva, roughly the same size, and it was dry
and scraped harshly against her walls where her mucous had been
partially dried and rubbed away by the passage of the tube.  But at
least the new thing was smaller.  Amy gasped at the cold as it pushed
steadily into her vagina.

She concentrated on its shape, feeling every tiny feature of it as it
moved inside her.  The upper surface was a perfect round dome, but
there was a scooped-out hollow with a hard edge on the underside,
containing a few small pointed bumps.  The wide round head was
supported by a thinner stem, hard and ropy with a lot of little lumps,
the same kind of construction she could feel under her right hand but
in miniature.

The wide round object seemed to nestle in a little pocket at the back
of Amy's vagina.  She could clamp the muscles near her entrance and
feel the bumpy surface of the supporting stalk, but the head was too
snugly embedded for her to feel anything but its size and the hollow
on its underside.  Then, it started to move.

At first she felt only a slight pulsing, and could not even tell just
where the feeling was coming from.  As it continued, it got stronger,
or her senses became more precise, and she realised that it was the
round thing inside her, shifting from side to side like a tiny
pendulum.  It pulled her vagina to the left, then the right, then the
left again.  She imagined a little snake dancing for a snake charmer's
flute, slowly dipping from side to side.  Amy could feel the bumps on
the underside of the thing digging a little horizontal groove in the
spongy floor of her vagina.  The upper surface was less distinct, but
she could feel it rubbing against something.  Her cervix, she thought,
her brain dredging up indistinct memories of feminine anatomy
cross-sectioned in a high-school "family life" filmstrip.

Amy became conscious that the movement inside her body was speeding
up, becoming more jerky.  It stepped up its rate to match the beat of
her heart.  She felt her vaginal walls involuntarily tightening around
the stalk of the thing.  Her heart began to beat faster, and she could
feel the throbbing around her nipples and under her clitoral hood
increase with the strength of her pulse.  The object in her vagina
wiggled faster to keep pace.

She felt short of oxygen, no longer able to inhale or exhale smoothly
as her pounding heart made her breath come in fast, short gasps. 
Compounding the problem, every movement of her rib-cage shifted her
breasts under the tent-like fabric of her blouse.  Each touch against
the fuzzy elastic covers felt like thorns pressing into her swollen
nipples and areolae, and other parts of the surfaces of her breasts
were now becoming hypersensitive, too.  A warm pool of sensation
burned in her cleavage and along the undersides of her breasts.

The warm wind coming up between her thighs was no longer steady; it
came in occasional gusts every few seconds that made the lower edge of
her blouse flap against her abdomen.  Each light touch there tickled
and made her body jerk reflexively against the places where the toilet
seat stuck to her skin.  And still, the round egglike thing burrowed
from side to side in the warm hollow deep inside Amy's vagina.

It started to jerk, less controlled, more like a part of a poorly
adjusted machine and less like the smooth head of a charmed snake. 
Amy had no way to measure exactly how far it was moving on each
stroke, but sensed that it was covering more ground, digging deeper
and deeper into her vaginal walls on either side.  She felt her own
muscles squeezing back, resisting it, even without any conscious
effort.  The knotty stalk bulged inside her, seeming to struggle
against the contractions of her body.  She wondered how strong it
really was, and what would happen if she succeeded in breaking it off.

Then it began bumping up and outwards with each side-to-side stroke,
hooking into the roof of her vagina, up behind her pubic bone.  At the
same time, Amy felt the stalk lifting where it entered her body,
sliding up between her inner lips.  She felt her clitoris withdrawing
into its hood to escape, the pressure driving fuzzy prickles into the
throbbing tip.  The egg-shaped thing buried inside her was now pushing
straight upwards with every thrust, curving her vagina.  She felt its
pulsations against her bladder, bursts of fiery sensation spreading up
through her abdomen.  As the round head of the thing curved up, her
cervix slid neatly into the hollow on its underside, and the bumps
there seemed to grab and hold it, the egglike lump now perfectly
filling her depths.

Every surface of her body felt flushed now, and the haze in her eyes
almost entirely obscured the view of the fluorescent light.  She was
dimly conscious, over the pricking at her nipples and under her
clitoral hood and the pounding in her vagina, of an additional pain,
two needle stabs buried in her armpits.  Then as Amy fluttered and
clutched around it, the thing broke through her vaginal roof,
destroying itself in so doing.  She was filled by globs of icy fluid
mixed with sharp fragments, and a river of fire flowed out of Amy,
burning her clitoris away in a flash of white flame and draining her
senses into the pool of water in the toilet bowl.

When Amy Wilson regained consciousness, she was lying face down on the
tile floor, her body stretched out neatly in the washroom stall with
her feet just touching the back wall beside the toilet and her head
almost at the door, face turned to one side.  There was a large wad of
wet toilet paper sitting in a pool of liquid next to her mouth.  It
smelled stale.  Her back felt cold and she realised that she was still
wearing her blouse, cut open along the spine.  She was also wearing
her shoes and socks, and her panties, although hopelessly stretched
out of shape, still hung loosely around her ankles.  There was no
trace of her skirt or bra.

She raised herself up on her hands and knees, and looked down at her
body.  Muscles ached in a lot of places, especially in her neck,
shoulders, and upper arms.  And her vagina.  Cautious finger-probing
could find no damage inside.  The surfaces of her nipples and areolae
were rough, red, and her clitoris was swollen and painful.  She
couldn't find any actual wounds except a thin irregular line of a scab
along the outside edge of her left hand.  No words written on her
skin.  Not anywhere she could see.  Amy wondered what time it was, how
long since she had first walked into the stall and sat on the toilet
seat.  Her watch was missing.  The light was still on but probably was
left on all the time anyway, so that was no clue.

Amy turned to examine the toilet.  Nothing looked out of the ordinary. 
She reached out to touch the black plastic of the seat, realising a
half-second later that that was a terribly foolish thing to do in case
it should still be sticky.  But it wasn't sticky.  Just a regular
black plastic toilet seat, slightly cold to the touch.  She peered
into the toilet bowl and saw that the water was still yellow with her
urine.  Automatically, she reached out and pulled the flushing lever. 
There was a loud roaring noise as the water swirled around in the
bowl.  Two drops sprayed up and hit her in the face.

 ---- --- -- - 

The standard disclaimers apply.  This story may not be distributed by
any Web site that participates in "Adult Check Gold" or any other age
verification scheme.  Such schemes are an abomination before the Lord.
Other use and distribution is permitted if this notice is left intact.
Please forward all comments, criticism, reviews, etc., to me by email
to my pseudonym.  My access to the newsgroups is sometimes unreliable.

Story 1, revision 1, date 20010610

John Fitzgerald Porter
jfporter@redneck.gacracker.org

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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