The Elixir of Life

Being a genetic scientist wasn't without its perks. Four full-time assistants, plush offices and let's not forget the new Lexus drop-top. They had head-hunted him from the Brewer Pharmaceutical Corporation the previous Fall, with the lure of new state-of-the-art laboratory equipment and the type of bottomless funding, only Government Agencies seem to have access to.

"Dr James Wilson - Senior Geneticist" proclaimed the somewhat ostentatious plaque residing at eye level on the door to his office. Using his swipe card, Dr Wilson gained access to his inner sanctum closing the door behind him as he had done two hundred and twenty three times already this year.

Drawing up the leather high-back, he glanced across at the framed photograph on the right of the expansive desk. Denise Wilson and daughter Melody posed there happily on the ski-lift at Aspen. Not a care in the world registered in their expressions - though why would they have any, when James was trucking-in more than two-hundred thou every year.

He smiled at the irony of so seemingly happy a picture.

Not six months since his wife kicked him out of the matrimonial bedroom and Melody's only conversation with her father was when she needed him to pay for repairs to the Viper or whatever bills had accrued at the stables. Just eighteen and she had her mother's bitchiness down pat, with every indication of surpassing her in that regard.

Little wonder he had immersed himself in his research. Molecular structures, DNA helixes and amino acids neither spent his money or undermined his self-esteem. Unlike his wife, they allowed him to do what he liked with them!

He gazed at the small vial on the left of his desk. Containing some one-fifty cc of colorless liquid, it was part of a flask containing the bulk of the serum he and his staff had prepared the previous day and which now was locked securely away in the adjoining laboratory cool-room.

Doctor Wilson had spent the last six months working on genetic ovarian disorders and associated infertility problems, commissioned on behalf of the State Medical Board. His work in principle was to study the effects of chromosomal abnormalities and to chemically engineer a re-agent that might artificially increase FSH (follicle-stimulating hormone) levels. Without invoking an excess of medical terminology here, let it simply be stated that Doctor Wilson discovered that the controlled introduction of clomiphene citrate into a previously unfertile ovum not only significantly raised localised FSH levels but had led to a physiological change in the cellular structure itself that appeared to render the oocyte (egg) now fully fertile. Pretty much the equivalent of a moon-landing in layman's terms!

It was certainly reason enough to stop-by Oscar's bar on the way home. If he didn't deserve a martini for his efforts- who did?

"Better take the vial, just to be on the safe side," he reasoned, and thus scooping it up, placed it carefully inside the zip-pouch in his document case.

Selecting a private booth at the far end of Oscar's, he was barely into his second dry martini, when a young woman surely no more than eighteen or nineteen, sitting alone in the booth next to him, turned around and asked if he had a light. Even in the ten seconds or so it took him to apologise, telling her he didn't smoke, he noticed the somewhat attractive girl's dilated pupils, unhealthy pallor and generally agitated state. Either 'Crack' or 'Speed' he figured.

At that moment his cell rang. It was Denise. Depressing the call button, all he could make out was garbled static. Having by necessity to make it to the sidewalk to engender a better degree of reception, it was hardly worth the effort. Other than demanding to know where he was and when he'd be home, she had nothing to say. Flipping the lid of the cell, he smiled wryly to himself. A passing shower was creating artistic patterns against the far street light as the scarcely dampening rain appeared to fall in slow motion.

Not ten feet from the booth and his peristaltic rate hit overdrive. No longer was his document case resident on the seat where he had left it momentarily. Equally unattended was the adjoining booth he noted. Looking around wildly - there was no trace of either the case or Miss quick-fix. Other patrons, fully engaged in conversation, their alcoholic support, or blissful daydreams...had seen nothing. The barman "thought" he might have seen the girl leaving from the rear entrance carrying 'something' but he couldn't be sure.

Exiting the fire-door, he found himself in a dingy alleyway littered with trash-cans and piles of rubbish. Half-expecting to come across Steven Seagal kicking the bejesus out of some street gang, he almost suffered cardiac arrest when a monstrous stray cat hissed at him from atop a dumpster.

The drizzle had pretty much subsided although the walkway was still slippery and the general atmosphere of his surroundings something less than enervating. Up ahead just inside a dank and unlit doorway he caught sight of some movement.

Drawing level with the niche, all he could see was a pair of slim calves, patent black leather girl's shoes and the barest hint of what looked like a cerise colored skirt. It was enough. He had seen them before.

Even as he inclined his head towards the doorway he heard a muffled "Ohh, UNREAL!"

Someone a couple of floors up switched on their bedroom light. It was enough to penetrate the girl's place of concealment. His document case lay there, forced open on the top step, while the girl lay slumped almost provocatively against the weather-beaten door that looked as if it hadn't been opened since Mrs O'Leary's cow had showed its distaste for lanterns. Beside her lay one of his syringes - and an empty small glass vial.

"Jesus girl...what have you done?" he muttered, leaning over her. From what he could see, she didn't look to be suffering any physically noticeable ill-effects at this stage.

"Needed a high," she giggled, "What IS that stuff anyway?"

"Nothing that's gonna get you high young lady," he replied, regathering his possessions swiftly.

"Oh I don't know," she giggled even louder, "Would you like to kiss me?"

The light was just sufficient to let him re-acquaint his eyes with what he had already seen in the bar. Nice fitting top which advertised more than it concealed. Slim hips and sculptured legs exiting that tight little skirt that are strictly the domain of teenage girls. If anything her face was prettier than on last inspection and those lightly glossed lips definitely an improvement on Denise's early seventies vintage. What cretin wouldn't want to take up such an offer?

He inclined his head to kiss her but was totally unprepared for the ensuing physical assault.

One arm around his neck and the other grasping at his jacket, she pulled him to her with such intent that he fell prostrate across her. Not that this was any great hardship, the sensation of her firm young breasts up against his chest could even have been described as vaguely pleasurable.

Her mouth sought his own like a tigress.

"Fuck me....please fuck me," she more or less begged, spreading her legs beneath him to the extent that particular skirt allowed. He felt her trying to tug the hem up with one hand even as she wailed her desire.

Breaking off the kiss, he managed to evade her clutches and stood up panting...half with exertion and half with enforced arousal himself.

"Best you go home miss," he stammered, not wanting to play the lead in a protracted rape case. "This is hardly the neighborhood for a young girl to be hanging out in at this time of night.

"Oh please....you have to fuck me," she was half sobbing, her skirt now crumpled indecently up around her hips. He was unable to wrench his eyes from her right hand, up now between her legs and rubbing her pussy hard through those rather skimpy light blue briefs. Spreading her legs wider than ever. She suddenly held her panties to one side.

"Do you think I'm sexy?" she pleaded, exposing her teenage cleft to his gaze, surrounded as it was by trimmed, yet obviously moist, light brown pubic hair. She brought the other hand up between her legs now pushing an index finger deep inside her vagina as he stared dry-mouthed at the unfolding scene..

This had to be a side-effect of the serum he pondered - uncontrolled sexual arousal. Perhaps some brief field-research was indicated here.

"You have a name sweetheart?" he asked her

"Julie," she whimpered, her hips beginning to wriggle suggestively on the step as she continued to finger herself deeply. "Oh please mister, fuck me, I need it badly, you have to do it to me."

So obscenely spread was the girl, that he could see her vagina was lubricated in the extreme, juices running down her fingers in rivulets. "On heat" did not adequately cover the situation he saw before him.

"Show me your breasts Julie and I'll think about it?" he whispered softly.

In less time than it would take to order a Big Mac with fries, the girl pulled her top up and wriggled out of it. It wasn't a warm night either he noted. Seizing her bra straps she then pulled them down her shoulders exposing both breasts to his not disinterested gaze.

Staring at those most beautiful mounds, much the same size as his own daughter's he chastised himself for imagining, her pretty nipples stood out, the proudest of sentinels on night duty.

"Come on, I've shown you my tits...now fuck me would you? I just can't wait much longer." As she spoke, she re-commenced fingering herself wildly.

"One last request Julie," he could barely bring himself to utter the words... "take your clothes off and get down on all fours for me."

Not even bothering to check whether anyone was coming, the girl stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the ground. Slipping both hands inside the waistband of her panties she wriggled out of them, kicking off her shoes in the process. Completely naked now, she gingerly descended the four stone steps and kneeling in the laneway, seemingly oblivious to the puddles of water, wriggled her teenage butt at him as she got down in as compromising a position as ever a girl can be.

Assuring himself there was no likelihood of imminent discovery, he knelt behind her, only then realising that beneath his own trousers was a caged serpent of hitherto unexperienced solidarity.

Foreplay was not on the agenda. She wanted to be fucked and that's precisely what he did to her.

Had "Sixty Minutes" been in the vicinity, they would have picked up the exclusive of the decade...perhaps the century! That no-one came along was just good fortune. Reaching a shared orgasm in something less than ninety seconds he wasn't even surprised when whimpering with lust almost, she got down on her forearms and presented her curvy rear-end as the designated target for the second-wave assault.

Despite never having had any inclination for the 'alternative channel' he acquitted himself admirably in filling her back-up portal while she gasped and wriggled in obvious pleasure, mud and dirt from the road adorning her legs and arms by this stage.

To his eternal disbelief, the girl then turned around, splaying herself lewdly on her back mid lane-way, pleading with him to fuck her again. So wide were her legs, an Indian elephant would have been in there with a chance.

Unable at this juncture to be physically capable of continuing the treatment, however pleasant the prospect, he ignored her pitiful demands and moved across to the sidewalk with the intention of retrieving the girl's clothes.

Right that moment a battered old Riviera cruised past the end of the alleyway.

"What the fuck?" emanated from the driver's passenger side as backing-up hastily, four large youths debarked from the beat-up vehicle. Thinking naturally enough that street justice was about to catch up with him, he grabbed his document case and hightailed it westwards back up the alleyway.

Just before turning the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder to judge how long he had to live and was beyond amazed to discern no followers. He leaned up against the wall, capturing his breath. All four of the car's occupants he could see were gathered around the spreadeagled girl, one kneeling now between her legs, the others doing something to her he just couldn't make out.

"What uncommonly good luck" he muttered to himself - "for HER too!"

**

Finding it hard to concentrate on much other than young Julie getting down and dirty in that alleyway, the Lexus ran at least two red lights on the way back to Madison Heights.

"Took your sweet time," his wife greeted him as he waked into the kitchen. "And what the Hell happened to your suit? Its filthy!"

"Long story Denise - nothing you'd want to hear about, trust me!" Putting the document case down on the bench-top near the servery, he figured a shower was what he needed more than anything right then.

For once, the put-downs, conversational inanities and general disinterest shown him by his wife and daughter fazed him but little. The truth is, he had in mind an embryonic plan - one that might loosely be construed as long-overdue payback!

"You seem distracted tonight James," his wife commented shortly before taking her leave of the dining room. He wondered if she wasn't somewhat irked at having failed to provoke him for the duration of supper.

"Just got a lot on my mind at the moment Denise."

He looked up as he spoke, but seeing little other than resigned indifference in her expression, finished off the remnants of the claret instead.

The next day saw him wing-in to the laboratory with a new found zest for life. Even his staff noticed his changed demeanor - almost chatty as opposed to his normal controlled, if not clinical bedside manner.

"What's with him?" said one young assistant to her co-worker. "Look's like he found a cure for hangovers."

Fact is Dr Wilson was, for the first time in many years, actually looking forward to going home. Ensuring he was the last to leave, he paid one final visit to the cool room.

"Veal Marsala?" he sniffed approvingly. "That definitely calls for a Bollinger Denise. What say I go crack a '74? I think we have a complete case of them in the cellar."

His wife wouldn't have known a 1974 Bollinger from the 2006 house-white at the local Pizza Hut. So long as it sparkled, made her giggle and was served in an up-market piece of crystal, her needs were fulfilled.

Having retrieved his bottle of choice, he popped the cork at the sink and while Denise busied herself with serving dinner, he retracted from his inside pocket a small glass vial, the contents of which he up-ended quickly into the Bollinger, having first poured his own glass. No sooner had he done this, than his daughter made an appearance from upstairs.

"Oh, hello dad," said Melody, with less enthusiasm than a prisoner on death row about to tackle his last meal. "You're eating with us again tonight?"

"Yeah honey," he replied. "We haven't really talked much as a family for a while, I thought we might do something about that?"

"Right," she mumbled, staring at her mother, "Sounds like fun." He caught her momentarily rolling her eyes.

Filling his wife's glass, he inclined the neck of the bottle towards his daughter, "You've just turned eighteen sweetheart, would you like a little champagne?"

She was hardly going to say no, as he well knew!

For several minutes no one spoke, just a few obligatory smiles all round as they all ate. Fully alert for the slightest deviation from the norm he regarded both mother and daughter with in-obvious watchfulness.

When nothing appeared to be happening he was not only disappointed but baffled. Was it possible that taking the drug orally negated its effect and that to duplicate Julie's reaction, required intravenous delivery? Perhaps the effects he had witnessed in the alleyway last night had been due to other than the serum?

"I don't believe this?" his daughter appeared to mumble, coloring up visibly as she laid down her fork suddenly.

"Don't believe what sweetheart?" he enquired, glancing across at her nonchalantly.

"Er, nothing dad," she replied. "Its OK, I'm just feeling really odd that's all."

He was about to ask 'in what way?' when his wife put her glass of wine down and none too steadily at that. In not far short of a giggle, she looked across at James and shocked both herself and her daughter by announcing to the world, "Gotta be honest Melody, your dad's a pretty cool guy doncha think?"

In other circumstances Doctor Wilson might have punched the air, as it was, he simply offered up a silent prayer of gratitude.

"Just a bit more champagne daddy?" Melody pleaded, looking at her father with no expression he had ever seen before. He had no hesitation in filling her glass to the brim.

"You trying to get our daughter drunk?" his wife half-slurred, quaffing the remnants of her own glass. "Not that I mind," she added, giggling uncontrollably now. "Come over here and give me a hug James."

Almost as keen to research this medical phenomenon as he was determined to benefit from it, Doctor Wilson remained in his chair sipping his own wine, as he watched the women's behavioral disintegration.

"I'd like a kiss too please daddy," his daughter demanded confidently. She hadn't, he recalled, referred to him as "daddy" since she was twelve...and now twice in three minutes.

Making no move towards either, he sat there passively. "Beautiful meal Denise," he announced, making as if to leave the table. "I have to go to the study now and complete a paper I am delivering at the Research Council's brunch tomorrow." Then turning to his daughter, "And you sweetheart, had better go finish your school-work, don't you have your final exams in just a few weeks?"

"No dad," she yelped, "Don't go yet....please!"

This was the most fun he could remember having since that night he first brought Denise up to speed as to the primary function of a Pontiac's back seat, outside her parent's house at two in the morning on their second date.

If he hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed it, but Melody was subconsciously undoing the top buttons of her school blouse, even as she spoke.

Whether his wife was aware of this eventuality or not he couldn't say, she evidently had her own plan of action, judging by her decision to walk around the table and seat herself not three feet from his dinner plate, scattering condiments and table napkins alike.

"C'mon James, I must have something that interests you surely?" So saying she began tugging the hem of her skirt upwards, wriggling about on the tablecloth as she did so."

"Er, in front of our daughter Denise?" he enquired.

His wife's spontaneous reply of "You can fuck Melody afterwards James, as much as you want," was not exactly what he was expecting, any more than his daughter's ensuing brief monologue.

"Fuck me first daddy.....I know you've always wanted to!"

Well she was right on that score he had to admit, but this was a situation to be handled somewhat diplomatically he felt.

"Tell you what girls," he announced, "Show me your nipples first and we'll see what happens then, OK?"

What followed was surely the realization of so many men's ultimate fantasies from time immemorial. A still youngish wife (Denise was only thirty eight) and teenage daughter hastily divesting themselves of their bras, fully willing to parade themselves topless for the unrestricted viewing pleasures to be had.

Denise's breasts were still firm and inviting in the extreme, while his daughter's pink-tipped mounds, shunted his desire into overdrive. What he was experiencing between his legs suddenly, wasn't so much an erection as procreational gridlock.

His wife, who having worked her skirt up around her hips now, was wriggling about on the table, seemingly uncaring that her panties were fully exposed to her young daughter as well as her husband.