Think Tank
Chapter 1

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Fa/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Romantic, NonConsensual, Coercion, Mind Control, Drunk/Drugged, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Science Fiction, Cheating, FemaleDom, Humiliation, Petting, Voyeurism,

Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Professor Carol Lewinski has the ear of the President, but she wants the rest of him as well. This is the inside story of a deep, dark, top secret consulting firm dedicated to government conspiracy and the eventual subjugation of the human race by a few power hungry individuals.

Six hundred meters above an unremarkable street in an unremarkable town, a rather ingenious machine soared silently through the crisp morning air. The Raptor-EF was nearly invisible to the human eye and virtually transparent to most forms of radiant energy above .08Mhz, which is another way of saying it had the radar cross section of a butterfly. A very skinny one, at that. But the Eager Fox, as it was affectionately known, was special for another reason altogether.

"Remarkable," Gene said, smiling as he watched the monitors. "I love this fucking bird,"

"Can we clean up that audio?" Carol wondered. "It sounds like an obscene phone call."

It wasn't really a request. She didn't like to ask anyone for anything, especially that slutty NSA geek with the Coke bottle glasses and a severe acne problem. Of course, neither Carol nor her specialized staff were even remotely associated with the National Security Agency, she only took what she needed from whichever agency happened to have it and nobody dared complain.

"The wet slurping sound? That's not us," the girl replied, and that's exactly what she was. "It's coming from Subject Amanda."

"Look at her go," Gene sighed. "I should have been a cop."

A large, curving wall deep beneath the Library of Congress embraced a single gigantic screen surrounded by dozens of lesser displays. Gene glanced at the infrared and could actually see the two bodies, male and female, warming rapidly. Ultra-violet turned the inside of the vehicle, in this case a police cruiser, as bright as the surface of the full moon, and quite as pale. Microwaves detected the electrical signature of the subject, her aura, you might say, which provided in graphic detail the dramatic increase in her biochemical processes. Ultra-microwave was the best, however, looking through the glass and metal as if the subject sat in a convertible.

Computers enhanced the imagery, interpolated and translated all available data from more than a dozen sensors, offering a Blu-Ray quality picture of Subject Amanda sucking a policeman's penis. An array of listening devices filled the room with the sloppy, wet sounds of a woman in lust with cock. Occasionally the cop would groan softly, whispering encouraging words to the woman he held on his rather modest erection.

"That's it, baby," the speakers sighed. "Work that tongue. Fuck yeah! Play with my balls, bitch."

"Hmph." Carol frowned. "What have we got on that asshole?"

"Got him on seven," one of the geeks replied, an older man who reminded Carol of her father. He had a habit of dropping his pencil whenever she happened to be walking past him.

"Patrick James Mahoney, huh?" she read the policeman's file aloud as it scrolled across the monitor. "Wife and two children? Call IRS and have them audit this pig."

"He's a nobody," Gene said, but the look on Carol's face stopped him cold. They'd been married for nearly thirteen years and research partners even longer than that.

"I don't like him," she said. "Tell Revenue to freeze all his assets until they're done with the audit."

"You're in a mood," he sighed.

"And tell them to take their time with it," Carol added. "I don't like people fucking with my work."

"I've never noticed before, but your eyes are amazing when you get angry."

"Makes your dick hard, doesn't it?" She glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which, I'm due at the White House in twenty minutes."

"Say hi to the President for me." Gene leaned forward to kiss his wife's cheek, but she held up her hand.

"Not in the office," she reminded him. "That's what you have Tammy for, remember?"

"Tammy?" He cleared his throat. "I really don't think..."

"No, you don't," she agreed. "Keep an eye on the kids. This won't take long."

Carol left the control room using the elevator, a very secret one, as you can imagine. It had only two stops, the bottom and the top, and required a key, magnetic ID card, valid palm print and retinal scan, and a voice authenticated password that changed every twenty-four hours before it would move an inch either way. If all of that failed, the twelve armed guards, six at the top and six at the bottom, were encouraged to use deadly force on any unauthorized intruder. Unlike Langley, Fort Meade, and even the White House itself, there had never, ever been a successful breach of this facility.

"Tammy?" Gene crooked a finger at the pimply faced girl wearing Coke bottle glasses. "Could I speak with you for a moment? In private, please."

"Of course, Professor," she answered, ignoring the knowing smirks of her fellow technicians.

They were just jealous, she knew, and not only because she enjoyed the Deputy Director's special attentions, but the sixteen-year-old girl had just been published in the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists ... Again! That was number three for her and while Tammy Giles, Ph.D. would never win a beauty pageant, her mind was the intellectual equivalent of Miss Universe, and Gene knew it.

"I think your wife's getting suspicious," she whispered, reaching under her skirt to push down her lace panties. Even smart girls want to look sexy, after all.

"Nah." Gene shook his head as he unzipped his trousers. "She's guessing. Just play it cool."

"How am I supposed to do that," the girl asked, teasing the much older man with a smile, "when you make me feel so hot?"

He sighed, looking past the angry red pimples scarring Tammy's pasty face and into her blue eyes. They were miraculous eyes, clear and cobalt and shining just for him. They seemed to ripple beneath the thick lenses of her glasses and he was half-tempted to remove them, but the poor teenager would be blind as a bat and she wanted to see the man who was fucking her.

"I love you," Gene said, kissing Tammy's mouth and tasting the Hot Pocket she'd eaten for breakfast. Ham and Cheese, their favorite, and the girl's lips parted easily for his tongue.

She reach down to feel the swollen manhood standing stiffly from Gene's pants and it never failed to amaze her. Looking at him, one might expect the rather short, plump former President of MIT of having a rather short, plump penis, but he didn't. Gene was not only blessed with an IQ comparable to Ty Cobb's lifetime batting average, he also had a cock only slightly smaller than the Hall of Famer's favorite bat ... Well, maybe not that big, but to the relatively inexperienced Tammy, it seemed like it.

Gene's hands roamed Tammy's body through her clothing and then under it as he pulled her sweater upward. She had a boyish body, to put it gently, with a small round ass, narrow hips, and awkward knock-kneed legs. She was pigeon-toed as well, something he found decidedly cute, much like the way Tammy would suck her thumb when she wasn't thinking about it. Actually, thumb sucking was encouraged in her case because it meant she was dreaming up something serious, but as her tongue fluttered around Gene's, she was dreaming of something else.

"Put it inside me," she gasped. "Fuck me, Gene! I need your cock!"

"Up here," he agreed, taking Tammy by the waist and lifting her onto his wife's desk. Her tits jiggled beneath her scrunched up sweater and like the rest of her slender form, they weren't terribly impressive.

Her boyfriend didn't mind, however, and Tammy cradled his balding head in her arms as he kissed one pink nipple and then the other. His long, thick cock jutted forward, all nine ridiculous inches of it, with the smooth glans kissing Tammy's buttery soft vulva. She had a gorgeous pussy, he thought, miraculous like her eyes. Such a tiny mouth she had down there, surrounded with a thin brown bush of fine pubic hair, and it could be almost painful forcing his cock inside.

"Ohhhh..." But once he stretched Tammy's hole around his large prick, her vagina opened for him easily. The taut muscles of her sex gave Gene's aching cock a hot, moist massage as he pushed himself deeper. He nursed on her tits, licking and nibbling her nipples as they grew stiff with excitement.

"Jesus! That guy's got a big dick," Sylvia breathed, glancing at the closed door of her office just to make sure.

Her clit thrummed nicely and the Project's Security Manager had three fingers working her sopping wet pussy. She had private access to all surveillance and she never missed a chance to see Gene put that horsecock of his to work. Being a former army captain turned CIA field agent, one of the paramilitary ones, not a faggot spook, Sylvia didn't have a lot of use for eggheads as a general rule. She much preferred automatic weapons, but a cock like that? Oh yeah, the butch size queen could definitely find a hole for that fuck monster to hide in.

She double checked to make sure her computer was copying the live feed onto its hard drive. The scene was being captured elsewhere, most notably at the National Security Archives where it would be filed between John Kennedy rimming Marilyn Monroe's asshole, and Newt Gingrich giving head to a teenage boy separated from his tour group. Sylvia didn't know that, nor would she care if she did, only the fact that she'd have her very own personal copy mattered.

She hit the print screen button, capturing a good shot of Gene's happy face and most especially his huge cock pulled nearly completely free of Tammy's hungry cunt. She tapped the key again a second later, when the man was balls deep inside the girl, and Sylvia winced in sympathy.

"Fuck! I bet that hurts good," she sighed, adding a forth finger to her own sloppy hole.

Sylvia could well imagine Gene's prick bruising her cervix and she definitely had enough evidence of his infidelity to make her dreams come true ... She hoped.

A blissfully unaware Tammy clung to the man with her arms around his neck, her lips close to his ear as she panted desperately the dirtiest words imaginable. She loved talking that way during sex and Gene had to admit that he enjoyed listening to the vulgar obscenities dripping from her innocent tongue. The idea that any woman, let alone a girl of Tammy's tender years, would beg him to "Dig a cum ditch!" only made his cock that much harder for some reason.

"I'm cumming!" she squealed loudly, the pitch of her ecstasy perfectly in tune with the resonate frequency of the large glass window behind her. A few more decibels and it might have shattered, but as it was her co-workers only looked at each other and shook their heads.

"I can't believe he fucks her!" Sally whined to no one in particular. She was twenty-two and surprisingly attractive for a statistician, but Gene had never shown the slightest interest.

"I can!" Barry said, sharing a look with his best and only friend, another mathematician named George.

"Tammy?" the man replied. "She's pretty fuckin' ugly."

"Yeah, but you'd do her."

"In a fuckin' heartbeat." They both nodded, grinning as Sally scowled.

"You guys are sick," she decided. "And stop swearing all the time."

On the other side of the plate glass, Tammy had fallen onto her back, laying across Carol's desk with her legs wrapped tightly around Gene's hips. She crossed her ankles and pulled against him, meeting his thrusting cock with her quivering pussy. Her orgasms arrived quickly, one after another as she stared at the ceiling and quite unknowingly into a well hidden surveillance camera. Such things were everywhere, as mentioned previously, and no less than five cameras and four microphones recorded their lusty union onto three separate hard drives in three separate locations. Their sex would be classified Top Secret Compartmented Information with access limited to less than a dozen people in the entire world, including Gene's wife, of course.

"Jesus! That guy's got a big dick," George said in a moment of near-perfect synchronicity. "Whoops. Looks like the show's over."

He gestured towards the big screen where Subject Amanda was being led away from her carelessly parked Volvo by her mother, Subject Jennifer. Behind them, Officer Mahoney waved from the cruiser's open window as he pulled away from the curb. Of course, to all outward appearances, and as far as any of the neighbors knew, it looked as though the daughter was dragging her giggling mother across the lawn and into their typical suburban home. That was the beauty of the ReAssigned Personality Effect, or RAPE, as Jeff liked to call it - The effect left no physical evidence behind. No fingerprints, in clandestine parlance, and as the development lead, he'd pretty much invented it.

"Should we pull the bird?" the driver, an air force captain, wondered. "She's got juice for another three hours on station or..."

"Bring her home," Jeff decided with an upward glance. Technically it was Gene's call, but the man was obviously busy. "Let's bring up the house, and isolate the subjects on seven. It's gonna be a long night."

He smiled, watching as the other technicians went to their tasks without question. Jeff didn't really outrank anyone in the room, Carol didn't operate that way. The Project Director liked a simple hierarchy: She was in charge, Gene was her deputy, and everyone else did what they were told. But RAPE was Jeff's baby and so this time around he got to give the orders. Even Sally had to concede that, although soon enough it would be her turn.

They all had their pet projects and Sally's was nearing completion. She didn't spend all her time watching computer monitors, after all. Her program, the Synthetic Neural Arrest Protocol, also known as SNAP, showed real promise in the simulations she'd run and had been ready for live trials with a human test subject for several weeks already. Unfortunately, Jeff had brought his program online ahead of schedule and SNAP would have to wait a little longer for Carol's valuable attention. It didn't seem very fair to Sally, especially since she'd been called away from her labs to support the very same project that had bumped hers.

She turned her head, intending to give Jeff a frosty glare, but only blinked instead.

"Check it out, George," Jeff said, grinning as the two men huddled shoulder-to-shoulder around one of the nearby workstations.

"You and your cartoons," George sighed. "You're twenty-years old, dude."

"Anime," Jeff corrected him. "This is different. It's a game I hacked, see..."

"You're still hacking?" Sally snorted. "When you get hair on your balls, it means you're growing up."

"He still lives with his mom," George told her with a shrug. "Hey! How do you know if he has hair or not? Have you been checking out my balls too?"


"Both of you shut-up," Jeff said. "Look! Here she comes."

"Oh my God!" Tammy gasped, looking flushed and somewhat disheveled as she tried to fix her bra through her sweater.

"You put Carol in a computer game?" Sally almost smiled, but decided that looking over her shoulder would be a better idea.

"I call it a First Person Fucker."

"How did you do that?" George wondered. "She's perfect."

"She likes to swim," Jeff explained. "I put some cameras in her fitness club..."

"You what?" both girls exclaimed at the same time.

" ... in the locker room," he continued. "You know, NASA has an excellent 3-D modeling system. It's just amazing what ... Oh! This is the good part."

Four pairs of eyes stared at the monitor as an exquisitely rendered model of Carol Lewinski performed a slow, bump and grind strip tease. By the time her lab coat hit the floor, there were six people watching. Gene arrived fresh from a private shower just in time to see his beautiful wife loosing her upturned breasts and pink, pointed nipples.

"What the hell is that?" he asked, dumbly.

Nobody bothered to answer, not with Carol's animated twin bent over at the waist to give the audience a perfect view of her luscious, round ass. Her panties were coming down, slowly, with a sluttish wag of her deftly rounded hips. The stockings she still wore contrasted sweetly with Carol's smooth, pale flesh. By the time she was ready to turn around, even one of the marines had joined the crowd, craning his neck to get a better view of the...

"Surprise!" Jeff said, clapping his hands and laughing like a little boy. Computer generated Carol had turned around to reveal a long, fat cock and heavy, cum-filled balls.

"Ah!" Tammy squeaked, glancing at a stunned Gene. She'd seen that penis before, and very recently!

"I, uh..." Gene looked at his watch. "Tammy, let's go to my office and, uh ... review your project status, um..."

"Again?" She blushed happily, all too aware of the hot, sticky mess barely contained within her panties.

Likewise, most of the spectators suddenly remembered that they had pressing business elsewhere. The four members of Carol's A-Team, as she called it, might be immune to her wrath, but they were the exceptions. Nobody wanted to be even remotely associated with Jeff's little joke if their boss got wind of it, although more than a few of the technicians wondered how they might get a copy for their own very private amusement.

"You're such a child," Sally said, shaking her head sadly as Jeff and George exchanged high fives. "If Carol ever finds out..."

"Ahhh..." Jeff shooed the girl away with the back of his hand. "She's just jealous. Don't pay any attention to her."

"Well..." George cleared his throat. "She might have a point, dude."

"Yeah! On the top of her head. Hey, Sally ... How about you let me scan your body into the computer, huh?"

"How about you let me kick you in the nuts?" Sally retorted.

"Come on, it's not like you haven't been fucked by Carol before!" Jeff cajoled. "What's your project called again? I forgot. Crackle? Pop?"

"Oh man!" George laughed. "That's cold."

Sally balled her hands into fists and glowered at the boy because that's really what Jeff was, after all. He'd graduated high school at eleven, a year younger than Sally. His first paper had been published at thirteen, his first doctorate awarded at fifteen; again, beating Sally's achievements by twelve and eighteen months, respectively. Jeff wasn't going to let her forget it either and she detested his gloating smile and constant teasing. If only Carol hadn't pushed SNAP aside to make room for that stupid RAPE project. It wasn't fair!

"I'm telling you, Sally's first paper was published on the back of a cereal box," Jeff said, loudly repeating an old and favorite joke.

"You'd better shut-up," she hissed.

"Or what? You're going to take your ball and go home?"

"She looks kinda pissed," George whispered. "Let's go upstairs and get a sandwich or something."

"Well, guess what?" Jeff continued, smiling. "Nobody wants to play with your ball, Sally. Carol's got RAPE now, and I gave it to her, so you can just pack up and go home. This is the big leagues, baby, and you're not even on the bench."

"Okay, let's go," George said, physically taking his friend by the arm and dragging him towards the elevator.

"You're not even a cheerleader!" Jeff yelled. "At least Tammy's getting some action around here. What do you get, Sally?"

The elevator doors closed before the enraged girl could muster a coherent reply. She spun on her heels, willing herself not to start crying until she'd reached the restroom and was safely locked inside the last stall.

"Good morning, Mr. President," Carol said, pasting a smile over her beautiful face despite her disappointment.

She'd wanted to meet the most powerful man in the world alone, but that's not an easy thing to do. The National Security Advisor was eating a jelly donut and brushing powdered sugar off her skirt. The CIA Director was pretending to look through a red striped folder while he studied Carol's long legs and three inch heels. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, an air force general, stole one of the Presidential pens when he thought nobody was looking. Since the President was a Democrat, the general wasn't often invited to the Oval Office, but his grand-daughter wanted a souvenir, so ... He cleared his throat and sat at attention.

"Carol," the President said, returning her smile. "Thank you for coming. Coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you, sir." She took her place on the plush sofa, keeping as much distance as she could from the CIA Director.

"Now then..." the President said, taking a plush chair across the coffee table. He didn't like to sit behind his desk, not for something this important. He wanted to be up close and personal as he listened to what Carol had to say.

"Mr. President," Carol began, "I'm required by law to brief you within 72 hours of initiating the test phase of the project, but I think the less you know the better."

"Deniable plausibility." The Chief of Staff nodded. "Good idea."

"But I don't know anything," the President said with a frown.

"That's comforting," the general said to no one in particular.

"Well, Mr. President, if I may?" Carol didn't wait, but launched into the dog and pony show with all the enthusiasm she could muster. "At zero-three-hundred hours this past Tuesday, we initiated a reassigned personality effect targeting two civilians, a mother and daughter. We are currently monitoring their physical and emotional response and I'm pleased to report that the only adverse effects of the rape are those we've already anticipated."

"What effects are we talking about?" Director Central Intelligence wondered.

"As expected, they initially displayed symptoms of stress, disorientation and mild confusion. Subject Amanda, the child, recovered quickly and exhibits a certain euphoria that seems to manifest itself sexually. Subject Jennifer took longer, but her behavioral pattern conforms to our models and we expect her to fully rationalize within the next 48 hours."

"Rationalize?" The National Security Advisor arched an eyebrow.

"The adult subject has begun to manifest a sexual proclivity, much like her daughter, and we expect her to normalize relations with her husband," Carol explained. "For whatever reason, transition seems to stimulate sexual function in the subject. This stimulation, in turn, promotes the acceptance at an increased rate."

"So..." The General chuckled. "You've built a nymphomania machine?"

"What we've built is the perfect disguise," she answered, somewhat testily. "A device which will allow us to infiltrate any government, any organization that poses a threat to the American people, at the highest possible level."

"I want one," the CIA Director breathed, rubbing his sweaty palms together.

"Is that ethical?" the President asked himself aloud, already knowing the answer. Ethics had no place in government.

"That's a question best left to poets and philosophers, sir." The National Security Advisor licked her fingers.

"Perhaps." He rubbed his jaw. "I can't say I'm very comfortable testing this on our own civilians."

"We require a real world test," the Director of Central Intelligence explained. "There's only so much we can do in the lab and, uh ... We're monitoring every, um..."

"Possible contingency," Carol finished, frowning at the DCI. No blowjob for you, she decided. "We have the subjects under constant surveillance. Their every move is monitored, every person they come in contact with is screened, and we're prepared to terminate the experiment at a moment's notice. There's absolutely zero risk of exposure, Mr. President."

"Good, good," he agreed, nodding his head. "And, uh ... When we're operational with this thing ... Do we have a list of targets?"

"Do you really want to know?" Carol asked, her tone suggesting that would be the last thing a sitting first term President could possibly want.

"No," the Chief of Staff quickly stepped in. "The President is very satisfied that the project is proceeding in accordance with the country's best interests."

"Right," the President said, smiling as he stood up. "Thank you for your time, Carol. I know you must be awfully busy. Grab a donut on your way out."

"Thank you, sir." She briskly left the room, ignoring the doughnuts, and wondering what it would feel like to have the most powerful cock in the world.

There was only one target on the list and soon, very soon the President would wake up to find a pretty, blonde pussy between his legs. Unfortunately, he wouldn't have Carol's brains to go with it and if the former President made a fuss, well ... He, or rather she, might just end up in the psych ward at Bethesda. Or better yet, what would it be like to make love to her old body? That might be kind of fun actually, although Carol seriously doubted the man trapped inside it would enjoy the experience ... Or would he?

She frowned at that small uncertainty and hurried along the West Wing. What if she really had invented a nymphomaniac machine? And they still needed to run a test involving targets of the opposite sex. It wouldn't do for her to assume the Presidency only to suffer an incurable craving for doughnuts and Girls Gone Wild videos. The transition process was irreversible, after all, and she couldn't afford a mistake.

"So much work to do..." she sighed, drawing an appreciative, but curious look from a Secret Service agent.

Ten minutes later, in the backseat of an armored Lincoln Navigator...

"You'd better not fuck this up," Carol hissed, squeezing the CIA Director's balls hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"What?" he gasped, sitting rigid with pain. "I told him what you wanted."

"You sounded like a pansy," she said, letting the man go so she could undo his belt and open his trousers. "Confidence sells. You forget your lines again and I'll have you dancing on the White House lawn in these panties."

They were both looking down at the pink lace of the DCI's sexy underwear. He wore the matching bra as well, and a rather expensive pair of silk stockings that Carol had given him for his birthday. Beneath the satin, his cock had grown stiff and wet with precum, not despite the discomfort to his balls, but because of it. One of the most powerful men in the country, a respected former CEO of General Motors, married with a son at Yale and two beautiful daughters, he resented Carol's absolute authority over him.

Somewhere, deep in his mind, a plaintive voice cried out for rescue. The humiliation was acute and the DCI burned as his driver/bodyguard adjusted the rearview mirror. He wasn't a sissy, not by birth or upbringing, but the plug stretching his asshole made him ... do things. He wore it constantly, having become quite addicted to the subliminal signals transmitted through his nervous system to his feverish brain. Or perhaps it was the physical stimulation of the plug pressing against the man's prostate, caressing that bundle of nerves with its rhythmic pulse, artificial and endless. Either way, he couldn't live without it. Literally.

The device had been a gift from Carol, of course, and she never let him forget it. She tugged the front of his panties down, exposing the DCI's swollen member, and began stroking him as she discussed her plans for the future. After she assumed the Presidency, a great many things were going to change. The country would need a new CIA Director, for one thing, and she wondered aloud in soft, teasing terms what the man could look forward to in his retirement.

"A man with your background would make a wonderful spokesman for the gay community," she said. "Loud and proud. What do you think?"

"W-What?" He blinked rapidly, arching his back as his cock throbbed. Unwanted visions of marching in drag through Greenwich Village filled his mind.

"I'm going to need a DCI that I can trust," she told him. "Someone who doesn't wear his wife's clothes."

"B-B-But you made me..." he protested, trying to hold back his impending orgasm. The plug in his ass vibrated sweetly, flooding his body with adrenalin and endorphins, and chemicals that had no names at all, only top secret numbers.

"I did make you," Carol agreed with a soft laugh. "Does my pretty sissy want to cum?"

She let go of his cock, tucking him neatly away as she fixed his panties.

"Go ahead," she told him. "Jill off like a girl. That's all you're good for anyway."

Carol sat back with a satisfied smile as the DCI began rubbing his cock through the lace. he used his fingers, not holding his prick, but massaging it much like a woman will her excited vulva. It didn't take him long at all to spill a hot load of pungent semen into his panties. He did grab himself then, squeezing his cock and balls, working the creamy spend around his crotch until the satin turned dark and damp with it.

The DCI sat flushed and panting as the Navigator rolled to a stop outside Carol's Georgetown offices. She had tenure as a professor of psychology and a lecture that afternoon. Ordinarily she let her grad students handle the routine class work, but she never missed an opportunity to speak on scientific ethics and the so-called moral dilemma of technical evolution. It was her favorite subject and in Carol's honest opinion, there was no dilemma. Survival of the fittest demanded ruthless invention, whatever the cost.

"Professor Lewinski?"

Carol glanced up from the podium as she gathered her notes. Her lecture, entitled Artificial Pregenesis in Theory and Practice, had gone over surprisingly well. Of the sixty-plus students in attendance, perhaps a dozen of them had demonstrated at least a basic understanding of the material. Three or four of them might even possess enough potential to be useful, she thought, someday. They were the best and brightest of her new crop, eager to get Carol's attention and marry their ambition to her vision of the future.

Unfortunately, Paula wasn't one of them.

"I really loved your lecture," the pretty coed breathed. "That part about, um..."

Carol held her tongue, arranging her slim briefcase while the girl double-checked her notes in search of the correct passage.

"If it can be said that God created humankind in His image, then it follows that to control human Free Will is to control the Creator." Paula read aloud, finishing with a bright, Malibu smile. "That's so true, Professor. When you said that, I was like, oh my God! I never thought about it like that. You know?"

"I believe you," Carol replied. She snapped her briefcase shut with a sharp snick that echoed through the largely deserted lecture hall.

"Anyway, um ... I was wondering if we could like, talk about it some more? You know, um ... later? Like tonight?" Paula's blue eyes were lively with youth.

She twisted on her hips like a little girl, thrusting her upturned breasts toward the older woman with unabashed pride. A remarkably attractive girl. Carol teased her with a calculated smile, letting her eyes crawl upward from Paula's toned, tanned thighs, across her undulating tummy and higher, to focus on Paula's ripe mouth and shiny pink tongue.

"Or maybe we could just sorta ... talk," Paula whispered. "Like get to know each other better? It'll be fun, I promise. Me and you all night long..."

"What about your roommate?" Carol wondered, lowering her own voice to a husky whisper. "I wouldn't want to ruin your reputation."

"Huh? Oh!" Paula giggled. "You mean yours, right? Don't worry, Professor, nobody will ever know what we, uh ... talk about."

There were a few students like Paula running around the campus, female mostly, but at least two boys as well. Not that any of the faculty would admit to taking advantage of the situation, but rumors were invariably spread and word-of-mouth was often good currency in the dark corners of university politics. Paula simply wanted good grades and she'd quickly earned a reputation for not only swinging both ways, but also for making good on the sexual joy her gorgeous body promised.

"Talk, huh?" Carol smiled, but only because she'd quickly divined the advantage of her situation. Seizing unexpected opportunities was one of her many talents.

"All weekend, if you want," the coed suggested. She touched Carol's wrist, stroking the older woman's bare skin with her fingertips.

"Actually, I was just on my way to Virginia," Carol said. "I have to check in with one of my experiments, but..."

"Ohhh..." Paula pouted, batting her long eyelashes and taking a deep breath. Her tits strained against the pink angora of her sweater, drawing a quick glance from her intended lover.

" ... perhaps you could join me," Carol resumed. "I keep a small house down there, a cottage really. Very cozy. I like to sleep in front of the fireplace."

"Really?" The coed's giggle returned with a vengeance. "A fireplace? I hope we don't get too much sleep."

"Oh wow!" Paula exclaimed. "I've never ridden in a helicopter before!"

Safely buckled into her seat, the girl had her pert little nose pressed against the glass. The Sikorski S-92 was on permanent loan from the Department of Transportation and outfitted with all the VIP amenities, but Carol barely noticed. She sat on the port side, in a comfortable leather seat across from Paula with a narrow center aisle between them. Aside from the drivers, a pilot and co-pilot hired away from the army several years ago, the only other person aboard was Emily Watkins. She served as one of Carol's assistants, and the only one cleared for the Farm, not to be confused with the CIA's more widely known training facility.

"It's quiet," Paula said, and indeed the passenger compartment wasn't any louder than the interior of a decent automobile. "I thought helicopters were noisy? How fast are we going? This is so cool! I should take a picture."

"We're going about 240 knots," Emily said, approaching from the rear with a plastic tray in her hands. "Would you care for some wine?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah, thanks. You even have your own flight attendant?"

Carol ignored the girl, and the wine, but shared a small shrug with her assistant. No wonder Paula had to seduce her professors, she plainly had the mind of a six-year-old. By contrast, Emily was every bit as attractive as their guest, but had graduated from Princeton at the top of her class without once spreading her long legs for anyone. At least, not by academic necessity.

"Here. Let me take your picture," Emily offered. The sun had just started to set outside the starboard windows and even from the modest altitude at which they were flying the view was magnificent.

Paula surrendered her phone and struck a pose, toasting the camera with her wine and saying, "Cheese!"

"Perfect," Emily decided a moment later, showing the photo to Paula. "I'll hang onto this for a little while. Okay?"

"What? Why?" The girl frowned as Emily turned away. "I need my phone. Where's she going?"

"You'll get it back," Carol promised. She held a small computer on her lap and didn't look away from it as she spoke. "Phones aren't allowed inside the lab, that's all."

"Alright," Paula sighed. "I guess. What are you looking at?"

"Nothing. Just a bit of last minute research."

"Oh." The girl stretched her legs, sipped her wine, and pretended to look out the window.

In reality, Paula was preening, being the sort of person who was unused to being ignored. She'd changed clothes and quickly packed an overnight bag before leaving the campus. The short skirt she wore, pleated in a green and white plaid, rode up her thighs, high enough to suggest that she hadn't bothered with panties without actually exposing her recently shaved pussy. She wasn't a natural blonde, after all, and saw little sense in advertising the fact. But still, her lovely professor refused to shop the pale flash between her legs.

Her breasts as well, jiggling unrestrained beneath a silk halter top. The spaghetti straps threatened fall off Paula's slender shoulders. She'd adjust the left and a few minutes later have to adjust the right, giving her a perfect excuse to press her elbows against her tits, squeezing them together briefly. To no avail, however, as Carol seemed far too interested in her silly computer to notice the lush swell of female charm being offered just a few scant feet away.

Emily had noticed her boobs, Paula knew, and it made her wonder if they didn't have a little something going on themselves. The stewardess, or whatever she was supposed to be, looked yummy enough to eat. The black pants and matching blazer made Emily look like a waiter, and the short blonde ponytail didn't help, but the woman definitely had a body hiding underneath. Maybe Carol would want her student to do the both of them, Paula thought. That might be fun. A lot of fun, as she looked over her shoulder to see Emily relaxing on a small leather sofa.

"Uh!" Paula gasped as she noticed an unmistakable bulge in Emily's smart black trousers.

Well, not a bulge, exactly. A shape, like a long, thick tube pressed against the inside of the woman's left thigh. A cock? No, that would be really weird, given Emily's unmistakably feminine appearance. More than that, a very female vibe, you know? A girl can always tell and in any case, every drag queen Paula had ever seen looked exactly like what he was ... A drag queen.

This was something else. Not really weird, just sort of weird, and in a very interesting way. Emily was wearing a strap-on dildo! A huge one too, by the looks of it. Granted, black wool didn't make for the best contrast, but the shape and size was plain as day. The only question was, why would the professor's assistant be walking around with a giant rubber cock in her panties? Or dressed to the left, as some might politely remark. Holy fuck! She must have been planning on doing Carol right there in the back of the helicopter!

Paula forced herself to turn back around, although she wouldn't so much as blushed if Emily had lifted her eyes. Carol still ignored her, but that was okay. The woman was probably just trying to play it cool. She doesn't want to go to fast, Paula thought. She doesn't want to scare me off before Emily gets a chance to shove that dildo up my tight little puss. Oh yeah, this weekend is going to be a lot of fun! The only thing that really bothered Paula was the missed opportunity to join the mile high club. Maybe on the return flight, when everyone felt more comfortable with each other...

Across the aisle, Carol wasn't completely oblivious to her guest. In fact, unknown to Paula, she was getting the professor's undivided attention. The file had been hastily compiled and wasn't nearly as complete as the Director would have preferred, but it proved adequate for the task at hand.

Pauline Martha Dawson had an unimpressive background. Her father had been a boatswain's mate in the navy, retired and now living in Thailand. Paula's mother, Martha, which at least explained the girl's middle name, was remarried to a carpet wholesaler in Chula Vista. No brothers or sisters. No criminal record. No credit history. Paula had suffered the usual childhood illnesses, barely graduated high school, and her combined SAT scores made Carol laugh out loud. The girl must have sucked a lot of cock just to get enrolled at a serious school like Georgetown and as a widely respected professor of psychology, Carol felt somewhat insulted, to tell the truth.

She pushed on, running through Paula's known friends and acquaintances. It was a short list, given the limited time Carol's research staff had been allowed, but they were used to the unusual demands of their boss. The roommate had been interviewed at least, but they seemed to share little beyond convenient closet space. None of the information was terribly interesting, and a few details were conjectural, but Carol studied the file intently all the same. She needed to answer a single burning question before the helicopter landed: Would Pauline be missed if she happened to fall off the face of the earth?

"The cottage or the barn?" Emily wondered.

She sat in the driver's seat of a black Crown Victoria that had been parked just off the landing pad. A narrow road led out of the clearing, through the surrounding forest, and towards the Farm some three miles distant. The night was dark, the moon not yet risen; Paula could see nothing past the glow of the headlights. She sat in the backseat alongside Carol, trying to quell a strange sense of unease crawling up the back of her throat.

"You guys should put some streetlights out here or something," she said, giggling as if her suggestion might only be a joke.

Carol ignored the girl's fidgeting. "The barn, I think," she told Emily. "Shed number two."

"Nice." Emily smiled into the rear-view mirror, catching Paula's eyes in the dim light.

"What's shed number two?" the girl wondered. "I thought we were going to your place."

"Don't worry," Carol said, placing a hand on Paula's bare left thigh. "This is all my place. I want to give you a little tour first. Okay?"

"Yeah. Sure, as long as we can start a fire later," Paula purred, taking her professor's touch for an invitation to cuddle.

"Oh, you'll be nice and warm," Carol sighed. "I promise."

Emily adjusted her mirror, driving slowly and keeping most of her attention on the road. There wasn't any traffic, of course, none at all, but there were deer in the woods. The odds of running into Bambi were slight, however, and watching Carol's mouth cover Paula's for a long, soul searching kiss was something of a treat. More often than not, Carol simply didn't have enough time to savor life's simple pleasures. It wasn't healthy to ignore one's physical needs, Emily believed, and her Mistress should have known that better than anyone.

From the outside, the Farm looked as if it would be more at home on the fertile prairie of the American mid-west. The centerpiece was a mammoth barn, painted red with white trim, of course. Spread comfortably around it were dozens of lesser structures, prefabricated sheds and a few made of cinderblock to house vital machinery like the generators and pumps. The entire area, all twelve square miles of it, was dimly lit at first, but soon other, brighter lights were activated. Floodlights mounted on poles like those at a sports stadium were energized and after traversing the pitch black road, the stark brilliance was nearly blinding.

Emily stopped the car before Paula even realized they'd approached some kind of checkpoint. There was no fence to be seen, but two men blocked the road all the same. What really confused the girl was that while the men appeared to be farmers in their flannel shirts and denim coveralls, they were armed with assault rifles. Or at least she assumed that's what they were, and she'd definitely watched enough television to know that the funny looking devices perched atop their heads were night vision goggles.

"Good evening, Dr. Lewinski," a man said, a different man. He carried a flat panel scanner, like an Ipad, and Carol had already rolled down her window. "Would you log in for me, please?"

"Of course, Major," she agreed, placing her palm on the screen, "Carol Lewinski, eight-kilo-two-bravo-zulu-three."

The machine emitted a sharp beep of agreement and one of the guards spoke into a microphone attached to his collar. Around them, three sniper teams announced that they were off target and resumed their surveillance of the surrounding darkness. The other two teams, for their were five total, checked in as well, although they hadn't had a clear line of sight to the Crown Victoria. It was merely standard operating procedure and something that the former Marines took seriously.

"Thank you, Doctor." The man stepped back. "Have a good evening."

"This is all kind of weird," Paula said, but scary was what she meant.

She'd heard that her psych professor worked for the government, and there were all kinds of rumors, but none of them involved helicopters, farmers with automatic weapons, and a farm that looked practically deserted. That's what really bothered her, the wrongness of seeing all those windowless buildings, clean and shiny, and devoid of any human activity. The lights only made it worse. No tractors, she thought. No cows or horses, not even chickens. Shouldn't a dog be barking at them? The place felt spooky, that's the word that sprang to mind, and spooky scared her.

"I know," Carol replied. "You're a very lucky girl. Very few people know about this place and even fewer have actually seen it. I'm going to show you something..."

"What?" Paula searched the older woman's face.

" ... amazing," Carol decided. "Something truly amazing."

The room was bright and round like a wheel. A separate, smaller room forming a glass walled hub in the center. Cable conduits and PVC piping created overhead spokes as they stretched from the outermost wall to the hub at regular intervals. They were color coded, some of the ducts stenciled, but none of it would make much sense to an outsider.

Around that center room, which was actually composed of two titanium hemispheres separated horizontally by a dreadfully expensive window, three technicians rolled their chairs between at least twenty computer workstations. The were all men, dressed in green scrubs and white lab coats as if they were medical doctors in an emergency room. They acknowledged the arrival of Carol and her guest, but offered no formal greeting. The technicians seemed far more interested in their monitors and printers.

Only when Carol invited Paula to join her at the curving window looking into the very center of the lab did one of them men speak.

"We switched over to the high UV scheme you wanted," he said. "The accelerated growth rate our model predicted was optimistic, I'm afraid."

"How bad is it?" she asked, at the same nodding her head to Paula. "Go ahead. You can take a look."

While the lab technician handed her professor a computer printout, Paula stepped closer to the glass. It was like a windshield, three feet in height and seamless in its 360 degree traverse, set at the perfect viewing height for the average adult. She realized it was thick, perhaps as much as 5 or 6 inches judging from the way it was fitted to the metal above and below, but there seemed to be no distortion of any kind. The curved glass should have refracted the light, she knew that much from high school physics, but her view was perfectly clear.

The chamber seemed to radiate an odd glow, a pale radiance caused by the energetic ultraviolet energy that bathed the room. The glass had been specially treated to shield against such things, but even so Paula found herself wincing slightly. The place seemed empty and she was just about to ask Carol what exactly she was supposed to be looking at when she saw something.

"Oh my God," Paula whispered. "Is that some kind of ... alien?"

"Possibly," Carol answered with a shrug. "We're not quite sure where it originated."

"We don't even know if it's plant or animal," one of the lab technicians added. "None of the data we have on its physiology is conclusive one way or the other."

"Most of the information we have is contradictory," Carol said, "but that's not to say that we haven't learned a great deal about it's behavior."

"Behavior?" Paula frowned, realizing that she had no real idea what they were talking about. She'd wanted to spend time with the professor precisely because she didn't have a head for science.

"My specialty, remember?" Carol smiled and touched the glass with her fingertips. "Would you like to take a closer look, Paula?"

"What?" The college coed blinked at her professor.

"Think of it as a learning experience," Carol whispered, leaning close enough to tickle Paula's ear with her warm breath. "For both of us."

Even as Paula tried to understand what she was hearing, Emily slipped a needle into the young woman's carotid artery and pushed the plunger. Luckily, one of the lab technicians was right there to catch Paula before she hit the floor.

"Good. Let's get her prepped," Carol ordered. "And make sure we get a camera inside her uterus. I want to see what's going on in there this time."

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