by Lizzy Bequin
My little ward should be awake by now. I haven’t checked on her since last night when I heated up a microwaveable meal for her and gave her a cup of water. She just lay facing the wall, the covers pulled tightly around her.
“It’s morning,” I call through the door now, a fresh cup of water in my hand. “I’m coming in.”
If it were any other prisoner, I wouldn’t be this gentle. But so far she’s been well behaved. No screaming or banging on the door. And she’s so small that she hardly presents a physical threat.
I give her a second to make herself presentable before opening the door.
Amrita’s on the bed, still lying on her side facing the wall, pretty much just like I left her.
The tray for the microwaveable meal that I brought her last night is lying upside down in the middle of the floor in a pool of congealed gravy. I flick my eyes up the wall, which is stained with more gravy and some globs of mashed potatoes with green peas stuck in it. Below that on the floor is the dried out looking Salisbury steak.
Okay, maybe not that well behaved.
The paper cup is lying on the floor near the tray. I prod it with my toe, and it rolls in an arcing path. I don’t see any signs of spilled water, so it seems like she at least got some fluids in her last night.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I tell her. “You need to eat.”
She just lies there, continuing to stare at the wall. I set the food tray at the foot of the bed.
“Turn around,” I command.
She replies in a tiny, angry voice that is slightly muffled by her pillow.
“I don’t want to.”
“This isn’t summer camp, sweetheart,” I growl. “Now turn the fuck around before I turn you around myself.”
She lets out a sigh.
When she does finally roll over, I notice right away that she looks different. Very different.
My cock notices too.
Her face is still pretty much the same. The beautiful lavender eyes that are staring back at me are full of pent up fury. The pink tint and raw edges show that she’s been crying. The lush pink lips are set in an angry pout. Her hair is a blond mess.
The face is the same. It’s her body that has changed.
Last night the girl that I left lying on the bed was slim—petite even—with small, humble breasts and narrow hips.
However, the girl lying on the bed in front of me right now is downright voluptuous. As she sits up, I see that her waist flares into the round curve of her wide hips. The fabric of her tight skirt strains to contain her plump flesh, and her thighs look thick and lovely.
But there’s another big change that’s impossible to miss. Two big changes actually.
Only yesterday her breasts were little more than gentle mounds—much less than a handful. But overnight they have inflated to ample, rounded globes that stretch the fabric of her top, which is now several sizes too small for her. Her sharp, erect nipples are clearly visible through the straining fabric.
Whoever left us that little note about Amrita’s needs must have forgotten to mention this little detail about her condition.
There’s way more to this girl than meets the eye, and I can’t help but wonder what other information has been withheld from me.
I set the cup of water on the floor beside her.
That’s when I notice that her appearance isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Her scent has increased in intensity, and now, standing next to her, it’s overpowering. My dick stiffens in my pants, and I have to focus my willpower to keep from throwing myself on top of her and claiming her right here and now.
“I’ll bring you more food,” I say
She just stares at me, her eyes burning with indignation.
CHAPTER 10: INTERLUDE
Somewhere in the heart of the Omicron Center tower in Manhattan, Mr. Driscoll marches down the curving, metallic-walled corridor of the laboratory area.
His stride is not as swift as it once was, and he curses the arthritic ache in his knees that slows him down. As he walks, he straightens his light gray double-breasted suit jacket and black, Windsor-knotted tie. His clothes seem to be getting looser by the day. He runs his wrinkled, liver-spotted fingers over the bald dome of his skull and the thin strip of white hair that curves around the back of his head.
He will be ninety next year, and he is feeling it. His special regimen of diet and exercise helps, as do his regular stem-cell treatments. Those slow down the aging process, but they have hardly brought it to a halt.
The biggest problem contributing to his declining health is stress. And it is a vicious cycle, because his biggest source of stress is his fear of aging, illness, and death.
Mr. Driscoll stops before a mechanical door, and wraps lightly with his bulging knuckles.
“It’s me,” he croaks, annoyed that he has to ask for entry in his own damn building. “Let me in.”
A moment later, the mechanical door whispers open, the portal yawning like a dark mouth, and Mr. Driscoll steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a pneumatic sigh.
Once inside the professor’s office, Mr. Driscoll is reminded of that day twenty years ago when they first met in a darkened hospital room. This room is almost as dark as that, but here the walls are lined with all sorts of blinking devices, the purpose of which Mr. Driscoll neither knows nor cares.
The professor is seated in his electronic wheelchair at the far end of the office. The cool minty light of a computer monitor casts him in silhouette, a lining of pale light tracing the knobby shape of his hairless, scarred head.
“Good day, Damon,” the professor wheezes, his voice humming slightly from the laryngeal implants that help him speak.
Mr. Driscoll bristles slightly. He hates it when a subordinate dares to address him by his first name. If it was anyone else, he would have torn him a new asshole. But when it comes to the professor, Mr. Driscoll prefers to keep their meetings as brief as possible.
Besides, it won’t be long, and he won’t need the professor anymore.
“Professor,” Mr. Driscoll greets him as he sidles up beside the seated man with the twisted body. He looks over his shoulder at the flickering monitor which shows a bird’s-eye view of a small cell.
“I’ll bring you more food,” the Alpha says, his voice slightly tinny through the speaker.
On the monitor, the Alpha turns and walks back out the door. For a few moments, the Omega remains stock still. Then she scoots herself back against the wall, and pulls the covers around her voluptuous body.
In his younger days, a body like hers would have quickened his pulse and stirred his loins. But these days, Mr. Driscoll has little interest in carnal pleasure. No, he is interested in the Omega for other reasons.
A repetitive clicking sound gets his attention, and he casts his eyes down to where the skeletal metal fingers of the professor’s bionic hand are tapping on the surface of the desk. Although the professor repulses him, Mr. Driscoll still can’t help admiring that piece of Omicron engineering.
“Are things proceeding with the Alpha and Omega?” Mr. Driscoll asks. “Have they mated yet?”
“Not yet,” the professor hisses. He does not turn around, and Mr. Driscoll is thankful that he doesn’t have to look at that ravaged face. “You must be patient, Mr. Driscoll. These things take a little time.”
“I don’t have time,” Mr. Driscoll almost shouts. “What if I have a heart attack, Professor? Or a stroke? Hell, what if I get hit by a bus? Then twenty years of hard work will be all for nothing. I need that embryo, Professor, and I need it now.”
Still keeping his eyes on the monitor and irritatingly drumming his clacking metal fingers on the desk, the professor chuckles.
“Honestly, Damon, hit by a bus? When was the last time you actually walked across an intersection? The only time you are ever outside is when you walk the ten yards from the door to your waiting limousine.”
“You know what I mean,” Driscoll snarls, becoming increasingly
annoyed by the professor’s insolence. Once the procedure is complete, he will take great pleasure in punishing this asshole.
On the screen, the Alpha returns to the room carrying a steaming microwaveable meal and a roll of paper towels. He places the meal tray on the floor by the Omega’s bed and sets to work cleaning up the mess that the brat made with her previous meal.
“I thought the Alpha was supposed to be some kind of animalistic savage,” Mr. Driscoll snorts. “Why doesn’t he just claim her and get it over with?”
“Trust me, Damon,” the professor wheezes. “Breeding animals in captivity is no easy task. But I have no doubt that it will happen soon. The Alpha is already beginning to display signs of protectiveness toward the Omega. Possessiveness even. That’s a good sign.”
The professor lets off tapping his fingers and gestures one metallic claw toward the monitor.
“You see how the Omega’s physiology has changed now that she is no longer taking her suppressant medication. The changes are not just anatomical. They are chemical as well. Her body is pumping out pheromones that the Alpha will soon be unable to resist.”
Mr. Driscoll turns and heads toward the door. He’s had enough of the professor for one day.
“I hope you’re right, Professor,” he snaps as he departs. “For both of our sakes.”
“Trust me,” he hears the professor rasp as he steps out of the shadowy room. “They won’t be able to deny their fate much longer. The fate that I have engineered for them.”
CHAPTER 11: AMRITA
The door swings open and Conway strolls inside, dragging a metal folding chair that screeches as it scrapes along the concrete. He unfolds the chair and sets it at the far side of the room facing me.
I sit up, still not used to the feeling of my new, much larger breasts that mysteriously appeared overnight.
Conway eyes the microwaveable meal tray. After he cleaned up the mess that I made with the previous meal, he brought me a fresh one. It’s still exactly where he left it earlier. Untouched, the gravy has congealed into a thick slime.
“You have to eat,” he says.
I glare at him silently as he sits down in the chair. He looks tired. His blond hair is a tousled mess. He is wearing a white tank top a brown leather shoulder holster that carries a big black pistol. The hem of his shirt is scrunched up a little, revealing a glimpse of his bare skin, and I can see that he’s taken his bandages off his gunshot wound already, which is surprising.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His intense eyes never leave mine.
“If you don’t eat, I’ll have to feed you,” he says. “I don’t think you would like that.”
“Oh yeah? But I bet you’d enjoy it,” I spit.
He quirks a cocky grin, making his dimple appear on one side. That little dimple pisses me off so much I can’t stand it. I can’t stand how good he looks. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make me hate him any less.
“If you’re talking about what happened before, I was only doing what needed to be done.”
“I bet,” I say sarcastically.
“Hey,” he says with a cocky chuckle as he leans back and tucks his hands behind his head, “I’m not the one who got off, remember.”
Oh, I remember all right. It would be hard to forget something like that. I silently curse my traitorous body for the easy way it surrendered to his stroking fingers.
And already my body is turning against me again. Every time this dangerous man comes in here, his heavy, musky scent floods the room. It’s more masculine than anything I’ve ever smelled in my life. Not like the bright, woodsy cologne that Dad likes to wear on Sunday mornings for church. No, Conway’s smell is one hundred percent him. It should repulse me. I mean, after all, it’s technically body odor, which is normally a bad thing.
But it doesn’t stink. Not exactly. It’s like an overpowering animal musk, and it makes me feel like I’ve wandered into the cave of a hibernating bear. Every time I catch a whiff of it, some base instinct deep in the back of my brain tells me to run. But where the hell am I gonna go with this guy keeping watch over me twenty-four seven?
And why are my nipples pebbling under the stretched fabric of my now too-tight top? Why is that slippery, slick feeling seeping between my legs again?
“Just tell me one thing,” I say, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. “What is this all about? Why are you keeping me here? If you’re holding me for ransom, you should know my dad doesn’t have much money. And if you’re planning on killing me, I wish you would hurry up and get it over with already.”
It’s hard to hide the tremor in my voice as I speak that last part. I’m playing at being a hardass, but Conway’s expression suggests he sees right through my facade.
He runs one hand along his furred jaw.
“I already told you that we’re not going to kill you,” he grumbles.
“And why should I trust you?”
He laughs at that. I can’t help thinking his laugh sounds…sexy. And I can’t help hating myself for thinking so. But there’s no denying that there is something about this man that gets deep under my skin.
“If you don’t trust me, then why bother asking why I’m keeping you here?”
I shrug. I guess he does have a point about that.
He pushes his fingers through his thick hair and exhales a deep sigh. His powerful muscular body slouches into the chair. Relaxed like this, he makes me think of a resting tiger. He may look lazy at the moment, but I know he could pounce in the blink of an eye, and that though sends a cold shiver tingling up my back.
Plus, he’s wearing that pistol. I know he doesn’t need that thing to protect himself from me. Some who is he worried might attack? His partner, Kruger?
“The truth is, I don’t know why we kidnapped you, and I don’t know what we’re going to do with you. You are just another job. And I’m only following orders.”
“Only following orders?” I snap a bit more boldly than is probably wise, considering my situation, but I’m beyond caring. “Nice excuse. But it didn’t work at Nuremberg.”
“I’m not on trial.”
Now it’s my turn to chuckle. I’m doing my best to appear unfazed by all of this. I don’t want to let him know just how terrified I am now. But at the same time, I’m grateful. It’s a hell of a lot better to be left alone with this guy instead of that psycho Kruger. At least this guy has some degree of self control. If Kruger were here, who knows what he would have done to me already. I don’t even want to think about that.
“So who are you working for? Or do you even know that?”
“Yeah, that I do know,” he says, “but I’m not going to tell you. All I can tell you is that my employers want you alive and well, which is why you need to eat. We might be here for a while, and I can’t have you starving to death on me.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
As if on cue, my empty stomach grumbles. My body seems intent on betraying me every chance it gets. But the fact of the matter is, I’m incredibly hungry. It must be the way my body is growing, especially in the chest region. New tissue needs fuel. You can’t just make something out of nothing.
“I wasn’t joking about force feeding you.”
I nod toward the microwaveable food tray.
“That food is cold.”
Maybe it’s not wise to be bratty at a time like this, but I want to see just how flexible this man is willing to be. I have no doubt that I’m nothing more than a paycheck to him, but he does seem genuinely concerned about keeping me alive and healthy. At the very least, maybe he will keep his friend from eating me for breakfast.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll get you a new one. But first, it’s time to take care of your other bodily needs.”
My pulse quickens.
“You really didn’t know about that, did you?” he asks, reading my expression. “You’ve been using medication all this time to suppress your condition. But you really didn’t
know the effects.”
I nod, pulling my skirt down as far as I can over my newly thick thighs. I suddenly feel so exposed, remembering the way this man touched me.
God, he touched me inside. His fingers were actually inside me.
I try to ignore the extra trace of moisture that develops at my crotch as I remember what he did to me. The way his strong fingers made me come, dragging the shuddering climax from my needy, helpless body as I melted against his stone hard muscles.
I had never experienced such intense pleasure in my life.
But pleasure be damned. There’s no way I’m going to submit my body to him again. This man is a dangerous criminal. Besides being a kidnapper, I have no doubt that he is a vicious murderer too. I’m not gonna let him touch me again with those scary big hands of his
Last time I was helpless, lost in the throes of a seizure. I needed his help—I couldn’t have done what was necessary by myself. But now I’m wide awake and healthy. I don’t need his help this time around.
“Well, I can take care of my ‘needs’ by myself,” I say, turning my face away.
“Fine,” he says.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s premature.
“But I’m going to watch.”
My cheeks heat with embarrassment, and my eyes go wide.
“What?” I gasp, clutching my arms around my chest, instinctively covering myself, even though I’m not naked. The thing is, if my curves get any bigger, I soon will be naked. My too-small clothes can barely contain my new body, which is spilling out around the edges.
Conway leans forward again, and I shrink under that intense stare of his steely gray eyes.
“Listen to me, darling. I’ve been charged with keeping you alive. As we both now know, that involves making sure you get off on a regular basis. A couple of times a day, just to be safe. Now, if you wanna do the deed by yourself, that’s fine by me. But I’m gonna sit right here and make sure you take care of your business.”
“Please,” I whimper. “You don’t have to watch me.”
