CONFESSIONS OF A XEROX REPAIRMAN - EPISODE ONE: "Discovery" by Rodin. Human frailty and error combine haphazardly with sheer dumb luck to catch a man and a beautiful young woman in a technological trap. They embark via photokinetic stimulus on a Mediterranean trip (in the 1960's sense of the word), where famous royalty treats them rather poorly. Upon their return, the man can better appreciate "full recovery" as a relative concept. He walks a fine line between total satisfaction and probable incarceration, ending in an unlikely promotion.
1)This fictional tale depicts detailed and (at times) explicit circumstances involving physical attraction to/physical relations with frozen women, dolls and statues. All readers are hereby cautioned as to content, and any individual under the age of twenty-one is prohibited from reading further. Similarly, any person who disagrees with the philosophy and/or intent of an ASFR story page should now exercise their freedom guaranteed under the US constitution and NOT continue.
2)The anonymous author of the "Confessions" series retains all ownership rights to concepts and characters created by him. Although comments are welcomed, no edit, adaptation or extension of the storyline or characters should be under-taken without the author's written permission. Please contact this story page administrator to correspond. Your consideration in this matter is appreciated.
3)I would like to credit the ASFR talents of Argoforg and CMQ for providing high-quality literary examples as inspiration. The introspective erotica style ("rot", as he calls it) of Nicholson Baker's "The Fermata" is (poorly) duplicated here. Unfortunately, quality benefits thereby gained are bought at the cost of brevity.
Some patience is required. I hope you find reading the story worth the effort . -R.
Copyright © 1998 B.B.
CONFESSIONS OF A XEROX REPAIRMAN
by Monsieur Rodin
EPISODE ONE: "DISCOVERY" Chapter One: "On the Job Training".
My electrical engineering degree from Brown looked good in transcript record form and on a curriculum vitae; but my inherited extreme shyness and consequential inability to impress job interviewers from Intel, Ford, H-P and the like provided me with a tall stack of politely worded "...qualifications do not suit our needs..." letters on an assortment of Fortune 500 stationary. To me, this somehow did not seem a fair exchange for the $72,000 in student loan debt I had accumulated over the previous four years. Admittedly, my job choice was motivated at least in part from financial desperation. Possibly, also, it was a stubbornness born from my determination as a naive Eastern liberal to fight against the norms of a corrupt and selfish mid-1980's American corporate culture. Most likely, however, it was my blind manipulation in the hands of a beautiful mid-twenties, blonde, blue-eyed Xerox interviewer, wearing a big smile and a frilly-to-the-point-of-transparent suit blouse (with low-cut black bra underneath). So when Ms. Helen something-or-another batted her long sexy eyelashes while gently declining my services as a photodevices-systems design project team member at Xerox's Berkeley, California research facility, I took it rather well. And when she instead proposed that I first "learn the practical ropes" and "use as a stepping stone" their Atlanta copier repair and maintenance training program, so as to make me "a slam dunk choice for the next available middle manager job", I succumbed to those baby blues (or was it the bulging black bra?) and signed a two-year contract for 1/3 the average starting salary of my classmates. In all honesty, it was either an entry-level gig at Xerox, or a Peace Corps assignment in Sri Lanka, which I calculated would allow me to pay off my outstanding loans in approximately 137 years.
To make a long story short, I breezed my way through (perfect scores) the on-site training courses and was soon assigned to a practice maintenance route which included service contract customers in downtown Atlanta and Decatur, Georgia (home of Emory University with its more than 300 Xerox machines). Of course, being only two months out of college and a Yankee as well , I was made an assistant technician to one William Charles "Otis" (for reasons which I never understood) Lee. He claimed, as has everyone else with that surname I ever met residing south of the Mason-Dixon line, to be a descendant of Robert E. Lee. Otis presented himself as a "great-great-great grandson" of the General's sister. As a new hire, I did not argue this questionable point on either chronological or nomenclature grounds.
Otis was 6'3", in his late 40's, born and raised in Atlanta, divorced, a bit overweight and balding. Always wearing a loud tie and starched white button-down dress shirt (collar two sizes too small) without a sport coat, his usual behavior was likable enough. In fact, he could be genuinely entertaining near the end of the day- usually coinciding with the downing of his fifth or sixth beer. This war hero’s descendant still fancied himself a ladies man, often with disastrous results. However (unfortunately for me personally), I think Otis vaguely regarded this "bright new kid on the block" trainee as a threat to his
future raise and promotion prospects. So he routinely assigned me the most laborious, technically difficult, and potentially customer-infuriating tasks on the service route. For example, Otis often would open up a complex copier module or circuit board which had been damaged or needed maintenance, and then leave the actual intricate analysis, repair and re-assembly to me, with the clear intent of making me bear the risks and responsibility of (so he hoped) failure. One sweltering evening in the July of 1984, however, his repair strategies and romantic hopes dramatically changed my life in a quite unique way.
We received an emergency (overtime) service call late one Thursday afternoon from a client in the Peachtree Plaza offices of a major advertising agency. A wimpy-but-courteous male security guard signed us in at the downstairs lobby front desk at 6:15 p.m., then escorted us up to the 22nd floor suite. The ad agency digs were spacious, new-age (before such a term existed) and luxurious. Track lighting, leather sofas and chairs, and teakwood furniture filled the main office workspace, while every conceivable audio-visual and photography gadget yet invented occupied adjacent "focus group" conference rooms. Framed posters of famous, award-winning ads which the agency had produced adorned the walls, some of them quite risque and sexy. The one exception to all this extravagance, of course, was in the 5x7 foot, windowless, white-walled, stuffy copy room where we would be spending the next several hours. Some careless idiot or joker had melted multiple color transparencies inside the photo-illumination area of a model XG-2770. Three transparencies- one pink, one yellow and one blue in background color- were caught, mangled, and randomly spun around off from the paper feed track, where they had partially fused together on top of the super-bright (and super-hot) light bulb which produces copies through paper originals. Although twisted and stuck together in an impossible crumple, I could still tell from pieces of the least damaged copies that they were intended to be part of a sales promotion or presentation. The ad slogan read across the top of the page in giant semi-transparent capital block letters:
"YOU SIMPLY CAN'T AFFORD TO BE CAUGHT TURNING TO LOOK AT
THE COMPETITION IN THE 386 DASH! YOU ARE CHASING THE GOLD!!!"
Accompanying this slogan in the lower half of the page was a rather ridiculous-looking color picture of two sprinters crossing a track-and-field finish line, each with a CPU, monitor and keyboard of a name-brand 386-chip personal computer strapped to his back. I supposed that the ad agency's client was the company whose PC was atop the runner smiling broadly as he crossed the tape just inches in front of the other guy; and not the one losing while caught gaping sideways at his competitor. A sprawling pile of several thousand gold medals or coins lay just beyond the finish. For their sakes, I hoped they had stopped quickly.
Our emergency repair job was to extricate these melted transparencies from the internal illumination and picture-taking area of the copier, and replace the "photoboard" (an imaging and contrast microchip circuitry module) as well as the 1000-watt bulb- both now encased in mottled multicolored plastic. I openly wondered how the circuits (or at least the bulb) had not exploded from the heat build-up. Otis was just completing his usual "high-tech" contribution to the repair by removing the copier’s glass top, when a steel-blue 38 Police Special, cradled by two delicate and lovely hands sporting glossy pale pink nail polish, suddenly plunged through the copier room doorway. A lilting Georgian drawl incongruously screamed: "FREEZE in your tracks, assholes, or you'all are HISTORY!!" For my own part, I would likely have complied with such a polite request from an obvious Southern Belle; but the whole thing happened so fast that I jumped nearly out of my skin in surprise, hitting my head on the legal paper feed tray, and falling down onto the floor.
Otis reacted significantly better to this situation than I did, and he soon cleared up all misunderstanding. We discovered she was the building’s "floor patrol" security guard named Rhonda Mooney, making the rounds upstairs that evening. While I continued my tinkering inside the XG-2770, the General's great-grandson commenced friendly chatting with this uniformed, late twenties, raven-haired knockout. She was quite tall (5'10" or so), moderately athletically built, slender in the waist, and very well endowed. Her employee ID nametag faced almost straight up toward the ceiling, given the generous (I conservatively estimated 42D) support rendered it from underneath. As usual on Thursdays, Otis had insisted we stop at O'Casey's bar before completing our end-of-the-day workload, and now his imbibing animated and emboldened him. For my part, I particularly appreciated the impressive fill, fit and creases of Rhonda's dark gray uniform trousers, as well as her luscious full red lips, sparkling green eyes and Dorothy-Hammill-type short haircut. But I did so from a distance. Despite my attraction to her, three things put me off. One was my natural shyness and inexperience with women, especially those older than me. My entire adult love life history consisted of a ten-day fling with a sophomore Brown fine arts student; which, to this day, I suspect was a ploy to make another of my college classmates jealous. So I didn't have a lot of suave pick-up lines or strategies in hand. Secondly, there was Otis, who during the first six months of my Xerox employment had the power to fire me without cause. Third, as I eavesdropped, it turned out that Rhonda was a moonlighting (illegally?) off-duty Atlanta police officer, and I am quickly repulsed by any kind of authority figure. Her actions towards me didn’t help either. Perhaps following subtle condescending cues from Otis, Rhonda very rapidly started treating me as a second-class citizen, giving me nothing more than a brief southern "hey there" greeting as we were introduced. She quickly accepted Otis' offer of a soft drink (she liked cream soda?!) from the outer office vending machine, and the duo continued to flirt there more privately. All things considered, I took my satisfaction from her curvaceous, full-figured profile and rear view via occasional surreptitious glances through the copy room door. Surprisingly, this beauty actually did seem interested in Otis’ slightly drunken advance. Perhaps she was a bit lonely herself. It was likely, after all, that her night shift job made dating tough, despite her obvious exterior charms. But for whatever reason, Otis was certainly hitting it off with Rhonda. At one point, I overheard a joke about "restraints" and "body searches", and to my amazement, saw him fumbling to make a play at securing her into her own handcuffs! She didn't permit him to do it, but she was brightly blushing, and had a big smile on her face. Was she INTO that stuff?? As I involuntarily conjured up images of a tied-up Rhonda, I then decided it was definitely time to stop eavesdropping before I got into trouble. Too late. Otis had caught me staring at the pseudo-bondage game, and glared back angrily. "What THE HELL're YOU looking at, boy?!", he shouted, heading over in my direction. It was clear that he planned to look manly and authoritative at my expense. Rhonda dutifully, perhaps even somewhat curiously, followed along after him toward the copy room.
For the next five minutes Otis critiqued my repair efforts in techno-babble for the sake of impressing Rhonda. Despite his virtual non-assistance in the service call, he now became an animated expert critic of my approach: "DAMMIT, son, why the hell didn't you reset the capacitors first BEFORE you replaced the illuminator power source?..." and "Haven't you got the photoboard rewired to the contrast sensors YET??..." Turning to Rhonda and half under his breath, I am quite sure that next he uttered some epithet about northern colleges. Then, finishing with a gesturing flourish, he began to throw up his arms while shouting, "LORDY, are we gonna be here ALL NIGHT??". That's how it began.
Chapter Two: "European Vacation". Otis' right arm swung up and struck Rhonda's left shoulder, just as she moved further into the room from behind him (I believe she was trying to take a closer look into the open and exposed "innards" of the XG-2770). A can of A&W cream soda dislodged from her grip, and she screamed, "watch out, you BIG APE!!" in an angry drawl. The soda can rose into the air, heading directly towards the open top of the Xerox, and Rhonda desperately lunged to catch it and avert a disaster. Fortunately, she missed. The soda spewed forth into the machine, cross-switching and short-circuiting the beleaguered photoboard at a thousand points, creating a hail of white sparks. The power source was untouched, however, as I (by sheer luck) had temporarily by-passed the circuit breakers as part of the repair. Thus the machine stayed on and (mal)functioning. So when Rhonda’s tumbling, grasping right hand came to rest on the START button of the copy machine, the 1000-watt, multicolored, transparency-coated bulb (now also drenched with cream soda) illuminated straight into all our faces. It generated a flickering, purple-yellow blast of intense light which engulfed the tiny copy room.
Our attentions had automatically been drawn to the electrical fireworks emanating from the copier's interior while the cream soda performed its initial destruction; but after the bright flash from the copier exploded into our eyes, things paradoxically seemed to both speed up and slow down. I was visually overloaded, feeling as if a photographer had just taken a dozen back-to-back, point-blank flash pictures of me. My eyes were completely useless in "white out" mode, and they physically ached more than a little. Yet just seconds after this initial impact, while still dazed and shocked, I began to experience some sort of fascinating slow-motion imagery inside my skull. I conceived a complex panorama of bubbling, swirling golden liquid permeating a 3-D, rotating, pink- blue-yellow refracted rainbow. I had once or twice tried marijuana at parties in high school, but this new "state of awareness" beat the Pink Floyd prism album cover rush by ten miles. Swiftly, feelings of contentment and benign resignation settled like a security blanket over my reasoning. Also entering my mind, sub-titling these optical-mental special effects, were oversized, cream-soda-colored letters: "…TO BE CYOU ARE TUR... TT ...OLD!!T THE C…" Pieces of this familiar-but-scrambled puzzle didn't seem to make any sense. Not yet.
My body was on a brief, happy holiday while my brain appreciated these alluring variations in illumination color, intensity, wavelength and orientation. Although my circumstances, in the fine tradition of Bierce's "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge", seemed to last for hours; they really must have only been a few seconds in duration. I know this because my Xerox company training manual ingrained within me the knowledge that a XG-2770’s "cycle time" (the interval between multiple copies) was 6.5 seconds. At this juncture, it also became obvious that the ravishing Rhonda was similarly affected. Apparently also stunned or shocked, she hadn't yet recovered after her lunge for the cream soda can quickly enough to remove her hand from the copier START button. So a second befuddling light blast washed over us, penetrating our senses once again. This time, I felt the whole of my conscious thought-generating process hurtle to the very brink of oblivion, coming to a screeching halt in near-total mental meltdown. But luckily for all three of us (or we might still be in that room, or maybe in some neuro-psychological research lab), I somehow began a slight recovery between flashes, and had groggily half-blinked. My eyes were then only partly open to face this second optical assault, and as luck would have it, I became less-than-fully affected. Although any movement now seemed the equivalent of dragging myself up from the bottom of a 10-foot deep swimming pool, I retained enough self-preservation instinct to extend my right arm and roughly shove Rhonda backwards away from the copier machine. However, this was where good luck began to wear thin. It turned out that I had been a hairsbreadth too late to stop her from unintentionally initiating yet another cycle of the copy machine! Helplessly, I experienced the irresistible third-round effects from what would later come to be known as a "pulse".
At the onset of this last flash, I had looked with involuntary surprise almost directly at the bulb. My guess is that Rhonda stared right into the full force and effect of the first two waves, while my shove reoriented her line of sight more obliquely for the third. Otis may well have faced all three firings almost straight head-on, and thus was most strongly impacted. Of course, I cannot be sure of these circumstances, since I can only speak for my own personal experiences, which were astonishing. During the first few seconds after the third photelectric blast, I again suffered strange visual-mental effects. Images rekindled of golden bubbling liquid, now swirling and streaming throughout a dense myriad of blinking, spinning purple-yellow stars. But this time the visual FX advanced to a new, even higher level. I soon had an out-of-time, abstract-impressionist picture of two living, sprinting name-brand 386 personal computers, each with windmilling arms and legs. This vision seemed amusing at first, but soon became quite disorienting to me. I had begun to lose touch with distinctions between the real and the imaginary. Also with this scene returned to my brain more clearly and strongly than before (due to my reorientation after pushing Rhonda?) - truly with ocular sledge-hammer impact- the lettering sub-titles. In hindsight, I now realize what had happened. Pieces of the ad slogan were intertwined from the three mangled and melted colored transparencies, crazily superimposed onto one another. A randomly-generated alphabetical jumble was thus being subliminally transmitted and imprinted along my current line of sight. Yet I wasn't simply seeing the letters and words; rather I felt them being emblazoned deep inside my brain, where they hung suspended as a mercilessly blunt, compelling suggestion:
"...TO BE CYOU ARE TURNING TTO GOLD!! T THE C..."
While writing in retrospect of these nearly-unbelievable events, I wish to state for the record that none of the analysis and understanding presented here could possibly have taken place at the time. These "Occurrences at Peachtree Plaza" moved forth upon us overwhelmingly, inexorably, and without our ability to comprehend or resist. We were puppets in a bizarre dress rehearsal
(no audience), where the star of the show was 20th-century technology gone bizarrely awry. Although I could not understand it then and there, this damn machine was somehow taking my own mind out of "drive" gear, slamming it into "neutral", and engaging its own overriding mental "cruise control". Yet the final blow to my resistance came from the sub-titling itself, and the road it suggested for my psyche to follow. Only part of the letter jumble made sense, and it wasn't up to Ivy-league grammatical or spelling standards, but it did connect with electro-shock potency into fantasies I had developed from readings of Greek mythology (and had also seen extrapolated on television and in comic books). Me? Turning to Gold? I must admit that my timid, erotically-starved subconscious wanted to buy into this scenario wholly and without question. The copier, in some inexplicable manner, was knocking down all reality-checks, suspending my disbelief, and immersing me into an impossibility which had captured my imagination for a dozen years. Trapped inside the moment, I could not comprehend (or care) whether I was a victim of hypnosis, accidental mind control, photokinetic hallucination, past life experience, or an elevated state of consciousness. It just didn't matter how or why things were happening. My only possible stimulus-response was genuine, enthusiastic excitement that these events actually were happening. A heart-fluttering realization hit me that this was not to be your run-of-the-mill, close-your-eyes-and-pretend, shadowy Saturday afternoon fantasy; but rather a sensory-overloading, manifestly visual and tactile experience. There was no way I could stop this E-ticket ride and get off. Hell, I honestly didn't want to. And even less so during the key moments immediately following my shove to Rhonda, when I discovered to my delight that I would not be taking this mythological detour alone.
Within the ten or twenty seconds following the onset of the third "pulse", the XG-2770 copier I had been staring into gradually vanished from sight, to be replaced by the deep azure cloudless sky of a late Mediterranean afternoon. I was standing just outside and to the left of a large doorway leading onto the portico of an immense marble column-supported temple. This ornate, gleaming white shrine was constructed on a high cliff overlooking a dark blue sea, located perhaps a half-mile distant. The sound of the waves and smell of the ocean was a strikingly pleasant change from the harsh sensory intrusions of downtown Atlanta. The hilly landscape off to my right and left was rocky, dry and desolate, except for sparse groves of olive, pine and (I think) eucalyptus. A wide navigable river wound serpentine down to the seashore across the intermediate landscape beneath the cliffs. Upon both banks, all the way to the coast, a bustling ancient city spread out below me. Ten or twelve various large white stone edifices lay scattered among thousands of green, gray and brown thatched-roof homes. Countless plumes of smoke gently roiled upward from many of the chimneys below, lifting the sweet smell of exotic cooking above the city din. Near the river harbor and dockyard, a cobblestone city marketplace teemed with life and commercial activity. Gradually approaching the docks, two ancient-looking wooden sea vessels plodded upstream, using multiple oars to supplement a light breeze barely filling their square sails. One red-and-white striped ship's sail bore a giant stone-gray replica of the Medusa's head. The other, which looked like a precursor of today’s Chinese junk, hoisted a mainsail displaying two monstrous, intertwining silver and green winged dragons. As a breeze fluttered unsteadily, I watched these creatures flash and shine yellow-red in the nearly-setting sun.
Several minutes (or so it seemed) passed while I scanned this fantastic new scenery, all the while becoming further awestruck by its pastoral beauty. Then I noticed them. A few steps below me on the temple entrance stairs stood a tall, gray-bearded, wizened old man in flowing golden robes, wearing thong sandals and an elaborate golden crown. A second female figure seemed to teeter awkwardly off to his right and behind, next to one of the temple's massive white columns. She wore a sheer white, full-length toga which left little above the waist to the imagination. Yet my attire, in its own way, was equally or more impressive. Like someone out of a Haryhaussen movie of the 50's or 60's, I sported a bronze metal breastplate with a large shining sun cunningly crafted across its chest, along with a leather and brass mid-thigh-length "skirt" (to my infinite embarrassment) at and below the waist. Leather leggings and sandals completed the ensemble, along with the centurion's helmet I held in my left hand (it even had one of those "upside-down floor brushes" on top!). My earlier feelings of repose and peace while surveying the splendor of this land (not to mention my lust while regarding the female) were soon replaced with a vague apprehension as the man climbed the stairs. It was obvious that he was of royal lineage. He approached haughtily, but casually, and flashed a knowing and wicked smile. I blurted out loudly, "MIDAS?!" He then spoke: "You shall make a suitably impressive offering to the god Dionysus, unwelcome Spartan visitor, as you will remind all those who pass into the temple of his power... and mine! He boldly reached out and grabbed away the helmet I was holding. It then immediately began to explode in slow-motion with a brilliant yellow light. I recoiled in great surprise, taking one half-step back with my left foot, and positioning a bended right arm (which I had just extended, 10,00 miles and 3500 years away, to shove back Rhonda) in front of me at chest height as instinctive protection. Alas, Midas (yes, it was he!) was too clever. He used my now-solid-gold helmet as an effective distraction. The king first elaborately presented it before me, then deferentially gestured his desire to place this now-instant-retirement-fund upon my head. Not waiting for my assent, he graciously did so. I realized too late that while his right hand lowered the helmet into place, his left hand deftly (without looking) snared the wrist of my defending right arm, then flung it backward and well above my shoulder height. I watched with panic as my hand and arm froze into position, and began to shimmer and glow while growing numb and impossibly heavy. My eyes searched frantically about for some means of escape from my dilemma, and in doing so, I fixed my gaze upon the female figure to the right of the king. Was this his daughter? No. It was Rhonda! This instant of recognition broke my visual spell, and suddenly we were both momentarily back inside the Peachtree Plaza copy room.
Four feet away, the lady cop was positioned in an impossible balancing act. She was severely leaning, almost falling, backwards with arms outstreched behind her, and fingertips just touching the copy room wall for support. The right foot was in back-step behind her, with the sole braced against the lower wall. She held a knees-bent, legs-wide-apart stance that reminded me of a parachutist in free-fall, as seen from below. Here in the copy room, however, such an orientation didn’t make any sense; until I came to the revelation that this pose must have been her nimble response and recovery from my shoving her away from the Xerox. But her current situation seemed far from comfortable or natural. Her upper body was still quite unbalanced backwards, and she had instinctively thrown her torso out and forward to compensate. This created a stunning effect on her tall, curvaceous frame, with her back fully arched, and her breasts jutting out prominently against the light blue uniform shirt. Rhonda was still obviously at risk of toppling against the wall or onto the floor at any instant. Why didn’t she now catch her balance better? I (correctly) deduced that the last "pulse" must have caught and held her like this, just as she reached the wall. As with me, the copier-gone-wild apparently had sent her mind off onto tasks more interesting than simply standing back up straight. Not that I was complaining, mind you. I enjoyed seeing her in this awkward, nearly-paralyzed predicament.
Her body may have been on "hold", but there were clearly some strange thoughts racing about inside her head. The look on her face betrayed extreme disorientation. Her saucer-wide green eyes held an entranced look, with fully dilated pupils. Her vacant stare wandered anxiously about the small room without recognizing anyone or anything truly before her. She looked every bit as dazed and confused as I felt. And the final, most exhilarating, clue to her psychological state was the slow, monotone, almost-whispering chant she uttered from her luscious (although currently somewhat slack-jawed) mouth:
"...Midas turning me to gold...Midas turning me to gold...Midas turning me..."
Whether Rhonda was a good student of Grecian legend, or she had somehow internalized my own pronouncement of the king’s name moments ago, I could not determine. It was now apparent, however, that her earlier positioning over the copier START button had given her a view of the transparencies similar to mine. So the light "pulses" had generated inside her brain quite comparable results! This gorgeous police officer’s reasoning and free will were arrested.
After a minute or so of listening to her helpless droning, my own cloudy thoughts refocused and slipped away, quickly sending me spinning back to the steps of the temple. Sure enough, Rhonda teleported with me, retaining her unbalanced pose. I noticed upon further inspection that she was tied (her flowing sheer toga hid her leather bonds except at the wrists) to the marble column behind her. King Midas loomed next to me, now whispering into my ear, "As you may now realize, fool, you shall adorn my temple entrance forever. Look at your arm!" My upraised bent right arm and hand were completely immobilized all the way down to the shoulder, and had taken on a pale dull yellow color from the curled fingers to the elbow. Numbness was spreading across my entire body, second by second. I realized that my (shimmering) legs were now locked in their recoiling, stepping-back stance. He looked me over, laughed quite cruelly and continued, "Do not despair! Indeed, you are turning to gold; yet it is sometimes a slow process for living things, especially among the strongest men. The oldest son of Hector of Troy lasted nearly an hour before he became fully solidified. Perhaps you noticed him reluctantly greeting you from atop the marble column in the center of the marketplace? Yes, it appears that your own slow transformation may yet enable you to witness the punishment of my prodigal slave (gesturing at the female). And, remember, it is a magical gift I give you. Even after you become completely golden, your sight and hearing remain alive, or so the gods have led me to believe. I regret to say that none of my statues has yet to confirm this." Another cruel laugh, directly in front of my terrified face. He picked up a nearby shield and wood spear leaning against the temple wall, which very quickly flashed yellow and transformed. He then carefully maneuvered them into an exact placement and pose in my rigid right and left hands. I was thus shocked into accepting the sobering fact that all my appendages were already paralyzed and out of my control. My left arm began to glow and shimmer while holding the shield. I could do nothing to dislodge either it or the heavy spear which I held dumbly aloft. I felt increasingly like the guy I remembered from my 10th grade English class on the front book cover of Homer’s Illiad.
My attention returned to the king as he now moved to stand beside the slave girl. She gave me and my impending ornamental fate no heed whatsoever (she had probably seen the process hundreds of times before), but looked upon Midas with open horror. She pleaded with him, saying, "PLEASE, O majesty, SHOW MERCY, I beg of you… I shall never attempt escape again as long as I live… PITY ME and do not make me like all the others…" Again, the knowing smile appeared across his face, and he glanced back in my direction. "Dear child, I assure you that you are FAR too special to be treated like these other flies in my web (I took offense at this, although my face was growing numb, so it was hard for me to express my disdain). Yet my patience with your desire for freedom has come to an end." He paused for effect, then continued, "It is with great generosity that I shall now grant you my cure for your wanderlust! I will permit your departure from my kingdom." Her face and eyes brightened hopefully at these last words. Then hope turned back into fear as he suddenly added, "But not just yet!" and, grabbing at her toga’s neckline, tore it away from her body in one swift movement. The garb landed on the ground as a crumpled, coiled, golden mass. Despairingly, the slave girl's body slumped down and forward, prevented from collapse only by her bound hands and feet. Now completely nude, she let her chin drop onto her copious cleavage. The aureoles and flattened nipples were quite dark in comparison to the rest of her alluring pearl-colored (almost milky-white) skin. Only her deliciously bushy, jet-black pubic hair provided an even greater color contrast. Suddenly, she rose up, tightening her trim stomach and straightening at the hourglass waist, while straining arm and leg muscles as best she could against her bonds. She stared defiantly and directly into his eyes. "What are you going to do now? Make me into a bird perch like that idiot?"(gesturing at me). "Of course not," replied Midas, "as I said, I will let you go. But not perhaps as you may have hoped. I am returning you to property of my Chinese slave-trading partner, from whence you came, as I recall." She looked immediately crestfallen and fearful after this statement. One could easily imagine the tortures and indignities she must already have suffered at the hands of the Chinese villain. "Be at ease. I am also quite certain that this time he will not sell you to the highest bidder among flesh-peddlers. You shall remain in his service. I see his vessel approaching our city harbor even now. Look!" The slave girl gazed into the distance, where I assume she saw the dragon-sailed ship in the river. I could not know for sure, because my own neck and head (even my very eye movements) were almost completely petrified. I could still look at master and slave along the static line of sight I held over my right shoulder, but certainly not in any other direction. She protested vehemently, "NO sire, he is a cruel and evil man who cares nothing but for his own pleasures and strange whims! I CANNOT endure his tortures another day. I will do ANYTHING you wish, here and now… just KEEP ME!" "Such an interesting change of heart," he retorted. "This morning when my soldiers found you among the ballast of that ship, you told them you would rather die than be returned to me. Women are fickle, I see. As for your request to do anything…you touch upon an open nerve, I am afraid. Ever since I purchased you two years ago, I have longed to have my way with you, from every conceivable position and angle. But such attempts with other beauties have provided me with nothing more than several dozen lasciviously-contorted, pleasure-faced statues. No, my dear, I will give you back to Wen-Shu-Chiang, as he has promised to take quite close care of you for many years to come. Indeed, I imagine that only his bowsprit will truly be any closer of a companion to you. Or perhaps an occasional lonely dolphin."
With my last ounce of mobility, I verbalized my ignorance of nautical terms. The words came loudly, but haltingly: "Companion to a bowsprit? What’s a bowsprit?!" "Silence, trophy! Your time is nearly ended!" was the king’s rather uninformative reply. Apparently, however, the slave girl herself knew the answer to my question (Rhonda was in the Navy before she was a police officer, it seems), because a moment later a frightened realization seemed to come upon her. The emerald eyes widened in shock and astonishment, and her lower lip began to tremble. "Companion to a Bowsprit? Me?? OH, NO, you CANNOT … you WOULD not… NO, Majesty, PLEASE, NOT THAT!… NO!…NO!…NOOOO!!" His response to these, her final significant entreaties, was immediate. He produced a (gold, of course) knife from his robes and cut free her bonded hands. Not expecting this, the girl began to fall forward, but Midas reached out and caught her. For the next several seconds, she fought like a cornered cat, and continued to rant like a enraged lunatic. But it was no use. He held her hands fast from behind, and as the magical effects of the golden transformation began, her movements and struggles quickly slowed. In less than a minute, all four of her appendages were shimmering and sparkling, and her body was no longer hers to control. Only a wild-eyed look in her eyes, and repeated silent mouthings of the word "no" showed that her will to resist him continued to live on. The much anticipated moment had arrived. With his slave trapped in a still-pliable state, King Midas of Phrygia now quickly crafted this part-woman, part-sculpture as to the specifications of his Chinese friend.
First, he first pushed her (noticeably yellowing) legs tightly together, and propped the soles of her still-bound feet back against the marble column for counter-support. The magical effect seemed to progress upwards, from foot to head. In fact, her toes must already have become solid, because I noticed they were pointed perfectly straight downward, and yet bearing nearly her full body weight. Next, he grabbed her around the waist and made sure her legs, derriere, spine, shoulders, neck and chin were completely extended, arched out and back, forming into a long, very shallow, U-shape. She seemed almost as if making a swan dive, except that her arms hung too far downward and askew. As the evil king established her posture in this elegant and graceful style, I noticed that he also undercupped with one hand her huge breasts, pushing these tantalizing melons unnaturally far up and forward, to the point of defying gravity. Perhaps it was this direct and lengthy attention from his magic touch, but her breasts, once protrudingly posed as desired, turned to solid gold almost immediately. Their change must have felt pleasurable to the girl, as evidenced by the dark gold pebbles standing straight out from each delicious mound. The gold nipples and aureoles possessed a richer, deeper tone and hue than what had earlier been pearly white body skin (now rapidly falling into the minority). Tiny hairs along her legs changed into nearly unnoticeable lines of imperfection along the taut, stiffened calf and thigh muscles. Black pubic hair glowed nearly white-hot as it transformed, and many of the longer bushy hairs broke off, cascading down onto the temple steps as a golden snowfall. The final effect among the hairs remaining attached was something of a cross between the head of a golden cauliflower, and a mass of shining twisted yarn. Swirled dark hues and lines of brown and deep honey-gold ran throughout the nether area. Lastly, the king quite hurriedly (for he had correctly judged this human transformation to be a rapid one) fully extended and squeezed together the fingers on each hand. Straightening and pulling both arms slightly back behind her, he was then able to cup each palm firmly onto a luscious (now shimmering) half-globe of her buttocks. Once in place, the sculpted fingers provided a slight outward pressure against her taut, but not-yet-solid, derriere. I could see (with lust) through my own locked stare that this force caused her cheeks to spread apart slightly, thus permitting me open glimpses of the intricate, shining heaven deep in-between.
Midas , his artistry now done, propped his nearly finished masterpiece upright against the marble column, balancing it on its petrified toes and drawn-back shoulders (which were still milky white, but beginning to glow). He then stepped back to admire his handiwork, and gloat as her body completed its change. The magic numbness and loss of control had apparently already settled over her shoulders, head and neck. Thus, except for the absence of a crowning golden hue, this once-defiant slave girl was already effectively a finished sculpture. Wonder and sadness now filled her eyes, with a single tear trickling down her cheek. Midas’ touch had halted her last verbal protest in mid-word. One final "no" would remain unfinished on her lips, leaving her mouth round and agape. Her hair was the first thing to go from above her shoulders, as the short, boyish style first glowed brightly, then receded to a nearly-perfectly- smooth dull sheen. The once-raven hair now closely resembled a deep honey-gold helmet or skull cap. Finally, at the very end of a process spanning perhaps three to four minutes, her facial flesh tone at last jaundiced, then shimmered and sparkled, and lastly solidified into permanent immobility with a fading, dark yellow glow. Within otherwise undetailed eyes, only her pupils remained as shallow black pin-pricks. The stunning bright green irises were gone. Indeed, absolutely all of her that was once human now was gone, save an outward shell of beauty, now perfectly preserved forever as a flawless, highly erotic, gold statue of herself.
Midas leered and laughed in the saddened face of his latest helpless victim, reveling in his amazing power. Then he remembered me. Noticing that my change was not yet complete, he reoriented my still-flesh-and-blood head to look straight forward into the distance. "I cannot have my new warrior looking over his shoulder in battle, can I? One might think you a coward, searching for an escape from your foes. If I hadn’t noticed your clumsy head movement in time, you would have been ruined- and I would be forced to melt you down into two or three hundred pressed coins for my treasury coffers. Such would not be a noble end to….". Just then, my own transformation reached its conclusion. A gauze yellow curtain dropped down over my eyesight, and my hearing changed much for the worse- as if I were listening through a block of thick ice. Sounds, but not words, filtered through into my body-turned-prison. And considering whom I had been listening to, I was more than a little glad to be able to stop. The gods had been right. I was magically preserved as part man, part statue. Thought and consciousness, although very slowly moving, lingered on, and I tried with all my strength to retain my faculties by concentrating on something (anything!) within my dim field of view. I do not know how many hours or days this required, but I eventually succeeded in focusing upon a ship sailing in the river below. It was the Chinese junk, turning back downstream and heading out to sea. My brain sprang to life at this familiar sight, but then realized that the ship looked somehow slightly different. The bright morning sun bounced and flashed off the silver-green dragons on its sails, but now also glittered upon something else. It was a new object, yet also familiar. Then I recognized the change. At the very front (bow) of the ship, lashed by thick rope through her underarms and around her ankles, suspended beneath the large, almost-horizontal pole (sprit) holding down forward rigging and sails, was the golden Rhonda!! Her grand, hard-nippled breasts pushed out and ahead boldly, leading the vessel forward into high seas adventure. With taut straight legs, arched back, and hands cupping the curves of her beautiful gilded rear-end, she deftly sliced forward through wind and spray. My own frozen, impaired vision was much too far gone (and she was more than a quarter mile distant) for me to see the single shining tear on her cheek, or the perpetual "no" on her lips, which gave proof to her captivity without hope. Midas had been partly truthful to her. He was indeed letting her escape him; however, not without first paying an astronomical price, measured in troy ounces. This former slave was destined to become, single-handedly, the sailor’s proverbial "girl in every port".
Chapter Three: "No Place Like Home". In my slow-motion thoughts, I was just beginning to wonder if it mattered whether or not she was prone to sea-sickness, when my eyes blinked several times. How can a statue blink?, you might ask. Before I could answer this myself, I blinked once again, and shook my dizzy head. Then I slapped myself hard across the face, and found I had returned to the copy room in Atlanta. Officer Mooney was also there, apparently returning with me from her recent Mediterranean cruise. Although perhaps not yet quite fully. You see, she was distinctly less far along in the recuperation process than I was. Possibly, as mentioned earlier, this was due to the likelihood that she had received a stronger second "pulse" than I had. I may never be sure as to why. But, as my own head continued clearing, it became quite obvious that Rhonda’s head certainly wasn’t. She stood silent and stock-still in her security guard uniform next to the copy room wall, upon her tip-toes. Her posture was ram-rod strait, as if at military full "attention", only even more so. Her chin pointed up and out, her shoulders were thrown way back and touching the wall, while her chest stuck out a mile. The pink-nailed hands were not at their sides, but rather resting firmly on her backside. I thought, "Wait a minute…hold on now …what is she doing?" I was fantastically hopeful, but my common sense refused to seriously consider such a possibility. Then I saw her face, and I knew it was true. Her desolate gaze was upward, out over my head, and appeared dumbly focused on the ceiling sprinkler head (but more likely visualizing some distant exotic shore). She didn’t blink at all, and there were tears in her eyes and down her cheeks. The face was as if carved from stone, without so much as even a twitch. Her lips and mouth had been rounded into a wide "O". At this point, I simply had to accept her condition as real. True to the spirit of her "pulse-induced" adventure, Rhonda was still experiencing life as an ancient ship’s golden figurehead!! She remained posed and stiff as a mythological statue before my very eyes!
To the best of my recollection, this moment in time was simultaneously both a delightful beginning to an incredible physical experience, as well as a moral point of no return. The "nice guy" I had been raised and educated to become took sympathy with this woman's circumstances, and was inclined to offer assistance so as to expedite her full recovery. I am certain that, had my fellow victim in this nearly-unbelievable technological trap been anyone other than the voluptuous creature before me, then the gentleman usually at the fore of my personality would have taken the steps needed to revive her. However, this particular irresistible woman produced alternate thoughts and urges inside me, not all of which were located in my head. Despite my return from the ancient temple and release from imprisonment as a gold warrior statue, the sight of this entranced and petrified knockout had a similarly strong effect upon one key part of my anatomy as did Midas' touch. It was extremely stiff, although not exactly turned to gold. Once again, the images and fantasies of more than ten years of readings (from classical literature to comic books) exploded onto my reasoning and good sense with an overwhelming force. Here and now, for the first (and probably last) time in my entire life, existed a "golden" opportunity to live out an incredible wish of power and influence upon a frozen, helpless, sexy female. The XG-2770 bore very little resemblance to Alladin's lamp, and yet the end result was the same. The fates had cast me an amazing gift, and my timid sense of what was the "right thing to do" was fighting a losing battle against my libido. I do not know what course other men would have followed under such circumstances, and it is highly unlikely that many similar opportunities will arise so as to perform repeated laboratory testing for a "typical" male response. Of course, with this particular woman in question, I had the sobering probability of arrest and prosecution staring me straight in the face as obvious additional discouragement. If I chose to proceed, I did not know whether it would be seconds, minutes or hours before this dazzling beauty would regain power of movement and seriously use handcuffs on me. Without further moral judgment or commentary, I now report my final decision. For me (as you may have guessed), Id conquered Superego. My hormones emerged victorious over kindness and consideration. A very stiff appendage convinced a still-dizzy brain. Breathing rapidly and tingling with excitement, I walked over to her.
My first efforts were intended to determine the degree of awareness she currently possessed while "statued". Repeatedly, I snapped my fingers and waved my hands directly in front of her face, never once producing any physiological response or move in that petrified countenance. The faraway look of sad wonder in her green eyes remained as if truly cast in gold. The half-completed "no" emerging from her mouth remained chiseled upon her open red lips. I shouted "WAKE UP" without warning several times at point-blank range, and (perhaps imagined that) I saw her dilated pupils contract slightly. From my own journey ending only minutes before, I surmised her mind was awake and active; however, it was impossible to determine exactly how her own "pulse-induced" sensory perceptions would interpret and interact with actual real-world stimuli. My best guess was that she might have partial recognition of her surroundings, but would likely adapt actual sights, sounds or sensations to conform to her present existence beneath a ship's bowsprit.
The most incredible part about my inspection of Rhonda was the extent to which her body fully participated in the fantasy role-playing. The visible muscles in her neck and arms (she wore short sleeves) were not merely taut or stiff, but rigid to the point of near-solidity. I had vague recollections from old psychology course readings about therapy patients under hypnosis, and how a state of "catalepsy" could be induced in which the individual's arms or legs are made stiff-as-a-board to verify a somnambulistic state. I also had viewed the classic stage hypnotist's grand finale, where a volunteer (usually a young woman) is hypnotically fully petrified, and then suspended between two chairs by head and feet. The raven-haired looker standing silently before me appeared to easily meet or exceed those standards of rigidity. I gently touched her left arm just below the sleeve, pressing against the deltoid. Although there was a tiny amount of "give" to muscle and flesh, the overall feeling was a plastic-like stiffness, closer to that of a department store mannequin than of a living woman. Pushing a second time against her arm a bit too hard, I accidentally nudged her rock-hard figure off-balance enough that she began to stiffly pivot and slide sideways against the wall! Amazed, I had to lunge to catch her, noticing that she never so much as winced during her fall. There had been no sign of recognition or fear. Even the imminent threat of crashing to the floor had not roused her! Her slow, shallow breathing did nothing to detract from an overall impression of complete petrification. These incredible close-range observations made my own (localized) stiffness become much the worse.
Remembering the first brazen words she had spoken to me (was it hours or days before?), I took great satisfaction in looking her squarely in the eyes and saying, "well, gorgeous, contrary to your earlier orders, it now seems that YOU are the one in HISTORY, and it's making YOU FREEZE in your tracks!" I then paused for effect, checking for any response. Nothing. "You called me an asshole, as I recall. Judging from our two relative states of recovery, I wouldn't be surprised if it was YOUR asshole exposed before the evening is through. What's the problem, officer? Don't you have anything to say? Are you lately experiencing trouble talking?...moving?...blinking?" Silence. "It seems to me that a lady interested in being handcuffed should truly ENJOY being frozen and totally helpless." Again, no response. As I thought back upon the earlier restraint games between Rhonda and Otis at the soda machine, it dawned on me that my supervisor was nowhere to be found. He was neither in the tiny copy room where I had last seen him, nor in the luxurious main office area. The only clue as to his whereabouts was his loosened "dog vomit" silk tie, which lay upon the carpet outside the threshold of the copy room door. Although I was puzzled briefly by his absence, I did not actively search for him. Grateful for my privacy, I had far more interesting considerations and pursuits at the present time.
Whether the "pulses" from the copy machine had an impact or influence on my subsequent mental decisions and actions, I may never be able to know with certainty. Hopefully, I won't ever have to bring forward some sort of high-tech temporary insanity defense, either formally or informally. My truly best assessment of events that evening (looking back with the added perspective of more than thirteen years) is that, as with all major disasters, a convergence of human desires, deprivations and weaknesses with the "circumstances of the moment" (in which luck played no small part), merged to lead me down a path which I am not entirely proud of. I must surely bear some of the blame and responsibility for the actions I report here. Only time will tell to what degree I shall be held accountable for the thrills and pleasures granted me that night. What price should I ultimately pay for treating a lovely woman as an inanimate sex object? Surely this is not a very common (or easy) question to answer.
Without fully considering what I was doing, I continued teasing my immobile companion, while also starting to unbutton the front of her uniform blouse. "King Midas would not want such a beautiful ship's ornament to remain so hidden in its ports-of-call," I said. First, while stroking her short, silky black hair, I gently kissed her on the left cheek (it was slightly hollowed from the frozen "O" shape of her mouth). With that kiss, the clear reality of her complete inability to stop my advances rushed onto me, sending me "over the brink" into a near-primal emotional and physical frenzy. I virtually tore the few remaining buttons of her blouse open to reveal a frilly, navy-blue silken lace brassiere struggling to contain her tremendous bustline. Leaving the shirt-tail tucked in, I carefully coaxed the blouse open further, pulling it backward and down across her shoulders, until it wedged between her torso and closely-pressed-in arms at slightly above the elbows.
The top quarter of her back and shoulders, as well as the front of her body from the waist upward, were thereby presented to me as a private exhibition. The one remaining problem, however, was the pretty blue bra. With Rhonda's arms pinned rigidly to her sides, and her hands tightly cupping her ass, I then realized that I could not easily fully remove the undergarment. However, in my sexually-animated state, it took approximately ten seconds for me to make the necessary decision. After first unfastening three small back hooks, I resorted to my Xerox service tool kit, employing a handy combination wirecutters-scissors to neatly snip this silky tantalus at its two thin shoulder straps. With a slight tug at the bra's center-front lower panel (accompanied by an unforgettable slight "whooshing" sound), the young policewoman's bosom was released from its imprisonment, falling and bouncing free into the copy room's light and air.
The typical human being has 4-5 moments in their life which are "framed" or immortalized in a strange, out-of-time manner. For example, the reader likely recalls his or her exact location and circumstances upon receipt of news of the JFK assassination, or the Challenger disaster. But in my particular case, such events are eclipsed by the penultimate life experience of witnessing Rhonda Mooney's grand melons emerge from that vandalized blue bra. Words do not exist to properly describe the exquisite sight of gravity re-establishing its hold on those two large luscious mammaries. Perhaps it was the contrast of combined downward-jiggling and outward-expansion against an otherwise motionless body. Maybe, also, it was the utter lack of response from her frozen expression, while I knew full well that my actions merited (at the very least) her outraged, angry derision. The sense of total control from this act produced in me giddy, nirvana-like emotions. I also very nearly ejaculated into my trousers. The idiom "absolute power corrupts absolutely" took on an entirely clearer meaning and greater appreciation then and there.
Rhonda stood tall and straight upon her toes, apparently unconcerned that her blouse was now spread wide apart, with a large, inverted-trianglular opening from her slender waist to around the biceps. From where I stood two feet in front of her, the sculpturesque bare torso stood fully revealed for my satisfaction- from the tight, detailed, abdominal muscles slightly below her navel, across her thrown-forward magnificent breasts, to her rounded and arched-back naked shoulders. I noticed an interesting illusion was created by the pulled-back uniform shirt caught and crumpled over the upper arms. With her arms so covered, I imagined myself viewing a dark-haired, jade-eyed Venus-de-Milo, some 8000 miles out of place. My attentions quickly focused, however, on the fullest and most desirable cleavage I had ever seen. What would ordinarily have been a highly exciting and erotic view was made doubly so by an ability to gaze upon them at my leisure, without disturbance or distraction by their owner. My fantasy vision of her breasts as a nude slave girl had been somewhat inaccurate; yet not necessarily for the worse. Contrary to my earlier imaginings, her torso skin overall had a much darker, almost olive-hued complexion. This exotic rich brown color was enhanced and exaggerated by what must have been significant time in the Georgian sunshine. I could infer this because of the remarkably sexy tan lines and contrasting ivory skin covering the majority of Rhonda's breasts. The undersides and outer-top area of these enticing globes were very pale flesh-colored, while the rest of her chest and stomach were quite darkly tanned. Faint white bikini support strap lines ran vertically up and over the shoulders. The wide center-top portion of her boobs were also deeply bronzed, greeting me with a olive-brown, U-shaped "smile" (from a curving bikini top, I surmised). The optical effect was stunning.
In further counterpoint to my Mediterranean image of her pearl-like skin, dozens of tiny chocolate freckles danced across her shoulders and along the sun-tan-breasted smile. But the nipples and aureoles matched quite closely to how my brain (with the copier's assistance) had pictured them. They were very dark, and of the large size to be expected on a woman so well endowed. The overall effect, especially the ivory-versus-olive skin color contrasting across such an intimate area, virtually screamed "I AM EXPOSED!" In reality, of course, she was incapable of screaming (or even whispering) anything at all. Despite the rigidity of musculature in the rest of her frame, these incredible tits were suspended freely and invitingly before me. Their soft, generous curves called out to me like two sirens luring unwary sailors onto the rocks of a shoreline. Delighting in their shape, color and texture, I responded to their melody. I do not know exactly how long my hands and mouth reveled in their exploration; however I distinctly recall the pronounced cone-shape of the aureoles, and the hardness of her nickel-size-wide nipples (now finally matching the solidity of the rest of her body) at the ending of my play. Straining under an incredible erection, I next decided to continue my investigation and fondling of this ravishing woman-turned-statue.
However, my sexual anticipation and excitement would soon crash headlong into logistic difficulties and disappointment. Leaving the policeman's cap on her head (but resetting it rakishly farther back for effect), I proceeded to attempt removal of her trousers' belt. The damn thing was nearly as complex as the mechanical mechanisms inside the XG-2770's collating sorter tray! First, there was the gun and its holster, both of which I detached slowly and very carefully, placing them onto the floor. But also there were ammunition packs, handcuffs inside their leather case, a walkie-talkie, liquid mace and holder, as well a heavy wooden nightstick to contend with. It rapidly became clear that, with Rhonda's arms clamped tightly at her sides, and many of the items refusing to disconnect fully from the belt, the best I could hope for was merely a slight loosening of this vice-grip around her hourglass waist. So my trembling hands clumsily released the military style buckle, popped an interior fly button, and slowly lowered the pants zipper. Tugging at first fairly gently, and then (as frustration set in) very strongly, I succeeded in dropping her trousers only about three inches. This outright failure had multiple causes. The most obvious was her pronounced curving hips and backside, which aggressively applied counter-force to my downward-pulling efforts. Also, as already mentioned, her gadget-laden "utility belt" (Batman would have been proud of her that evening) could not be more than marginally released, much less removed. However, by far the most immutable obstacles to my attempts at undress were the hands stuck like glue onto the seat of her pants. Despite my best efforts, I could not discover any way to apply sufficient force at an angle capable of repositioning Rhonda's arms and hands enough to slide her trousers (and bulky belt) down underneath these pink-nailed barriers. A resentment-but-respect for all stage hypnotists and their "stiff-as-a-board" powers now sunk in. Sitting in the audience, I had not fully appreciated the strength of the petrifying effect. Alas, the copier's photokinetic discharge had completely stiffened her body beyond my ability to alter her pose!
As before, I considered expedient employment of my scissors. However, I knew they were designed to snip through thin-gauge insulated copper wire, not uniform gabardine wool. Also, in recognizing that I was operating under a legitimate (but unknown) time constraint, the thought of slowly shredding a policewoman's pants into various smaller pieces held little appeal. Therefore, I improvised in a manner similar to earlier. With the belt buckle released and trousers down a little, her shirttail came loose to reveal the top of navy-blue silk lace panties- apparently the lower half to a matched set with the bra. In my good fortune, and true to a fashion trend among mid-1980's young women's clothing, this pretty undergarment was of a "high cut" style across the upper-outer thigh. So, although the dark blue panty front and back well camouflaged the most interesting areas, only about one-half inch of the silky fabric bridged across the tops of Rhonda's olive-brown hips, just below the waist. These weak spots were no match for my wirecutter-scissors. In the span of approximately fifteen seconds, I had snipped, sectioned, and (pulling out-and-under) acquired my second silken trophy. Its smell was surprisingly intoxicating. Slipping one hand slowly past and beneath her open rear pants waistband, I groped and sampled unclaimed curvatures of her derriere. Expecting to rejoice in soft round flesh, I was astounded to discover that these too, like her hands and arms, were held tightly contracted (virtually solidified) by the copier's spell. It felt like massaging a bowling ball. Disappointed, I reconsidered my tactics. Standing directly in front of her and staring straight into her eyes, I carefully reached down through the undone zipper and cupped my left hand fully upon the mass of bushy public hair. What an exquisite combination of erotic sensation and feeling of control! I truly desired to be frozen into position the same as she was, so as to have this moment endure. Although her legs were tightly pressed together, I realized with delight and amazement that my left hand was soaking wet. It seemed our heroine was indeed enjoying her immobile captivity after all! At this point, there were two reactions. First, I realized that my erection had now reached a critical stage, and needed immediate attention and redress to be sustained. Pursuing the only practical remedy, I reached down with my right hand and opened my own zipper. So "Richard" (in deference to Nicholson Baker) virtually slingshotted forward from my trousers, bumping Rhonda's left hip in his escape to freedom. This accidental contact produced the second reaction. Staring into her face, I am absolutely certain that the "pulse-induced" look of sadness vanished at that moment, to be replaced with a twinkle in her eyes. My mind racing with a creativity born from intense sexual desire, I next decided upon a further course of action. Lifting her totally rigid, stiffened form off the floor, I cradled this beautiful, partly-nude living statue in my arms perpendicularly, and slowly carried her sideways through the copy room door.
As we emerged into the elegantly-furnished main office area, I remember hoping (no, praying!) that this advertising company did not use interior security cameras. My remaining faculties which had not already succumbed either to the three "pulses" or my sex drive imagined a hypothetical front page color photo in tomorrow's Atlanta Constitution, illustrating a young man hoisting a petrified, topless female police officer while pointing his way with an exposed hard cock. Twenty years, minimum. I risked the possibility anyway, although it was plain the firm had no qualms about spending money on electronics, as was evidenced by various video and photo apparatuses in the conference rooms. Now, carrying the statued Rhonda face-up, with her head on my left and legs and feet straight out to my right, I approached a plush, green-cushioned wide leather chair located in the waiting area, near the receptionist's desk. Sexual energy aided me with the weight of my companion. As I steadily made my way across the large office, I felt the warm rhythmic prodding of her bouncing right breast through my yellow mesh knit shirt. In fair return, I noted that Richard was routinely poking and slapping gently up against her stiff lower back as I walked.
The oversized chair looked extremely comfortable for purposes of sitting, and had a matching ottoman located directly in front. However, at this point, I did not have sitting in mind. Slowly lowering my captive, I gently placed her face down, with her mid-section centered crossways on the ottoman, and head and feet dangling well off to each side (some two feet from the floor). A strong impulse to make one last attempt to remove her trousers swept over me. First removing her shoes and socks, I then yanked very hard several times on the cuffs of her pants, until I heard a loud ripping sound! Looking up, I saw two large crescent-shaped openings torn in the lower seat of the trousers, just below her pink-nailed fingertips. A dual set of (bikini bottom formed) ivory-versus-olive curving tan lines peeked back at me from beneath the jagged tears. Years-old memories of some stupid Ryan O'Neal movie sprang into my head. With a loud laugh, I gave up on her pants. Next, extracting the chair's seat cushion, I gingerly lifted Rhonda up and over one armrest at an angle, while wedging her pointed toes and feet down into the crevice made between the chair bottom and the opposite arm. By slowly lowering her legs and torso down, I succeeded in balancing her rigid form across taut thighs as they lay on top of the chair's left armrest. Next I jammed the seat cushion back in against her shins and calves to obtain bracing and added stability. Finally, readjusting her blouse and slanting her hat more sideways, I stepped back to admire the pleasing aesthetic results.
Created as if a product of some bizarre collaboration between Ormond McGill and Howard Stern, Rhonda jutted stiffly upward and outward into the midair of the advertising agency entryway. The effect was very close to what I imagined she would have looked like protruding beneath a ship's bowsprit. Rising at a shallow angle with arched back and shoulders, her uplifted head stood nearly four feet above the ground out to the left of the chair. The frozen enigmatic face stared helplessly up toward the distant high ceiling. Two huge breasts hung pendulum-like from her open uniform shirt, available for any passerby in the plaza hallway to see. Pressure on her trousers front combined with the force of gravity to expose the top one-quarter of her black pubic bush. I simply could not resist the temptation to photograph this incredible pose. Wandering into one of the conference rooms, I soon discovered a small Polaroid camera, and decided to snap a shot from just inside the agency's front door. Teasing her once again with, "Smile, darlin', you're on CANDID STATUE", I pushed the button. FLASH. And I was next quite surprised. I could have sworn that she rapidly blinked one time immediately following the camera's blast of light. Once fully developed, I deposited the photographic trophy into my tool kit alongside her cut-out bra and panties. Then I maneuvered the green ottoman around to the side of the chair, to Rhonda’s immediate left. Removing my shoes, socks, trousers and boxer shorts, I stepped up onto the ottoman and positioned myself for one final scene in this erotic tableau vivant.
From the moment I first met her, I had been strongly aware of, and attracted to, this woman's delicious red lips and mouth. King Midas conspired to make these alluring features completely irresistible by magically sculpting them frozen wonderfully agape. Upon my own return to reality, the strong subconscious Id was bound and determined to take full advantage of this open pleasure passage. The time had now arrived. Momentarily displaying her large imminent fate right before her eyes, I next lowered myself at the knees the few inches necessary to fit the circumcised tip into the beckoning "O". Gently grasping the soft Hammill haircut for balance and support with my left hand, I slowly slid Richard deeper inside. I watched with fascination as paralyzed lips grudgingly parted further to take in my full width. An animated Richard now totally engulfed her immobilized field of view. Quickly overcome by pure sexual energy and drive, and with ebbing higher-level thought, I built up a slow-but-steady rhythm back and forth across her ruby lips. The pressure and tightness from this "freeze-blow" produced nearly unbelievable pleasure of a kind and degree I will likely never again experience. Transcending well beyond (and combining with) the amazing physical sensation was the thrill from having absolute control. Officer Mooney had been reduced to nothing more than a toy. Pushing in and out, I felt her hardening nipples and luscious breasts playfully knocking against my knees and thighs. What a moment in time! Unfortunately, as much as she seemed willing and able to continue; my visit into this joyous situation was to be severely limited. The critical blow to my staying power came unexpectedly from beneath the holes in her uniform trousers. Rhonda's stiffened bottom had remained stock-still despite the slight rocking motion of the oral sex; but her pants apparently did not. Each slow thrust must have nudged the torn fabric openings, gapping them momentarily slightly wider. Due to this repeated movement, subterranean adjustments and repositionings occurred. Suddenly, I realized that not only were her ivory rump tan lines visible; but now also, along the center pants seam, many delicate strands of wrinkled jet-black hairs poked through both tears. I must admit to an obsessive affinity and weakness for rear view hairs around the female nether region, and this surprise show sent me delightfully over the edge into the start of an orgasm. Freezing involuntarily in ecstasy at a moment of tweaking her left nipple, I recovered to remove myself quickly from the captivating ruby "O" (producing a tiny "popping" noise), and placed my exploding cock onto the curves and folds of her incredible breasts. Nearly losing both consciousness and my balance, I rolled Richard wildly about upon her grand melons while my pleasure gradually subsided. As might be expected under the circumstances, she bore all this very stoically and well.
Chapter Four: "Gone Round the Bend". Sinking to my knees on the soft green leather ottoman, I found myself staring straight down her unzipped uniform trousers into the nether region which had (mostly) escaped my advances. I was resolved to add a frontal Polaroid shot of this very friendly statue to the earlier side view already in my collection. As the perfect model, Rhonda posed quite patiently for the several minutes I compared alternative angles and framings. I decided upon a semi-close-up picture which captured not only the thick white fluid trailing and oozing across the tan-line-breasted "smile" (and a big drop on her lower lip), but also the exposed upper-triangle section of her jet-black bush. FLASH went the camera for a second time. Two things at the extreme outer edges of vision caught my attention. Removing my eye from the camera view finder, I recognized (with bewilderment) Otis’ white oxford cloth shirt and tee shirt crumpled into a ball atop the receptionist’s desk. Shocked at this sight, and intent on understanding how it made sense, my brain could then only register peripherally the two or three eye blinks made by my figurehead-like companion.
With the amazing experiences of the past twenty minutes culminating in the most satisfying orgasm (to date) of my life, I began to think somewhat more clearly and rationally. Attempting to cover my tracks by restoring conditions as closely as possible to their "pre-pulsed" state now seemed like a very good idea. Beyond the security camera risks previously discussed, there also was the great uncertainty as to how my fellow victims in this strange technological trap would recollect and respond to events as they had unfolded. Otis’ reaction was entirely unpredictable, since I had no concrete knowledge as to how much (if anything) he had seen or experienced since the "cream soda hit the fan". Certainly his absence was puzzling, and made me more than a little nervous. Was he busy summoning medical assistance or other security guards to help? If so, then my time available to avoid detection (and likely arrest) was severely limited. And what about Rhonda? Given my own "pulse-induced" mindset and resulting voyage, I had an educated guess as to some of her sensory perceptions, but only up to my point of return to full consciousness. Her thoughts and feelings (if any) about the recent sexual frenzies in the copy room and ad agency entryway were a complete mystery. Knowing it was probably best to redress both of us as soon as possible; I was still reluctant to give up my prized personal statue. Donning my own shoes and clothes, I carefully extracted her stiff legs and feet from their pivot-brace at the bottom of the armchair, and hauled her parallel to the floor (face down this time) toward the copy room. We were about midway there when I noticed physical evidence as to her present state of mind. First I saw the toes. Whereas, prior to our union atop the leather furniture her toes had been fully extended and pointing downward, they were now quite "scrunched" and curled deliciously together. This made me speculate about the possibility (and degree) of her own pleasure, so I gently laid her down in the center of the room to investigate further. Despite her entranced frozen captivity, several more subtle clues betrayed the full situation. Sex-stained ivory breasts had now taken on an overall rosy hue, with the dark nipples standing out straight and rock-hard. But it was her slightly altered facial expression which confirmed my suspicions. The naughty twinkling eyes had widened into a look of mixed awe and glee. And visible at the corners of her gaping mouth, there now hung the tiniest hint of upward-crinkling, suggesting a held-back smile. "Seems it was good for you, too, honey," I blurted out, while completing my task of carrying her into the room with the mysterious XG-2770. Standing her stiff form back up against the wall, I was anxious to take one last photograph in the same immobile position as I had first discovered her, no matter what the likely risks or time limits.
The Polaroid flashed again; but this third time (for me) with unfortunate consequences. I watched in surprise and dismay from the camera viewfinder as Officer Mooney blinked several times, relaxed from her figurehead pose, and shook her head groggily side-to-side. Putting both hands to her temples in a gentle massage, she looked blankly about the room. Soon she calmly said to nobody in particular, "Huhhh?…what happened…where the HELL am I? I just had the wildest dream… seemed as if King Midas from mythology turned me to gold, and I was trapped under a ship’s bowsprit naked as a jay-bird! It was all pretty damn weird, but kinda fun too… I liked all the attention from admirers. And the whole time I couldn't move a muscle! Well, me and my golden hooters left sailors' dicks HARD in our wake between Sparta and Shanghai!" Then she noticed me in front of her. She watched me coolly for nearly a minute in silence. "NOW I remember (my stomach painfully tightened)…I was trying to catch that soda can when the copier exploded, and it all turned into blinding, slow-motion craziness! And YOU were there in my dreams as…" She had just looked down.
The panorama of emotions as witnessed by Rhonda’s facial expressions during the next sixty seconds was nearly unbelievable. The faintly contented smile, suggestive of sexual satisfaction, emerging while she had described her golden adventure, instantly evaporated (with an accompanying audible gasp) as the realization struck her that she was nude. And nude she was! More so than even while statued, since in raising her hands to comfort her dizzy head, this dark-haired bombshell had unwittingly released the last two remaining supports to her torn uniform trousers, which had fallen into a crumple around her ankles. Long, olive-tanned, shapely legs stood newly exposed, as well as two triangles. The larger, ivory-skin-toned one (produced from bikini coverage) splendidly framed the smaller, dense full triangle of her intoxicating pubic bush. Sudden surprise changed into absolute panic when she realized she stood in such a compromising situation before me. Assuming a classic "emergency coverup" pose, Rhonda bent a little at the waist, crossed one leg in front of the other slightly, and placed a hand in front of her crotch. The other cupped hand and forearm moved instinctively to shield low curves of the breasts and nipples. The extent of her embarrassment plainly showed through the shocked wide eyes, and the soundless "AHHhhhh" slowly escaping her ruby mouth. This reaction reminded me of the sorority sister similarly exposed at the end of Animal House. Captivated until now by these reactions, I regained enough self-presence to shoot a fourth Polaroid of her current predicament. FLASH. And the amusing emotional roller-coaster display continued. It took only a few seconds to realize that her covering right arm was resting in something warm and sticky. A look blending great confusion with sheer disgust crossed her face. She examined the semen on her breasts for several long seconds. Then, staring blankly toward me for a moment, first complete revelation, then amazement, then extreme anger set in, with her face flushing a deep red color. Apparently, she now recollected everything. She stood straight up with hands on her hips, glaring accusingly. "You thought that you could GET AWAY with this, kid?" she began, as the furious, authoritative tone contrasted sharply with her open-front, bottomless attire. "All I have to do is tell a jury EXACTLY what happened out there on top of that green leather chair tonight, and you’all be spending about the next thirty years in Fulsom as somebody’s nerdy little girlfriend. Now that’s poetic justice. You’re going to learn up-close-and-personal what it feels like to give head…and much WORSE! You're under arrest, college boy." She bent down to pull up her trousers, also searching for her handcuffs and gun. "DAMMIT, kid, absolutely NOBODY does that to a lady police officer! Where's the ‘thangs’ from my belt?"
I will admit, the circumstances and scenario just outlined by this sexy-but-outraged cop crashed down onto my reality with tremendous negative force and impact. And most despairingly, I knew her assessment of my probable fate was absolutely correct. Overwhelmed by a once-in-a-lifetime chance to fulfill all my strange sexual fantasies, I was now forced to face the sobering, very miserable prospect of swift legal and judicial consequences for my actions. Prison? Me? No! Quite brazenly, I rejected this fate outright. My risky route to possible freedom miraculously dawned as a straightforward plan. With Officer Rhonda Mooney preoccupied in a search for accouterments to my arrest, I took full advantage of the moment to clumsily attempt escape. Lurching forward, I desperately slammed my left hand onto the XG-2770 control panel in an attempt to push the START button. I partly succeeded, but from the number-of-copies LED indicator on the copier display, I surmised that my palm also must have accidentally struck the number "7" on the selection keypad. "Uh Oh" I mumbled. Hearing the loud slapping noise of the START button being depressed, Rhonda looked up from her bended efforts, gun in her right hand. But she was too late. She loudly commanded, "HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!!", yet I had no choice but to ignore her. The whirring sound of the copier motor made it clear that "pulses" were imminent. In near panic, I took the half-second remaining to shield both eyes with my hands, and hurl myself headlong out through the copy room door. Crashing onto the pile carpet in the outer office area, I heard the last words from my pretty young companion behind me, "NO!! NOT AGAI…". Over the next sixty seconds seven intense flickering copier blasts permeated through closed eyelids, despite my covering hands! Finally, there was an eerie silence.
I now felt myself being dragged involuntarily back into the bizarre world of the mutated XG-2770, with an ungodly whirlwind of jumbled, non-matching colors plastered before my eyes. I braced myself for another mental entrapment. And then the realization hit me. I was OK, and just staring point-blank into Otis' ugly discarded necktie! Escaping the room with my hands protecting my eyes had been (barely) enough to save me from the copier's powers. Looking back over my shoulder, I knew that I could not say the same for Rhonda. Picking myself up off the floor, I turned to consider her situation more closely. It was as if the interior of the copier room had been transformed from three-dimensional reality into a flat static photograph, with the doorway serving as a large picture frame. Time seemed to have been allowed to run for just another few seconds beyond my plunging exit. Then, as if some omnipotent armchair quarterback had used the "pause" button on the room's remote control while he went to grab another beer, all animation had been halted. Still bottomless and bent over, with her trousers waistband clutched in her left hand (some eighteen inches off the floor), Rhonda stood in side view, frozen in place with a look of dismay and horror on her face. She had realized her photoelectric peril, and made desperate efforts to stop the "pulses"; yet the heartless machine never offered her any real chance of success. In comparison to her position when she last spoke to me, she had managed several recognizable changes before the copier placed her lovely body under arrest. The long curvaceous olive left leg had managed a half-step forward. It now balanced with slightly bended knee, on tip-toes twelve inches in front of the other one. The right leg was taut and straight, accentuating the roundness of her derriere, which curved back to within an inch of the copy room wall. Her torso was leaning at a slight upward angle above parallel to the floor, with the ponderous breasts hidden by the open and hanging-down blue uniform blouse. From bunched shoulders, her right arm strained fully forward in the direction of the copier controls. On her right hand (still dangling the 38 Police Special through its trigger frame between index finger and thumb) the middle digit extended to mere inches shy of the JOB INTERRUPT button. Head and neck craned stiffly in an attempt to see buttons and the LED panel. The look on her distressed face also contained some of the classic, stereotypical expression of highly annoyed ignorance that occurs whenever a female confronts any sort of electronic technology. She was far too late to read the manual. Apparently, her last words had been spoken just as she stretched out to save herself, since her tongue stood awkwardly fixed halfway up to the roof of her wide-open mouth, caught while forming an "n" sound. The shocked emerald eyes displayed fear. Except for an improper placement of the left arm (and absence of any swimsuit), Rhonda might be mistaken for a swimmer at the initial instant of the 100-meter freestyle, lunging forward off a racing block, perhaps upset with her false start.
Needless to say, Richard took this moment in time to commence a rapid recovery from his earlier efforts. Also, the overpowering Id which had emerged victorious from the evening's earlier debates prompted further persuasion. Their combined voices shouted from within my subconscious (and groin) to rotate her rigid body around, and take her deliciously from behind. However, my close brush with the harsh reality just described by my now-halted companion was easily more than enough to convince me this incredible experience should end. Yet logical reasoning and clear thought did not triumph entirely. I formulated the creation of a sexy opus which would both buy some exit time, and possibly refocus any investigation away from the advertising agency copy room. While considering the pleasing details, however, I noticed Rhonda's right arm very slowly inching downward under the weight of her pistol. I carefully pried the fingers apart to remove it. They moved! I realized that, in contrast to her earlier solidified condition, this present state of arrest was adjustable! The right arm returned to its fully outstretched state of seconds before with only moderate upward pressure applied. Contending with a life-sized (X-rated) Barbie doll, although highly tempting and distracting, actually simplified my diversion and escape plans. Disengaging her left hand from the trousers waistband, I extended the left arm up and forward, until matching the right. Then, retrieving her beleaguered gray pants from the floor, I pulled them up over her legs, hips and buttocks, loosely closing the belt buckle at its widest notch. Next, I lifted her outstretched arms, head and torso onto the flat top of the XG-2770, across the far end of the oblong machine. Her pliable, inverted "L" body shape permitted this balancing act to succeed, although I wondered whether or not the majority of her weight resting upon her squashed-down breasts was comfortable. Of course, there was no way of obtaining any answer to this question at present. So, with my alluring passenger set properly in place, I collected my toolbox and the Polaroid camera, unplugged the copier from its electrical outlet, and began rolling it on its caster wheels out of the tiny room. We headed straight for the ad agency glass front doors. With Rhonda's shapely legs and ass hanging freely off the front of the machine, I could look straight at her doll-like face, stiff arms and upper body as I propelled our departure along. The look of frozen horror on her countenance was disquieting. However, any slight bumps and jarring as we moved registered in interesting shock waves, radiating up and outward through the partly-compressed ivory globes on her chest. This visual effect even further animated Richard, making it significantly more difficult to walk and push our caravan forward. Using her backside as a sexy battering ram, we nudged the office doors open and then targeted the 22nd floor bank of elevators. Rolling along the hallway, we were forced to maneuver around a discarded pair of men's leather shoes and socks. Very eager to get the hell out of there, I didn't think much about Otis at that moment, or add these new pieces to the puzzle concerning his whereabouts. Pushing call buttons repeatedly to summon two elevators, I then engaged "emergency stop" on both. Rhonda’s stage was ready.
Grappling her waist from behind, I lowered her down from the top of the XG-2770. Although I struggled with the weight, as well as the awkward "L" shape of her figure, I managed after a minute to place this brand-newly-minted Barbie doll into one elevator, facing away from the door. The taxi ride on the copier had altered her leg position slightly, and her stand-alone balance was now uncertain; however, the rigid outstretched hands and arms provided a solution to the problem. Repositioning her even further inside, I propped the fingertips of her right hand against the elevator's back wall for stability. Next I returned her left arm and hand to the task of suspending her partly-dropped trousers, this time setting the waistband (as seen from behind) at mid-calf. To accomplish this long downward left reach, it was necessary to bend her knees more deeply, and push her waist over to an angle flatter to the floor. Required adjustment pressure to the backs of her knees and lower spine was amazingly light, considering how rock-solid her posing stayed otherwise. Mattel would have been quite pleased. The final effect from these manipulations was striking. Officer Mooney stood helplessly on display in full, gorgeous rear view within the florescent-lit elevator. With her tanned olive legs standing slightly apart , an incredible (bikini bottom formed) ivory-skinned oval commanded center stage. Bisected by a contrasting dark crack visible from the shirttail down, her pale bottom was teasingly thrown fully backward in a delightfully round bend. This dazzling beauty’s fixed stance was just wide enough to exhibit many backsided, shadowy hints of her enticing nether region, veiled by crinkled bushy hairs.
For the second time that evening I had to fight very hard against a strong physiological response to a wildly-erotic visual stimulus. With great difficulty, I again contained a near-ejaculation into my own trousers, and made certain final adjustments to my masterpiece. Rotating Rhonda’s head and neck,
I established her into a backward glance across her left shoulder. It was with real disappointment that I discovered the small muscles governing her facial expression to be less cooperative than her arms and legs. Although I managed to erase the look of outright horror from her countenance, the bright smile which I wished to replace it with could not be coaxed forth. I was nonetheless pleased with an end result closely resembling open amazement. The still-wide eyes and pursed, pouting mouth seemed appropriate as summary expression for a face which had witnessed so many novelties that evening. One last touch remained. Folding and draping her blue uniform blouse so as to best reveal and flatter her wonderful tits and ass, I slowly threaded the unbuttoned left shirt front under and between her torso and left arm, until the Peachtree Plaza ID nametag rested atop her shoulder blade. I noted with satisfaction that this maneuvering further revealed her left breast and dark nipple to the rear view. Then, cutting out a tiny square of black electrical tape from my toolbox, and using "white out" borrowed from an ad agency desktop, I altered her B&W identification badge to read:
Stepping to the elevator control panel, I proceeded to depress every single one of the 44 floor call buttons. I had no clear expectations as to roughly how many janitors, maintenance men, night auditors, or other security personnel might still be working in the building this late (my watch read 11:58); but my perfectly-posed, gorgeous friend would soon have a much better idea than me. Placing the gun, walkie-talkie and other devices from her belt into the elevator corner, I pulled back out the emergency stop button and quickly returned to the hallway. As I exited through the elevator doors, I deposited onto her tan-lined protruding derriere one sharp farewell spank. Turning to watch the departure of my lovely sculpture, I gazed with appreciation as a slight overall redness began to surface across the delicious ivory oval. With one last glance at her very sexy rounded bend, the elevator doors closed and she was gone. Then I heard a noise.
It had sounded like a scrambling, almost lumbering THUD coming from down the hallway. Given the circular design of the Peachtree Plaza building, however, my field of view in that direction was truncated by the hallway’s curvature. Nevertheless, it was clear that somebody was nearby and possibly headed in my direction! Then it dawned upon me that (as planned) any and all potentially incriminating evidence had just departed on an around-the-building tour and exhibition. I relaxed a little, and maneuvered the XG-2770 onto the second elevator. This discovery, accidental or not, of a technology capable of such power and influence on the human mind and body must be kept guarded. And who was better qualified or experienced to further investigate its secrets than ME?! I was determined to acquire this wish-fulfilling, mutated copier as my very own. Hitting the lobby call button, I stepped back and waited for the doors to close. Then there he was! Otis had at last finally re-materialized, and the mystery of his disappearance could be solved. But the explanation was not a happy or pretty one. In the following ninety seconds, I did not fully comprehend what was going on, and could only grasp the ugly, bizarre bare essentials of the situation. Gaps and holes in the story resolution would be filled in later by others. But what I witnessed next was certainly more than enough to digest.
A polar opposite view to the beautifully erotic scene I had just observed departing in the first elevator presented itself back through the sliding doors. Lurching along slowly in a too-wide stance, in a kind of semi-erect crouch, my supervisor moved toward me with a blank, almost stupefied, expression on his face. His arms hung loosely at his sides, sometimes slapping against his thighs as he lumbered up the hallway. He was totally naked. Of course, his non-attire coincided sensibly with all the discarded articles of clothing I had discovered in the past hour; however, this solution to my earlier conundrum did not fully compensate for the stomach-turning sight now before me. His hairy (except for the top of his head), beer-bellied, overweight body was as far to the extreme other end of the aesthetic spectrum from Rhonda as possible. And there were new questions. Why had he removed his clothes? Why was he walking so strangely? "OTIS!!…WHAT THE HELL??" I shouted. Seemingly taken aback by this loud verbal query directed at him, Otis stopped directly in front of the elevator and slowly scratched the shiny top of his head with his index finger. He stared at me momentarily, looking quite befuddled. For an instant I thought he had revisited O’Casey’s bar, and was now heavily drunk. Then I considered the potential effects of the copier next to me. Before I could reason anything out, Otis interrupted my thoughts. Incredibly, he squatted back onto his haunches, beat both of his clenched hands onto his hairy chest and bellowed "HOO…HOO …HOO…HOO…AWOOOOH…HOO". He seemed to have lost all touch with reality. Thrown into a confused panic by his insane communication, I realized that my escape was being prevented by the still-depressed red emergency stop. I quickly released it, and the repeatedly punched the "L" button for the lobby. Perhaps in stereotypical "monkey-see-monkey-do" fashion, Otis hopped over to the elevator bank wall and began to press the two call buttons over and over again. Then he loped sideways, halting five feet away from me and making eye contact. I believed I saw overwhelming sadness in his gaze. Squatting again and raising up his left arm, he proceeded to methodically scratch his armpit, ass crack and genitals. With a final "HAWEEE" parting cry from my mentor, the elevator doors mercifully closed. As I sped downward toward the lobby, I remembered Rhonda’s loud angry derision of Otis' clumsiness just before the first "pulse" hit. Big Ape? He apparently had taken her criticism far too seriously and personally to heart! I fearfully wondered exactly what were the limits (if any) to the power of the XG-2770 copy machine beside me.
The security guard at the desk in the downstairs lobby inquired about my partner as I rolled the copy machine up alongside him a couple of minutes later. While signing out in the logbook, I simply said "He’s gone…", which indeed was quite accurate- at least in a mental, if not physical sense. The male guard became very upset with my statement, protesting that Otis had in fact not yet left (or even signed out of) the building. He then wanted to know when and where upstairs I had last seen him. I started to relate some vague diversionary tale, until very shortly I noticed that he was no longer listening to me. He now stared openly perplexed over my shoulder at the elevator bank, with his jaw hanging open. Raising his right hand to silence my rambling excuses, he slowly rose out of his chair to get a clear line of sight. Addressing someone behind me he began, "Very Funny… All right, who’s that in there?…What do ya think you’re doing?" His eyes suddenly grew saucer-wide, filling with wonder (and lust?) upon complete recognition. "Rhonda???…Is that you?…RHONDA???" I heard elevator doors sliding closed behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I had a faintest glimpse of a stock-still, olive-and-ivory moon. Then the elevator sped away. The male security guard was out from behind his desk in an instant, mumbling something like, "was that an insult or invitation?". He called for another elevator to pursue. We watched Rhonda’s lift stopping at the 22nd floor. Oh no! Otis! His mimicking behavior had unwittingly delivered a helpless naked woman into his reasoning-impaired clutches. "You better get upstairs to 22 right away," I suggested, struggling to hide from view my concern about this unlucky turn of events. But there wasn’t anything more I could do. I left the situation in the guard’s capable hands. In possession of the silky lace underwear, four remarkable Polaroids, and the prized copy machine itself, I casually moved through the lobby, around the bending corridor, and was gone.
Epilogue: "Twists and Turns of Fate". I awoke the next morning much later than usual for a Friday. I had more than half-expected to be shaken from my slumber by large men wearing guns and badges breaking down the door. No such luck. I started some fresh coffee and opened the apartment door to collect the morning newspaper. The Atlanta Constitution was there, along with a special delivery envelope of unknown origin. I will admit that I was not astonished to find on the paper's lower front page the headline: "HERO SECURITY GUARD THWARTS PP SEXUAL ASSAULT". Skim-reading further, I learned Atlanta Police Officer and former USN Lieutenant Rhonda Mooney was recovering at an undisclosed hospital from an "unexplained and prolonged catatonic episode", during which she was "forcefully and lasciviously confronted" by one William Charles Lee of Marietta. Apparently, another guard had intervened just as the (alleged) "naked assailant ripped open and down her uniform shirt and trousers". Investigators were skeptical of Lee's excuses for bizarre, animal-like behavior. Charges were pending; however, by court order, Otis was undergoing a battery of extensive psychological tests. His alibi hinged on a "detailed, strong belief that he spent last night in a Rwandan mountainside jungle". Stunned, I read that Officer Mooney was diagnosed as suffering from severe "chronic hallucinatory-induced amnesia". Amnesia??? I almost could not believe my incredible good fortune!
Abandoning this curious synopsis and interpretation of last nights events, I opened my special delivery letter, discovering it to be an urgent correspondence from the busty blonde Xerox interviewer who had hired me. "Dear Sir," she began warmly...
Congratulations! Upon further consideration and recommendation today from high-level company executives, you have been promoted and transferred to the photodevices-systems research division's consumer product safety (CPS) design team, which is headquartered in our Berkeley, California facility. New compensation will be more than three times your current repairman's salary. Your outstanding and innovative applications of Xerox technology are to be commended. However, due to internal security and proprietary patenting concerns, we now require that you DO NOT discuss your employment activities during the past 24 hours with anyone inside or outside the company, until you report to the CPS project leader, Dr. Georgia Smythe-Livingstone in 72 hours time . You are hereby instructed to drive your company repair van containing the XG-2770 (along with all your personal effects) directly to the Bay Area ASAP.
We hope you will appropriately contribute to testing and development of new Xerox products and services, thereby safely enriching the lives of our many customers, as well as offering you excellent career opportunities. Again, the need for confidentiality in all recent employment matters cannot be overemphasized.
Very Truly Yours,
Helen S. Witherspoon
Placement and Personnel
cc: Dr. N. Froyen-Slutsky, CPS Director
Cindy O'Barry, PP/Pandora Security, Inc.
Putting down the newspaper and letter, I went to pack my suitcase.
author's endnote: you are invited to follow the continuing ASFR adventures of our protagonist in episode two, "Controlled Experiment", due out in late Spring.
Archivist's Note: This story had a few formatting errors, especially in the introduction. I've fixed all the ones I could find. Please let me know if you spot any more. --Leem, 2012