Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Friday, August 21, 2218
Pearson Airport, Toronto, Canada
Narrative Reconstructed by Peter Howard
At six foot one, one hundred ninety pounds, he could have been the average man. Unfortunately, as he left the Eglinton Station and entered Pearson Airport Proper, the perils of his own face, once again, became more and more an annoyance. . He did like it that his face could be placed on a man of eighteen or thirty five. And that complexion that could be Italian, Spanish or German, no one could truly place it. He did not mind, terribly, that no amount of shaving would relieve his jaw of its perpetual five o’clock shadow. In and of itself, allowed him to still be any-man. No, it was none of those things. It was his chiselled jaw, his ice blue eyes and his jet black hair which he kept short. It was that he enjoyed far more than his share of smiles from females, be they ticket agents, workers, stewardesses or fellow passengers. It was that, when he was forced into areas so public and so populated, women noticed him. It was that look the head Stewardess was giving him as he boarded the plane, such were the hazards of his life. It was how she posed her tall, sleek, lavender uniformed body that screamed 'take me.'
He set his expression as neutral as possible, not meeting anyone's eyes, to give the appearance of aloofness. He make his way back to his assigned place and took his seat next to a heavyset balding man whose plump face and soft belly belied a harried professional. The shoes, the polyester suit and the briefcase belied a mid-level salesman.
What was as annoying as the unwanted attention was that Toronto had been a waste of time. The subjects he’d gone to evaluate had obviously been failed experiments. It had been equal to his disappointment in Detroit, Kansas City and Chicago. The families he’d been sent to evaluate were so sub standard that he was left to wonder if his leads were fiction.
Regardless, DeSilva Biotech needed data, and he was duty bound to get it, no matter what the results were.
And he was good at his job. That was to blend in, observe, interact only if necessary, and never, ever give anyone reason to remember you. His face made that difficult, but, as his father always said, everyone needs at least one obstacle to overcome. He’d been trained from birth never to offer opinions. Ask questions, play dumb. Be innocuous. And never, ever pack for a trip, regardless of the destination, which, on this flight, was Sacramento.
The plane took off and, as soon as the pilot gave permission, he pulled out his PDA and began reading today’s New York Times.
In his carry-on bag were an extra pair of slacks, two pairs of socks and boxers, two new shirts, three ties, toiletries and his PDA.
The suit he wore came from North American Haberdasher. NAH was a national chain that sold suites acceptable at every level of society. Suits bought elsewhere would instantly identify his wealth, or lack thereof, to an astute observer. He could not have that. He travelled in business class. Affordable, barely, to mid-level managers and acceptable, in a pinch, to CEOs.
Even his credentials were carefully planned. Stanford was the premier school west of the Mississippi for good reason. The education it provided was second to none. It competed only with Oxford and Harvard as the top school in Western Civilization. But after seven semesters studying Business Law, Sociology and Advertising at Stanford, he had transferred to a small school in North Carolina and took a history degree after an extra year.
Aside from his face, he had only one quirk that constantly irritated his mentor. He had worn the same cowboy boots, black ones, polished to a mirror finish, since he entered college ten years ago.
The head stewardess, tall at 5’9” with a very small waist, blonde, of course, had come back from first class and was conversing with the diminutive black stewardess in charge of business class. As he tried to read the New York Times on his PDA he felt their unwanted glances from four rows back. Annoyed, he resisted glancing up, but the damage was done. That undefinable barrier preventing interaction on a personal level was shattered.
The small black attendant finished her conspiratorial interaction with the tall blonde and began moving down the aisle with her drink cart. She was full hour early, as the flight had just levelled off. Drinks were never served on North Sky Train cross continent flights till they had been at altitude for at least sixty minutes. He could see the other section stewardess scowl as the tall blonde spoke with her, obviously, telling her to give cover by running her own cart down the aisles in coach.
On her way toward his row, he abandoned his attention to the Times and simply faked it. Instead, he observed the stewardess’ sideways glances at him as she spoke to each of her charges by name, flashing her sweet, bright smile and professional politeness.
The man next to him, who he had intentionally ignored, unfastened his seatbelt and shifted to pull out his wallet. Luckily, a seat separated them in this not quite full plane.
“Hello Mr. Acres,” said the flight attendant to the big balding salesman as she arrived. “Hello Mr. Colvert,” she called him by the name on his ticket, the one on the National ID Card he carried. Her name-tag said “Lena 0038” in big black letters on a bronze tag. Below it, in much smaller letters it said 'bid @ northskytrain.trans'.
“Can I serve you gentlemen any refreshments?”
“Yeah,” said Acres. “Rum’n’coke.”
“Scotch,” Colvert said. “Neat.”
Lena smiled sweetly and poured the drinks. Colvert took the opportunity to observe the head stewardess, who was trying very hard to remain discrete as she observed Lena’s progress. The uniform was quite modest for a flight that went to the west coast. It consisted of a lavender vest and skirt with matching pumps and hair band, and a crisp white blouse. However, the stewardesses wore that blouse open to below the vests buttons, advertising what cleavage they were able to show. Lena made a good showing of her own cleavage, leaning in as she gave Mr. Acres his drink and giving Colvert a full view down her blouse.
Colvert paid, and waved off the change Lena offered causing Mr. Acres to dig back into his wallet for a tip. He did not seem at all happy about it.
Mercifully, Lena moved on to those across the aisle. When she bent over, obviously displaying her rear end for their benefit, Acres let out an audible moan, and the head Stewardess issued an amused snort.
“Dayumn!” Acres whispered. “I’d like to get a piece of that!”
Colvert momentarily smiled at him to acknowledge the comment. Going back to his reader, he resumed reading the NY Times, hoping the show was over.
“Bill,” Mr. Acres offered his hand.
Under his breath, Colvert wanted to curse. Instead, he took the large man’s damp fleshy hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Colvert. “My name is David Colvert,” he lied.
Acres smiled back and nodded trying to voice pleasantries through a series of grunts. The Calgary accent took Colvert a few moments to place, but it was not long before he had extracted Acre’s life story, his business, and the reason for his trip.
“So, what about you, Dave?” said Acres, assuming 'David' would not mind him shortening 'David' to 'Dave.' If you do that with your clients, Mr. Acres, and I'm sure you do, it's not any wonder you're not that successful a salesman.
“Oh,” said Colvert. “I’m on the way to meet an old friend.”
The head stewardess was walking slowly back, smiling at everyone. Her name-tag said “Kathy 0187.” Acres eyes followed her longingly and Colvert smiled, a thought coming to him.
“Admiring the view?” asked Colvert.
“You said it,” said Acres. “I’d love to see her do a little dance.”
“So bid on her,” said Colvert.
“Bid?” Acres asked. “Like for a date? The wife would kill me! And she’s expecting.”
Lance called up the northskytrain.trans website on his PDA and queried for Kathy 0187. Her page came up, complete with a nice head-shot and vital statistics. Her waste, Colvert noted, was indeed tiny at twenty two inches.
“Three dates for one thousand Euros… that is a bit expensive,” he said as Lena passed. He hit the catering link. Fifteen thousand was the minimum bid for her as a cull with an estimated yield of forty pounds of lean meat. Lena 0038, as it turned out, was only ten thousand, an estimated yield of thirty seven pounds.
“That would feed the sales dinner tonight,” said Acres.
“Oh?”
“Both of them, I mean. One hundred twenty guys from Canada, Mexico and the U.S. I just barely made my quota. But that would cost me twenty five thousand Euros. Almost worth it… almost…”
Colvert nodded. “So what flavour of meat does your company normally serve at these functions?”
“I’m told they usually bring in girls from Mexico or South East Asia,” he said. “It’s my first time… I finally have seniority enough to be invited. Almost made it two years ago... I was just over my quota and it was a bad year for most.”
“Ah,” Colvert said. Lena sashayed by again, drawing his own gaze. Colvert smiled to himself. “So, tell me, Bill. How popular would you be if you showed up with those two?”
“Shit!” said Acres. “It’d be huge! I’d tell my bosses they’d better treat me right… and get away with it… nice pipe dream, huh?”
Colvert nodded. “Maybe.”
Colvert continued the idle conversation as he went through the website's bidding terms. Yes he could have them delivered anywhere, to anyone. If he was not a passenger, he’d have to wait twenty four hours for delivery. In flight bidding he could take them right off the plane. He made sure Lena and Kathy saw him looking at their date pages each time they passed. Kathy was spending more and more time in Business class as the plane neared Sacramento. The second round of drinks was served shortly before the plane began its decent. Kathy traded places with Lena and was just as forward displaying herself to Colvert.
She did smell very good, Colvert thought. IN contrast to Lena’s large bust line, Kathy had ample, but much smaller breasts that she showed to be widely spaced when she gave Colvert full view down her blouse. Poor Acres took his second drink looking very flustered.
Colvert handed Kathy a ten note and told her it was for both drinks, and to keep the change.
“Thank you, Mr. Colvert,” said Kathy in a sing-song Alabama accent, with a wink. Colvert smiled back, as warmly as he could manage.
“She sure likes you,” said Acres, Horsely, and he downed his drink.
“You in a hurry after we land?” asked Colvert.
“Well,” said Acres. “Except for checking in at the hotel, I got two hours before I can do that… no, I guess I have some time.” “Good,” said Colvert.
“Why?” asked Acres. “We gonna have some fun?”
Colvert grinned in spite of himself. “Oh yes,” he said. Lena was watching with stolen glances, but she had a smile as well.
“Oh, god…” Acres said with anticipation.
Colvert noticed the man was playing pocket pool.
“Excuse me,” said Acres. “I gotta hit the can.”
Colvert chuckled and stood out of Acres way. Once Acres and the two women were not looking, he carefully crafted delivery instructions and purchased both Kathy0187 and Lena0038.
“Do you travel a lot, Mr. Acres?” Colvert asked as he and Acres as they stood to de-plane. They had landed only a few minutes before, which was one reason, not the only one, however, that Colvert liked this airport. It tended to be efficient. Colvert would pick up a cab to a cheap motel, and spend the night before moving on to his final destination. This little diversion would be enjoyable, however, and hopefully would not attract the wrong kind of attention.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I almost live on aeroplanes,” said the bigger man.
“Bye, Mr. Colvert,” chorused Kathy and Lena at the door as the two men left the aircraft. Colvert favoured them with a smile. It was obvious enough, by the look of their expressions; they knew they were to meet someone immediately after the flight. They were, Colvert saw, giddy.
The Professor’s rule #17. If you have to make an impression, make it a big one, and If possible, make the impressed owe you big. It should not matter how much or little value that person’s services may mean in the end, a marker is a marker. Always make it count.
At the end of the loading tube a well dressed North Sky Train officer greeted them.
“You must be Mr. Acres,” the moustachioed officer offered his hand to a surprised Bill Acres. “Your luggage is being brought up, sir. I show here, Mr. Colvert, that you checked no bags?”
“Correct.”
“The packages will be delivered shortly. We just need them to complete their assigned duties.”
The officer led Colvert and a very confused looking Acres through the concourse.
“Ma’am,” said Acres. “I haven’t been this excited since my wife first got naked for me!”
“How old is she?” Colvert asked.
“Twenty five,” Acres said. “I’ve got a son her age already. My daughters all got culled because of fat…”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah,” Acres said. “It’s their fault for being such pigs. My first wife didn’t help. Roasted her seven years ago. Amy’s got her head screwed on right. Keeps me honest and happy.”
“Sounds like life isn’t so bad,” Colvert said.
Acres nodded. “No, but not as good as this…”
Near the NTS check in the officer led them through a smoke glass door and into an office. On the desk were newly minted titles to the bodies of Lena Wenchel and Kathleen Shultz.
“If you wish to keep them,” said the officer. “There must be a marriage license within one week. Fine of up to one thousand Euros per day thereafter if you’re caught with them alive. Please sign here, Mr. Acres.
“Me?”
“Someday,” said Colvert. “I’ll ask for a favour”
Acres jaw slacked with a hint of a smile. He signed both sheets and was issued the titles.
“Oh,” the officer said. “One moment. I need these.” HE extracted bar coded hospital bracelets, one for each doe. “Come inside, Mr. Acres.”
Acres followed, then turned. “Coming?”
“No, Mr. Acres. “I thought I’d leave you to enjoy your prizes.”
“Awe, c’mon! I gotta share this with someone!”
Colvert hesitated, then smiled and followed.
“Where are they? The officer asked with an annoyed tone of the security guard.
“In the ladies room, sir,” said the guard. “They’re fixing their make-up.”
“Oh,” said the officer. “I suppose they misunderstood the nature of the purchase.”
“One thing, Bill,” said Colvert in a low voice. “So far as your colleagues are concerned, I was never here, nor do I exist. In fact, don’t ever mention my name to anyone, ever again.”
“But…” Acres started to protest, but saw the look in Colvert’s eye, and stopped cold. He nodded. “You bet. Damn, my shit ain’t gonna stink for a long, long time.”
Colvert smiled s the two women finally appeared.
“Mr. Colvert!” Kathy smiled. “What a surprise,” she lied.
“Hello, Mr. Acres,” Lena said somewhat less enthusiastically. “Are we all going out?”
“You’re accompanying Mr. Acres to dinner,” said Colvert.
“Ladies,” the officer said. “May I see your right hands please?”
“What?” Kathy asked lazily, then saw the bar-code on the bracelets. “No!” her horrified look met Colvert, her eyes incredulous and pleading. “Please, no!”
The officer finally managed to get the bracelet around Kathy’s wrist, marking her as a legal cull in the State of California. Lena was more accepting of her fate, but her face broke into quiet sobs.
“Please remove your uniforms,” said the officer. When they hesitated, he added: “Please don’t make me force you, ladies.”
With trembling hands, tears streaming down their faces, quaking bodies and the occasional sob, the two women began by unbuttoning their vests. As it turned out, vest, blouse and bra were a single garment, which Colvert thought clever. He made a mental note to read up on this type of garment… he’d never seen its like before.
Off came the lavender miniskirts, revealing that even their lavender panties were part of the uniform. A knot at the front held those together. Colvert watched as Kathy pulled the bow apart causing it to fall away. Their bodies were, of course, waxed bare as required by any airline that served the west coast.
The last thing the two young women had on were their pink stay-up stockings and lavender pumps. They both carefully removed the last of their clothing.
“If you need an enema, do it now,” said the officer once the former stewardesses were naked. He was barely able to contain his own arousal.
The Professor’s rule # 38, the simplest pleasures have the most value.
After the girls and the guard disappeared back into the bathroom, the officer began gathering the discarded uniforms.
“May I have those too?” asked Acres.
Colvert’s revenge was satisfying, if unproductive. The Professor’s rule #1: never engage in unproductive activity. Well, it was not exactly unproductive. It did create a marker, and that would satisfy the professor.
David Colvert left Bill Acres with his prizes and strode out of the airport. On his way, he extracted all forms of ID, Driver’s License, Passport, Credit Cards and the like that identified him as David Colvert. He’d burn those later. He went, instead, to his old standby: Michael Gianni. He’d used that name before, many years ago. As he’d be running into old friends, he’d best resurface with that name…
Tomorrow, Michael Gianni would be in Fremont, early. Then, he’d go after his prey. The family’s name was Wells. And in the den of thieves that was the San Francisco Bay Area, the next few days would prove very interesting…