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To Release Your Inner You Part 1
| Mark Dodson was just a simple, average post-graduate serving a summer internship at one of the country’s premiere medical research and development center under the vastly intelligent Doctor Chester Bakersfield. During his first week, Mark was in awe for the sheer size and magnitude of this facility. Spanning over several square blocks of space in the sprawling metropolis of downtown Hudson Valley, New Mexico, the complex stood as a concrete monolith in the cityscape. In fact, had it not been for the initial investment thirty years ago of Brier Ridge Pharmaceuticals, Hudson Valley would be nothing more than a mediocre city located near a large man-made lake. The city itself had thrived, bringing in locals from the neighboring cities with the promise of new jobs and new lives. Once B.R.P. began its construction of the seemingly ever-growing research building, jobs became plentiful. Soon the city life was also growing, and with that nightlife, fancy eateries, designer named stores, and a few Mega-Plex movie theaters. Mark had actually been one of the few indigenous people born in Hudson Valley, and his parents and grandparents owned a farm just on the outskirts of the Valley. Been raised on a farm while being taught at one of the best schools in Hudson Valley had not only primed Mark’s body for heavy work, but also heavy thinking. Mark took after his mother’s side of the family, and tended to be on the thinner side of the weight spectrum. Barely hitting 6’1’’, Mark started to look more like the scarecrow in the field than a guy who could pick up a few dozen bails of hay without getting winded. In fact, Mark was densely compacted. His weight hovered over 170 pounds, but unfortunately for him, he was never able to breach that barrier. Having gone out-of-state for his college degree in pharmacology, Mark returned anxious that he might not find a decent job. Then out of the blue, he received a phone call, and later an e-mail, from Dr. Bakersfield asking for a lab assistant. While he didn’t quite know what for, he was eager to participate in such a prestigious internship. Now, standing before the large revolving doors, gleaming in the bright Southwestern sun, Mark felt a lump in throat. He hadn’t a clue as to what he would be working on. In fact, he had no idea what his job entailed. He had heard horror stories from fellow students that medical internships were the absolute worst. Sometimes even being referred to as the lowest rung on the ladder in most places, Mark wasn’t sure he could cut it. But his determination wasn’t going to be snuffed that easily. Making his way inside, the cool, crisp sterile air was almost harsh enough to sting his eyes. The metal and stone motif of the exterior continued inward, and the large modern foyer was completely concrete and brushed silvery steel. He walked briskly over to the reception desk, making the stiff air burn his eyes all the more. Leaning over the desk, he saw a petite blonde woman typing away furiously at the keyboard, which attached to an unseen computer screen somewhere within. She looked bored to tears, and seemed to ignore Mark completely. "Excuse me,” Mark said in a deep raspy voice that didn’t quite seem to fit his lean body, "I’m here for—" "Take four steps to the right, push the elevator button, and then go to floor sixteen,” she said without knowing who he was or what he wanted, "then talk to the girl up there.” "But how do you—" "Bakersfield, right?” she asked curtly, while she continually typed. "Yeah, but how did you—" "Cynthia upstairs will tell you,” she said curtly, rose from her seat, and went through a door on the right, without even so much as a good-bye. Mark was stunned by her rudeness. He didn’t know which way to go, or if he should even follow her directions. Considering there were no signs, no bulletin boards, or any form information other than what the girl told him, his choices were limited. He took his four steps, found a pair of metallic doors, pushed the up button, and then entered the small cab of the elevator once the doors slide open silently. The small compartment continued the rock and metal theme, but instead of concrete there seemed to be small marble slabs on the floor, and the metal inside was slightly more matte in finish. His long, narrow fingers outstretched, Mark pushed the number sixteen, and waited for the jerk of the cables to lift him upward. Only there was nothing. No jolt, bump, or binging noise as he passed the floors. He looked around the room to see if anything could tell him what he was doing, but he found nothing, except a small screen that showed him standing in the cab. Upon further inspection, Mark saw numbers shifting faintly in the background of the screen. To his astonishment, the number twelve just disappeared to only be replaced with the number thirteen, an oddity in most modern building construction. Within a few seconds, the doors slid open, and the cool air stung his eyes again. Only this time it was slightly less sterile and a bit more inviting, with a vague hint of vanilla lingering deeper within the hall. Mark stepped out and saw a very posh, clean-cut waiting area again. As he walked toward the vacant reception desk, he noticed that the smell of vanilla grew stronger, and almost warmed his nostrils. He leaned over the marble counter into the opened glass window, and found the origin of the smell. The inhabitant of this cubicle had lighted a small candle, possibly, but she wasn’t there. Cynthia, as the other receptionist had called her, was absent, and he had no further directions to follow. He thought of pulling out his cell phone to call the lobby, or at least Dr. Bakersfield’s office line, which he got from the e-mail. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, but he couldn’t be late for his interview. Just as he rummaged into his pocket for his phone, there came a very quiet "ahem” from behind him. The break in the silence nearly caused Mark to yell out loud, "Holy—!” Mark gasped. "I’m glad you think of me so highly, Mark,” a man spoke with a distinct enunciation and diction, "but I’m far from holy. At least, thus far in my ventures.” Mark turned to see a wispy man in a white lab coat, black slacks, and black shoes. He was the epitome of the older geeky type of man. Tall, sinewy, drawn face, black rimmed glasses with thick lenses, and a pencil thin moustache barely appearing over his equally slim, pale lips. His black hair was cut short and slicked close to his scalp. It was also so shiny that the fluorescent lights in the ceiling were being reflected in the gloss. "I’m sorry,” Mark stammered, "but I was told by the girl downstairs that I—" "Don’t worry, Mark,” the man continued, "I’m Doctor Chester Bakersfield.” He extended a chilled, bony hand outward. The skin was drawn tightly around his digits, and his blue veins and tendons rippled with even the slightest of movements. Mark grasped the man’s hand firmly, as he was taught by both his father and grandfather, and noticed that there was no life in the handshake. It was merely an extended hand frozen in place as if robotic in nature. "Pleasure to meet you,” the Doctor said icily, "Come this way please.” As Mark followed the emotionless man, he noticed that he began to miss the warm vanilla scent as the smell of rubbing alcohol and maximum strength cleaning products took over his senses. The Doctor reached a keypad, punched in a series of numbers, and the metal doors, which the pad was adjacent to, opened swiftly and quietly. Mark continued to follow Dr. Bakersfield, and found himself walking into a white and silver hallway lined on either side with blaringly white labs and men and women in white lab coats. "Doctor?” Mark inquired quietly. There was no response. "Doctor will I be interviewed?” Mark pressed. "No,” Doctor Bakersfield responded, "you already have the job.” Mark smiled to himself, but then realized that his white dress shirt and dark brown khakis weren’t really suitable for this type of work environment. The Doctor turned to the only door in the long corridor that didn’t have windows peering inside the room. Taking a key from his pocket, Dr. Bakersfield unlocked the steel door, and walked inside the dark room. Once he was inside a few feet the bright lights filled the room, and Mark followed suit. The room was small and filled only with a desk, a rolling chair, and two titanium seats without cushions. The Doctor gestured to the seats across from his desk, and Mark sat in the one closest to the black metal desk, and twitched slightly at the bitter coldness his taut butt cheeks felt. "We’re working on a new drug that would essentially remove the use of the Id in the human brain,” the Doctor said as he promptly sat in his chair. Mark was taken aback by the candor the man just showed him, and wondered if there would be any kind of introductions or any other information given, such as pay, work hours, and dress code. But apparently, this man was all business, all the time. But even with his need to compose himself, Mark blurted out, "HUH?!” For the first time, Doctor Bakersfield showed an emotion, and it was impatience. "I fear that asking questions at this moment is unsatisfactory.” Mark nodded in response. "Very well,” the Doctor continued, "With the rise of violence in the world, Brier Ridge Pharmaceuticals would like to create a medication that could subdue the part of the brain that has been deemed one of the most volatile and inaccessible parts of the mind. This drug would seemingly remove the need to eat, fight, react, procreate, and so forth. Now, I’m sure you’re familiar with Freud’s theory of the human mind, and if not, that I feel you’ll fail here miserably. Are you educated in these matters?” "Somewhat,” Mark nodded his head again, "I took a few psychology courses in college and I found that—" "Good,” the Doctor interrupted, "we’re trying to make humans unable to function without the proper stimulus. Thus, making people more docile and controllable.” "So, you’re making a mind-control drug?” Mark asked. "No,” the Doctor’s face was painted with impatience and intolerance for interruptions, "I’ve discovered that without the Id, but with proper brain stimulus people will still eat, be able to live, and so forth. It’ll essentially remove his or her ability to attack another person.” At this point, Mark felt the air around him becoming more suffocating and stale. He actually felt his mouth dry, and his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. He tried not to think about it, but it became blaringly uncomfortable. Noticing Mark’s discomfort, the Doctor sighed, "The air here does take some getting used to. Would you care for some water?” "Yes, please,” Mark rose from his seat, but the Doctor’s hand shot up to stop him. Immediately, a rather bland looking, unattractive woman entered the room with a small nickel colored thermos. She sat it on the Doctor’s desk, and then left the room as quickly and quietly as she had entered. The Doctor slid the container across the highly polished desk to Mark, who took it with a shaking hand. Sipping on the cold water, Mark felt his throat relax and he took more liquid into his mouth, drinking quietly. "Now,” the Doctor continued, "since this matter is so complicated and highly sensitive, I can’t be bothered with simple, mundane things, like answering my personal line, filing my papers, and other matters that will keep me from the lab. That’s where you come in,” the Doctor inclined his head toward Mark. "Will you be accepting this offer?” "Yes, sir,” Mark began, as he swallowed the last bit of water in the flask-like glass, "but I was wondering—" "You will be here promptly at nine in the morning, and you’ll leave every evening at five. You will have weekends off, and you’ll be paid eighteen dollars an hour. Is that satisfactory?” Mark’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened, "That would be great!” Mark was ecstatic and overjoyed to have such a simple job with such great pay. In fact, he was on the verge of jumping up and down. "Very well,” the Doctor rose from his seat, and headed toward the door, "You start today. You get a paid half hour for lunch from 12:30 to 1. You must be back immediately at 1, and there is only one more stipulation.” "What’s that, sir?” Mark was rising and walking to the other side of the room. "You mustn’t ever tell anyone what we’re working on here,” and with that the Doctor was gone. Before Mark could even answer the man’s demands, he was gone. Mark looked down the hall after the man, and saw no one. Shrugging slightly, Mark returned to his boss’ desk and sat in the cushiony rolling chair. The plain desk was nearly devoid of any type of clutter. A stack of papers, a few pens and a keyboard without a monitor sat front and center on the desk. To the left was a cordless black phone with a built-in answering machine, and that was it. Feeling his way around the room, Mark decided to touch the keyboard. Immediately he heard a whirling sound as if a hard drive somewhere began to start up. Then a slowly brightening light illuminated a portion of the desk. "Holy shit!” Mark gasped, "The desk is the monitor.” He saw the bright screen open up to a blank desktop with appear. He looked all over for a mouse and found none. He drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently, and then he noticed the cursor on the screen move. He took his right index finger and slid it across the desktop and watched as the cursor moved along in the same direction. He rummaged through the files on the computer, found nothing interesting and decided to get on the Internet. After a few hours of catching up with current events and old friends, he found himself bored. The phone never rang. No one ever bothered him. And most of all, Mark had nothing to do. He took out his cell phone and began texting people. It wasn’t long until he had contacted all his friends and some family members, and was completely uninterested in anything. Soon, his lunchtime rolled around, and he left the office. There was no one to report to, and he was unsure of any type of time-punching system. So after closing the Doctor’s office door behind him, he walked down the long, now uninhabited hallway toward the receptionist desk. Once again he found the smell of vanilla, and saw that the girl from the downstairs desk was now upstairs. "Hey,” Mark said nonchalantly, "Where’s Cynthia?” "Quit,” the girl said sharply. "Ah,” Mark shrugged, "Do I need to clock out for lunch?” "You get a lunch?” The girl asked in an uninterested tone, and continued her typing much like she did downstairs. "All right then,” Mark pursed his lips and headed for the elevator. "Be back soon,” the girl instructed from behind him. Mark threw up his hand and headed for the elevator. It was a quick trip until he was down below and in the foyer. He noticed now that the desk in the entry way was unpopulated, and the air was just as off-putting as before. Once outside, the bright sun and the hot air greeted him, and he had never been so happy to feel the New Mexico heat in all his life. He meandered down the sidewalk that was next to the blistering black road on his left. He headed for McDonald’s, and wished with all his might that his job would have some form of human interaction. Once he reached the smell of hot grease and sweet onions, Mark realized he was starving. He quickly ordered a mountain of burgers, quarter pounders, Big Macs, and a large strawberry milkshake. He was surprised with the fervor in which he ate. He couldn’t believe that by the time he was done, he still had roughly five minutes to return to work. As he entered the dry heat of the summer time, he noticed that the afternoon traffic was beginning to increase. He was afraid that he might not make it back in time, even though the building’s entrance was only three blocks away. He sprinted back to the entrance of the building, and found a mounting fear of dread fill him. He didn’t want to go back to work. Most of all, he felt himself more pleased with the idea of skipping work altogether. Then, his desire to grab some junk food swelled inside his chest, even though he just packed away obscene amounts of McDonald’s. The desire, the urge, was just too great. And instead of walking forward, Mark turned to the left and walked away from the entrance of the Brier Ridge Pharmaceutical building. High above, Dr. Bakersfield looked out a window at the street below. He watched as Mark struggled with his decision, and how he decided to not come back to work. And then Dr. Bakersfield smiled. A few hours after Mark decided to not go back to work, he found himself in another fast food joint, ordering more burgers, several orders of fries, and a few milkshakes as well. Even though he wasn’t hungry, Mark found himself unable to pull himself away from the notion he should be eating constantly. His billfold was getting slightly lighter while the weight of his tray of fast food became heavier. Without even acknowledging the clerk for her speedy services, Mark dashed over to a booth away from the rest of the people in the establishment. He tore into his food like a savage who hadn’t seen food for months, maybe even years. And his wild actions hadn’t gone unnoticed. A few tables away a slightly chubby red headed guy, who was trying to be discreet with his staring, felt his pants tighten. And the tightening wasn’t from the food he was eating. As Mark gulped another mouthful of milkshake down his throat, he had the sensation he was being watched. With a sudden inclination of his head, Mark met eyes with the gawking red head, who nearly fell backward when Mark reared his head. The red head tried to go back to his food, but knew that the damage was already done. He knew within a matter of seconds the lean guy with the vociferous appetite would come over and ask why he was staring. Then he’d probably see the burgeoning erection in his pants beneath his sizeable belly. His heart began to race as he saw the young man approach his table, and before he could blurt out a defense, the man was in front of his table. But to his great surprise, the ginger noticed a growing bulge in the man’s pants. Mark stood in front of the cute, yet doughy, guy and could feel his arousal being piqued. He had never approached someone like this before, and more so, he had never approached another man in such a manner. He was even more astounded when he heard himself speak. "Come here,” Mark said in his trademark gruff voice. The red head, anticipating a beat down from the sexy man with an erection, stood up, preparing for the worst. He closed his eyes tightly when he saw the man’s hand shoot upward. Then their lips met as Mark’s strong hand pulled the man’s face towards his. The chubby fellow, whose heart was racing now for a different reason, opened his mouth willingly and felt Mark’s tongue rummage around in his mouth. And before the plump ginger could return the favor, his mouth was left gaping in the air, and Mark’s hand was grasped around his wrist, tugging him toward the bathroom. Within seconds, Mark was unbuckling his belt with one hand, pulling the chunky guy behind him. Hitting his shoulder hard against the door, Mark shoved the chubby guy into the restroom. The fatty hit one of the stall walls, and felt himself gasp. Soon, Mark was approaching him with an animal lust in his eyes, and his pants were undone. Without saying a word, Mark forcefully escorted the hefty man into one of the stalls, bent him over, and began to undo the ginger’s shorts. He then jerked the other man’s clothes off with such force that his fingernails scratched the pale, freckled ass flesh of the stooped over man, causing small red whelps to form in vertical lines that pointed toward the floor, which incidentally was where his and the ginger’s pants now met. Mark tugged at his cock, and pulled it through the slit in his boxers. The bent over ginger knew what was coming; he had been fucked before, but never so forcefully. He told himself to let it happen and to relax, but before he could release the tension in his body he felt the other man’s rock hard rod enter him. The friction was intense, and since there was no lube, the ginger was in severe pain. None of that mattered to Mark, who couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to. He felt the urge to fuck something, and his contorted face that showed both ecstasy and primal strength destroyed the normally calm and put-together façade. With one hand on the man’s right hip, his other hand rubbed vigorously up the man’s back, bunching up his shirt. He only thought of the sensual folds created by the man’s hefty love handles. His soft, plush belly drooped downward and helped push the now billowing fabric towards his face. His belly and jiggling tits were showing signs of having been fertilized by many trips to the fast food restaurant of his choice. His widening ass looked like speckled alabaster with a trail of fine soft hair reaching the lower part of his back. The raw, quick thrusts were bringing both men closer and closer to the edge. Mark began to grunt wildly like some animal in the wild during the peak of mating season. The ferocity and wild fever he felt was nothing compared to the tight heat of the man’s hole, who was on the brink of screaming wildly. A few more minutes of this random act of horniness and Mark was sated, panting, his button-up shirt clinging to his swollen belly. Mark pulled out, grabbed some toilet tissue, and cleaned himself up. He left the panting fatty slumped over in the stall with his cock dripping, and sweating beading up on his brow and upper lip. With an almost cocky strut, Mark walked away, buttoning his pants, and doing up his belt. As he exited the bathroom, people were looking in his direction. He merely ignored them, grabbing the remnants of his and the chubby ginger’s food as he strolled out of the restaurant. Source: http://www.bellybuilders.com/messageboard/viewtopic.php?f=4&t=17843 | |
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