Sneak Peek: What's Jonathon Did (Patreon)

It's been a good week for writing, so why not another sneek peak?  Another scene following on from the meeting between Jonathon, Crystal and Katherine - a little more background development and (hopefully) character building.  Warning: it's pretty dark, I think.

***

Katherine left.

With her gone, Jon seemed to deflate and sink into his seat. He was far gone into his wine by this point, sullen and quiet. Leaving him to find his own way home would be best, but in good conscience Crystal knew she couldn’t do that. Instead, she knelt next to the man to whom she owed so much.

“Come on, Jon,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bleary eyes fixated on her. The wine had brought out an angry flush in his cheeks and nose, ugly splotches visible under his patchy beard. He hadn’t shaved in days. She hadn’t noticed, preoccupied as she’d been with David. And Cindy. Jon had never been one to care about his appearance, but she hadn’t seen him like this since the divorce.

He grunted and lurched to his feet, still holding the open bottle of DeGrave ‘33. Crystal helped him along, out into the corridor, quiet and dark at this time of night, soft lights rising and falling with their passage. It wasn’t far to his office—the sofa there had served as his bed many times before and would once again.

“Here we go,” she said. “Sleep it off.”

“Fucking mediocrity,” he slurred. “Bitch.”

“Go on,” she said, taking the bottle and holding his wrist to the access panel. The door clicked and unlocked, swinging open silently.

“Melody,” he said.

“She’s been in touch?”

“Getting remarried,” he said. “To—” he hiccupped, “Tyrone, that idiot, that pedestrian piece of shit.”

“Oh Jon,” she said. “I’m sorry, I really am.” Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him, once and lightly, on the cheek.

He looked at her, then, fixating on his wrist, where she still held him, and then up her arm, gaze crawling from shoulder across heavy breasts, the curve of her neck, upsweep of hair and finally resting on her lips. Jonathon tried for a charming grin, though in his drunkenness it came off as creepy and lecherous. “You want to come in, Crystal?” he asked, his other hand falling heavily on her waist. “Like the other time?”

Crystal smiled, sadly, and shook her head. “That was once. And long ago.” Stepping back, she freed herself of his grip, but reached up and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. “Sleep it off, Jon.”

She left him with the bottle. Crystal turned and walked away and left him alone.

He stood at the threshold to his office. He picked up the bottle and took a swig. He knew he should head into the room and collapse onto the sofa. Sleep it off, as his friend said.  But he knew he wouldn't.  He shuddered to think of the incoming hangover, then flushed with indignation. It wasn’t fair. Cindy—David—whatever; they didn’t suffer from hangovers—another unexpected benefit of the process—the process flushing the brain clean whilst they slept off the effects of booze.

Sleep….

Shaking his head, Jonathon lurched back into the corridor, still carrying the half-full bottle of wine. The elevator welcomed him, dinging as it pulled him down into the sub-levels beneath the Clinic. And when he entered the chamber, the lights came on at half-strength, the monitoring AI familiar with his habits. He pulled a chair over and collapsed into it.

“Hello, Doctor,” Fosters purred. “I was expecting you.”

Jonathon grunted. He stated at his prisoner. Fosters was at his—no, her—most beautiful, now; only yesterday they’d removed him from the cage and carved away the excess flesh, incinerating the grotesque mass of rampant growth, half-formed limbs and tumorous eruptions. The scars and cuts had already healed over; by tomorrow, the first new growths would begin; but tonight—tonight only—she was….

“Thank you,” she said, voice low and sultry. Turning slowly, she slid her hands down her flanks, slowly tracing the exaggerated curves of femininity as she reached down to her calves, bending over with easy suppleness, perfectly formed ass high in the air. “I feel… mmm, good tonight, doctor.”

And he knew it was all a product of the extreme androgen intolerance generated by the first trial of the regenerative process; and that the feminising of the subject had been pushed to even further extremes by the ongoing experiments he’d run on Fosters; and that the gorgeous, lithe creature was really a man, despite the exhibition of hyper-femininity. She was a caricature, a doll—his doll—a devil in the guise of an angel.

But as she stood, one delicate hand cupping her groin, one slender arm across her chest, long raven hair tumbling in midnight waves to mid-thigh, full-lipped, wide-eyed, soft and curvy and grinning wickedly, an engineered Venus on a half-shell—he wanted her. Jonathon desired her with painful intensity, with an ache in his chest that made his breath run short.

“Dance,” he groaned.

“Like last time?”

He nodded. She began to sway and turn, hefting her firm, prodigious tits for him, caressing herself, moaning and calling out to him. Jonathon took another pull from the bottle and set it aside and unbuckled his trousers and yanked them down to his ankles. He pulled out his throbbing, erect cock. Jonathon masturbated, watching his creation mince and prance, twirl and fondle herself.

And Fosters smiled, watching him. She licked her lips, and her dark eyes gleamed.