Dr Porneaus Pet 01

It was a private island, not very large, one of the Keys; few went near it. Some said it was haunted, others mentioned secret government experiments; very nasty things happened there, or so people said. Hardly surprising given who used to own it.

Dr. Armand Porneau: the Mozart of genetic research; submitted his first patent while in his teens; was a multi-billionaire by thirty; bought the island where he was alleged to have done secret genetic research. Then one of those experiments killed him, so the story went.

Porneau had been rich and handsome. A regular around the talk show circuit; a fixture in the magazines; very popular with the tabloids. Described as an inveterate womanizer; the king of geek chic; the idol of nerds everywhere. That a man like him could have hot women hanging off his arm was a miracle.

Tiffany Wells was an aspiring journalist; smart, ambitious, and stuck. She had a journalism degree that was practically useless unless she could find a great story. Tiffany's main problem was people underestimated her. One look at Tiffany made men assume "Dumb, curvy blonde"; women made the same judgment. The difference was while men plotted to get into her pants, women plotted to kill her. It didn't help that Tiffany had gazongas the size of Mount Everest.

She knew she was hot; she never flaunted it. In other circumstances her package would be an asset: waist-length golden blonde hair, warm brown eyes, broad nose, beautiful face, sunny smile, and a 36DD-24-36 body. A package well suited for Hugh Hefner or Bob Guccione; she was more interested in Rupert Murdoch. She always dressed down at work, hiding her breasts and curves in formless outfits, but the beauty broke through.

She found the island by serendipity. It was a particularly bad week. A rival at the paper stole a scoop that would have gotten her noticed. The editor, who made a point of staring at her breasts, was unsympathetic and condescending. Tiffany had vacation time; she decided to take it. "It's either that or kill the son of a bitch," she thought.

One look at the beach made Tiffany decide on a boat trip. The beach was the only spot where she flaunted her body, but Tiffany didn't feel like wasting energy fending off land sharks. "I think I'll take a boat to the Keys, do some private sunbathing, figure if I want to keep this job. Hopefully, I won't run into drug smugglers," she thought, "On second thought, hopefully I will. I need a story."

She took some clothes and enough food for several days, rented a boat, found an island, beached the boat, and went for a walk. Tiffany decided to wear her white string bikini. There were no men to watch and admire, but Tiffany felt it appropriate. It was a warm, sunny day; it was a beach, and on beaches women wear bikinis.

Tiffany walked along the shoreline until it curved, taking her out of sight of the boat. The other island was a mild surprise. It was just offshore; small, lots of trees. She thought she glimpsed a house. "? I didn't know anyone was here." The island was only a short swim. Tiffany debated whether to take the risk; curiosity won out, "Nothing wrong with a little exploring." She had to be careful; drug smugglers sometimes kept their stash on some of these places, and other people were a bit eccentric, "Might be a story here, though."

She swam to the island, stepped on the beach, and found a path. Initially, she planned a brief lookaround and quick exit. When Tiffany saw the house, she changed her mind. The house was a full-blown mansion, decrepit and uninhabited. It was an old Southern manse, stately in its decay, with peeling white paint and gold trim. The property was bordered by a crumbling brick wall; a rusted gate at its entrance. The once-magnificent yard was overgrown to jungle; moss-covered trees decorated the grounds.

The atmosphere would exude eerie but for the warm, sunny day. It was a place built for night and fog. "Great, Disney's Haunted Mansion," Tiffany sniffed. A plaque on the wall caught her eye, "Great! I've found Armand Porneau's house!"

She'd heard of it, but never thought she'd see it. The home of the great Armand Porneau. There wasn't a single supermarket, mall, or box store that didn't sell products from his discoveries. Well-known intimately in corporate and military circles. The government was said to have scoured this place after his disappearance. They found nothing, so the story went; no bodies, no research, no lab equipment, nothing.

A less-credible rumor circulated that the government actually did find something, but as in all conspiracies, weren't telling. It was said the government threw a black curtain over the island; declared it off limits; regular Coast Guard and DEA patrols to keep gawkers away. Tiffany hadn't seen patrol boats, "I think I slipped between them."

Tiffany found it curious that Dr. Porneau disappeared from the media fairly quickly. "It's a little too convenient," she thought, "Maybe there's something to the conspiracy theories." Porneau was a private person who never advertised his living quarters. Now Tiffany had stumbled across his house, "God bless serendipity!" Like any ambitious reporter, she couldn't pass up opportunity.

"If I find something juicy I can fuck that bitch (her rival) hard and the editor too. Maybe I can give it to the other paper; get better terms." So Tiffany, head swimming with visions of fame and fortune, entered the yard.

"I have to be quick before the Coast Guard comes back," she thought, "It's so quiet." Other than a few birds and an occasional breeze, it was silent, "Weird," she thought. Tiffany went to the porch; the wood creaked under her sandaled feet.

The doors were locked; the curtains, drawn. "Okaaay, let's go around back. I'm already trespassing; may as well stick it in deeper." She never found if the back door was locked. The back yard was typical, albeit overgrown, but it was the large building, twenty feet from the house, that drew her attention. Tiffany's first thought was, "Giant greenhouse?"

The building was the size of a warehouse. The walls were translucent glass panels. The doors were double-sided French. Tiffany trotted to the building, expecting it to be locked. She was mildly surprised when the doors opened. She was more shocked at what she found inside.

The roof was composed of frosted glass; diffuse light illuminated the Olympic-sized swimming pool within. The pool was shaped like a bowl; there were no steps. Instead, the floor sloped downward, becoming more pronounced as it led to the pool. The floor was composed of tiles, light blue in color, changing to laminated turquoise several feet from the water.

Tiffany was struck by the odd nature of the water. It was calm, clear; she could see the turquoise-tiled bottom, and that was the problem, "No algae." Without regular cleaning, abandoned and undrained swimming pools tended to become polluted with algae; mosquitoes and other insects were problems as well. The pool was clean and clear, "That means someone cleans the pool, but who?"

Tiffany sniffed, "No chlorine smell, so it's not chemicals." She took off her sandals and walked down the slope to the water. She knelt down and touched the surface with her fingers. The slight touch sent ripples across the surface. Tiffany drew back her fingers in surprise. The water had a tingly feel, as if she dipped her fingers in static electricity.

Her initial thought was, "Acid? Or alkali?" but there was no burning sensation. She touched the water and held her fingers to the surface. When she drew them back, they tingled; a not-unpleasant feeling. Her skin was intact and still no burning. She touched her wet fingers to the tip of her tongue. The taste was mild, salty, and slightly acidic. Tiffany cocked an eyebrow, "It tastes like soda water," she realized, "My god! I'm looking at a pool full of Evian!"

She knelt and dipped her hand to the wrist. "This feels kind of good," she thought. She stood up and looked around; other than her breathing, the place was quiet, "I wonder what it would feel like to swim in it?" She had to be careful: it would be embarrassing if someone walked in, and she was still trespassing. The experience, however, might be a story in itself.

She tentatively dipped a toe in the water. It felt like she touched a vibrator. Tiffany cautiously stepped into the pool. An electric feeling crept up her body as she immersed herself; it was almost ticklish. The water was cool; when it reached her crotch, she gasped, "Oh!" She hadn't anticipated the effect of the strange liquid on her pussy.

Tiny fingers played along her slit; a throbbing warmth pulsed in her briefs. "God! I think I'm getting wet," she whispered. Tiffany walked further into the pool. Her breathing became heavy as the water crept past her torso to her breasts. Her nipples grew hard; the pinprick details and areolas showing on her bra. "What is this stuff?" she gasped.

Tiffany took a deep breath and plunged into the water. It was like swimming in champagne; thousands of tiny hands danced along her skin. The strange water didn't hurt her eyes. She saw, clearly, the turquoise pattern of the pool. The experience was exhilarating and exhausting. The water played a symphony, her body was the instrument, her sex, the music. She could feel her juices seep through the bottoms.

Eventually, Tiffany had to surface; she broke the water, gasping and twitching. "Oh my God! I think I just came!" she gasped, "This water is amazing!"

She swam to the floor and walked out of the pool. She sat near the water to think; tingling liquid dripped off her body. "That was incredible!" she thought, "There's a story here, I just have to figure how to write it. Let's see, 'Lost Genius' Final Trick'? It might work, but what trick? Water that makes people come? It has to be something else." She listed the possibles, "Health drink? Spa? Hmm, maybe. Damn! The only person who knows is dead! I'm stuck with the biggest story of my career, and I don't have an angle! Maybe I can find some clues in the house."

Tiffany stood and started toward the doors, then stopped and took another look at the water. "Hmm, maybe another swim," she thought, stepping forward. The blonde reporter stopped for a second, looked at her bikini, and looked around. Looking back at that moment, Tiffany never completely understood why she did it. She never did anything like it before. Maybe at the time, she was thinking, "There's no one around; who's to know? What does it feel like naked?" Whatever the reason, some carnal curiosity compelled her.

And so, Tiffany Wells, the hot twenty-five-year-old journalist, fulfilled the fantasies of her editor and countless other male admirers by stripping off her bikini. Her ample double-Ds bounced free, her scant brown muff, different from her long blonde hair, exposed. "Yeah, my boss would love to see this," she smirked. Tiffany, in the past, had turned down offers to pose for Playboy and Penthouse. She wanted to be taken seriously as a journalist. "I broke a lot of photographers' hearts," she thought, stepping into the pool.

Tiffany plunged into the water, splashing and laughing; letting the electric liquid build her to a new climax; unaware that her life was about to undergo a drastic change in just a few moments.

To Be Continued