Broomfield's Box

Stanhope College, for the uninitiated, lies in the northeast corner of the state. With a faculty and student body of less than 2000 people, it's not exactly Ivy League. The football team has never been to a bowl game and the school has produced no famous alumni. It is, for all intents and purposes, quite unremarkable.

Perhaps the lesser of its staff instructors was Quentin Broomfield, a man of few achievements and fewer friends. Noted among his colleagues as a quiet, mousy individual, he reminded one more of Wally Cox's Mr. Peepers than Harrison Ford's Indiana Jones. His complexion was splotchy and pitted; his frame small and wiry. He had thinning hair and a voice to match his appearance. He favored bow-ties and wire-rimmed glasses. All-in-all, a man who blended into the background at what few parties he attended.

Few people knew the real man. Possessing a keen mind and remarkable talent in his chosen field of biochemistry, he had nonetheless settled for less in his academic career. He liked baseball and German beer and poker, when he could find someone to play with. He collected stamps and was an amateur ornithologist. He secretly loved pop music but only let people see him listening to classical music.

He had been married once, to a woman as mousy as he himself. They had drifted apart as their lives began taking different paths. They were still legally married, but had not seen each other in years. Broomfield didn't even know where she had gone, and would not have cared if he never saw her again.

Quentin Broomfield, like almost anyone, had a secret desire in his life; a longing, if you will. Just once, he often thought. Just once, I would like a pretty girl to find me desirable. He would see attractive young women in his class and in his heart-of-hearts, yearn for them. He knew it was impossible, which somehow made the yearning stronger. His fantasies and dreams were filled with them.

Broomfield had always believed that every person carried within them the seeds of their own destruction. Some people's seeds were alcohol and drugs. For others, it was money. For Quentin, it was women. Bad women. The badder, the better. Too much makeup. Tight dresses. Spike-heeled shoes. Low-cut blouses. No bra. Yeah, like that.

When one was in his class, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Some knew, some didn't. Those that did learned quickly how to get a passing grade from Professor Broomfield. No sex. No, he had never been propositioned and might well have fainted if he had. Just a few well-placed winks; the crossing of nyloned thighs; the dangling of a shoe from dainty toes, and Professor Broomfield was putty in her hands. But not everyone knew.

Lacy Cornwall didn't know. She wasn't even the type of girl who made Broomfield's heart race on a quiet, Spring day. She was pretty to be sure, with her long, brunette hair and petite, well-proportioned body, but she dressed conservative. She acted conservative. She was conservative. She wore large-framed glasses and baggy jeans and kept her long hair pulled back in a bun. She lived in sneakers and sweatshirts. She had broken up with her boyfriend when she came to college to major in forensic medicine, and hadn't bothered to find another.

The fact that Lacy didn't know how to get an easy pass in Broomfield's class was something of a tragedy. That's because she really could have used it. She was an intelligent girl, to be sure. An honor student in high school, she excelled at most college courses, but not biochemistry. Its intricacies and patterns eluded her grasp in much the same way that women eluded Broomfield. Nearing the end of the semester, Lacy was failing.

She had always done well on her own. Classroom activities and a few hours with the books had always prepared her for any test. But not this time. Swallowing her pride, the young girl came to Broomfield after class, asking if he knew a tutor.

The little fellow considered for a moment, steepling his fingers before his face and secretly humming a Backstreet Boys tune. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "There are a few, Ms. Cornwall. I don't know if one is available this late in the semester, and I'm afraid that it may be too little, too late."

"Professor, please!" Lacy leaned over his desk. If she had not been wearing her traditional bulky sweater, Broomfield's attention might well have been distracted. As it was, he merely glanced fleetingly at her concerned face over his wire-framed lenses. "I'll do anything to pass."

What may well have run through anyone else's mind didn't even pop into Broomfield's. At least, not with Lacy Cornwall. He instantly thought of Nancy Hoskins or Rhonda Teller leaning over his desk and pleading so. Lacy was a child; a good girl who would probably amount to something in her life. Not like Nancy, who secretly worked in an adult bookstore, he had heard, or Rhonda, whose reputation was anything but pristine. He shifted, hoping that she wouldn't notice the bulge in his pants.

"Professor," the girl continued, "I've never failed a class in my life. I was valedictorian at my graduation. I can't face my parents if I come home with less than a 'B' average. I can't!"

Broomfield thought for a moment, lingering only briefly over images of Rhonda Teller shaking her tight, young tush at him. "You're an intelligent young lady, and you really do try; I can see that. I think that I can tutor you, Ms. Cornwall."

"Oh, thank you, Professor!" she exclaimed, the relief visible on her young face. "Thank you so much!"

"However," Broomfield continued, "what I said about too little, too late still applies. You'd have to ace the final exam to even get a 'D'. If you want to bring home that 'B' average, you're going to have to do some extra-curricular work to bring the grade up.

"As it happens, I'm working on a chemistry experiment of my own, and need an assistant. It requires at least a basic knowledge of chemistry. If you can help me there, I'll increase your overall grade by one point. I can't promise a passing grade -- that's up to you -- but combined with an 'A' on the test, you would receive a 'C' from me. With your other grades, your average would stay a 'B'."

"I'll do it," Lacy enthused. "Anything, just help me pass!"

Broomfield gave Lacy his home address with instructions to be there at 7 P.M. sharp.

That night, Lacy Cornwall showed up promptly at 7 P.M. at 423 Briarwood Drive, books in hand. She noted that the house was small and old, but well-cared for. It was white, with a short picket fence and a few flowers along the left side. There was a wrought-iron bench to the right and a bird bath and feeder. It was obvious that Broomfield was meticulous in his care for the place, as the yard was spotless and the paint in perfect shape. Nothing was out of place. The young girl knocked on the door and after a short pause, Broomfield opened the door and ushered her inside.

Broomfield was dressed in the same clothes as at school: Gray dress slacks, a vest, long-sleeved white shirt and a bow-tie. The inside of his house suited him. It was small and cozy and as meticulous as the outside. Everything was in its place, from the small TV to the large library that lined two of the four walls of his living room. Lacy could smell something -- probably the experiment that he had mentioned -- which had an acrid stench to it, with a slight hint of vanilla.

"Let's start with the experiment, Ms. Cornwall," Broomfield said, disposing with pleasantries. "I'm working on isolating pheromones."

Lacy set down her books and accepted the chemist's apron he offered her. "Pheromones?"

"Surely you've heard of them?" he asked. The girl shook her head and Broomfield rolled his eyes. "Pheromones are a chemical in the body that affect sexual attraction. Some animals have them, but no one's really certain if humans do."

"So, you're trying to isolate them in the human body?" Lacy asked as she tied the apron behind her.

"Oh, I'm not nearly that far along," Broomfield said, tying his own apron. "For now, I'm trying to extract it from other animals. I have mixed the pheromones from several animals into a beaker."

He led her down the hallway to what had obviously been intended as a second bedroom. Inside was a mad scientist's collection of test tubes and beakers and glass tubing that followed an intricate pattern across a large desk. The smell was stronger here -- almost overpowering -- and Lacy wrinkled her small nose at the assault upon it.

"This is from male animals," Broomfield said, his voice rising to be heard over the bubbling sound caused by beakers over Bunsen burners. "I haven't worked with the female chemicals, yet.

"You can start by washing out the test tubes over there at the kitchen sink. Use alcohol instead of soap."

Lacy nodded, thankful that the smell would be lesser in the kitchen.

The evening passed without incident as the girl worked for the next hour and a half cleaning test tubes and doing small computations that Broomfield asked her to do. After that, Broomfield tutored her in biochemistry until almost midnight.

Yet while no incident occurred during their time together, Lacy Cornwall got used to the smell that permeated the house. Toward the end, she even began to accept and enjoy it. Every few minutes, she would take in a deep gulp of air and savor what was fast becoming a very pleasant aroma.

Something else was happening, too: She was beginning to see Broomfield in a new light. His presence seemed to grow over the course of the evening. He appeared taller; more masculine. His dull eyes seemed to have a sparkle to them, and Lacy caught herself staring dreamily into them several times, that night. She managed to stop this reaction before Broomfield noticed, but she felt relaxed and a bit dopey, now. Her vagina was getting a little tingly and wet and a pleasant buzz seemed to settle over her brain.

Somehow, she managed to retain what Broomfield was teaching her about chemistry. In fact, she hung on his every word. After awhile, the young girl quit trying to listen at all and just let the words seep into her brain without any conscious effort on her part. She just daydreamed about Broomfield and a bed full of roses as his chemistry lesson burned itself deep into her mind.

That evening, as Lacy Cornwall walked home, she knew, deep within her, that she was in love with Quentin Broomfield. It didn't matter that he was old enough to be her father. It didn't matter that he was a teacher. Lacy wanted him. She was in love with him and she began scheming to make him love her, too.

When Lacy got back to the dorm, her roommate, Chrissy, was still up, studying.

Chrissy was a tall girl; over 6 feet tall. Her friends called her "Ammie", which was short for "Amazon". She was blond and pretty, if a bit imposing to most boys. She didn't date much in college, since her basketball-playing boyfriend was back home in Texas.

"Hey, Lacy!" Chrissy called as the shorter girl walked through the door. "Where ya been?"

Lacy smiled dreamily as she put down her books on her bed. "I've been with the most wonderful man!" she gushed.

Chrissy noticed the somewhat glazed look in her roomie's eyes. "What guy? Hey, are you okay?"

Lacy sat down on her bed and sighed. "I'm fine. Just fine. So fine. So... so... I dunno. In love, I guess!"

Chrissy laughed. "Well who is this stud?"

"My biochemistry teacher, Mr. Broomfield."

Chrissy shrugged. "I've heard of him, but I don't know him. What's he like?"

Lacy sighed, again. "He's tall and masculine and very, very attractive."

The shorter girl seemed to come back to herself a bit. "Ammie, what do I do? He's a professor; I'm a student."

"What do you mean 'what do I do'? You do nothing. Get over it."

Lacy's eyes grew wide; almost panicky. "I can't. Ammie, I love him!"

The blond raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure, Lacy"?

Lacy nodded. "More than I thought I could love a man."

Chrissy laughed. "Hey, you're not the first girl to groove on a teacher. How does he feel about you?"

Lacy frowned. "He doesn't even know I exist."

"You're playing with fire, girl. Maybe it's best that he doesn't."

"I couldn't bear that," Lacy whispered. "Ammie, I have to see if he could have feelings for me."

"I still think you're getting in over your head," Chrissy insisted, "but if you really want to get a man's attention, dress for success."

Lacy blinked at her friend. "What do you mean?"

Chrissy rolled her eyes. Lacy was a bright girl, but about as asexual a person as the tall Texan had ever met. "Girl, you don't have a clue, do you?" Lacy shook her head. "Go to the closet and get my red high heeled pumps, would you?"

Lacy complied, pulling out a pair of shoes that she had only seen Chrissy wear once. They were bright red, with seven-inch heels that came to a stiletto point. She handed them to Chrissy, who took off her sneakers and put on the shoes. When she stood up, she was close to seven feet tall.

"My boyfriend, Barron, really digs these," the tall girl said as she began walking around the room. "Notice how they make my butt stick out a bit? Add a bit more wiggle to my walk? A lot of guys like high heels on a woman. I even wear them to bed for Barron, sometimes."

Lacy was unconvinced. "So all I've got to do is put on a pair of uncomfortable shoes and Broomfield's gonna notice me?"

"Of course not, silly." Chrissy stopped parading around. "You have to look at the whole package. For example, those jeans..."

"What's wrong with my jeans," Lacy said, defensively. "They're cool; elephant bellbottoms."

"They're also about as alluring as they were on the elephant." Chrissy sat down and began removing the red shoes. "The latest fashion doesn't get a man's attention, girl. Stick with the basics.

"Change out those jeans for a skirt and wear a top with a neckline."

"In other words," Lacy noted with sarcasm, "dress like a slut."

Chrissy shook her head. "I'm not saying to go the bimbo route, but at least dress like a woman. Show off your body a bit; not a lot, but a bit."

Lacy frowned. "I don't know how to do all that."

"I'll show you how," the taller girl insisted. "Rhonda's about your size, you could borrow..."

"Rhonda Teller?" Lacy exclaimed. "Ammie, the girl dresses like a whore!"

"She's got a few outfits that aren't too bad. Let's see her tomorrow and see what works for you."

"All right," Lacy said, still only half convinced. "Whatever. I'm desperate."

Chrissy nodded and then stood up to begin getting ready for bed. She decided that she was going to have to look into this Broomfield guy. Something just didn't seem right about all of this.

The next day, Lacy felt a little more like her old self. Thoughts of Professor Broomfield kept coming to her mind, but she seemed better capable of handling them after a night's sleep. She didn't have his class today, but he was expecting her tonight at his home. She just stuck to her schedule and counted the hours until she was with him, again.

Broomfield stuck to his schedule, too. He was totally unaware of Lacy's new-found infatuation for him, and his only thoughts of her were to remind himself that she would be by that evening for tutoring and his experiment. He spent more time thinking of Rhonda Teller, who was in his morning class, sporting a spandex miniskirt.

Chrissy was busy, too. After her morning classes, she sought out Rhonda Teller. She found her at the student commons, having a quick salad for lunch. As usual, she was surrounded by boys -- three, to be exact. When Chrissy sat down, one of them immediately left.

"Hi, Ammie!" Rhonda said between bites. "You know Chuck and Rob, don't you?"

"Hi," Chrissy said to the two boys. Her look, however, was anything but friendly. She wanted to talk to Rhonda alone. Rob got the message and muttered an excuse before leaving. Chuck was a harder nut to crack and stayed.

"How's classes?" Chrissy asked the other girl.

Rhonda nodded. "Pretty cool. I had biochemistry and math, this morning. You?"

"Art History. Hey, you have Broomfield for biochemistry, don't you?"

Rhonda looked a bit embarrassed. "Uh, yeah. Why?"

"What's he like?" Chrissy asked.

Rhonda glanced nervously at Chuck. "It's kinda hard to say."

Chrissy looked hard at the boy, projecting her menace as best she could. "Oh, Chuck was just leave, weren't you, Chuck?"

The boy pulled the fork from his mouth and looked at his barely touched lunch, then back at the tall blonde. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, right. Just leaving." He got up quickly and left his tray behind as he walked swiftly out of the cafeteria.

Chrissy looked at the other girl. "Okay, Rhonda, give. What's so special about this Broomfield guy?"

"Well..." the girl began, still embarrassed by the subject. "He likes me."

Chrissy raised an eyebrow. "Likes you? How?"

"He, uh... He likes my legs." Rhonda indicated her smooth, shapely gams to the other girl. "I always wear short dresses to his class."

"You always wear short dresses, period," Chrissy said, pointedly.

"Yeah, but Broomfield...." she cut herself off. Then, "Hey look, Ammie, I know I'm no rocket scientist, okay? I don't even know how I landed in the little dweeb's class. I just know that Nancy told me that he looked at her alot and when she looked back, her grades started getting better.

"I'm not doing anything wrong," Rhonda continued to babble. "I mean, it's not like I'm sleeping with the little freak. I just know that my grades in his class picked up when I started showing him a bit more, y'know?"

"Wait a minute," Chrissy interrupted. "This is off-subject, but someone told me Broomfield was tall and handsome."

Rhonda giggled. "Broomfield? Five-seven, five-eight tops. And handsome? I'd sooner kiss my kid brother.

"I just know he's got a taste for the girls. Hell, for all I know, he frequents the topless bars after-hours."

"So you couldn't picture anyone having a crush on him, huh?"

Rhonda shook her head. "Stranger things have happened, just not to me. Know what I mean?"

Chrissy stood up. "Thanks. I appreciate the info.

"Hey, by the way, Lacy wanted to know if she could borrow some clothes."

Rhonda smirked. "Sorry, I don't have anything baggy."

"No, no," the tall blonde insisted. "She's trying to impress a guy. Nothing too wild, but something a bit more revealing than she normally wears."

Rhonda nodded as she took the last forkful of salad. "Bring her by after classes. I'll help you fix her up."

"Thanks, Rhons."

It was a very different Lacy Cornwall who knocked on Professor Broomfield's door, that night. True to Chrissy's plan, she was not dressed like a slut, but she definitely was showing off, if just a bit. She had on a skirt that came to just above her knees (not too tight) and a blouse with the top two buttons undone. You would have to be taller than Quentin Broomfield to look down her cleavage, even without the three-inch heels she wore. Her face had a touch of blush and some lip gloss. She didn't look like a girl on a date, but she did look far more dressy than normal.

When Broomfield opened the door, the smell of his experiment hit her smack in the face. Her knees went a bit wobbly, and she held on to the porch rail for support as she saw the man she wanted so badly. It was all happening again, and with greater speed than before. Lacy felt herself go a bit light in the head.

"Hello, Ms. Cornwall," his rich, masculine voice said, caressing her ears. "Come in, please." He noted her attire in passing, but not with the same interest he would have shown for another girl. He still saw her only as a student and a nice girl.

"H-hello, Professor," she said, trying desperately to take the shiver out of her voice. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," the small man said, handing her another chemist's apron. "Tonight we're going to note some chemical reactions from heating and cooling the..." He stopped short when he noticed that the girl wasn't even taking the apron. She was looking at him in a very peculiar fashion, and she seemed to be shaking.

"Ms. Cornwall, are you--" was as far as he got before she grabbed him and pressed her lips to his. Her arms locked around his neck and no amount of prying seemed enough to break their grip. Broomfield felt the girl's body rub enticingly against his, and if his shock was not so great, she might well have felt some effect from her efforts. As it was, there was nothing to note except his frantic efforts to push the girl away.

He managed to move his head from hers. "Ms. Cornwall! Lacy, this is not right!"

"Don't fight it, tiger," she gasped, trying to turn his head back to hers. "I-- I need you. I have to have you, Quentin! Please, I have to!"

He managed to push her away and onto the couch. "Ms. Cornwall!" he shrieked. "Get hold of yourself and get out of here!"

"Get out..." she echoed. The words stung and tears welled in her eyes. Her whole world was falling apart. "Quentin, you can't mean that."

"You will address me as Professor Broomfield," he snapped, imperiously, "and you will get out, right now!"

"You wouldn't tell Rhonda Teller to get out!" she wailed as tears gave way to a full-fledged crying jag. "Quen-- Professor Broomfield, I love you!"

The man was still in shock. "Wha-- How? You can't possibly love me!"

"I do," she said as sobs wracked her small frame. "I do, I do, I do! And I'll do anything to please you. Anything!"

"Ms. Cornwall... Lacy," he began, soothingly. "You don't know me. You haven't even been alone with me, except in this house. When did you start feeling like this?"

"Last night. Here." She wanted so much to run to his arms and hold him forever, but he would reject her. She knew it. She felt small and insignificant and wanted to be dead.

Broomfield's mind was calming as the scientist within him began racing with theories, one of which was foremost in his mind. "About what time?"

She sniffled. "What time what?"

"What time did you begin to feel this way about me?"

Lacy cried a bit more. "I don't know. Sometime last night."

"While we worked on the experiment?" She shook her head in the negative. "While I tutored you?" She nodded.

"And," he continued, "you went home and felt better in the morning. You didn't feel this strongly again until just now, right?"

"Yes," she managed in a weak, little voice.

The experiment! Yes, that had to be it! But why hadn't it affected Broomfield in the same way? You're working with male pheromones, he told himself. Maybe they wouldn't affect a male. She's the only female you've had here in ages. She was around the aroma for several hours. Maybe it has a stronger effect the second time around? Addictive, maybe. Like nicotine.

"Ms. Cornwall," Broomfield said, as soothingly as he could. "This is just an infatuation. Trust me, you'll feel better in the morning."

"No," she said, almost in panic. "I don't want to feel better. I want you to lov-- to like me, Professor."

Broomfield talked her into going out into the back yard for awhile. Away from the smell of the experiment, Lacy seemed to calm down. Yes, she knew that this was wrong. Yes, she knew that it would never work out. Yes, she would try to behave herself from now on.

Broomfield explained that he no longer needed her assistance with the experiment. He would tutor her on the college campus, in his office, which was far from private. If she aced the test, he would give he the "C" that she needed to keep her grades up. Lacy gave him an almost sisterly peck on the cheek and walked home.

Broomfield was relieved, of course, but may not have been, had he known what was running through Lacy Cornwall's pheromone-blitzed mind. You can't reject me, lover. If I'm not the kind of girl you want, then I'll become the kind of girl you want. You're going to be mine, Quentin Broomfield, and I'll do or be anything it takes to ensnare you. Mark my words.

Fortunately for Broomfield, the weekend was here, and he worked like a madman in his home, trying desperately to learn more about what had happened to Lacy Cornwall. He poured over notes and calculations that his fevered brain made up almost as fast as he read them back. He boiled, froze and fried his experiment. He took a short trip to the college labs and used a centrifuge on it. He added an armload of chemicals that cost him almost a week's pay. By five o'clock that Monday morning, he was pretty sure that he knew how it worked. He had even made an extract from it. Far more concentrated than what Lacy had been exposed to, he was certain that this liquid would have an overpowering effect on the female physiology. To him, it smelled a bit like vanilla extract. To a woman, it would smell like pure, unadulterated sex. There were several ways it could be induced, including aroma, rubbing it into the skin, ingesting it and smoking it. He suspected that smoking would be the most effective technique to introduce it into a woman's system.

But what to do with it? Go on some sort of lecherous sex-binge? While the idea had a certain appeal, it wasn't a realistic answer. All he needed was for one girl to talk, and he'd be out of a job. He wasn't completely thrilled with the idea of Lacy Cornwall walking around, telling her friends god-knows-what about him either, but that was an issue he couldn't really address. Better to hope that she kept her mouth shut about having the hots for a professor. Still, he had to make sure... Maybe he would visit her, that afternoon, after classes. All he knew was that the day was going to go very slowly.

Broomfield finished his classes about 3 P.M. and headed for the dormitory where he knew Lacy Cornwall was staying. The house mother gave him her room number, and Quentin Broomfield went up to the third floor and knocked on the door. He was surprised to find that a very tall blonde answered the door.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Uh, hello," he stammered before the tall goddess. "I'm Quentin. Professor Broomfield."

"You're..." the girl began. An almost imperceptible smile played on her lips before she opened the door. "Come in, Professor."

He walked almost meekly into the room. The girl was obviously through with the day's classes, and lounging in a tube top and tight, denim shorts. She indicated a chair and he sat down. The girl sat on one of the beds.

"You must be Ms. Cornwall's roommate?" he asked after an awkward silence.

"Yeah, I'm Chrissy Conners. 'Ammie' to my friends."

"I was wondering about Ms. Cornwall."

"Yeah, me too," the girl said, giving him a look that could melt steel. "She hasn't been here all weekend."

"She hasn't? Oh, dear!" Broomfield fidgeted with his hands. "I hadn't considered that."

"Hey, what's going on between you two," Chrissy demanded. "One trip to your place and she's Glenn Close in 'Fatal Attraction'. The second time she goes, she doesn't come back. I was just about to call campus security about this!"

Broomfield groaned. His hands shook. "I didn't know she'd get this far out of control. Ms. Conners, I'm sorry, I--"

"Save it," the girl said. "Just tell me what's going on."

Broomfield hesitated. He didn't really want to tell anyone about his experiments. Not yet. It was still too soon to even know if it would affect other women the way it seemed to affect Lacy Cornwall. He wasn't even sure that he was on the right track. The girl may just have been psychotic and freaked on him. Too many questions and not enough answers. Now this student was trying to ask him about things he wasn't the least bit aware of. How would he know where Lacy had gone? It's not like she left him a message or anything.

"Ms. Conners, I assure you--"

"And I assure you," she stated, "that unless you tell me where Lacy is, right now, I'm going to have half the Stanhope Police force standing on your neck in the next five minutes."

Broomfield thought for a moment. He was certainly in a pickle. This girl was in no mood to hear anything except the whereabouts of her roommate. While he couldn't blame her, he certainly didn't know. He didn't think she'd buy that, either. No, he had to get the matter back under wraps ASAP. Before he had given it even a thought, Broomfield pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and the bottle of the extract. He removed the lid and liberally doused the cloth with the liquid.

He had intended to clamp the hanky over her mouth, but it was doubtful that he could have wrestled successfully with so strong and imposing a girl. He didn't know what to do, so he just sat there, waiting for her to make the next move.

A strange odor began filling the room. Chrissy couldn't tell what it was, at first, but it seemed to be coming from the bottle that Broomfield had opened. The little creep just sat there, holding a soaked hanky in his hand and staring at her. She didn't know what sort of game he was playing, but she decided to call security and let them sort out the little guy.

Did she say "little"? No. It must have been an illusion. Quentin Broomfield was tall. Taller than she was, herself. Overpowering. A brute. A man's man. The sort of man that Chrissy Conners secretly drooled over. The kind of man who could take her over his knee and raise her frilly, little-girl skirt, his hand high above his head, ready to come down hard on her... Her eyes closed as she shivered with the thought of it.

"Ms. Conners?" he asked, hoping against hope that the liquid was having the desired effect.

"Call me Ammie," she said, her eyes still closed. She inhaled, deeply. "No, call me Chrissy. Everyone calls me Ammie and I hate it."

"Uh, why... Why do you hate it? Ammie, I mean."

"It's short for Amazon," she said, her eyes still closed. She sounded drowsy; on the edge of sleep. "Everyone thinks I'm a big girl, but I'm not."

Broomfield looked at the tall goddess before him. He stood up and moved beside her on the bed. "You're not big?"

"No," she insisted, oblivious to his change in position. "Inside, I'm a little girl." Her voice began to sound younger and younger. "A very little girl. A bad little girl who needs her daddy to tell her what to do; to punish her when she's bad."

Quentin Broomfield felt a stirring in his loins. He and his wife, when their relationship was new, often played the daddy/little girl game. It was one of his favorites. Now, this very tall, imposing girl wanted to play the same game. Thanks to the formula he now had exposed her to, she wanted to play the game with him. He tried to control himself, but the temptation was too great, and it had been so long since he had loved a woman. Just once, he assured himself. No one will ever know.

He reached for her.

Broomfield didn't know. He thought he knew how the chemical worked, but he didn't. Not fully. It did more than just break down sexual inhibitions. It broke down all inhibitions. Under its influence, women lost all sense of proportion; all sense of right and wrong. Their hold on reality slipped and they began living their fantasies.

To Chrissy Conners, this was no game. This was reality. Quentin Broomfield was her daddy, and he was going to punish her and make love to her and make her feel like the little girl she was, deep down inside. Her vagina was flowing like a river; her mind was reeling. She wanted this, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, because to her pheromone-warped mind, this was life.

She offered no resistance as he pulled her to him. She felt his lips upon hers and she gratefully opened her mouth to accept his probing tongue. His hands were on her ample breasts and she gasped her pleasure as he tweaked them. She felt her own arms wrap around his chest and hold him tight. Their lips parted and a single word was whispered: "Daddy."

Broomfield let his hands roam her taut body, touching and caressing. She seemed to prefer it when his hands were harsh, so he let them roam across her, grabbing and pinching. The tall girl seemed to melt under his ministrations.

He undressed her like a Barbie doll, removing each article of clothing with a languid motion. Eventually, she twisted herself around and bent over his knee, her ass thrust upward. "Spank me, daddy," she whispered in her little-girl voice. "Spank me. I've been soooo bad!"

Broomfield raised his hand and brought it down on her naked buttocks with a satisfyingly loud smack. Chrissy gasped, her eyes crossing as the pain turned swiftly to pleasure. She felt leakage from her pussy, but made no attempt to stop its trail down Broomfield's leg. He was her daddy. He would make everything right. And Chrissy Conners was in a world of her own.

Broomfield felt a sexual thrill he had not expected from spanking the girl. His slaps came harder and harder and her gasps came louder and louder. After no more than twenty or so whacks, Chrissy suddenly let out a howl and orgasmed over his knee. The juices ran down his nude leg and the girl slid down onto the floor. She looked with glazed eyes at her own moistness on him and without a thought looked into his eyes with a wicked expression as her tongue lapped eagerly at her own juices. She cleaned his leg and continued to use her tongue as she moved up his thigh and toward his crotch. Suddenly, she wrapped her lips around his rock-hard cock and engulfed it with her mouth.

"Mmmm," her muffled voice said as she let her tongue swirl around his manhood. She let out a lewd, slurping noise and bobbed her head up and down, intent upon satisfying him, orally.

After only a minute, she was rewarded with a deluge of his cream. He bucked as he shot his load of stringy jizz down the girl's willing throat. Chrissy, for her part, sucked for all she was worth as his orgasm brought on a new one of her own.

Eventually, she stopped sucking and laid down on the floor, spreading her legs wide. "Fuck me, daddy," she husked.

Broomfield was lost, now. He couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. He got onto his knees and slowly inserted himself into her. He felt her long, long legs wrap around his waist and he was glad. Glad to be a man. Glad to feel things he had not felt in years. He had been tired; grown old. Now, he felt the passion of a younger man in his loins. He was a kid of thirty, of twenty, again. And with his own, special formula, it was all available to him. Any woman. Any one he wanted. Later, there would be conscience and tears and regrets. Just now, he was a god.

He thrashed into her with wild abandon, at first, but soon found a rhythm and she matched it. Chrissy Conner's blond mane shook from side-to-side as she mumbled her pleasure, calling him "daddy" more times than she could count and getting totally into the idea of being his little girl. She came several times before he finally let out a loud groan and exploded inside of her. At last, he collapsed atop her and held her for a long, long time.

When he finally got up, she did, too. They didn't speak. He from embarrassment, she from whatever private demons now drove her. He dressed and she dressed. Finally, he stood up.

"I have to go."

She smiled. "I'll go with you."

"Go with me?"

"Of course, daddy. Your little girl goes where you go," she said, simply.

The next three days were a blur to Quentin Broomfield. He taught class. He slept. He made love to Chrissy. And he looked for Lacy Cornwall. He put ads in the paper and made a discrete call to her parents, saying that he was with the administration office and just verifying phone numbers and addresses. With Chrissy's help, he made a list of her friends and called them all, but no one had seen her.

Chrissy quickly settled into her role; the role that she herself had picked. She started dressing differently at Broomfield's home, where she now spent the bulk of her time. Candy-stripe dresses and over-sized little-girl clothes. She wore her hair in a ponytail. She almost never took off her seven-inch spikes, but she added a pair of frilly ankle-socks to them. Broomfield didn't know where she came up with these clothes, but she never seemed to run out. She began to regress, and Broomfield judged her to be no more than twelve, mentally. By Friday morning, she had stopped going to class, or even back to her own dorm room.

Perhaps that was for the best, for when Broomfield came home on Friday evening, Chrissy played back a message from his answering machine. It was Lacy Cornwall.

"Hey, tiger!," the recording said over loud, background music. "Long time no see. How's it hangin', stud?

"Listen, I've been thinking about what gets you hot, baby, and I really think I got a handle on it, now. Why don't you come and see me and see what I mean? I'm at 2413 El Dorado Drive."

Quentin Broomfield found the address in a sleazy part of town, lined with tattoo parlors and pawn shops. The place was a strip club, and he shuddered to think about the innocent Lacy Cornwall working there. He had a terrible dread that he knew what he would find.

He walked into the club and was assaulted by loud music and stale cigarette smoke. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness and he realized that a scantily-clad woman was standing before him, expectantly.

"What'll it be, man?" she asked in a hoarse voice over the deafening sounds of Aerosmith's "Ragdoll".

"I'm looking for Lacy," he said.

The girl eyed him, suspiciously. "You're not a cop, are you?"

Broomfield shook his head. "I'm a college professor."

The girl shrugged. "Takes all kinds." She pointed to a table in a far corner. "Over there."

Broomfield walked slowly over to the crowded table, his heart beating heavily in time to the song. A knot welled up in his throat as he began to make out the form of a young girl, surrounded by several men. She had her head down, with a straw stuck in her nose. She was moving her head to the side, with the straw pressed to what appeared to be a mirror.

"Hey, man," one of the men called from the table as he approached. "This is a private table, gramps. Go find someplace else to sit, you dig?"

The girl looked up and smiled at Broomfield. "Quentin!" she shrieked. "Ohmigawd! How are you, baby?" She quickly untangled herself from the men and ran to him, planting a big, wet kiss on his lips.

"Lacy?" he asked, almost too quiet to hear.

The girl had bleached-blond hair. Her face was made up with heavy amounts of lipstick and mascara and eyeshadow. She was wearing a g-string and pasties and spike-heeled shoes. She spun around for him. "Pretty far-out, huh?"

"To say the least," he muttered.

"I finally learned," she said, proudly. "I'm the kind of girl you like. You can love me now, Quentin. Can't you?" She looked up at him and there was a shadow of the innocent girl she had been in her eyes. Maybe, Broomfield reasoned, innocence can never be fully lost.

"Lacy, I..." The words caught in his throat. It was time for that attack of conscience that he had been dreading. He felt shame. Shame for what he had unwittingly done to this innocent girl, and for what he had willingly done to Chrissy Conners. He hadn't intended any of this, but it was his fault, just the same. A tear formed and ran down his cheek.

Lacy wiped the tear away. "Don't cry, baby," she cooed as the music stopped and he could hear, again. "I'm happier this way. Really. It's like... well, this is who I really am. Deep down, y'know?"

Broomfield shook his head. "No, Lacy. You've been drugged. Brainwashed. You don't know any better because my experiment made you like this."

"No, Quentin," she insisted. "You don't understand. C'mon. I'm taking a smoke break. We can talk."

She led him to a room in the back with a couch and a end table with a lamp. The lamp threw out a dim light over the grimy room and sagging sofa. Lacy sat down and pulled a long, thin brown cigarette from a pack by the table. She lit it and took a deep drag. She patted the sofa beside her and Broomfield reluctantly sat next to her.

"When I left your place, that last time, I kind of wandered around. I was so hurt and angry. I loved you, and you had rejected me. I decided to become the kind of woman that you wanted. When I borrowed a skirt from Rhonda, she told me how you looked at her. I looked at her too and decided to become her, only more so.

"I had some money, so I spent the night in a motel. The next morning, I started looking for a job. I tried the bookstore where Nancy Hoskins works, but nothing was available. After about six more tries, I got a job, here.

"Yes, I got this job to try to be more like the kind of girl you wanted, but you know what? I like it. I like men looking at me and lusting after me and putting money in my g-string and patting my behind. Do all women like that? Of course not! But I do. It gets me hot, Quentin. It makes me horny to know that I'm showing off my body and men are getting excited by it. I guess I've always secretly liked it but was afraid to admit it, even to myself.

"Is the love I feel for you the result of a drug? Maybe. I don't know. But the other things... Well, they were my fetish long before they were yours."

Broomfield sighed. He felt a great weight lift from his shoulders as he remembered that first time with Chrissy.

"Inside, I'm a little girl." Chrissy had said that, not him. "A very little girl. A bad little girl who needs her daddy to tell her what to do; to punish her when she's bad."

Was he controlling her? Maybe. Maybe she was only doing what she had always wanted to do, all along. Maybe Quentin Broomfield's unnamed formula was a doorway into a woman's soul, to a part of her that is usually best left alone. He decided to call it "Pandora's Box", just then, because it opened up a chest full of sins and demons, but it also let out the one thing that Pandora herself had neglected to let free: hope.

"Come on," he said, standing up and pulling at the girl's arm. "Let's go home."

Quentin Broomfield resumed his life and so did Lacy Cornwall. Chrissy Conners seemed to prefer her little girl persona and remained with it. Eventually, someone at the college found out that the missing student was living with Professor Broomfield in "some sort of lurid world of sexual depravity" as the college board put it when they took away Broomfield's seniority and job. The state board of education took away his teaching license.

Broomfield didn't really care. He was more alarmed about them taking Chrissy away to her family and a mental institution. He really didn't know if she could be restored or if she would even want to be. Still, he had narrowly escaped jail. He went to trial, but was acquitted by an all-female jury. Maybe they understood his tale and sympathized. Or maybe it was the courtroom's scent of vanilla.