Inspired by Elibean’s epic Lily the Liar, I have decided to be super brave and share one of my ABDL stories here. I’ve never done that before, but I’m almost more excited than nervous–I’m actually fairly happy with how it turned out, and can’t wait to get the next chapter up.
Suggestions are definitely welcome, so be nice but be honest. Tell me what worked or didn’t, and I’ll try to improve things in subsequent chapters and drafts.
Thanks for reading.
The room is meant to be a small auditorium, but there are no chairs. It’s dim, even though the lights are switched on. The headmaster is standing on a small platform in the front. There used to be a lectern here, but it, too, has been removed. A small group of students–sophomores, mostly, with a junior or two among them–stand nervously near the back. They don’t know why they’re here.
Headmaster Green moves forward to begin his speech. He is beginning to tire of standing, so he sits on the edge of the stage. He invites the students to come forward and sit on the front row. Most of them do. He isn’t going to press the issue with the others.
Now he needs to explain what’s going on. You can do this, Chuck, he tells himself. Charles Green believes that he is doing the right thing, but that doesn’t make it any easier. In the past week he’s almost called it off twice, and then written four different versions of the story he’s about to tell. He is still not sure which one to use.
The silence is starting to get awkward. It’s now or never. He decides to go with the “you’re so lucky” version. He doesn’t think the kids will buy it (he’s not entirely sure he believes it himself), but he likes the role he gets to play; if nothing else, it makes him feel less like a comic book villain than his other drafts.
“Welcome,” he says. “Thanks for coming. I know you weren’t give much of a choice, but we still appreciate your cooperation.”
“One of you here is very lucky,” he continues. “One of you is about to get an opportunity that most people could only dream of: the chance to experience childhood all over again.”
He is bothered by the word “childhood”. Technically, the teenagers before him are still in their childhoods. Something like “preschoolhood” would have been more appropriate, but he didn’t like how made-up that sounded.
“What?” Chuck didn’t hear who said it, but he was probably speaking for everyone. His introduction had only made them more confused, though hopefully it had primed them to accept what was coming a little more charitably. Here we go, he says to himself. Don’t apologize, don’t act guilty.
“Let me explain,” he says. “As most of you know, our school has for many years now partnered with the Charleston Institute to assist where possible in their various scientific and technological research endeavors. In turn, the Charleston Institute is one of our biggest financial contributors. I am not exaggerating when I say we that would not have survived the recession without their support.”
“For the last fifteen years, a group of brilliant scientists led by Dr. Ned Brackus have been working on an ambitious project whose ultimate goal is the very defeat of death itself. You might think we’re talking about heart disease, or cancer, but this is bigger than that. Because you can skip the heart attacks, you can beat back cancer, but sooner or later you’ll still die. If one thing doesn’t get you, something else will, until you’re eventually done in by the inevitable, poorly-understood, all-consuming malady known as ‘old age’. Curing cancer would be great–it’d save ten of millions of lives for sure–but that’s spare chance compared to this. You defeat aging, you save tens of billions.”
Headmaster Green is pleased with himself. It was a good speech, he thinks. So far, so good. He hasn’t gotten to the bottom line yet, but he’s set the stage. A few more minutes and he can turn this over to Brackus.
The students are interested, even excited some of them, but mostly they’re more confused. After a long few seconds, one of them finally speaks up.
“That’s all great and stuff, but what does this have to do with any of us?”
“A very important question,” Greene says. “I’ll skip the rest of the fluff and get right to the point: Dr. Brackus’ latest research has entered the human trials phase, and we have agreed to loan him one of our students for remainder of the academic year. You are all candidates for that position, determined based on genetic testing combined with various social and legal considerations.”
“So you’re looking for guinea pigs, then? Test subjects for some sort of medical research?” It’s Andrew Jackson, Jonah Jackson’s son. Chuck still isn’t sure if him being here is a good idea.
“I dislike the term ‘guinea pig’, but that’s the basic idea, yes.”
“Sorry,” Andrew says, “not interested. You can definitely count me out.”
Greene’s palms are sweating. At least he thinks they are. He doesn’t dare look down, not here with no podium and only a few feet between him and his audience. He doesn’t want to draw attention to how nervous he is. He doesn’t want to look uncertain when he says when he’s about to say.
After thinking one more time about calling it off and letting them all go, Headmaster Green decides to push through. “Just to clarify,” he says. “This is not a request. We aren’t looking for volunteers. Whichever of you is selected will be part of the project. The legal paperwork is, as I said, already complete.”
Edit: Removed the outdated reference to there being only six students. (It’s really more like sixteen).