Doc's Complex 29 - The Meadowlark School For Girls free porn video

Doc's Complex 29 - The Meadowlark School For Girls by Lee Most Copyright 2012 by Lee Most -------------------------------------------------------------- Synopsis: Chapter 29 of the FMNaNoWriMo challenge novel "Doc's Complex," in which we experience the mindtape Alice & Keela Listen to. It's the story about a boy who is put in a girls' school so his evil stepmother can get hold of the fortune he is supposed to inherit. Categories and key words describe only this chapter. I'm concentrating on writing now, so I won't edit mistakes or respond to any reviews until December. -------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 29 - The Meadowlark School For Girls Alice's awareness of Keela's bedroom faded as the world of the mindtape took over all of his senses. ----------------------------------------------- You are leaving the gravesite of your father. You suspect his widow, your stepmother and sole guardian, of wanting to somehow cheat you out of your inheritance, but you also know she does not have a chance. All you have to do is show up at your father's law firm on your 18th birthday, show your ID, and your father's millions, his property, his yacht, his private rail car will all be yours. "Come along now, LINDSEY. The funeral is over. We have to make arrangements for your future." You fill with fury at being called a girl's name by this hateful woman your father had married. "My name is not 'Lindsey!' It is John Michael Lind Saymarks the Fourth, madam!" You glare up at her deceptively beautiful face and see the look of triumph on it. You never liked her and the feelings are mutual, and all during your father's illness she had constantly talked down to you as if you had come from common blood. "Well I heard 'Lindsey Marks' in there somewhere, and I like the sound of it, so come along, Lindsey. I'll not be kept waiting." Your father had always demanded you treat her with respect, "And by 'respect' I mean 'gracious obedience.' You know that a gentleman is gracious even to his enemies." Your life is full of such rules, so you accept her unwelcome authority and obey her. "Yes, Ma'am." Barnes, the footman, helps first her, then her sister, then the stranger she had brought along, and then you into the carriage. The three women began discussing your future as if you were a small child, and not thirteen years old. "This is Lindsey, Miss Meadowlark. She likes to pretend she is a boy, as you can see. Do you think there is anything you can do with her?" You cannot stand her indignities any longer. "I am a boy! I am John Michael Lind Saymarks IV, and this is some plot so she can take away my inheritance! Don't believe anything she says!" "Oh, but I do, Miss Lindsay Marks, and your dear aunt has enrolled you in my school. In fact, we are going there right now. Welcome to the Meadowlark School For Young Ladies, Miss Marks! Now are you going to be an obedient little girl and be quiet, or shall I gag you? Before you say anything, you must know that any verbal reply means you wish to be gagged." You stare at her with horror, but remain silent. After a moment, she smiles, says, "Good girl," and turns back to the other two awful women. "Lindsey will be no more of a problem than any of our other students. Most of them arrive as misbehaving tomboys, but I assure you that they all leave as perfectly behaved young ladies." You sit there calculating how you will punish them in a few years when you come into your fortune. ----------------------------------------------- You are in a dark, wood-lined room staring up at the largest woman you have ever seen. "She's probably a gorilla that they shaved and put clothes on," you joke to yourself. "Take off dem old clothes, Missy," she grunts. "I have been enrolled as a student here, as little as I desired it, but since I am here, I wish to be treated courteously and with respect." The monster snatches your arm, bends down and pulls you across her knee. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! She whacks you on your bottom, but this is like no spanking you ever heard of! Her hands are so large and thick it is more like being clubbed with a human anvil, and your entire body shakes with each blow. Pain shoots from your instantly inflamed rear like flames burning you alive from the inside. She stands and your wrist screams as she lifts you so your face is level with hers. She says, "Take off dem old clothes, NOW!" Your fear takes control of you and you unbutton your vest and then your shirt as fast as you can. You shrug it off even as you unbutton your trousers, pulling down your pants and underwear so fast that you forget to take your shoes off. There is no chair or foot rest, so you attempt to kneel to untie your shoelaces, but with the pants around your ankles, you fall on your tenderized rear. More pain! Impatiently, the female brute bends down and yanks your shoes off although they are still tightly laced on. "Too slow," is all she says as she roughly strips off the rest of your clothes and tosses them into a waste bin in the corner. You cry, "My clothes!" She only grumbles, "You won't be needing dem boy clothes here. You're a girl now." Then she calls out, "Margaret! We need you to help!" A girl your age dressed in servant's clothing comes in. "Miss Lindsey will be your mistress this year. Help her to finish dressing." The girl curtsies and says, "Yes, Miss Brown." Margaret holds up something lacy and white that looks like a girl's dress or nightgown, and begins gathering up the skirt to put it over your head. You say angrily, "I can't wear that! I'm a boy!" Margaret looks helplessly at Miss Brown for guidance That giantess looks at your naked body and a wide, crooked-toothed smile spreads across her face. She pokes a finger into the puffy mounds on your chest. "Boy tits!" You hold your hands over your embarrassingly feminine chest, but she pulls your hands away with as little effort as you would use to pull ribbons from the box of a birthday gift, saying, "You cover dem like a girl already. You'll be an easy one," and then she pokes the other one. You blush and look down. These puffy lumps started growing on your chest suddenly about a month ago. You do not know what women look like under their clothes, but now, in this place you can see what she sees. You had sometimes wondered what a woman's breasts would look like if she was not wearing clothing. Perhaps they did look like this. Miss Brown points to the silken garment held by Margaret and then forms her hand into a giant cup pantomiming squeezing a breast. "Chemise or squeeze; you choose!" You get the message, and with a sinking feeling, you grimace and nod to Margaret. You raise your arms so she can put the sleeves on while she pulls it over your head. The chemise is made of fine silk and feels so light that you barely know you are wearing anything except where the bottom lightly brushes your skin. After that Margaret picks up another light, silky item, and you can see that it is a pair of pants but with the crotch completely missing! Feeling silly, you step through the waist band and allow Margaret to pull it up and tie its drawstring in a bow at your waist. Your boy parts dangle free in the opening between your legs. You don't protest the next item because you don't know what it is. You had never dared enter your mother's or your stepmother's apartments, so you have never seen what women wear beneath their clothes. The two females unroll and hold a huge piece of cloth spread wide and approach you with it. You are still confused about it even as Miss Brown wraps it around your waist and chest and Margaret fastens the hooks on one side to the eyes on the other in front. The brute then begins to pull on the laces in the back, and you feel yourself tugged right and left as the thing systematically closes around your ribs and then lower and lower, tighter and tighter until your stomach is so pulled in that you can only breathe from your upper chest. "This is to deny me the breath I will need to fight her," you conclude. "These women are devious, but I will get them in the end!" Margaret then thrusts her hand down inside the top of the garment where it crushes your chest. She slides her hand up and with it she pulls some of your squashed flesh up above the tight edge, so there is less binding pressure. "Oh, thank you, Margaret," you say with a sigh of relief. "This does bind me so!" She smiles and repeats the maneuver several times until she has relieved as much of the pressure from as much of your chest as possible. As she steps away, she smiles, "There! Now you look much more like one of us." Not knowing what she means, you look down and see that your two small breasts combine with all the chest flesh squeezing out of the top of the corset so it looks even more like the bosom of a lady! You had seen round shapes like these in the necklines of the evening gowns of practically every female guest at every one of your parents parties, and now they were here on your own chest! "Ah," you think, "So that's how they make those round bubbles of flesh that look so enticing in their evening gowns. Father often said that women were creatures of paint and illusion!" When he told you that, you had thought of an entirely different part of a woman's body. Growing up seeing women in their full skirts, as a small child you had thought the lower halves of women's bodies filled those big round shapes. Then, one day out walking with your nanny, you watched a woman sit down on a bench and saw her entire round skirt compress beneath her as if it was completely empty inside. While you stared in astonishment, you then saw the front of her skirt fly up in the air and you saw under her skirts before she got the front of the skirt to settle around the grass at her feet. There was nothing under her skirts but air and two legs as slender as his own! The whole skirt was held out by a sort of flexible cage. The skirts that you had thought defined the shape of women were but hollow illusions that anyone could wear. Now you also knew that the small waists and those round breasts could also be made by the clothes you wore. It is obvious to you now, that whatever they would try to do to you to change you, all you need to do when you get home is to put on men's clothing again. That must be the meaning of the saying, "Clothes make the man!" Sure enough, after helping you into a tight-fitting blouse, Margaret puts a flexible cage made of cloth-covered metal bands over your head and after draping it around your hips, she buckles it around your waist, and you see the familiar shape of a woman's skirt take shape around your legs, although it is made of only vertical and horizontal bands. From your corseted waist it spreads out more than a foot to either side and back at least three feet. You realize, "I have never seen one without a dress draped over it, but this must be the crinoline that forms the shape of a woman's skirts." They put another huge garment over your head and drape it over the crinoline, and only when it is in place do you realize it is a petticoat made of white muslin and covered with row after row of big flounces. You have never had cause to pay attention to what women wore before, other than the general color of their clothing, but as Margaret and Miss Brown bring forth the dress you are to wear, you can see that it must have cost a lot of money. There are panels of silk, of satin, and of taffeta and it is decorated all over with needlepoint, embroidered brocade, ruffles and flounces of extra material tastefully combined. It looks like one of the fashionable dresses you have seen women wearing at your parent's parties and balls, except that this dress is of the purest white. You would protest that a young man does not wear dresses, but your rear still hurts, as does your wrist. "I shall await my time. When I have my money, I will buy this entire property and turn these people out without a penny!" The girl Margaret looks as afraid of Miss Brown as you feel, so you do not fight her as she dresses you. She pulls long white silk stockings up each leg and fastens it by pulling up an elastic garter. What comes next makes you stare in disbelief. It is a pair of boots made of the finest, softest calfskin bleached completely white with high, three-inch long heels! The sight of those boots makes your heart beat faster as you think of the pretty dressing maid of your mother's when you were a small child. She had always worn boots just like these, and you had always thought that she was the most feminine creature who had ever trod upon the earth. Now Margaret is sliding their thin leather up your silk clad calves, and it as if that maid of your childhood is imparting some of her femininity upon you. The corset makes you breathe shallowly, but now you feel yourself shiver so your breath comes in with a fluttering sound as you feel her tighten the long laces, encasing your feet and legs in these, the most feminine of all the most feminine boots! She puts the other one on and you feel how you need to stand differently to maintain the good posture required of a gentleman, even a gentleman forced to dress in such unmanly garments. With your heels raised so much, you need to clench the muscles of your calves and more muscles in your thighs to keep your legs straight. You must also tighten muscles in your rear and even consciously hold your chest up higher. You glance down and see the front of your dress thrust out by the same kinds of bumps that thrust out Margaret's dress. Below that, your waist looks smaller than hers, and the wide skirts of your dress are far wider than hers, and below, where no one can see them, but you know they are there, are your new boots. "What can they do to me to make me feel less like a boy than they have already done?" The white kid leather gloves that hugged each finger, each muscle of your hands, your wrists, your elbows and your arms do that. So do the beautiful glittering diamond necklace and bracelet. So do the cleverly designed cap they pin into your short locks. The cap has a border of braided hair the same color as your own that makes it seem as if it is hiding a twist of much longer hair coiled on top of your head. So do the earrings they clip onto your ears. You look about for a mirror, but in vain. You know you must look foolish, a young gentleman dressed like a young lady, but there is no way for you to see. ----------------------------------------------- You are in a classroom with eleven other girls dressed as well as yourself. You have been at this school for over three months now, and you find that these classes are much easier than any in your old school. The other girls are also so slow that you do not have to work at all to be at the top of your classes. There is never any homework, or indeed textbooks, and carrying anything but a small purse is forbidden. "We do not want you to develop unsightly muscles, now, do we?" The consequences of growing muscles were painful. You saw how three of the girls with muscles - the gossip said they were really boys -- were hung by their wrists for hours at a time while Miss Brown and other women as big as she was squeezed and kneaded their arms until they were black and blue. Then those muscular girls had to endure other tortures until they finally had to have their arms in casts for two months. It seemed to work, though. One of those girls is two rows in front of you and her arms are as slender as yours or any other girl in the class. The subjects are so much easier as well. In this one, Posing, you only have to stand or sit or hold things in a single position for half an hour while smiling and looking pretty. Then, after the teacher has walked around each of you girls, correcting positions and reminding you all to smile, she shows you a new pose to maintain for the next thirty minutes. Right now you are in the position called "Demure," with your feet together, your legs straight, your hands softly resting just above your bustle your chin slightly down and a closed lipped smile on your face while you look up through your long lashes. Your long lashes are long because Margaret rubs your skin with special cr?mes every evening after your bath, and one of those is a special oil just for eyelashes that makes them grow longer, thicker, and more plentifully. The cr?mes she rubs into your arms and legs and chest not only penetrate and keep the skin very soft, but also work on hairs to bleach them and keep them fine and short. The liquid she massages into your scalp makes hair long and lustrous, and you love the daily massage as she first rubs it in and then stimulates your scalp by brushing it with a hundred strokes. In only the time you have been here your hair already has grown much longer according to Margaret. You cannot know yourself, of course, because you have not seen a mirror in all the time you have been here. "Very good, girls! I'll see you tomorrow. Now run along to your Handicrafts class. I believe you are to learn how to make a flower and fruit centerpiece for your dining table." You go to the chair against the wall where you left your little pink purse and comment to the girl next to you, "A centerpiece! That sounds a lot more useful than those daisy chains we made. Oh! I'm sorry, Susanne! I didn't see that one in your hair. It looks so pretty on you. I wish my hair was long enough to decorate it that way." Susanne smiles back, "That's okay, Lindsey. You always have the prettiest dresses, and I wish my waist was as small as yours!" You thank her for the compliment and think to yourself, "I can't wait to get out of here and have a normal conversation with a boy. If I have to stay here for the rest of this year talking only about girl stuff, I may go insane!" ----------------------------------------------- You are in the auditorium, waiting for the Pink Belt Ceremony to begin. You smile like all the other girls, and sit with your feet and knees together, your hands folded in your lap. It is, of course, one of the poses you learned. After months of posing classes, the standard poses feel normal, and it is hard for you to remember sitting any other way. You and all the other girls chatter about everything you can, as you learned in your Conversation and Gossip class. There are so many different subjects you need to keep yourself informed about! The Fashion class helps you keep up with that important subject, but sometimes it even taxes your imagination to come up with more ways to tell the girls on either side of you how pretty their dresses are, how much you like what they did with their hair, and compliment them on their jewelry, their complexion, their deportment, and the quality of their voices. "I wish my voice was as sweet as yours, Gwendolyn! I always get my lowest marks in voice quality!" Of course there are so many other topics to choose from, such as the weather, speculation about the event, who is secretly hoping to be wooed by which of the boys from the school down the road, the latest romance novels and their authors, and the mysteries of the uses of makeup. Makeup is forbidden by the school, of course, because young ladies do not need such artificialities, but every girl has a secret case of "powders and paints" hidden in their rooms. Yours is a small leather bag that is inside the hollow base of the lamp by your bedside, but you are thinking of moving it to a different hiding place. That lamp seems heavier every time you try to move it. The ceremony is starting, and a man comes to the stage. "Ladies and gentle..." he falters as he looks around and sees that he is the only man in the auditorium. You join in the tittering as he starts again. "My fine young ladies, my name is Quentin Barlow and I am the headmaster of the Barlowe School For Boys down the road from this fine institution, and as someone unconnected with this school I have been asked to be an impartial judge. It will be my privilege to measure each of the members of the sophomore class here at the Meadowlark School For Young Ladies. While all girls wear corsets, of course, this school prides itself on the discipline it imposes on its students to maintain their looks and their figures. Thus I understand that you have taken tight-lacing to the ultimate limit and your graduates have the smallest waists of any girl's school in the country. "To that end, may I ask that any alumni present please stand up?" A loud rustling of many yards of taffeta followed that request as perhaps a hundred women in the audience stood up. You stare about in fascination. There are women wearing pink belts all about you, and you wonder what it all means. "What's so special about wearing a pink belt?" you whisper to Gwendolyn on your right. "I don't know," She whispers back. "It doesn't even match some of their dresses!" A fashion comment was not the answer you were looking for, so you turn to the girl on your left, but she is gazing up at the woman standing to her left, who is wearing a pink belt. Miss Meadowlark is at the podium now, and speaks, "Thank you ladies! I am sure you are an inspiration to your daughters." She waits for the rustling to die down after they all are seated. "Now if the sophomore class will line up at the end of the stage here, Mr. Barlow will measure you and announce your waist size to the school and alumni. Each of you who has a waist smaller than 22 inches will receive your pink belt. Mr. Barlow? If you would be so kind, would you please measure this belt and tell everyone what the measurement is?" You see him fumbling with the belt and the tape measure, and then he looks up. "The length from the buckle to the farthest hole is twenty two inches!" He fumbles some more and adds, "And there are seven holes an inch apart, so the smallest waist this would fit is only sixteen inches." He looks around the large room. "Is there really anyone here with a 16-inch waist?" You hear several titters and then mumbling and then clapping as two of the seniors stand up and one of the mothers, all three of them holding the ends of their belts out to show off the six unused holes! You clap, too, but not as enthusiastically as those around you. "Sixteen inches," you think, and then recall Margaret measuring your waist every evening when she removes your corset. "If these things really make our waists so small, I may be in a worse situation than I thought!" You resolve to stop making it so easy for the school to change you. "I will press my stomach out as much as possible when she takes my measurements so she will put a larger corset on me, and it will not compress my waist so much." There are fifty-three girls in the sophomore class, and you have to clap fifty-three times as each of them is smaller than twenty-two inches. In fact most were called out as having twenty-inch waists, and only one was above that. There was even another girl with a sixteen-inch waist. As you watch one of the teachers fasten the belt around the smiling student, you realize that she is wearing her corset, and her actual waist inside the corset must be even smaller! ----------------------------------------------- It is the first week of your sophomore year. Your stepmother was out of the country, so you spent the summer here at the school. She has always been unavailable during school breaks, and so you have not been home in more than a year, since the day of your father's funeral. You wish you could see what they have changed about you, but there are no mirrors anywhere. They have even done something to the windows to stop them from reflecting your image. You know that your hair has become long enough for Margaret to braid, and for the braid to hang down to your breasts. You know that they have changed you enough that none of the freshmen knows you are really a boy. Several of the boys in skirts have even attempted to talk you up! It was not until after the Pink Belt Ceremony that you began pushing your belly out when Margaret measured you, but you don't know whether it has done any good. The corsets you wear have, if anything, gotten tighter. The oils and cr?mes she rubs onto you have also changed. There is no sign of any masculine hair on any part of your head or body, so now the skin cr?me is something to bleach your skin itself, and you are so white all over that the parts that are not white stand out in stark contrast, especially your large, pink nipples and the pink areolas around them. Margaret puts on rubber gloves and rubs some sort of pepper oil on your breasts every night, and the skin on them has become so sensitive that you relish the softness of your silk chemise to protect them from chafing against the sheets as you sleep. They also look much more swollen than you remember them being last year. With the pepper oil still on the gloves, she adds something else and then rubs it all over your penis and scrotal sac, so that by now they shrink and shrivel up as soon as you see the rubber glove, even before she touches them. You beg her to stop. Every night you plead with her not to torture you, not to put on the rubber gloves, not to rub your breasts and penis with that irritating oil, but she always says she has no choice. After she rubs the pepper oil into your breasts, she adds the other stuff and spreads it down there. Then comes the most horrible part and you dread it more, even, than the idea of losing your inheritance. She puts your soft, silk chemise on you, and has you stand and stroke your changing body through it with your hands and repeat your affirmations while she reaches up your skirt from behind and manipulates your penis past the point where it stands at attention, past the point where it would still feel good without the irritating oils, until you climax and finally get soft. Your affirmations are from the Femininity and Drawing class, which every girl in the school takes every day, even on Saturday and Sunday. It only takes thirty minutes, but each day you must come up with five new affirmations and sketch a picture to go along with each one. The five daily affirmations must begin thusly: 1. I like being a girl because... 2. I am better than a man because... 3. I can make myself prettier by... 4. I will please my husband by... 5. I want my husband to please me by... While Margaret masturbates your overly sensitive erection, you must say the five affirmations aloud and describe the pictures you drew in your sketchbook, which Margaret usually has spread open on a chair behind you so she will know if you try to describe something the teacher did not see. You tried at first to cheat, to get around the insidious idea of being made to feel pleasure and pain at the same time that you affirmed being a girl, but you found yourself incapable of saying something and describing an image about it, while thinking the opposite. You know these sessions are having an effect on you, but you don't know exactly what. "I like being a girl because girls are daintier than boys," you say, and describe the picture you drew of a girl smelling a flower while a boy tears one apart. "I am better than a man because I can stay home while he has to do nasty work, and you describe the picture of yourself doing needlework and a man digging a ditch. In your mind, you see one of the men on the road outside the school fence today at midday recess, his huge muscles rippling and shining with sweat as he flings the dirt ten feet in the air, knowing that you would have a hard time even lifting his shovel. "I can make myself prettier by weaving flowers into my hair." You easily describe the daisy chain you had seen in Susanne's hair earlier. "I will please my husband by making him a picnic lunch with all his favorite foods." You hope never to have a husband, but after a year of daily affirmations, your illustrations show a man who looks like a young version of your father and a woman who looks like you do. You cannot avoid picturing the scene where your husband and you are sitting on a blanket next to a picnic basket with him smiling at you after eating something. "I want my husband to please me by feeding me bits of food and holding a wine glass to my lips, and my picture is of him holding a wine glass to my lips at the same picnic! Oh my!" You don't know how or why, but you always come to climax just as you are picturing your husband pleasing you in some way. Now Margaret finally lets go of your erection, and it quickly subsides. You recall what happened the few times it did not subside. She had stood up, closed the thick book of blank pages and (progressively better) illustrations, looked at the bump in your chemise, and then slammed the book at the bump as if swatting a fly. The memory of those swats makes you as limp as an overcooked noodle. The pepper oil makes you avoid touching those parts of your body, but because of the daily attentions, you know that others would not have that problem, and lately you have been dreaming that a man, the man in your drawings, is making love to you and stimulating your breasts and genitalia. You are not a homosexual boy, but that is not a problem in your dreams. In your dreams you are a heterosexual girl! ----------------------------------------------- Alice opened his eyes and for a moment he saw both Keela's bedroom here in the Complex and Lindsey's bedroom in that 19th century girls' school. Next to him, Keela said, "Sorry about that. I forgot it was a two-tape story. I guess you can see where it goes next. Lindsey keeps going to the school and at his Pink Belt Ceremony it turned out that his idea about sticking his belly out backfired because they put extra strong corsets on him, so he has the school record for smallest waist. He has a bunch of other misadventures at the school, and then there's a long sequence after he graduates and goes back to his stepmother and her sister, and they find all sorts of ways to humiliate him, and he tries to dress up as a boy and utterly fails, and then he falls in love with a cousin who looks just like his father did as a young man, and the guy is so in love with this girl he thinks is a niece of the stepmother that he doesn't mind the little detail of what's between his legs. Then Lindsey turns eighteen, and he has to decide to either be a humiliatingly effeminate man who will inherit his father's fortune, or the beautiful wife of this guy she's been drawing and having sexual fantasies about for years and years. The end." "Which one did he choose?" "The tape ends there, before she chooses, but I think she chooses to be a girl and marry the guy." "But that would mean the evil stepmother won! She gets away with it! That's not fair!" Keela tossed a pair of overalls at him and he began putting them on. She asked, "How would you end it?" "Well even after this tape I can see he's gone too far and can't go back, so I think he should go all the way. Live his dream, or her dream, with her dream guy, but do something to get the fortune, too. After all, it's his inheritance." He worked his basketballs into the front of the loose garment. "I know! You said the cousin looked like his father, right? So wouldn't the lawyers expect the son to look like the father? The cousin shows up at the lawyers on the son's eighteenth birthday claiming to be him, and the lawyers sign everything over to him. They didn't have fingerprinting back then, so who's to say he isn't who he says he is? The stepmother couldn't admit what she did." "Your plot has about as many holes as net stockings, but sure. Happy ending! Why not? Are you ready to work in the pot fields?" ----------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------- To Be Continued! -------------------------------------------------------------- Afterword for Chapter 29 This is something I wrote after I read a book called "Miss High Heels" by some anonymous writer. It took place after the feminized boy got home from the girl's school, so I wondered what happened to him while he was there, and the story grew. I'm writing this novel as part of the 2012 NaNoWriMo challenge to write a novel of at least 50,000 words between November 1st and 30th, and since I'm posting them on FictionMania, that makes this an "FMNaNoWriMo novel." I've already gone over 100K words, and will probably go to around 120K by the time I'm done. I intend to post a chapter a day during November. (For more info about National Novel Writing Month, see www.NaNoWriMo.org.) By the way, if you like to write and can't resist improving this story with extra characters or new adventures or situations for the existing characters, go ahead! You also have my permission to write your own stories using this world as a setting. Please post your versions on FictionMania. To avoid confusion, add a letter to the number of modified chapters, like "Doc's Complex 27a", and make up a new title. For new stories, please include the words "Doc's Complex" so fans of that universe (I know there's at least one -- me!) can find them. Who knows? If enough people do it, FictionMania may add a new category! --------------------------------------------------------------