Replacements

Welcome to my newest story.  This is going to be something of an experiment for me, as I'm going to write this as it needs to be written every week, and not work it as I would my other projects.  It'll be interesting, if nothing else.

That said, this is always a first draft, and if I missed something in editing, don't beat me up too bad.  Remember:  you get what you pay for.

Replacements

Part Eight

There was a simpleness to Craig’s downfall. I had to admit everything processed as I wanted, with a minimum of trouble—

Phase one was complete: I had my DNA sample, and had disposed of the original source. Phase Two involved returning home, and placing the DNA sample in storage in my former lab. That proved easier than I suspected. I was the division supervisor, so I had reason to enter the lab, just as I had when I was the old me, just as Martha does. So going into the lab late at night wasn’t out of the question. Nor was entering areas where samples were stored unusual . . .

The sample was placed, labeled, and entered into the system. Changing the date of entry and the user ID of that record—again, simple, as when I was the old me, I’d found a way to access developer tools that allowed access to the database, and once I’d become Olivia, I’d made certain I could access those same tools. Bring up the file, change the record, update.

Simple.

Then I waited. Craig was maintaining his distance: I didn’t know if it was because he was worried I’d take action against him, or if he was biding his time. I wasn’t waiting to see which, because I wanted him gone. I wanted him out of my life.

I wasn’t going to be his victim.

As Olivia it’s necessary to review projects within my department. This was how Phase Three began. A week and a half after I returned from California, I called Martha into my office. It was Wednesday, but we no longer held to a strict schedule for when she and I would meet at home. She was now my submissive lover, and our discussions had turned to her moving in with me so we could enjoy our relationship more fully. No one at the office would care as long as we didn’t bring our personal lives to work—indeed, I doubted there were many who even knew about what we did outside of work.

I met with Martha and brought up an old project, one I’d come across that wasn’t logged into the system as something “official”. I was curious about what it was, why it had been worked on off the clock, so to speak. “Look into this, please,” I’d said with a smile, “and let me know what was going on.”

I knew Martha would go over the project, because she wouldn’t refuse any request I made to her, at or away from work. I knew she would be very thorough, for that was Martha’s way. She may have been a submissive girl who would do anything for her loving mistress, but she was also a scientist, and once she began reading the notes of my old project, her curiosity would get the better of her.

It did. She spent the next two weeks going through everything I’d done, and complied her own report—

We discussed her report at my place one night. I was covering her in black liquid latex, and as her body was coated with a rubbery second skin, I asked, “Can you replicate what she was attempting?” We both knew who “she” was.

“Of course I can, Mistress.” Martha was both considering my question and eying the pair of black platform boots she’d find herself locked into as soon as she was transformed into a latex doll. “Most of the work has been performed, and the notes are very complete.”

“How long before you can have a viable prototype?”

I know she wanted to shrug, which was her habit. It was a testament to her control that she didn’t. “Two, maybe three weeks. I don’t see it taking longer than that.”

Now came the real question. “Your report mentioned that some kind of injection was produced. How difficult would it be to deliver this process as an aerosol?”

I saw her desire to shrug again; once more she didn’t. “Not very, Mistress.” I knew that, however. I knew that because I’d altered my notes before leaving them for Martha—

We decided this would be something that she would work on after hours. I set the times, and Martha, not wanting to disappoint or disobey, agreed.

This was how the next couple of weeks proceeded. We stayed behind and worked until eight, night PM some nights. We came in late Saturday and worked. I would monitor from my office, Martha would work in the lab. It was an arrangement that I had done in another life—though it was I in the lab, with Olivia in her office at times. I wondered if she watched me from her monitor, if she wondered about what I was doing? I’d never know now, because the real Olivia would likely never speak again . . .

Things went as expected: Martha duplicated my work. She recreated the formula, mixed the ingredients, produced the end product. All that remained was to convert it into its final delivery form—a form I could leave for Craig at his home, or in his car, which would be better, because there was always the chance he’d crash during his transformation and perhaps die.

One could only hope.

It was Thursday night, and we were close to having a usable product. Martha was in the final phase of production, converting the liquid to an aerosol, and things were proceeding as I’d expected. I thought we would be wrapped up by ten PM—

When all hell broke loose.

I don’t believe Martha had over-pressurized the equipment; it was more a general failure of the system. But something failed, and it failed right in front of Martha. The medium hit her for a second before the process shut down and sealed itself automatically. I jumped up and ran to the lab; I knew the nanoids were fast acting, and would latch onto her body and burrow into her DNA. The lab wasn’t contaminated—there were no alarms—because any nanoids that didn’t reach her were programed to shut down instantly.

By the time I reached Martha, she was starting to shake. The nanoids were doing their job; she was in the first segment of her transformation.

I panicked. I didn’t want anything to happen here; I didn’t want anyone who was still in the building to stumble upon us. Yes, the smart thing would have been to lay her down and talk her through what was happening, but . . . I lost my cool. I couldn’t think.

All I could see was my home. Olivia’s home. I thought if I could get there as quickly as possible, I could help Martha through the last part of the transformation, then we could work out our stories—

I helped her to her feet. It was good I was such a tall woman now, because it made getting Martha to my car much easier. She wasn’t completely out of it, but her legs weren’t working as they should. I knew that part from experience, but said nothing.

My mind was everywhere, thinking about how to explain the accident, what happened to Martha, why she was working clandestinely—

I was speeding, driving faster than was necessary. I wanted to get home, get Martha comfortable. I wasn’t paying attention to the highway, to conditions. To the lights.

To the traffic in the intersection—

We're almost to the end.  Next week I finish up, and head onward to Halloween!

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