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Say Hello to Pearl

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Midnight. The Rutting Season. Winter came early to the pine forest of Tannochbrae. Snow fluttered down in heavy flakes, white poppy petals on an alien Remembrance Day. Cascading in swirls borne on the chill wind before settling on the blank canvas that stretched between her window and the electrified perimeter fence.
WARNING: mature adult content 18+ do not read if you are easily offended or have a tendency towards a nervous disposition!
Happy New Year! - HJ x

Submitted: December 30, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 30, 2019



Say Hello to Pearl

Midnight. The Rutting Season. Winter came early to the pine forest of Tannochbrae. Snow fluttered down in heavy flakes, white poppy petals on an alien Remembrance Day. Cascading in swirls borne on the chill wind before settling on the blank canvas that stretched between her window and the electrified perimeter fence. Blanketing the flat rooftop of the institution in a shroud of secrecy.

Every so often, Toy heard a loud crack as a bough bowed, bent, and snapped under the weight of it, clumps of snow tumbling down, forming mounds, filled with the love of those who lay so deep. There were eight mounds between her and the fence, mounted with inconspicuous little red crosses. Christmas decorations! Ha! Testimonials to early efforts, failed experiments.

She thought of her parent’s grey-stone cottage on the outskirts of Oban, the privet hedge, their clapped-out Cortina, immobilized by it. Janice and Peter, in woolly waistcoats and tartan carpet slippers, sipping single malts in front of the roaring fireplace, wondering if they’d ever see their missing daughter again.

Missing: that was the official explanation.

Toy had gone missing from her studies at Edinburgh University, her bedsit: pristine, bed-made, laptop still on, vanished, without a trace. Except that her name wasn’t Toy. Her name, by birth, was Lauren Jane Smart, age: 18. An Oban girl, last seen boarding the Glasgow-bound Highland train. Never to be seen again. She cast her mind back to when she was a little girl, a lonely girl, an only child. God, how her Mam and Dad would be missing her.

What had possessed her to be Pearl’s toy, her plaything? The money? Ah yes! The money to pay for her crack addiction. And the money was good, live-in, shared bed, free food, full board and lodgings, all expenses paid. Or was it the intrigue, the fascination of Pearl, the need for her to be her plaything, their intimacy?

Toy remembered her childhood. Playing in the snow. Ice on the pavements. Ruts in a roadway, Skidding down the road with Mam. Hey! There’s a snowman! The other children, laughing at her, playing hide and seek behind closed brick walls. Ice on her bedroom window. Cat’s paws! Dripping icicles hanging off leaky gutters. Shards of ice, snapping, falling. The back garden: yellow leaves sticking out of an imperfect blanket. Mam, sprinkling salt on the pavement. Snow heaped by the garage, coating the wheelie bins. Tiny footprints: a robin redbreast. The elderly, struggling. The young, daring to break free!

And, in her solitary childhood, not a living soul to play with. Perhaps that was why she was here, as a toy in a snow year. The full moon shone on her face: her figure, her body, silhouetted in dark relief against the vermillion sky, twinkling starlight, distant planets, far-off suns. Pearl,

‘Come into the warm. Shake off your coat. Take off those gloves. Dust yourself down. Come, and sit beside my fire. You must be freezing. Hot chocolate, warm minced pies, rich fruit cake!'

‘Shtop teashing me!’ the toy said with the lisp she’d suffered: taunted and jeered at since birth, ‘There ishn’t a fire, or a coat, jusht me in thith thilly thlip.’

‘Come to bed with me, Toy. I’m a big girl now!’

‘I know that, do you think I don’t know that?’

‘Well then, come to bed.’

Toy was wearing a regulation institutional white slip. She pulled it off over her head and held it aloft, like a white flag of surrender. Looked around in the half-light, at Pearl, under the duvet, on the giant-sized bed. At the unblinking security cameras. At least Beattie, the Security Guard, had the decency to switch them off at eleven. When they were intimate, sensually intimate, in the way that only eighteen-year old girls can be.

Beattie would be at his control desk, scanning the white-walled corridors for signs of suspicious activity. Not that there ever was any suspicious activity. Tannochbrae was impregnable. Access and egress were controlled, limited to specific individuals, by iris optical recognition. Beattie would be sprawled, half asleep more like, over an unfinished ten-minute crossword in this week’s edition of The Tulloch Herald.

Toy appraised the dark void behind the toughened glass window. There were no ghouls or deer, no stags or bucks, watching her. She went to take off her pale grey CK thong. Pearl protested,

‘Leave it on! I want to love you with it on.’

In the end, she left her thong on. After all, the weft accentuated her smooth buttocks, her puppy ear breasts. She left her thong on, and went to bed with her mistress.

Pearl felt for the fluffy pillow and placed it in the centre of the bed creating a soft plinth for her toy’s head. She pushed back the duvet with her feet and admitted her into the centre, the heart she called it, of her bed. It was important that her plaything was fully relaxed before they were intimate. The toy had an unfortunate habit of squealing like a piglet when she became excited, a risk they couldn’t afford to take…

For fear of activating the noise sensors positioned around the bedroom door, attracting Beattie’s unwanted attention. For fear of stirring McNiel and McCain in their adjacent rooms. For fear of reprisals. Punishment! She recalled the last time her toy squealed. Pearl’s unpleasant leather restraints and buckles. Sleeping in a stiff straightjacket for twelve days. The constant threat of sedation. Solitary confinement in her room.

Worse still, McVie, the fat bitch, had taken away her toy, until she learned how to behave. Life without a toy was unimaginably hard: nothing to play with, no fantasies, no escapism, no-one to love. Pearl asked to be put down. No chance of that! She was unique, a valuable entity in her own right, a test tube creation by the eminent sperm donor, Jack McGilvrae, her professorial namesake, and Dr Christine McVie, her surrogate mother: the conniving cow who birthed her, then treated her worse than a stray puppy.

Pearl set about relaxing Toy: softly straddling her tummy, gently stroking her straight, red hair, her rosy, freckled cheeks, with the back of her soft hand. Massaging her neck and shoulders. Lifting her white shift, so that her toy could play with her 34B breasts, rubbing her on her belly.

‘Now what would you like to play, girl?’ she said, unusually for her, but in all fairness, she was about to grant the toy her dying wish. Pearl felt the strangest sensation, a tingling in her wingly.

Toy smiled at her, nervously. Felt like squealing. Felt like kissing. Felt most peculiar if she was truthful. And she was a truthful, Oban girl. Why had Pearl asked her what she wanted to play? She was toy here, not her. Girl? Why girl? Why now? She lisped, more than she’d ever lisped:

‘Kithes,’ she whispered.


‘Mm, pleath say yeth?’

‘Kisses! Do you love me, Lauren?’

Lauren! Pearl named her toy Lauren! She’d never named her toy before! Named her Lauren!

‘Yeth,’ her toy lisped, ‘I love you very much. You mean everything to me, Pearl… Everything!’

‘Where would you like me to kiss you, girl?’

‘On the lipth.’

‘What do you say?’ - to your owner, your child-thing, your alien puppeteer, she reflected sadly. ‘Pleath, kith me on my lipth.’

Pearl kissed Lauren Smart upon her wet pink lips, kissing her deeply, looking down at her. She, in turn, gazed up at the white-washed cheeks, the smudged, cherry red lips, the bloodshot eyes.

‘What isth it Pearl? What ith it? No, pleath!’

Toy went to squeal, almost did. But for the fluffy pillow, muffling her squealing mouth, she might have. Pearl pressed the pillow down hard onto her toy’s face. Felt her toy’s knees kicking out, upwards, bruising her firm buttocks. Felt her toy ripping, slashing her pale cheeks, tearing out her rich, chestnut hair by the roots. Felt her love relax.

Lauren was a fighter, a tough Scottish toy. Suffocation took minutes. She lost consciousness in ten seconds, stopped breathing in minutes. Her body went limp. Pearl made her decent: closing her arms and legs, shutting her mouth, covering her sad, spent body with the doubled-up duvet.

The cheese-wire was located in the kitchen cupboard, down the corridor, past Beattie’s control desk. Snow fell, a snow petal for the fallen, dead-butterfly called Toy. Pearl showed her teak iris to the door. The frosted glass door slid wide open. She padded, barefoot, naked, towards the kitchen...

Beattie looked up from the girlie magazine that he kept hidden within the pages of the Tulloch Herald and studied the beautiful young woman through the eye of the lens. If she was a woman? He wasn’t sure.

McNiel once confided to him that Pearl was the natural outcome of McGilvrae inseminating the fat bitch McVie, with modifications. Post-conception, McGilvrae had surgically removed McVie’s foetus from her womb and undertaken genetic reconfiguration before transplanting it back again. The hybrid, Pearl, was birthed and breastfed by McVie, then placed in captivity for laboratory testing alongside the cats, rats, dogs, birds, and eight human animals. Of all the intellectual mammals, only Pearl survived the grossly invasive test regime.

Overall, scientific testing on live animals had fallen to its lowest level in the UK since 2007, with the exception of beagles (+16%). Until the urgent new imperative by NASA: preparation for human inhabitation of the Moon and Mars; demanded the introduction of designer foetuses, embryos, babies specifically grown for cloning and remodelling.

The research team at Tannochbrae, under McGilvrae and McVie, used Pearl’s body to test her for respirational difficulties in rarefied atmospheres, her response to repeated doses of drugs, toxins and viral strains, and the reaction of her musculoskeletal system to different atmospheric pressures. In more than 2,000 tests, she was used to test whether continual intravenous injection of moon virus resulted in higher resistance to infection.

Cats, rats, and dogs were used in 93% of all invasive tests enacted since her 16th birthday, but there were still 634 additional experiments involving Pearl so far this, her 18th year, compared to 541 in her 17th year.

As recently as July 2019, the Director of Policy, Ethics and Governance at Medical Research Council had insisted that ‘the use of animals in medical research remained essential for them to develop new and better treatments and to understand the biology of disease. If researchers were applying for funding for studies involving animals, they must give clear reasons for using them and explain why there were no realistic alternatives.’

The head of the research animal department at the RSPCA disagreed, inferring that, ‘behind these numbers were the lives of millions of individual animals. Each was sentient and each was capable of experiencing pain, suffering and distress.’

Responsibility for regulating animal experiments fell on the Home Office. Since the mammal-testing at Tannochbrae breached the terms of the International Medical Convention, only the Home Secretary and Prime Minister knew of the existence of Pearl McGilvrae. The scientists, cleaners and security man working on the project all signed highly confidential non-disclosure agreements with heavy financial penalties and a threat of solitary confinement for anyone found guilty of leaking information.

Since 2014, the Home Office classified testing according to the level of suffering caused. A spokesman said: ‘Our legislation provided a rigorous regulatory system that ensured animal research and testing were carried out only where no practicable alternative existed and under controls which kept suffering to an absolute minimum.’

Of the procedures carried out at Tannochbrae last year, 38.9% were rated mild, 14.7% moderate and 3.6% severe. Specifically, the majority of tests on Pearl were classified moderate to severe.

Beattie, fifty-eight-year-old faithful husband to Annette, father to five girls, thrice grandfather, and Night Security Guard, watched attentively as Pearl padded silently along the corridor, from one security camera to the next. A uniformed guard of no great importance, who obsessed over his own grandeur: he was used to seeing the tall, slim creature with the peachy skin, silky hair and toffee-nose, prance around Tannochbrae nude or with her modesty barely covered by her regulation institutional white slip. But, since she’d grown breasts, hair in her groin and armpits, he’d found her achingly beautiful to watch. He creased the pages of his glossy magazine, and tried to concentrate on matters of security.

There were seven scientists based at Tannochbrae. McGilvrae and McVie shared a bedroom at the far end of the corridor, next to the laboratory, the rarely used entertaining suite, and kitchen. Beattie eyed the time on the blank camera screen. They’d be busy rutting, like the Monarch of the Glen and his doe, deep in the forest. Dawn McNiel, behavioural psychiatrist, would still be writing up her latest report on the effects of Toy on Pearl. Alastair McCain, the brilliant young biochemist responsible for concocting the potentially deadly toxins, fungi, viruses and bacteria, inoculated into the subject, would be sound asleep, a tormentor without a conscience. The other three ghouls, the observational team: McLeish, McTaggart and McPartland, lived out in Oban.


Hot chocolate, warm minced pies and rich fruit cake were traditionally served to all those who were still awake after midnight in the run-up to Christmas by Pearl. Beattie looked forward to receiving her generous offerings; exhausted by his long night shift. McVie, the cunning bitch and power behind the throne, condemned him to a variable hours’ contract, aligned to the hours of darkness. This meant that in November he had to live at Tannochbrae from 3pm to until 8am the following morning. Add to that his one-hour trek by moped to and from Oban, breakfast, lunch. and three hours sleep, if he was lucky. He rarely saw his lovely daughters: Maira, Maisie, Maidie, Maribel and Moira, who all attended local schools, during the dark months. And slept in a separate room from Annette, since she’d lost interest in sex and started stertorous snoring.

Beattie searched for Pearl. She had disappeared from view into the kitchen. No problem! In ten minutes or so, the fine young beauty would appear before him, her slender arms laden with his tray of winter treats. He glanced up at the sprig of mistletoe, he’d hung from the ceiling, far too early for Christmas, and strictly against the rules: No Fraternization with the Animals. Perhaps, Pearl would oblige him with a seasonal kiss, a festive hug. A treat for a sad, lonely, aging man?

Five minutes later, there was a power failure. The lights went out in the control room. The cameras blinked, and switched off. He smiled as she ran her soft, slim fingers through his spiky, ginger hair, down his stubbled cheek, over his fat lips, round his flabby neck. His final thoughts, before the cheesewire cut his throat, were of holding hands, kissing his beloved Annette, gazing over the bay of Oban, watching ferries cross to Mull, from the lofty heights of McCaig’s Tower.

Immune to the cold, Pearl McGilvrae strutted out into the waiting World. Snow fluttered down in heavy flakes, white poppy petals on an alien Remembrance Day. Cascading in swirls borne on the chill wind before settling on the blank canvas that stretched between her and the deactivated perimeter fence…

Say Hello to Pearl!

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