A Cuckoo's Nest (futa/F, size)

Story by lustepic

Hi again and standard word of caution about my writing.

English is not my mother tongue and nobody have proofread the following chapters. The first chapter doesn't contain sex but the next ones don't necessarily make any sense unless you read it. I have more chapters written, but they are waiting for the time when I get around to cleaning them enough not to get accused causing cerebral hemorrhage for those reading them. Lets hope these don't wreck too much havoc on anybody's sensibilities.

--lustepic--

The man that stepped out from the elevator limped slightly. Stopping for a moment he rubbed his smarting leg. Quick glance at the weather through the outer office’s window confirmed that it rained outside. Shut inside the “inner office” he had guessed as much from the twinges radiating out of the old wound. The maintenance staff insisted that the HQ’s underground offices shielding, together with climate control, prevented any outside weather conditions affecting it, in addition to radiation and airborne toxics. And yet, even there, the wounds tingled whenever it rained outside.

“Sir, the ex-director called. She wants know when you’ll came to attend her daughter’s birthday. And your wife called. Your daughter will arrive in the 16:15 train.” His secretary’s sultry voice informed him behind her desk.

Acknowledging that he had heard her merely with a nod, the man limped at the door leading into his office and opening it stepped inside. Pains from the old wounds worsening he settled in the big leather chair, rubbing at his leg. Watching his reflection, which many women had found handsome, on the rain splattered window his mind slipped in the past. Reliving how he had received the wound, and how things had changed since then.

~~~

“Mr. Smith! Mr. John Smith! Your taxi is here!” The bellhop’s shout cut through the creaking of the bar’s fan shifting around the oppressively hot air. Staring at the remains of ice in my glass I debated was it really worthwhile to step out of the hotel’s bar and into the taxi. Very probably not, since I was conducting a field job to find truth about rumors circulating about resurfaced Nazi super soldier results in Asia – a total fool’s errand.

Nothing in the mission briefing had indicated that this would be dangerous or important job. Worse, it was the kind of errand normally given to new kids; to learn the ropes of the trade, and an occasion make fools out of themselves. Giving such an assignment to me meant that someone had made an error in mission allocations or my days as an agent were numbered, the latter option obviously the correct one. I had royally botched my last three assignments. Being either drunk as a skunk at the wrong time or in the bed with the wrong kind of partner from the wrong party.

Checking perfunctorily around, spending every penny I could from my doubtless last expense account I had drifted from Hong Kong to Singapore, short trip to Macao before Bangkok, ending finally in Bombay of all the places. Everywhere queries about Nazi super soldiers were met with shaking heads and disbelieving eyes. A half a year spent chasing long dead ghosts and flimsy papers on a measly expense account. Bombay was the last stage. The expense account was empty and I had exhausted all the excuses for more money. Cursing myself a fool I emptied the ice to mouth. Picking up fan from the counter I headed towards the shouting bellhop and exit.

“Your taxi has arrived, Mr. John Smith sahib!”

“Thanks.” Ignoring the offered palm waiting for a tip I prepared to run the harsher gauntlet outside checking that my wallet was securely inside my jacket’s zipped inner pocket. It befitted to be cautious. The first time I had run this particular gauntlet I had lost both my wallet and watch. Taking deep breath I stepped out in the blinding sunlight.

“Sahib! Sahib! Sahib!” A gaggle of street urchins descended on me like locusts, same as every time I emerged from the hotels safety. Grimly clutching my jacket’s side I swatted with the fan at the hands pulling and grapping at my grumbled suit. Pushing through the throng of destitute I headed towards the waiting carriage. It was a rickshaw, not a car with air-conditioning as I had vainly hoped for. The hotel my money could afford anymore being more of a hovel and considering my destination being in the Daravi slum it was very fitting transportation.

At barked “Chalauna!” the short, lean rickshaw driver started turning the pedals, pulling away from the hungry crowd. Patting wallet in its pocket I confirmed that I had successfully negotiated the hurdle.

Myself sweating in the sweltering heat, the handler was apparently dried up, not perspiring despite pedaling the heavy rickshaw. Wandering my eyes spotted a car that pulled closer in the traffic. As the rick

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