Chapter One
When I first met Doctor Simon Seek, I thought he was a jerk.
I didn’t know I’d get to watch him melt later that day. If I had, I might have been less upset about the obnoxious way he introduced himself.
Right now, I am sitting in the Z-Corp waiting room, a place where they park people who don’t have clearance to enter one of the three circular towers that comprise the main building of the compound.
The big powder teal Z is prominent everywhere, as is the off-white color that isn’t quite cream, but is viciously defended by hordes of intellectual property lawyers.
I have been in the waiting room for an hour past our meeting time. The walls here are pale blue lit with white backlights. They’re obnoxiously medical. There is untold money going into this facility. I’ve been scrolling on my phone the whole time, so I don’t really care too much about how late my interviewer is. I’ve watched three dozen reels about anxious attachment styles and two dozen reels where someone says the words ‘nervous system.’ There was one with a cute dog jumping on a bed that I am sure will turn out to have been generated by a thieving robot.
I flip back to my notes app. I’ve got to stay locked in. I need this job, so I’ve done my research in what turns out to be a futile effort to be educated. Getting hired as a tech writer lately has been about as easy as getting hired to sell sand in the Sahara.
I swipe down my notes.
This is one of the companies that run the world without anybody really noticing it. There are hundreds of brands under its umbrella, from cotton swabs to Frisbees and Ouija boards, step trackers to back massagers. They really do make it all. And if they don’t make it yet, they will.
A good sixty-three minutes after my interview was supposed to start, a tall, handsome man strides into the waiting room. He looks around, which is silly because I am the only person in the room. I have to assume he knows the potted plant isn’t here to be interviewed for the position of technical writer slash personal scribe.
“Lydia Barnes?”
“That’s me,” I say, standing up.
“You’re late,” he says, wildly incorrectly.
“Actually, I’ve been here for…”
“We don’t have time for excuses,” he says, crisply cutting me off. “Come with me, we’ll have to do this interview while I work.”
I want to hate him, but unfortunately he is handsome in an arrogant sort of way. He is clean-cut. He has dark brows, blue eyes, and the kind of mouth that suggests sensuality and cruelty in equal measure. Okay, no, I can hate him, I think.
“You were referred by Veronica,” he says, mentioning the very efficient blonde woman who organized the in-person interview after the online round. She had an air of efficiency that made me feel like a complete mess just by merit of being in her presence.
I was surprised when I actually got a call for this meeting. I got the impression I’d not impressed her at all. But maybe that’s just how everyone here is. Haughty and better than everyone else.
I know I have a kind of mousy energy. My hair is brown, which honestly already feels like a mistake. I tie it up in a low ponytail to keep it out of my face. I wear round-rimmed glasses, and I’ve come to this interview in a brown cardigan and matching skirt. I look like a librarian, and that’s okay because I’m not here to be a supermodel. I’m here to do a job.
Dr. Seek looks me up and down while we wait for the elevator he impatiently summons with a jab of his long finger.
“We don’t need a poet,” he says, apropos of sweet fuck all.
“I’m not a poet. I’m a technical writer. I’m here to document the processes you’ve been working on. At least, that’s what I was informed about when Veronica interviewed me.”
He looks disgruntled. She did warn me about him. She made it clear how territorial he is of the whole program he’s working on. She also made it clear that I was going to be expected to manage him as much as my work. Babysitting a big ego isn’t my idea of a good time, but that’s how jobs are, I suppose.
“We have machines that do that now,” he says.
“And yet, it’s useful to have a human actually understand what is going on for documentation’s sake, rather than feeding slop into slop,” I say with a tight smile.
The elevator doors open. We step in. I am now in a small box with a very large man. I feel my heart skip a beat as I crane my neck to look up and maintain eye contact with him. I immediately wish I had not bothered.
“I can assure you, nothing about our process is slop, young lady,” he says. He cannot possibly be more than five years older than me at most. I am twenty-four. He might be thirty. Maybe. The ‘young lady’ feels condescending, but I suppose that too is on brand.
“I’m going to need to ask questions, and get detailed answers,” I tell him. “For the documentation.” So don’t get your panties in a twist, I add silently.
Unfortunately for us both, his underwear is already experiencing significant rotation. I rubbed him the wrong way when I met him, and there may not be any coming back from that. I’m a technical writer, not a diplomat.
The elevator door opens, and he strides off, leaving me in his wake. I rush after him, cursing that my legs are shorter than his by a significant amount, so when he takes one step, I have to take one and a half to keep up.
He leads me into what I suppose must be his laboratory. I notice that there are eye scans and palm scans to get in, and that his name is on the door.
“Most of the experiment is being managed autonomously,” he says. “So I’m really not sure that you have much to do, if I am to be honest.”
“Does that seem like a good idea?”
He gives me another one of those irritated, jabby little glances. “Obviously,” he says. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be doing it.”
At this point, I’ve pulled out a small pad. I make a few notes about nothing in particular, mostly because it seems to annoy him, and he is definitely annoying me. Fair is fair.
This doesn’t feel like an interview at all. It feels like being dragged around by an unwilling person who doesn’t want me there. But he doesn’t tell me to leave, so I keep following.
“This is Project Chimera.” He finally says something useful. “Did Veronica fill you in?”
“A little. I have the outline.”
He looks displeased about that.
“She told me it is a top-secret, highly sensitive project and that you would have the say in deciding whether or not I was allowed to become part of it.”
That seems to mollify him a little bit. He’s still in control. I wonder why my presence seems to threaten that.
I can’t imagine him ever not being in control. He has the air of a man who has always been in charge. I shouldn’t pretend I don’t know who he is. Of course I know.
Simon Seek is the only child of Ramona and Derrick Seek, people who are known for being incredibly rich and good looking. Ramona and Derrick live in Spain now, having inherited a castle from an aged relative. From what I can tell, Simon’s net worth is in the high millions. He doesn’t need to work at all.
He mostly stays under the radar, so information on him as a person is relatively limited. No social media. No interviews. He’s not a fame seeker. He could be, though. He’s more than handsome enough to be.
I try to turn the conversation back to the project at hand. I’ve been made aware that the shareholders need enough information to be able to throw more money at the place, and future researchers need to have access to detailed data sheets and such so that discoveries are not lost by being locked up in the minds of their inventors.
The corporate world of science is brutal. This man is a genius, and yet he possibly owns nothing of what he has made. That would be enough to put me in a perpetually bad mood too, I suppose.
“So, as I understand it, Project Chimera is an effort to edit genes in real time in living specimens.”
“We turned a mouse into a chicken. That was proof of concept,” he says, sounding thoroughly bored.
“Wow. Really? Do you have one here?”
“Of course I have one,” he says. “They’re quite the crowd pleaser. Makes the concept easily understandable by almost anyone. A child. Or a technical writer.”
I let the dig slide, because it’s silly, and because I want to see the chickmouse. Moushen. Chicouse. I will work on naming conventions later.
We step into the laboratory, and he gestures at a large glass cage with a mesh top for ventilation and wood shavings for bedding. The sort of cage a scientist might keep a lab rat in.
It is no rat that meets my gaze.
“Oh…” I say, surprised, though I probably shouldn’t be, because this is exactly what he said it would be.
The creature he has shown me is half-chicken, half-mouse. It is holding a piece of cheese in between surprisingly human-like hands emerging from short arms that in turn emerge from a feathered body. The little beast has a beak and pecks at the morsel quite happily.
“Well?” he says.
“It’s smaller than I would have thought,” I reply.
“Sorry my miracle isn’t large enough for your taste,” he snaps.
“I’m no size queen,” I comment, mostly under my breath. He snorts, apparently having heard it.
I am actually a virgin, not that I intend to tell him about that. I intend to keep my personal life very private from him. He has the air of a man who would be judgmental either way. It is hard to please him, I think. Plus, I don’t particularly like him. I’d understand the surliness if I had done anything to deserve it, but I am just doing my job. Or trying to get to the point where I have a job to do. I bet he has very little understanding of what that feels like.
[divider]
Simon
I should be nicer. I am trying to be nicer.
This young woman is very pretty. Her sleek brown hair is tied back in an efficient ponytail, and her makeup is applied in a similar fashion. She’s dressed like her job. Brown cardigan. Skirt that hits just below her knees. Tall boots that come up underneath. They’re flat heels. Practical, but faintly stylish. I could say that about her in general, actually.
She’s making notes with a stylus on her pad. I think she’s got some kind of paper type covering on it to make it feel more like she’s writing with pen and paper. A Luddite, then. Interesting that she chooses to work as a technical writer.
I bet she’d love a journal as a present. I imagine she has several at home already, unused or barely used. Too good to make notes in. Some people make rough notes on pads like she has, or cheap paper, then make ornate spreads in their journals. I don’t think she has time for that.
I notice and catalog all these things while she stares at the Chimouse. It’s actually one of the less advanced successful experiments I’ve conducted, but it’s safe to show the general public and it’s the sort of nonsense that keeps shareholders happy.
“So this isn’t a blended creature, born from some kind of modified egg?”
“No. This is a mouse who became a chicken. Or part of one. Would you like to see the magic part?”
“Of course.”
I go ahead and reach for the antidote. The creature is trained to suckle at a dropper by instinct, so it takes the medicine without hesitation. The small size means it saturates quickly; there’s only a pause of thirty seconds or so before the Chimouse starts to devolve back to its original form.
“Oh, my god!” Lydia squeaks. I like her excitement. It’s always gratifying to see people react to this technology. I have managed to blend magic and science and what is left behind is something that could appear in any fantasy novel. But this is real life. I have harnessed something that people have dreamed of for centuries. This is as close as anybody has ever gotten to a true incarnation of the philosopher’s stone. It’s almost more alchemical than scientific.
“It’s a mouse again!”
Lydia is blocking the cage with her head, but I know what she saw. The feathers shrivel and then drop. After that, the whole thing starts to assume something much closer to traditional mouse shape and continues to shrink even as it grows fur and a mouse tail and whiskers.
“It is,” I say.
“It’s almost unnatural, how fast the transformation takes place,” she says. “I feel like I’m watching something that can’t possibly be real—but it is. Isn’t it. You’ve really done this. You’re brilliant!”
“Thank you,” I say. It’s hard not to be gratified by her enthusiasm.
“How does it happen so quickly?”
“When the genes shift, so does the form,” I explain. “There’s an agent that speeds the phenotypical expression, but that’s proprietary.”
“Everything you do is proprietary,” she says. “I’m cleared to know everything.”
She might be cleared by Veronica, but she hasn’t been cleared by me. There are plenty of things about this tech that I am keeping to myself. The documentation is limited for a reason, and that is why I have been somewhat unpleasant to the girl. I have no intention of laying all my secrets bare to her, or to anyone.
“This is going to change the world,” she says. “I can’t imagine what you’re going to do with this. I can’t imagine what they will do. Making animals out of other animals! You could bring species back from the dead. De-extinction!”
“Sure,” I say, knowing full well that nothing so wholesome is planned. The ability to shift the flesh is going to have a great many applications, many of them terrible.
“Or…” She pauses. “Wow. The possibilities seem almost endless.”
“Indeed. Anyway. You can start writing. I will give you my notes and you can work on them here. It should be enough. If you need me, I will be working. So. Try not to ask me any questions.”
She gives me that slightly wounded look because she doesn’t understand why I am being this way to her. I am doing her a favor. The more I keep her at arm’s length, the safer she will be. I’ll let her write up just enough to keep the suits and the shareholders happy. Meanwhile, the only person who will ever be able to actually action these transformations will remain me.
“I have the job?” She looks up at me with big puppy eyes, and I have to resist the urge to pat her on the head and tell her that she’s a good girl. Something tells me she might enjoy that a little too much. This woman has a submissive streak in her, or maybe it’s just the effect seeking employment has on anybody.
“So far you do,” I tell her. “I’m willing to give you a trial.”
“Thank you!” She beams. “You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”
It would be impossible for her to disappoint me, as I very much do not want her to do a good job anyway.
“I’m sure I won’t,” I say.
She settles down at a desk near the mouse, and I return to work. I find her presence not entirely unpleasant. She has a quiet, kind energy about her. She is clearly the studious type.
For the next hour, the lab is less lonely than usual. I never noticed that it was lonely before. That’s interesting. I like my privacy and my space. Usually people feel like an intrusion. She doesn’t.
I glance over from time to time and see her immersed in the work. She’s really interested in it, and she’s asked no questions because she’s too busy reading and making notes. I decide to do a little stroll-by, like a teacher to see what she’s written, but much like a nervous student, she hides the paper behind her arm.
I smile to myself, then put two fingers on my notes and pull them down enough that she has to look at me.
“Enjoying the material?”
“This is fascinating,” she says. “I never thought I’d get to use my bio-med classes. I didn’t do enough of them to qualify, but I think I understand what I’m looking at, and it’s genius!”
That is a very gratifying response. In this industry, people are called geniuses all the time. But something in the truly genuine way she uses the word softens me toward her a little more.
Dammit. Veronica knew precisely what she was doing when she picked this girl for me. I am attracted, and that is a dangerous thing given what I am up to here. I cannot afford distractions.
But she’s not supposed to be a distraction. She’s supposed to be a vessel. You see, what Veronica knows, and what I am not supposed to have been doing, is experimenting with my own formulas. On myself.
There’s a question as to what would happen if someone taking these products were to impregnate a woman. Would the DNA changes be passed through the sperm? We can sequence them, of course. But you never really know what nature is going to do until she actually does it.
Lydia is looking over my shoulder, I notice.
I lift a querying brow at her.
“What other animals do you have back there?”
“You don’t have access to the research yet to be done, so you don’t need to know that,” I tell her. I don’t want her going back into my more private areas. “This room is fine to look at with supervision, but I don’t want you going any further into the lab, am I clear?”
She nods meekly, and I assume she’s going to do as she is told. So far she has been polite and obedient, as well as pretty.
We break for lunch. I go out to get something from the cafeteria. I think about asking her if she wants to come with me, but I figure she is an adult and she is also buried in my notes with apparent intense concentration.
I go and get lunch.
“What do you think of our newest hire?” The question is addressed to me by a sleekly dressed middle-aged woman with amazing hair, perfect makeup, and a streak of steel inside her soul that intimidates and terrifies lesser men.
Veronica does not usually bother with the cafeteria, but today she is lurking, holding a fruit salad I am almost certain she is not going to eat. She needs it as an excuse to speak to me. Interesting, given she could just summon me to her office. But this interaction is supposed to be casual—and I suppose it is, in the way a shark in a shoal of fish is casual.
That is why there’s a small but complete dead zone around her. Everybody avoids Veronica. She has the air of a woman who has complete control and will do what she wants with it. The board loves her. Her management style has turned this faction of the company into an even more profitable endeavor.
My relationship to her is somewhat complicated. I am too personally and financially well-endowed to care about her power, but she does have influence over what can be done here.
“Lydia seems like she’s going to be very efficient,” I say.
Veronica smiles. “She’s of good age and good health, and I assume you find her attractive…”
The woman has all the subtlety of a madam. For a moment, this modern café fades away and is replaced mentally with an old Western saloon, and Veronica is not the manager, she’s the lady handling the working girls.
“I’m going to maintain professional boundaries,” I tell Veronica. We both know I am lying. The girl in my lab is the sweetest, most fuckable little treat I have laid eyes on in a while.
“What you do in your personal lives is none of my concern.” Veronica winks, turns on her heel, and stalks out of the cafeteria, dropping the fruit salad in the trash on the way out. The entire room seems to breathe a sigh of relief as she leaves, and conversation picks up a level as the other employees return to their regular interactions. The ice queen has left the room and spring has returned to our little Narnia.
I get my usual, a corned beef sandwich, and I eat it at the table with John Egan and Stewart Black. John runs the security systems, the cameras in particular, and I like him on my side so he doesn’t let anybody know that the ones in my lab don’t work. Stewart is head of provisioning. He can get me anything I want or need, and he does. I also play a useful role in this little ecosystem that exists in plain sight here in the middle of the building in the middle of the day.
People like Veronica think that power is knowing rich people and seeking out contacts in government and the military, but having been born into such a world I am well aware that true power is found in these smaller, quieter places. If people like John and Stewart won’t help you, it doesn’t matter how many big names you know.
I finish up lunch, and head back to the lab. If Lydia hasn’t taken a break, I am going to send her out to eat.
As I walk into the lab, I find it empty. Okay. Good. Maybe she’s gone out to get something. I go back to my station and I am about to start work when movement in my peripheral vision makes me aware that the doors to the area I specifically and firmly designated as out of bounds are opening.
She peeks through the crack in the doors, trying to sneak past me without being noticed. My temper spikes. I put my instruments down, turn and reach through the doors. I grab her by the back of the neck, pull her back into the main lab, and spank her skirt-covered ass rather hard.
Her yowl is pleasingly pained.
“I told you to stay out of there,” I say. “When I give you an order, I expect you to obey it. This is not a college library. This is a private research facility with more money invested in it than you can possibly imagine, with spies attempting to break in every five minutes, and with the military salivating at the prospect of this technology, I need you to follow rules and respect boundaries. If you disobey me again, I’ll paddle you.”
Her look of shock is priceless. I don’t think anybody has ever disciplined her. I can imagine she has been a good girl most of her life. Studious. Careful. Anything she did wrong was probably overlooked because of how well she behaves in every other way.
She thinks that because she is curious, she should get to indulge that curiosity. She doesn’t see why she should have to follow rules.
“You can’t do that to me!” Her lower lip quivers, and her eyes well with tears.
“I can. And I will.”
“I’ll tell on you.”
“To who? Veronica? Do you want to tell her you were told to stay out of certain areas for your safety, you didn’t follow those rules, and you ended up with a spanked bottom? Be my guest. I can assure you that story will be more embarrassing for you than inconvenient for me. You’ll likely get yourself fired for breaking protocol.”
My cock twitches at her crestfallen expression, as she starts to realize she is at my mercy. If she wants to do her job, she has to keep me on her side. If she disobeys me, and I spank her like the spoiled little brat she is increasingly seeming to be, then she has to simply tolerate that.
She takes a step back, looking flustered.
“You still haven’t apologized,” I prompt her.
“Oh. Uh. Sorry, I guess.”
“That’s not an apology,” I reply.
“I’m sorry?”
Slightly better, but still way too much attitude. I really do not think that Lydia is used to being held responsible at all. The concept of sorry seems like something she shouldn’t have to engage with.
I myself am becoming distracted from discipline because I can smell something on her that I am sure she’d be ashamed by if she knew how sensitive my senses are.
She’s wet.
More than wet, she’s ovulating. She’s ripe to be bred, and what she wants, more than anything, is to be fucked.
Maybe she was curious as to what I had in the back. Or maybe she got caught on purpose because she wants me to do something about it. Is this her way of asking for something she doesn’t know how to ask for any other way?
I take a step forward. “Say you’re sorry properly, or I will give you what you really deserve for having broken the rules.”
Her eyes widen, and I see her take a shallower breath. “I don’t know what you want from me,” she says.
Of course she does. She knows how to apologize. She doesn’t want to. And not doing it is exciting her deeply.
“I think you do,” I say, moving another step forward. She backs up against the wall.
“Nuh-uh.” She bites her lower lip. That gesture alone screams fuck me.
She is going to tempt me and disobey me until I am forced to hike that skirt, pull down her panties, and show her what it feels like to be taken properly in hand.
My cock is throbbing right now. If not for the lab coat, she would see my erection tenting my pants. I wonder if it would horrify her to know just how effective her little ruse has been.
I can tell she’s single. She doesn’t smell like another man, and if there were a man in her life and she was this fertile, I know I would smell his seed on her. He would have marked her in the way all men do, one way or another. He would have rubbed his musk on her, left a pheromonal signature to let others know she was taken.
I take another deep breath, drawing in all the information I need.
She smells like soap and need.
If we weren’t civilized, I’d already be breeding her. I’d have her bent over the lab table taking my cock until she had a pussy full of cum. I might even keep her here, breed her all night long, taking a break to eat and rest and hydrate before filling her up all over again. That’s what she needs.
Fuck.
I have to keep these impulses under control. They’re far too animal and rough for the human world, and I am doing my best to stay in it whether I truly belong or not.
[divider]
Lydia
He can’t talk to me this way.
He can’t smack me like I’m some wayward brat.
Yes, I broke the rules, but you get written up for that. Maybe you have to make an official apology and write something in an email. You don’t get cornered by the hottest man in history who is demanding an apology while sounding like he’s talking about something else completely.
When he spanked me, something shifted inside my body. I felt a rush of… I don’t even want to admit it to myself. It should be outrage and adrenaline, but it’s neither of those things.
I still want to assert myself. My butt is stinging like crazy, and the shock of being hit is enough to make me want to cry. I can’t believe he did that. Who treats other people this way?
“I’m not going to apologize to you. If anything, you should be apologizing for putting your hands on me.”
There’s a moment where his eyes flash. Right about the time I say ‘putting your hands on me,’ I see desire in his gaze, and all of a sudden it really doesn’t feel like I am in a workplace. The distance between us is so small. He’s so close.
He leans in a fraction, and I think for sure he’s about to kiss me. Then something shifts, and he pulls back.
“Go and sit down,” he says, his teeth gritted in an animalistic way. “Get back to work. Don’t move from the desk I assigned you unless you need to go to the bathroom.”
I should just do it, but I can’t allow it.
“You can’t tell me to do that. I don’t answer to you.”
Whatever control he managed to regain over himself shatters in an instant. He had turned away to start to work himself, but at my words, he whips around and grips me by the arm. He turns me briskly before I can complain, and spanks my ass again.
“Ow!”
A second hard shot lands across my ass, further igniting my annoyance and embarrassment, and something else that I am trying very, very hard to push away.
“You have a nice rear for punishing,” he says. “I would enjoy teaching you several lessons about basic obedience. It might do you good. Might keep you alive a little longer than you’d otherwise manage.”
“Alive? Are you threatening me?”
“This is a lab where a single mistake could lead to nonexistence. Do I need to explain why that is a bad idea? Why you need to listen to me?”
His hand is still on my ass, a warm and heavy weight on my burning cheek. He gives it a slight squeeze, and I feel my clit tingle. This went from unprofessional to very unprofessional. The spank was one thing, but this is starting to feel more like seduction. He rubs his hand up and down my rear slowly, then pats my ass and withdraws his hand.
I’m aroused. I hate it so much that he has managed to elicit that reaction from me. I am here to work. I am standing in the heart of a mystery that will change the world as we know it, and now I am looking up at the hot, sexy, horrible man who is permanently grumpy as far as I can tell and I am wishing that he would slide his hand around my hip and rub my pussy.
What a silly desire.
I move away and I sit down. I pretend to go back to work, looking at his notes, which are mostly chicken scratch and seem to contradict one another.
I pretend to work. I don’t want him to know how much that relatively brief touch affected me. He’s an asshole, I tell myself, and he had no right to spank me. I’m not some brat to be punished just because I don’t do exactly what he says. And besides, I was just looking. It’s not like I was going about licking random surfaces.
He’s hiding something. He’s hiding a lot.
I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me.
Worse? I don’t like this place. I don’t think anything they are doing here is going to be for the public good. I don’t know why they want the documentation, but I have a feeling it’s going to be sealed as soon as it is finished, and I’ll be silenced somehow along the way. It sounds paranoid, but the more I think about the potential applications for this, the more uneasy I feel. It’s probably imperfect at the moment, after all, that mouse didn’t really entirely look like a chicken; it looked like a fucked-up chicken mouse. But they’re onto something.
Dr. Seek goes back to his work, something at the computer. I wonder how much of the machine is involved in the work. How much can he really take credit for himself?
I work through his notes, transcribing them into a less chaotic mess. The technology seems reasonable enough. It’s simply gene-editing on the fly. Theoretically we’ve been able to do this since ages ago. This is how some of the best ideas are stumbled upon, though, isn’t it. Something we already know how to do, tweaked slightly to do something we should never be able to do.
I want him.
Silently, needfully. Every moment that passes is another moment in which the memory of his hand on my ass, his lips so close to mine, his body easily dominating the space between us continues to marinate. I find myself pressing my thighs together, trying to get control of my impulses.
And then I don’t have to anymore, because he gives into the energy between us.
A hand slides around my waist, over my stomach and delves between my thighs. His fingers press lightly over my sex through my clothes. He does this all with an almost casually dominant energy, as if he is allowed to do this.
I spread my thighs, giving him silent permission to do with me as he pleases. I close my eyes and I pretend it’s not happening because that means I’m not allowing this to happen. I’m not acting like a horny little slut in heat.
I have been single for six months. It’s not as long as some people, but it’s a long time for me. He’s caught me at just the right time to do something crazy with a guy I just met who I will never see again, because no way am I coming back to this job tomorrow.
I might as well let him fuck me.
[divider]
Simon
Most men wouldn’t do this. They would know better. They would stop themselves. They would say things like, oh, yes, she’s attractive, but I am at work and anybody could walk in and we barely know each other, perhaps I’ll ask her for a drink.
But that’s because they can’t smell her like I can. They can’t see the signals she is giving off as clearly as I can. My senses are tuned differently thanks to my recent indulgences.
As much as I tried to resist, in the end instinct won. Now that my hands are on her body, there can be only one outcome.
I feel her shuddering with need beneath me, and I feel all the animal impulses I try so hard to restrain rushing to the fore. It’s so hard to control myself. Even in daily life I notice that the beast inside me is starting to blend into my human moments.
I noticed it a little at first, just here and there, the urge to bare my teeth and snarl instead of simply telling someone who was annoying me to have a nice day.
I’ve been keeping my demeanor brusque in the hopes of making others think I’m just serious. Serious covers for a lot of other sins. This young woman thinks I am an unpleasant, rude, domineering man.
I am now, I suppose.
I wasn’t always.
My attempts to self-reflect and gain some control are failing by the millisecond. My touch seems to be particularly effective with her.
She rises and is moaning, arching back against me, rubbing her perfectly pert rear against my clothed cock. And I am giving into urges that should be far more contained than they are, because they are not the desires of a man with a job and a social reputation to maintain. They are the needs of a beast who is compelled to mate.
I can smell her. I want to taste her.
I ruck her skirt up, push her forward over the table, pull her underwear aside, and bury my face in her sex, my tongue lapping at the dew between her lips and pushing up inside the tight hole beyond those delicate petals. She has not been mated in a long time. She is almost untouched in the way she responds, her hips jolting as I use my fingers to strum the hungry little bud of her clit while I savagely snarl and pleasure her with a ravenous mouth.
When I rise from between her thighs, my cock is already free. I don’t remember doing it; I just know that I needed to get it out of this clothing that feels like a useless set of bindings.
[divider]
Lydia
“Noooo!” I whimper in protest. “Don’t stop!”
I am so fucking close to coming, but he didn’t let me finish. It was like he knew exactly how I felt, and precisely when to stop. The frustration is incredible, but so is the pleasure. I am panting with need, feeling like I am totally out of control.
I thought I hated him ten minutes ago. Now I’m considering asking him to be the father of my children. Holy shit. I am trembling, and I can’t stop, and I don’t think I will be able to stop until I come.
I have met some men who thought they were into kinky shit before. I have never, ever in my life met a man this fucking wild.
He just ate my pussy like his life depended on it. He was so passionate, and so skillful at the same time. I am writhing with need as he stands up behind me, one hand on my ass to keep me down and in place while my pussy drips with need.
I turn around and look at him. His eyes are wide. His face is contorted, his handsomeness more pronounced and wilder than ever. He lets out a sound like a howl and rips his shirt off on one side, exposing a body that is way more fucking ripped than any scientist should really be.
The sound he makes is primal and rough. Most men sound silly when they play act like dogs, but he sounds like he might be something from the woods. And then I don’t care about any of it anymore, because I feel the tip of his cock right at the entrance to my pussy and he is pushing inside with a firm stroke of claiming that leaves me panting for more as he presses me down on the desk and holds me there, his teeth on the back of my neck as he humps agile hips to make that thick, hard cock of his surge in and out of me.
Nobody seeing me in this state would believe me, but I truly do not do things like this. I am usually so sensible and so cautious when it comes to men. My social media is full of girls’ girl content. And here I am, letting myself be fucked bare by a man who wasn’t even particularly nice to me.
It feels illegal to be doing this. It feels wrong. And that is making it even more exciting and enticing as his stunning cock works me toward a quick orgasm. Anybody could come in at any moment. We could be discovered.
The danger only intensifies my lust. He has one hand between my legs again, strumming my clit as he fucks me toward climax. He’s going to come inside me, I just know he is. And I know I shouldn’t let him. I shouldn’t have let him touch me in the first place. The moment he spanked me I should have been upstairs filing an HR complaint. Instead I am in a deeply subterranean basement having my pussy fucked.
I climax from the realization of what I am doing, from an imaginary bird’s-eye view of how primal and basic I am being. I come on his fingers and his cock, my entire body contorting in a fierce wave of pleasure that feels like the first truly nice thing that has happened to me in months. In that moment of orgasm, I am completely and entirely free.
And then, milli-moments later, sanity forces its way through my brain. We can’t do this. We already did it, but we can’t…
“Oh, my god! Don’t come in me!”
I gather enough sense to say that quickly right before he can finish inside me. For an awful moment, I think he might disregard that, too far gone in the throes of his own ecstasy.
He might come inside me anyway. He might fill me up even though I told him not to… my pussy tingles and my hips grind, and I do everything I can besides saying the words to make that happen because I am as entirely out of control as I have ever been.
I feel him pulling out, and a wail emerges from me, some strange but potent need. When he slides out and denies me of his seed, I feel as though I am being deprived of something very, very important.
“What do you want?” He asks the question with the tip of his cock still lodged inside me. His voice sounds rougher than before, more animal, if that is possible. It’s borderline inhuman. Am I being held down and fucked by a monster? I think so.
“Fuck me,” I moan.
He obliges. And this time there is no time, there is no quarter. There is his cock rough inside me, mating me with demanding stroke after demanding stroke until he buries himself deep inside my gripping pussy, just like I asked him to.
I moan something barely coherent, and a moment later he pulls out of my pussy, grips my hair, and pulls my mouth onto his cock, pumping thick spurts of seed over my tongue and down my throat. I am grateful for it, practically thirsty for his cum.
When every drop is inside me, one end or the other, he releases me and stands back with a satisfied expression on his devilishly handsome face.
He pushes his cock away into his pants, but the thick bulge is still there. It actually looks incredibly big, but I can’t exactly ask him to take it out so I can examine it. Who does that?
“What a good girl,” he says. “You do as you’re told without having been told what to do.”
That oxymoron sounds like it doesn’t make sense, but I know exactly what he means. I let him fuck me. I bent for him. I spread for him. I took his cum. I even asked for it. And now, as my climax fades, and I push my skirt back down and my commonsense returns, I am filled with a kind of humiliated horror I usually only experience in bad dreams.
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