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 throughmy 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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
