Another time, perhaps.
This will not be the last time we mate, of that I am immediately certain. I have to have her again. Tomorrow, when she comes slinking in, all adorable and ashamed, I’ll have her in the coat room. With any luck, some of the other employees will be near. I’ll have to cover her mouth with my hand to stop her from being overheard. She’s quite a vociferous little fuck.
She finishes pulling her clothes on and immediately launches into the standard script for a woman who just fucked and feels bad about how much she liked it. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I have to go. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”
She is blushing profusely, which is very sweet but also very indicative of the intensity of her orgasm. I will not soon forget the way she felt wrapped around me, how intense thecontractions of her desire were, and how she gave herself up to me like a sweet little lamb.
I feel more like myself right now. Far more human than before. The beast has been satisfied for now. My senses are still heightened, though. I can smell her on me. The air in the room is thick with our combined scent, something more delicious than even her feminine need.
The moment is perfect…
…and then I start to melt.
Ah, hell. I thought I’d worked this glitch out. It’s part of the process associated with automatically becoming human after being animal. There’s an explanation for it I won’t be able to give because of the melting.
I’ve been experimenting, of course. Micro-dosing a little formula here and there. I suppose sexual exertion has triggered something. I didn’t take enough to noticeably transform, at least, not in the eyes of someone who was bent over in front of me taking my cock with eager ease. But now, in front of her, things start to get a little messy.
Her eyes widen as my face starts to, well, melt is really the best word for it. Various parts of my body are regenerating. When it is all over, I will look much the same, but she does not know that.
“Don’t worry,”I try to say.“It only lasts a few minutes.”
That would be very reassuring for her, I am certain. But my mouth has momentarily become one thick glutinous seam, and what emerges from behind it sounds more like the howl of a lost soul than the reassuring words of a dominant scientist.
I need to work out a way to stop this from happening, because frankly it is unseemly at best, and it’s scaring the hell out of the woman I just mated.
The melting is increasing. Usually it’s not this bad. But I tinkered with the formula, in order to get a more intense response. And now I’m paying for that on the other end.
“Don’t worry,” I scrawl on the whiteboard. I try to, at least. But the cells on my fingertips are also undergoing transformation and what I end up scrawling very haphazardly is DONG, because the T starts to look a lot more like a G when the pen slips and…
Lydia lets out a little scream of dismay and rushes out the door in a tangle of her own making. The doors swing behind her with the lazy motion of two heavy instruments marking a particular kind of time—the frequency of her flight, in this case.
Probably for the best. Watching a man have to put himself together on the first day of knowing him at an atomic level is more than most women are really up for.
Ignoring the fact that the woman I have claimed has just rushed out in horror, I focus on the positives of the interaction.
I am satisfied. Deeply. Sex always felt good, of course. But since I started sampling my creations, it feels even better. I experience something deeper and far more meaningful. Instead of satisfying some limited human need inevitably interjected with concerns that have nothing to do with the pleasures of the flesh, these animal instincts of mine, now honed and sharpened, show me what I have always needed.
The woman I just claimed may as well be marked as mine. I draw in a breath and enjoy her scent. I can smell how much sheenjoyed herself, how complete her pleasure was. I want to roll in that scent. I want it to cover me always.
What was her full name, again? I’ll have to check the personnel file when my hands are proper hands again and not skin-crawling simulations of human paws.
Some scientists and all ethics committees would caution against this kind of self-testing, but they don’t take their work as seriously as I do. That’s not to say they’re not serious. They are. I’m just much more serious. I’m much more everything. Too much, some people say.
My mouth is almost functioning again, as I take up a small device to sample the air, capturing the particular pheromonal blend. While she embarrassedly stumbles out of here to confront herself with what she thinks is her mistake, I will analyze it and replicate it. Then I will be able to enjoy it at any time. I might even add it to the process for returning to human form. That’s a sweet gesture. The scent of my mate calling me back to humanity. There’s probably an allegory in there somewhere.
Again, most people would find that impulse odd, if not entirely deranged. But that is their problem. The work I do is twisted, but important. I make a lot of allowances for my own tastes, desires, and needs. After all, science is really more art than science at times.
Once I am back fully in a normal human, entirely solid state, I put my clothing back together as much as I can. I ripped the sleeve of my shirt and several buttons besides. Fortunately for me, they are hidden by the lab coat I managed to have the presence of mind to remove before we started to mate in earnest.
Should I call her? HR will have her number.
I should call her. Reassure her that everything is okay. I’m surprised she didn’t send a team to check on me.
My guess is she was addled from the sex. Or she had full faith in my methods and is assuming I would survive. Or, of course, she could be a sexy, sexy little coward. If she was it wouldn’t be her fault. People can’t control their flight, fight, fawn, and freeze responses as well as we’d like to imagine. Lizard brain stuff.
It’s possible, I consider, to make this process work in a lizard kind of direction. I’m not sure what effect that would have on the psyche of a man. Would he become colder? More calculating? If I were to try, would I be compelled to thrash about at the local pool, grabbing nearby swimmers into death rolls? Sounds silly, but you never know what’s hiding in the amygdala.
By the time I am entirely back to myself and in what might be called my right mind, the clock on the wall tells me it is 7.03 p.m. precisely. I have had a chance to think about all the events of the day, and it is starting to occur to me that I am playing right into the hands of a certain general manager.
