Animal Attraction

My name's Steve Birch. I'm a 26-year old Londoner, and I'm virtually irresistible to women. That's not male bragging, simply a statement of fact. It's not just because of my looks, although at six feet tall and slim, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes, I'm attractive enough. It's not because of my personality, although I'm generally considered intelligent, witty and good company; it's not even because of my 8-inch cock, although obviously that doesn't exactly put the ladies off. No, it's because of a little gift I have in rather more abundance than most men.

As a kid women always seemed to be crowding round my pram and push-chair gurgling over me and tweaking my cheek. My mother was always very, very affectionate: she loved kissing and cuddling me at every opportunity. It was all completely innocent of course, but extremely noticeable when she picked me up from school and smothered me in front of the other kids. That, and my popularity with the girls, got me beaten up a few times. (I've always seemed to have problems with a certain sort of macho dickhead.) At one point I had three girlfriends at the same time. They were all happy with the situation, as long as they got their share of me, and there were plenty of others queuing up to take their places. I always seemed to get really good marks from female teachers too, without really working harder than anyone else.

I didn't get an explanation for all this until I got to university. A girlfriend there, a scientist, did various tests on me, and told me, when she could detach her mouth from my dick for long enough, that I had an extraordinary level of sex pheromones – dozens of times more than was normal in a human male, possibly hundreds of times. God knows where it came from – certainly not my dad, trust me! – but there it was, I was officially, and more or less literally, a babe magnet. Naturally, being a typical cocky student – no pun intended – I took full advantage of my, well, advantage. I used to make money out of it by betting my mates I could pull any woman they pointed to. Apart from numerous students, I slept with three lecturers, including a 62-year old lifelong lesbian, and my head of department's wife and daughter – at the same time. My greatest triumph, and by far my most lucrative bet, came with our local Member of Parliament. I met her at a surgery she held for constituents, and within five minutes she'd ordered her assistant from the room because of the "confidentiality of Mr Birch's issue". I can't believe the bloke didn't hear her screaming obscenities as I fucked her over a school desk!

Since I left uni I've been a bit more socially responsible. I don't have a girlfriend, and I probably haven't averaged more than eight or ten partners a year. Okay, maybe 12 or 15. In a slow year. Over the years I've learnt to control my 'talent' a bit. It's always there of course: wherever I go women of all ages and types immediately warm to me, and I still have to watch my step around more Neanderthal men. (I had to leave my last job because a woman director wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. She was attractive enough, but there had to be a reason why her six-feet-four, 18-stone rugby-playing husband was nicknamed 'Killer'.) But by driving all thoughts of sex from my mind, and wearing a particularly cloying aftershave, I can generally tone it down. Of course, I can also turn it up too when I want, and I've never been turned down by a woman I wanted to pull.

Until I met Ileana.

She'd been with the company a few months before I really became aware of her. That was because she'd been promoted, and we started attending the same meetings, about three a week. She was 23, only a couple of inches shorter than me, with masses of tawny brown hair, worn swept back from her forehead to reveal a slight widow's peak. She was slim except for C-cup boobs that all the men in our meetings had regular glances at. She always dressed in black, usually thigh- or knee-length skirts and short-sleeved tops, revealing sinewy arms and well muscled legs – I assumed she must work out a lot. She had what might be called a strong face – not unattractive, but with prominent eyebrow ridges, vigorous brows that she made no attempt to pluck, a slim pointed nose, a wide mouth with dazzling white teeth, and not much of a chin to speak of. She had a habit of running the tip of her tongue round her lips which I found dead sexy, together with a deep husky voice. Her eyes were particularly striking – ice blue in colour, and when she locked them on you it felt like diamonds boring into you.

Ileana and I immediately got on well, and found we had a similar sense of humour, cynical and slightly dark. On several occasions we found ourselves cackling together at some off-the-cuff gag that nobody else in the meeting remotely got, with everyone in the room staring at us in a sort of long-suffering way. After a couple of weeks I decided I definitely fancied her, and that she deserved me. (Arrogant? Me?) So I determined to give her the benefit of my special gift. I had to be careful – turning it on full power in a room with quite a few other people can be downright dangerous, with the women throwing themselves at me and the wrong sport of bloke feeling a sudden, previously unrealised urge to punch my lights out. But I found one or two excuses to be alone with Ileana, going over reports and suchlike, and hit her with the full force of my sexual magnetism.

With most women, five minutes of me radiating at them and they'd be on their knees in front of me panting and tearing at my fly. From Ileana, not a thing. The first time I tried it her eyes momentarily flared and I thought, "Here we go"; but the moment passed, and after that I got no reaction from her whatsoever. I'd never experienced that before, and it both fascinated me and unsettled me. The more it happened, the more determined I became that I was going to give her the shagging of her life. After several knock-backs, I decided I was just going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, and actually ask her out. Once I got a couple of drinks inside her my gift was bound to have its usual effect.

My opportunity arrived one Friday when a load of us went to the pub to celebrate a colleague's retirement. I gave it an hour or so, then I managed to manoeuvre Ileana to a corner table, a bit away from the others. We made small talk at first, while I tried projecting at her again. No reaction; she seemed quite relaxed and happy in my company though. I said casually, "Ileana Niculescu – that's an unusual name."

She shook her head. "Not in Romania it isn't. Transylvania, actually – my parents moved here when I was a tot."

I chuckled. "Wow – you're not a vampire, are you?"

She gave me a strained smile, and said sarcastically, "That's a good one; yeah, never heard that one before."

Feeling a complete prat, I was aware of myself blushing. "Er, yeah, right, sorry. Anyway, what time's your boyfriend expecting you home? Or your husband? Or your girlfriend?"

Ileana giggled at that, and ran the tip of a fingernail round the lip of her wine glass, then said coyly, "What makes you think there's anyone at home waiting for me?"

I turned my best pulling smile up to full beam. Reaching out a hand and stroking a couple of strands of hair behind her ear, I said softly, "Well, I can't believe a woman as lovely as you hasn't got someone special in her life. That'd be a crying shame."

She stared expressionless at me for a moment – then burst out laughing. Brushing my hand away, she jeered, "Has that awful chat-up line ever really actually worked for you? Gawd, you'll be asking me what a nice girl like me's doing in a place like this next!" She took the look of absolute astonishment on my face for hurt, and toned down her grin to a gently smile. "I'm sorry Steve...no, there isn't anyone. Look, if you want to ask me out, just ask me out."

I was still a bit stunned that my pheromones were having no impact on her but, shrugging, I mumbled, "Would you like to go out with me?"

Her eyes twinkled as she replied, "No, sorry. You're a really nice guy Steve, and I do like you, but I'm just not interested in a relationship with anyone right now. It's nothing personal, honest." Then she glanced at her watch, tipped back the last of her red wine and stood. "Look, sorry to cut and run, but the new series of Blade starts on TV tonight, and I'm hooked on it. Cheers Steve, thanks for being interested in me, I really am flattered."

As she began to move away, I called, "I don't suppose there's any chance of you changing your mind, is there – about a relationship? Or just nice casual non-relationship sex, maybe?"

She laughed, and took a step back towards the table. "Let's put it this way: don't give up hope, and if I do change my mind I promise you'll be the first to know." With that she scuttled out of the pub, while I stared into my pint, reflecting on the irony that, after my vampire joke, she was rushing off to watch a show about a bloody vampire. I tried to put it out of my mind, but I didn't sleep well that night. As I'd left the pub at least three girls had tried to intercept me, but at that point I just couldn't raise the enthusiasm. I had never had an experience like the one with Ileana. My confidence was badly bruised, and I began to wonder if maybe my extraordinary gift was fading.

The following day Saturday, I got up determined to put myself to the test. I was going to go out and try to pull the first available woman I saw; ideally someone who would represent a bit of a challenge. I didn't have to wait long. At a Travelodge a couple of streets away from my flat I saw a German woman seeing off what looked like her husband and teenage sons in a taxi for a trip somewhere. She looked as if she was off for a day's shopping in the West End or something. She was only moderately attractive – mid-40s I guessed, barely five feet tall, dumpy with fat ankles, and a helmet of short wiry, prematurely grey hair – but she was certainly a challenge. To be honest I felt a bit of a bastard, picking on a married woman like that; despite that, I walked up to her as the departing taxi rounded the corner, and pretended to ask her directions. I smouldered at her and within moments she was smiling slyly at me and, in heavily accented English, inviting me up to her room to look at a London A-Z.

Throwing caution to the wind, as we stepped into the lift I slipped my hand down the back of her skirt and straight into her sensible underpants, nestling a finger in the crack between her substantial buttocks. She gasped, then giggled naughtily. By the time we lunged through the door to her room – hers and her husband's – she was clinging to me, her knees weak and her lips clamped to my throat. We sat on the bed and I began to unbutton her blouse. Even as she crushed her thin lips to mine I saw a familiar look in her eyes: she was slightly confused at what she was doing letting a complete stranger undress her, but at the same time she was desperate for me to screw her.

As I stripped her she began to tear at my clothes, and we ended up naked at the same time. My cock was already rearing up in anticipation, and she gave a gurgling chuckle and wrapped her pudgy fingers around it. I eased her back onto the bed, and sat astride her, pushing my dick against her mouth. She was willing enough but seemed a bit inexperienced, so I took full control, gripping the back of her head with one hand while I fucked her mouth, my balls slapping against her double chin. She gradually started to get into it, tracing her tongue along the underside of my shaft, gripping my bum cheeks in her hands and moaning appreciatively. It took only a couple of minutes before I shot my load, my cock twitching against the roof of her mouth, and she swallowed greedily.

I lay next to her after that, playing with her boobs while she lay back and panted, clearly enjoying herself. That's the thing – even though a lot of the women I've had wouldn't have chosen to screw me, all things being equal, when they do they genuinely have a good time. After all, I know how to please a woman, and I am genuinely quite skilled at sex. In that lady's case she was getting a proper rogering from a nice looking, fit bloke barely half her age, with her husband out of the way for hours.

Her tits were huge and very pale, wobbling like vanilla jellies, with dark brown nipples, the thickest and longest I'd ever seen. I sucked them, chewing gently on her nips, while with one hand I twiddled about in her snatch, covered with a dense bush of soft brown hair. Her cunt was so big I managed to easy my whole hand in, and I fisted her for no more than a few seconds before her entire body stiffened and she bellowed like a lioness on heat as I felt my hand getting soaked. By the time she'd finished I was good and hard again. I slipped my shoulders under her massive thighs and pushed her legs upwards as I slid my cock into her, fucking her with all the power I could muster. She reached her hands behind her knees and grunted loudly with each stroke, occasionally muttering some word or other in her own language: the only ones I understood were "ja" and "liebchen". I twiddled her trembling boobs again while I shagged her. She came before I did, kicking her legs wildly in the air, then sank back with her tongue lolling out and her eyes glazed until a few minutes later I filled her pussy with my spunk.

I took a quick shower, and dressed while she lay back on the bed, clearly exhausted, her legs wide open as she stroked her fat pussy lips with her fingers. As I moved towards the door she leapt up, pulled my head down, gave me a big French kiss and slipped a bit of paper into my hand. When I got out of the hotel I realised it was her name – Margaretha – and an address and telephone number in Düsseldorf! I got home my confidence rather restored, the frustration that had been building up in me fucked away, and started to plan my campaign to get into Ileana's pants.

Operation Vampirella started first thing on Monday morning when I spoke on the sly to Jenny, a girl who'd worked with Ileana for a while, to find out anything I could about her interests. Jenny shrugged at first. "Sorry Stevie, she quite a private person, never really talks about her life outside work. One thing I do know though, she's got a funny taste in books. She's very into Gothic horror. She sits reading at lunchtime, things with horrible titles like Lair of the Werewolf, and Christina's Doom – ugh! Oh, and don't get on her wrong side during her monthly, she can be pretty spiky then."

It took me a moment to get what she was talking about. "Oh, you mean, er, women's troubles. Well, how will I know when it's her time of the month?"

Jenny gave me a rueful grin. "Trust me, you piss her off then and you'll know." As I turned to leave, she trilled hopefully, "Er, Stevie...If Ileana doesn't come across, I'm always up for a bit of fun." Jenny's a lovely girl, but I didn't like to point out she'd just got engaged and was six months pregnant, so I grinned and said I'd bear it in mind. She nodded wistfully, and murmured, "You do that."

So, we had the black clothes, the Transylvanian heritage, the vampire TV show, the Gothic novels... I was whistling optimistically when I got back to my desk, my brain scheming away. On my way home from work I checked out a few florist's shops. A couple of days later I called at one in Covent Garden which opened early and picked up the black roses I'd ordered especially. I rushed into work and left them and a box of Black Magic on Ileana's desk before anyone else arrived. Later that day we were in a meeting together. As it broke up she came over to me with a huge smile and said, "A mystery admirer left me a lovely gift today – the nicest flowers I've ever received, and some very tasty chocolates."

I played along. "Well, someone obviously fancies you. Er, changing the subject totally of course, have you changed your mind yet?"

She giggled. "Not yet, but if my secret paramour keeps favouring me with gifts I just might."

Over the next couple of weeks I left Lanson Black Label champagne, more black flowers – an exotic foreign variety this time – a pretty chiffon scarf flecked with silver crescent moons, even a little silver bat on a chain, with wings set with black amethyst. Ileana was wearing it every time I saw her after that. She often told me about the gifts from her 'secret admirer', and I kept asking for a date and she kept backing off flirtatiously.

By the second Saturday after my campaign started I was feeling rather sorry for myself. Guzzling beer while watching the football on telly, I got rather maudlin, and told myself it was bloody ridiculous: I could have virtually any woman I met if I really set my mind to it, I was ignoring come-ons left, right and centre, and I was spending a small fortune trying to attract a cold-hearted prick-teaser who clearly wasn't going to give me the time of day. Well, fuck it, I thought – no more! She wasn't that devastatingly gorgeous, there were plenty of other fish in the sea, and Ileana really wasn't worth all the effort I was putting in. I decided she'd had her chance, and I was going to spend the next few weeks fucking everything with a cunt.

That last part of my plan never really got off the ground. Back at work, I somehow just couldn't find the enthusiasm to chase skirt, or rather to respond when they chased me. I simply ignored Ileana as far as possible, even when we were in meetings. When we did have to speak to each other I kept my comments cool, brief and formal. Outside the meetings, things I might have raised with her in person or by phone I put in e-mails. After a few days of the cold shoulder she tried to speak to me after a meeting, but I completely blanked her and started a conversation with another colleague.

Later that day Ileana phoned me. She started off all bright and breezy. "Little puzzle, Steve – my secret admirer seems to have gone off me. My supply of lovely prezzies has dried up. Isn't that strange?"

I wasn't in the mood for that game. Injecting as much ice as I could into my voice, I said, "Yeah, well, maybe he got pissed off with being ignored, and decided to stop wasting his time and money on lost causes. Was there anything else? I'm busy."

There was a long pause, then in a quiet voice, she said, "I've been an absolute cow, haven't I?" My silence roared down the phone. When Ileana spoke again, she sounded close to tears. "Oh Steve, I'm sorry. You're such a nice, sweet guy, and I love my little bat, he's beautiful. And all the other stuff. It's just that I enjoy the thrill of the chase, and the presents were so nice I just got a bit carried away. I really am sorry. Can we be friends again?" As I continued to remain silent, I heard a sniffle, then she spoke again in a strangled voice. "Oh Christ, I am such a stupid fucking bitch! Look, please Steve...there's a show I fancy seeing on Saturday, I was going to ask a friend but I'd much rather go with you. I'll pay and everything, and I really am sorry. I'll stand you dinner too. Will you come with me, please?"

She sounded so miserable that I began to melt a bit, and agreed rather stiffly to go with her, but only if I could pay for dinner. In the end we agreed to go Dutch. It was only after I hung up, having agreed where we'd meet, that I realised I hadn't even asked what the show was. I didn't speak to Ileana at work again for the remainder of that week, but on Saturday we met under Waterloo Bridge, to head to the South Bank Arts Centre. She looked pale and had dark circles under her eyes, as if she'd been crying, but exuded brittle good humour. As usual, apart from the silver bat she was in black from head to toe, a combination of leather and denim. As I approached she thrust a card and a small box into my hand. The card showed a cute cartoon dog with a big tear rolling out of his huge eye, and a word balloon saying 'I'm so sorry'. Inside Ileana had written 'I really am. I hate myself for hurting a friend so much. Love Illy xxx.' The box was a chocolate heart, with 'To someone special' iced on it.