Lust Fever

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Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

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Lust Fever

Hour 20

The two had forgotten their names long before. Such knowledge was extinguished before the all-consuming heat of the virus throbbing through their blood, fueling their lust.

They were in a car somehow. Where they drove to was anyone's guess. They themselves no longer really had the ability to guess. All their brainpower had been rededicated to mindless, endless rutting.

The woman sucked at the man's cock in fervent bobs as he gripped the wheel and kept them safe on the road. In all truth, she had forgotten more than just her name. She had forgotten that there was ever a time in existence when she hadn't had her mouth mindlessly attached to his cock. She had forgotten that other men existed. She had forgotten there was anything to living other than blindly moaning on a thick, ripped shaft of a masculine being, sucking him down and praying for another glorious spurt of his load down her eager, needy throat.

And he, in turn, had forgotten that women were ever used for anything else. He had forgotten everything but the need to protect, to provide, and to breed. That's all he was anymore. That's all life was for him—the human brain, once the co-model of life's evolution, had been downgraded to those three simple tasks.

And for his complete embrace of his true role, nature had rewarded him with a pretty young cocksucking female, whose other half of that model brain in turn only knew two roles of her own: to please and to breed.

* * * * *

"Is it the same as before?" asked Pruitt. "I haven't ducked in here in a couple of months."

"Of course not." Martinez shook his head. "We've already got the control case. We're experimenting now."

"Is it still transferable by contact? Kissing, licking, fucking...?"

"Transferable, totally. They'll be in a clean room. No contact from the professionals unless there's trouble. Or until they die from overheating."

"Overheating?"

Pruitt shrugged. "They fuck too often and they overheat. It's happened with all of them so far. Within about twenty-four hours of initial contact."

"And we're trying to stop that?"

"Well, it's no use as a weapon if they die too soon to spread it. Ideally, they'd be alive for about a week or so. Even a month."

"A month is too long. It would get way out of control if it was a month."

"Well, three weeks, then. I don't know. I'm not the tactical guy. I'm just a chemist. They want people to last longer, so it's going to be longer. Or, that's the idea, anyway."

"So what else is different? From last time I was here?"

"Smell."

"Smell?"

"Of emissions. Pheromones. It was in the last batch, but it'll be more potent this time around. To help with the transfer."

"How long do you think before they start fucking?"

Martinez shrugged. "Maybe three hours? It was five last time."

"With a twenty-four hour life expectancy?"

"I'm hoping to bump it up to thirty. But more or less."

"Twenty-seven hours of fucking." Pruitt whistled. "What a way to go."

"Wait till you see the chick. We got a beauty this time."

* * * * *

Hour -2

Frank entered the small room with some trepidation. There was a table in the middle, and a heavyset middle-aged man sitting down on one side of it. He had his arms crossed, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Please, take a seat." The man spread his hands.

The chair was metal and hard. Frank disliked interviews. One of the perks of running his own handyman business was that he never had to sit through any sort of job interview. Another perk, though, was that he made his own schedule, and this institute was offering five thousand dollars to qualified applicants for three days of their time.

Frank, a larger man, didn't fit all the way on the chair beneath him, and shifted uncomfortably, trying to find his seat. He'd had problems with his back for nearly a year now—common in his line of work—but the pain it caused combined with his relatively young age gave him worry.

The man spoke into a small recorder on the table. "Frank Tasset. Thirty-two years old."

"That's me."

"We've just got a few questions here, Frank. We want to make sure you're who we're looking for."

"I figured."

"You're uncomfortable."

It wasn't a question.

"I'm all right. It's a little cold in here, is all. And you got us wearing these jumpsuits."

He tugged at the paper-thin fabric that they had put him in. The outfit was a light teal. Easy to see in the bright lights of the large complex where they had brought him and several others. It was like the sort of scrubs a doctor might wear, except the material thinner, like what a hospital gown was made from.

"They're necessary. Sorry."

"You're not wearing one."

The man wore a lab coat over a collared shirt and slacks. He shrugged. "We have different roles. May we approach the questions at hand?"

"Sure."

"What do you do, Mister Tasset?"

That was all on the forms Frank had filled out. He figured the question was just to get him talking. That was fine. After four hours of waiting around in a cell, he was happy to gab a little.

"I run a small handyman business in my hometown. There's a few other people in town that do it, but I'm the honest one. Of course," he laughed, "they say that too. So who knows."

"Are you honest?"

"My word is my bond, I'll tell you that. That's why I couldn't ever get married."

"How do you mean?"

"I'd cheat on her. I like to fuck around. There's no getting around it. I don't believe in sticking with just one person. Doesn't make any goddamn sense."

The man shuffled his papers for a few moments, ticking off marks on the paper with his pen.

"What's your sex life like?"

Frank laughed again. It was a harsh, rough sound that reverberated against the walls of the small room. "Wow. Right into it, huh?"

The man didn't answer, waiting.

"All right. It's pretty good. I haven't been laid in, I don't know, three days. Today's Wednesday? So three days. Late Saturday. Or early Sunday. It was okay. She went down...do you want to know all this?"

"Any detail you provide will be helpful."

"She went down on me and then after a couple of hours we screwed in the back of her car when I drove her home. I'd had too much to drink before then, was why we waited."

"And before that? Was your sex life regular?"

"Sure. I'd say every other weekend or so. I got money and I spend it, so girls come around. I'm not particular in who I go out with. Sometimes it's the same lady as some other night. There's sort of a crowd, if you catch my meaning."

"What's your ideal woman?"

"Ideal woman?" he snorted. "I don't really think there is one."

"You're straight, aren't you? Heterosexual?"

"Of course I am. But you're talking about ideal woman like I'm supposed to fall in love some day. Get shacked up." He shook his head. "Not gonna happen. I've got a vasectomy. I only ever shoot blanks."

"The vasectomy," said the man. "That was your idea?"

"Oh yeah. I don't like kids. Don't want any. Never have. It's just easier this way."

"I see. But all of that means you don't have an ideal woman? Don't you like sex?"

"Hell, I love to screw. But if that's what you're looking for, fine. My ideal woman is, I don't know. Big-breasted. Red hair. Thick red lips. Like that girl from that business show? The one where they're in the fifties or whatever and they sell stuff. That one. I fuck her, I leave her, she doesn't whine or complain the entire time. She's got a nice smile on her face for me when I arrive, while we're together, and when I leave. That's all."

"You'd never stay with a woman?"

"I stayed with a girl for a few years once. We got on each other's nerves after just a couple of months. I don't see why it would be any different with anyone else."

The man shuffled his papers again and then stood up. Behind Frank, the door opened. The man held out a hand.

"Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Tasset. I think you'll be of great use to us here."

"Yeah, what's that about? Is it some kind of sex drug? Like the little blue pills? I don't need that shit. I get hard on my own." He considered for a moment. "But I'd try it."

"All will be revealed in time."

Another man in a lab coat stood at the door, gesturing for Frank to follow him out. Frank, sighing, exited the room and returned back to the holding area.

* * * * *

Hour -1

Rebecca entered the room with a smile on her face. Presenting. Always presenting. They would be interviewing her and she could really use the money, as her new independent law firm wasn't quite where she wanted it yet. It was tough, gathering clients, and tougher still since those bastards at Locke & Powers had dragged her name through the mud for months now. And for what? Because she'd spoken her mind, because she'd told them that she was quitting because of the way they wouldn't stop telling her to smile and dress nicer.

Pigs. She was better without them.

There was a woman at the table—older than Rebecca by about ten years, into her forties. Her hair was tied in a bun, and she wore a lab coat over a pair of faded slacks.

She spoke into a recorder on the table. "Rebecca Heberson. Age twenty-nine." With a small smile, he looked up to Rebecca. "Have a seat."

Rebecca sat. The chair was hard and uncomfortable. She shifted for a moment, finding her posture. Posture was important. Her shoulder blades flexed together, spreading her shoulders wide. The natural veer of her hands was to come together and cross against her modestly sized chest. She had spent many years convincing herself not to do just that—and instead to sit openly, relaxed but attentive, her body language ready for any discussion.

"I'm ready," Rebecca said, smiling. "What is it you would like to know?"

The woman raised an eyebrow slightly and then read from the page in front of her. "What do you do, Miss Heberson?"

"I'm a lawyer. I practice law."

"Civil? Criminal?"

"Real estate, mostly. It's a growing business. We have a small clientele at the moment, but we're gaining steam."

"I see." The woman ticked a mark or two. "And do you have any romantic involvements?"

"The application said that we had to consider ourselves single."

She nodded. "Yes, but people lie. We're offering a lot of money for very little time invested."

That made sense enough. Rebecca shook her head. "No. I'm not romantically involved."

"And your sex life? What's that like?"

"Well, as I said, I'm not romantically involved, so..."

The woman gestured for her to go on. "So...?"

"I'm not the sort to just sleep around." She laughed, as if the accusation—and that's what it was, wasn't it?—was ridiculous. Which it was. "I don't go to bars and look around for men, if that's what you're implying."

"I didn't mean to imply anything." The woman smiled. She set her papers down. "I apologize if I offended. We're merely trying to get the full shape of you, that's all. Many people are not romantically involved and still have sex with high frequency, and—"

"And many don't, thank you very much."

"Yes. And many don't." The woman nodded. "It's all kosher here. We're just trying to see what's what before we move forward."

They were quiet for a moment. Rebecca felt as if the woman was allowing her to cool down, which immediately she resented. She wasn't upset. And anyway even if she was it was this horrible woman's fault, asking her all those classless questions.

"I couldn't sleep with someone who I didn't know intimately already," she explicated. If she said enough, surely the woman would concede the point and realize Rebecca was right. "I couldn't possibly. It's too...I just couldn't."

"That's fine, Miss Heberson. That's all very fine."

"Thank you."

She had won that little battle. She straightened in her chair, wiggling upward and pressing her butt outward so that she could push her chest forward more. Authoritative. In control. This little outfit was so uncomfortable. Why were they dressed in paper, anyway?

"Another question, if that's all right?"

"Of course."

"What's your ideal mate like?"

This was an easy one. She had thought this through many times.

"He is tall. Taller than me. Wiry, though. Not too muscular. Like, not bulky or anything. Thin. Looks good in a suit. Wears a lot of suits. Rich. Funny. Loves commitment. Responsibilities. Wants a family some day—but not too soon! God, I've got my own career to worry about. And he should respect that. And love that, in fact. He should be something of a crusader for rights."

"Whose rights?"

"Who have you got? There's not enough going around. Anyone in the LGBT community. Minorities. Women. Everyone."

"So, an outspoken man?"

"Very much so. Except, articulate too. A way with words. No crass language." Her nose drew up. "I despise men who swear. Women too. It's so classless."

"I see. And sexually? Any preferences there?"

"How do you mean? He would be straight, of course."

"No," the woman shook her head. "I mean in bed. Is there any particular manner you are fond of there?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question." She raised an eyebrow. "I mean, you just get in there and do it, and that's all. To be honest, that's not all that important to me."

"I see."

The woman ticked a few more marks on her sheet and then stood up. The door behind Rebecca opened.

"That's all?" asked Rebecca.

She had much more to say. She was a mine of valuable information about every sort of topic. Didn't they want to know about her cats or her knitting? Wouldn't they like to hear what she thought of that idiot senator in her home state? What if she had valuable ways of framing her pet peeves?

"Oh yes," said the woman. "You've been very helpful. I think you're going to be a perfect fit, Miss Heberson."

Rebecca smiled at that. A little bounce joined her steps as she headed back to her holding area.

* * * * *

"These two? Really?" Pruitt shook his head.

"They're perfect for each other."

"What? Didn't you hear the interviews? They'd hate one another."

"Oh, they'll definitely hate one another. That's why they're perfect for one another."

"What do you mean? I thought—"

"How do you suppose, Pruitt, that we test this fuck drug without making sure it really, truly works? That's what the personality test is for. We put opposites in the same room together. If they truly hate another, and they fuck, then the drug is working. It's that simple."

"Is that why the boys bet? Because if that's why they bet, I want to put money down saying they'll never fuck."

Martinez snorted. "Man, you got it all wrong. Nobody makes that bet. Well, one guy did, but he lost all his damn money. They bet on how long it takes for them to start screwing. Smart money is around the three hour mark, like I told you. My bet is on minute one-sixty."

* * * * *

Hour 1

A few hours after the interview a nurse arrived at his door and escorted Frank down through the hallways of the complex. They follow a bright teal line, the same color as his jumpsuit.

"What's this about, now? Can you tell me?"

"Of course," said the nurse. "You've been selected. You're going to earn your money, Mister Tasset."

"Oh." He straightened slightly. "Well, that's great."

The nurse was pretty good looking, he thought. Nice red hair. Did they give him a red-haired nurse because he had said how he liked red hair?

"You know a good place to spend five thousand dollars on?"

She smiled. "I can think of a few."

"How about I take you there?"

Her laugh was mild—the sort that meant she didn't really mean it. They stopped in the middle of the hallway. The line had run out. She pressed a panel on the wall, and the wall opened.

"What's this?" he asked.

It looked like a cell. As he looked in, the nurse poked him, hard, with some kind of syringe.

"Ah, jeezus, what's the—"

Unceremoniously, she shoved him into the cell. He stumbled forward, off-balance. Moments later, the door shut behind him.

"Hey!"

He banged against the wall panel to no avail.

What had she stuck him with? He felt...he felt fine. Was that the experiment? They said it wouldn't be anything dangerous, but how would they know? That's why they were experimenting, right, to find out everything it did? God, what if he had a condition? What if it wasn't okay?

He took a moment, breathing. Calming. Probably the nurse would have told him more if he hadn't hit on her. Ah, well. Can't say nothing to a broad these days.

It took him a few moments more, but he calmed down. They had guaranteed his safety. Everybody here was a professional. He wouldn't be any good to them if nothing happened. And so, fear assuaged for the moment, he took a look around.

In every corner of the room was a camera. Two of them slowly whirred, following his movements. Overhead was a distant skylight, except it wasn't natural light coming in. There was a difference in the frequency of the light waves, somehow. Frank had worked with enough lights to know the difference between almost sunlight and real sunlight.

At one side of the room, there was a small bed, featureless. It was just a plain white mattress on a plain white slab. It didn't even have any sheets or pillows. He sat uneasily, waiting.

"Is this it?"

There was a small washbasin in the corner, two bottles, and an extra tap to fill up the bottles of water. At least he wouldn't be thirsty. He was a little hungry, but not really. There had been a big steak lunch they brought to him. He had finished just before the nurse showed up.

The wall opened up again. A woman stepped inside to the room—the cell, really. She was on the tall side, a little gangly, with breasts that Frank measured at around a handful or so. Maybe a little less. Her body in shape. Not great, but nothing to ignore, neither. She had blond hair—the prettiest thing about her—and blue eyes that quickly scanned the room.

"Thank you," she said, turning to the door panel—but it was already closed.

She wore the same outfit as him, only hers had shorts instead of the pants he had. Why was that? Did they want him to look at her legs? They were nice enough. Shaved. A nice natural color.

"Hey there," said Frank. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rebecca," she said, holding her arms against herself.

"Frank."

It seemed like she felt overexposed in the small cell.

She approached him with a hand out. "I suppose we should tell each other it's nice to meet one another?"

"Sure."

Her handshake was firm—really firm. Trying-to-prove-something firm.

"I don't know what we're doing in here," she said, stepping away and wiping her hand on her shorts. "It all seems so mysterious. Do you know?"

Frank was still considering her looks. She was pretty enough, though she looked like a total bitch. Her hair all bunned up like that. Her nose was large—not gross or anything, but prominent. Her skin all freckled and pale. He wanted a tanned woman. A woman who spent real time on herself. Why didn't this broad get a nose job or something. Didn't she know what men liked?

Ah, whatever. No reason to be unpleasant.

"Couldn't tell you, lady." He shrugged. "I think it's sex stuff, though."