Smells Like Addiction

Author's Note: I tend to write a lot of 'engineered' futuristic scenarios. Hopefully, I'll get out of this phase soon. Not too soon, though. This story contains hermaphrodites (futanari, dickgirl, whatever definition works for you).

* * *

Everyone has an addiction, whether they like to admit it or not. For example, in 1937, the (so-called) Great Scientist Dr. H. Erôss was addicted to creating the perfect human. His sponsor Adolf Hitler wasn't quite aware of his real aims: Dr. Erôss believed that human evolution depended on the joining of the sexes. Not through fucking; he meant it literally.

It was his life's goal.

The Erôss Foundation took up this challenge after his death and expanded on it. Years and years of secret research into human genetic engineering; it was their hidden obsession until 1950, when the labs were opened and the experiments unleashed onto the earth. It changed the face of humanity for good (or for bad; no one can really decide).

But enhanced genetics or not, people are still people, and they have addictions.

I should know.

*

"Lucy. You need... to control... your pheromones," Dr. Julian grunts at me with every thrust of her hips. Her large cock is slamming up inside me, thick and hot and throbbing; she's a genuine Erôss creation, like me, except she has a sweetly solid dick between her legs. Dr. Erôss' wonderful contribution: fewer males, less females, more of the in-between. Most of them are female-oriented, with breasts and a penis; possibly a vaginal slit instead of balls. Some are male-oriented, and you can't tell until you remove their clothing that all you'll get is a pussy.

I don't care, though. My addiction mainly lies in getting fucked.

"Yes, Doctor. Oh, yes." I'm panting like a dog inside her office, on my hands and knees on the blue carpet as she plunders my pussy. My head is hanging, my hair is in long dark waves down the sides of my face; some strands are sticking to my sweaty cheek. I look down at my body, seeing her dark hands clutch desperately at my small breasts. Her manicured nails are scraping my skin, there'll be long marks later on, and I love it.

I go down a little further, folding my arms and resting my head on top of them. From here, I can barely make out the dark shaft of her dick slipping inside the pink folds of cunt. I moan softly; it feels so good, the heat and the sweatiness. It's my fault, really. However, I was genetically engineered to give pleasure, and my pheromones are a large part of my design. I have to concentrate very hard to control those natural chemicals, especially when I'm in crowds.

But when I want sex, I can't seem to rein them in at all.

Dr. Julian's teeth scrape at the back of my neck and I cry out, shaking under the assault. My nipples are painfully erect against the smooth palms of her hands and then I hear her groaning sharply behind me. She jerks up into me, three times hard, and on the third massive thrust, I feel warm come flood inside me.

So good.

I lick my dry lips as she pulls out of me, her jizz dribbling down my thighs. She moves away, the sounds of her unsteady footsteps heading to her desk; I slowly turn over to sit on my behind, adjusting my sensible grey skirt so that it isn't pulled up my hips anymore. She comes towards me, not looking in my face as she hands me some soft facial tissues.

"Thanks, Doctor," I murmur as I dab at my pale thighs. Dr. Julian nods, patting absently at her short hair. She's a tall black woman with curls that have been dyed a deep golden shade. I had wanted her the first moment I had walked into her office.

"Lucy," she says sternly as I sit back in front of her desk. She finally looks me in my face and I try for an innocent expression. "Lucy, you really need to keep those pheromones in check."

"I'm really trying." I pout a little. "I can't help it, Dr. Julian. It's just the way I was made. You know that."

She stares at me for a long moment, her eyes dark and troubled; I wonder if I can get her to fuck me again. Her eyes widen, I can see the pupils actually dilate and then she pushes away from her desk, getting up to go to her little cabinet. She pulls out a key and unlocks a small door, pulling out a box of cigarettes.

I watch her as she lights one and inhales deeply.

"I'm not supposed to be smoking," she says in a very distant voice. There is a very long pause. "Our session is over, Ms. Diamond. I'll see you next week."

As I pull on my coat and leave her lighting another cigarette, I wonder if I've made her upset, or forced her to give up on me. I've been in therapy with her for two years and she can't seem to help me with my addiction.

I really want to be cured, though.

Well... sometimes.

The ride home is long and slightly cold, and the sun sets in a kind of lazy haze. I can almost still feel the sensation of Dr. Julian's cock burrowing inside my cunt and that's enough for awhile. When I arrive at my apartment building, I get out of the snapping cold that is hell on my lungs and pull open the front door, leaning on the wall inside.

"Lucy," I hear someone say in a rough, grating voice. I look up the stairs and see one of my neighbours sitting on the steps near the top, smiling down at me drunkenly. It's six in the evening, and Annette Delaney is already halfway through a large bottle of whiskey. Her blonde hair is frizzy and unkempt, but at least she has very nice legs, from what I can see from underneath her flowered house-dress.

"Hey, Mrs. Delaney," I greet her carefully; she watches me with big, watery blue eyes. "Need some help?"

She nods slowly and I feel a slow smile cross my face. We've played this game before; I don't mind playing some more. Dr. Julian won't like it, though.

I go up the stairs and grasp one of her hands, dragging her up into a standing position.

"Lucy," she sings in a wavering sing-song as I help her up the rest of the stairs. "Lucy Diamond." She titters as we stumble to the apartment she shares with her daughter, right beside me. "Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes!"

I laugh a little as I reach into the front pocket of her house-dress. "That's right. I was named after that song."

"In the orphanage." Annette nods solemnly. "The government orphanage. I remember, you told April and me at dinner one day." She clutches at my white blouse with the random strength of the drunk, her alcohol-soaked breath falling over me. "You're from the government orphanage, just like April's dad. April's dad was different, like you," she tells me in that serious little voice of hers and then she titters helplessly. "April's a different person, from everybody else!"

"Yes, I know." I push open the door and sigh as I meet April's furious gaze as she sits at the dining table. April looks so much like her mother, same frizzy hair, same watery blue eyes... it's almost scary. Then again, Annette is still very young; she had April when she was just a teenager, so they look more like sisters than mother and daughter.

"You stupid drunk cow," April viciously tells her mother now as we weave through the door. Annette bursts into helpless tears.

"Don't call her that," I say mechanically as I head to the single room that they share. I say it nearly every week, in this same situation. "Don't call your mother a stupid cow."

"She gets so fucking wasted all the time!" April shrieks, but her anger is practiced. She's addicted to feeling an intense, confusing rage; at twenty, she's just a few years younger than I am, but she already has a deep groove in between her eyebrows. April frowns a lot. "Why can't she be a fucking responsible adult and deal with whatever life gave her?"

It's an argument I've heard before. I shake my head and continue to walk with Annette. There is an almost palpable rage coming from April, and I let my pheromones waft through the air in my wake, knowing that it's the only thing that will help bring her anger down. One day, though, it might not be enough, and April will pop a fucking vessel out of sheer wrath.

I take the bottle out of Annette's slackening hands, putting it on the floor before I make sure that she doesn't lie down flat on her back. I had a friend who died on their own vomit in their sleep like that, drowning in their drunken excess.

April comes in the room and reaches out to pull on my hair. "You're too good to her," she tells me as she combs through the long dark strands in her hand. She gives Annette a dirty look and then smiles up at me; it's not a very nice smile. "Lucy, you're too good to that stupid bitch."

"Don't call her stupid," I say automatically, but April is ignoring me and kissing me hungrily; In my heels, I'm a little taller than she is, so she goes up on her tiptoes and presses against me, rubs her thickening cock against my already come-slick crotch and I sigh against her mouth. Breaking the kiss, she pushes me towards her own bed in a commanding manner and slants a long look at her quiet, watchful mother as she starts to take off her clothes in sharp movements.

Annette loves to watch us; she won't admit it, of course, so she gets herself drunk and then plays on April's rage until I stumble into their web of anger and despair, and amplify everything with my own strange talents. Annette told me that she wants to get fucked by April's large dick, the dick that was a legacy of her father's government-engineered blood. April would love to be buried balls-deep inside her, but... but they both tell me, at different times and in almost identical tones, "It would be wrong."

I'm probably the worse person with who they could talk about wrong and right, though.

I remove my skirt and blouse quickly and get into April's bed in just my brassiere and panties. I'm pale and slim, with lots of long black hair, and April gazes down at my body appreciatively as she clambers on top of me, pushing open my legs and pulling my panties to one side, so she can slowly rub the head of her cock against my slit.

"Don't you want it?" she asks almost plaintively and I nod quickly; she wasn't seeing my face, however, I'm sure. She's seeing the big blue eyes and wild hair of her own mother. For an addict, their need can reach almost hallucinatory levels. "Let me put it inside you, I want to fuck you."

"Go ahead, sweetheart."

That's what I hear Annette call her when they're in one of their rare good moods. April blinks slowly at me as she pushes inside. I go up on my elbows, biting my lip; she's not as long as Dr. Julian, but she's a lot thicker and I groan at how wonderful she feels as she feeds her cock into me. I can never get enough of that sensation and I can never get it from just one person.

I'm crying out with every push, my arms wrapped around April's thin body. She has her face tucked into my neck, muttering her mother's name now and again, groaning that I should take it, take it hard, but sometimes she says 'Mom'. I'm sure she isn't aware of that.

I turn my head a little, gasping for air as April roots in me relentlessly and I see Annette, her hands moving rhythmically inside her house-dress, watching us with narrowed, glittering eyes. I roll my own eyes, mentally and turn to lick April's ear. Annette looks more drunk than before.

She really didn't need the alcohol; it was just a means to this end. She watches us every time we do this, fingering herself as April pounds into me, wanting and hoping for April's cock and too afraid to just go get it.

I was made for pleasure, though. I'll take it any way I can get it; if I can give Annette some form of pleasure while getting it from April, why, that's just perfect, right?

"Perfect," I murmur as April rocks uncontrollably and then tenses; I wince as she pulls herself out and jerks at her slick cock with one trembling pale hand. Her come, warm and translucent, splatters warmly on me and I can hear Annette drunkenly mumble, "Oh, fuck, sweetheart," under her breath.

I leave them, arguing as usual; but the sharp edge of April's temper has been smoothed down a little. Their dance of mutual possessiveness will begin anew: they'll be close and friendly for a few days, one of them will say something that simultaneously arouses and frightens them both, April will get loud, and Annette will get drunk and weepy... I'll get fucked to placate them both.

It's a cycle. They can't break out of it, not for now; and I don't think any of them wants to. I'm sure I don't.

When I get inside my apartment, my cat Smokey curls around my feet in complaint as I close my door. I pick him up and walk to my window, looking out at the breathing, fuming, noisy city.

"They're all addicted," I whisper to Smokey, my pussy still throbbing. It throbs for more. "Don't you think?"

Smokey agrees.

end