Introduction:
Digby Goode was just an ordinary guy leading an ordinary life. He loved his wife and his son. He even loved his job as a private investigator, despite it being tedious at times. Everything about Digby Goode was, well, ordinary.
That was until the day he had the accident.
While testing out a chemistry set he had bought for his son as a birthday gift he unwittingly mixed together just the right chemicals in the perfect ratios to create an explosion of SEXUAL CHEMISTRY.
It soaked into his pores and reconfigured his DNA. He suddenly found himself the living embodiment of sex appeal. If he grew attracted to a woman he released powerful pheromones that drove them mad with lust for him.
Suddenly just glimpsing his wife in her underwear was enough to launch them into wild sexual abandon that could last for hours. It may have scuffed up their carpets, but it spiced up their marriage something wicked.
It had all seemed a blessing until, 2 weeks after the accident, while their son was away on summer camp, they had been discovered by Digby's mother-in-law, lying on the floor, covered in carpet burns, malnourished, dehydrated and still fucking like a pair of completely exhausted bunnies.
It seemed their sexual chemistry, combined with his new powers, was just too potent. After a brief stay for both of them in hospital, his fluid levels were dangerously low, and hers, not so much, she went home and he stayed on for further testing. However, after four female doctors went insane with lust and several of the men were seriously beginning to reconsider their sexuality, the government intervened and locked Digby up in a secret black site prison.
Unfortunately this too backfired. Digby was there less than 3 days before his pent up sexual energy boiled over and became a beacon for every woman in a 50 mile radius.
Have you ever seen a thousand women, mad with desire, tearing at their clothes and throwing themselves at a prison guard tower?
Well, it's every bit as sexy as it sounds. But, rather messy to clean up afterwards.
Finally, after consultations amongst the finest minds in the land it was decided, for everyone's well-being, and for the reason that this story still needs a plot, to let Digby free. Not wanting to risk a similar disaster, and for the safety of everyone in society, they granted Digby a special dispensation in the form of a small laminated card with an official government seal. It read:
Digby Goode: licence to fuck.
*************
6 months later:
"God, I really need to jerk off," Digby squirmed uncomfortably in his car seat. He meant legally, as well as sexually. The doctors had ordered him to knock one out every six hours, or else seriously increase his risk of a SEXUAL CHEMISTRY incident.
Digby wondered what teenage him would have paid for that excuse.
He was not helped by the picture tacked to his dash. It was of the girl he was trying to track down. She was beautiful. She had smouldering dark eyes set in a oval face and the poutiest lips he had ever seen. Her looks, however, were slightly marred by that universal teenage disdain that oozed from her expression. Still, her youthful face taunted him and teased at his already erect cock.
He looked around nervously. He couldn't risk it. License or not, if he was caught jerking off in his car, only one block away from a school, the cops would, in all likelihood, only find the card after they had sieved through his pulped corpse.
He snorted, he didn't really have an option either way. He had been hanging around this store now for three days, not counting the breaks where he nipped home every six hours or so on 'private business.' He had left it too late today, desperate to make a break in the case.
Could he make it home in time to avoid an incident?
He suddenly had visions of himself pulling his screeching car across lanes of traffic and ending up on the side if the road, fucking the lycra off a passing female jogger.
Perhaps he could just sneak into the store and use their bathroom. Not ideal, but probably a lot safer. Besides, he was so restless from being cooped up he was not sure he could sit out there another five minutes.
He reasoned with himself that he could go in, find a bathroom, jerk off and then use the time afterwards to ask around after the girl. "Heck," he reasoned, "I might even get some shopping done while I am in there." He picked up his wallet, along with the girl's picture from the dash, and slipped them into his pockets.
It went against his instructions, but clients are only happy to pay you to sit in a car and do nothing for so long. Sooner or later they need to see results and this was the last place the girl had been sighted before her disappearance. It seemed strange to him that an eighteen year old girl should be coming down here so regularly. Who ever heard of rich kid going out to buy their own groceries?
He climbed out of the beat up old Buick and stretched until he felt his back click. Digby did not like going into crowded public spaces. The chances of a SEXUAL CHEMISTRY encounter were just too high. But, he was still a professional, and he would do whatever it took to solve a case.
Especially a case like this, for such a high profile and wealthy family. This was a meal ticket if ever he saw one. Not only do the wealthy have the money to pay for outrageous overcharging, they are often, usually, highly dysfunctional, and in need of a good investigator on retainer. Digby needed this one to go well.
Digby had had to move out of his house and into his own apartment. His SEXUAL CHEMISTRY with Hailey, his wife, was just too potent. If he spent too much time around her he knew that they would fuck each other to death. He missed Hailey every day and, amazingly, she still loved him. It bugged her that he was often out fornicating with complete strangers, but she had accepted his condition. He felt guilty every time he did it, but what choice did he have? The doctors had proven that, if he did not finish once he had begun, he physically wasted away, and the women literally went mad. Masturbation only really bought him some time between inevitable incidents.
He got to see his son on weekends at least, and Hailey was just a phone call away. Digby sighed. Her missed her scent, the way her skin felt against his. He made a mental note to call her after this.
He shook his head. "I can get through this," he told himself, "I just need to keep my mind focused on the mission: first, jerk off in the bathroom. Then, buy eggs, milk, bread, and maybe some fruit," he checked off his mental list, "Oh, and I should probably ask around about the missing girl."
He walked in through the automatic doors, careful to keep his eyes on the floor just ahead of him. "Don't look up," he reminded himself, "You can get through one simple shopping errand without sticking your dick in someone, Digby Goode."
To be fair to Digby he really did try, and he had almost made it too. He was nearly at the back of the store, just passing the fresh produce section. His mistake was to contemplate the melons, which are already pretty sexual, as fruit goes. He was just pondering what a sweet honeydew might be like for breakfast tomorrow when the inevitable happened.
She too was in the melon section, although what she had on display was considerably more impressive than any of the produce. She happened to lean over the melons for a closer inspection just as he was letting his eyes travel over the pile of fruit. He was in complete control of his eyeballs until they absentmindedly tracked over her exposed cleavage, now at eye level with the melons. He did the briefest double take, as any heterosexual man might. But for Digby it was game over. He lost complete control of his eyeballs as his brain switched over to automatic cleavage tracking mode.
He was fucked, but not as much as she was about to be.
The problem was, Digby decided later, like that of the frog in hot water. A frog will jump out if you put it in hot water, but it will just sit there until it boils if you put it in cold water and gradually heat the water up.
Some pregnant women are like that. Although you should never make that comparison, if you want to remain alive. They continue to wear their normal clothes, while their bodies undergo gradual changes. At first it is not noticeable. A little tightening around the belly and hips, a more generous cleavage. But there is certain point, call it the 'frog point', where the clothes no longer fit in a manner that would be considered decent. If it had happened overnight the woman might be horrified by how much her clothes revealed. But, as it happens gradually over months, some women fail to notice it. Much to the delight of most men, and the chagrin of Digby Goode.
This particular woman was heavily pregnant, and well past the frog point. She wore a tight black tank top that visibly strained to contain her prodigious chest. Digby could see how her breasts were rising out of the top like cake batter in the oven. As she leaned forward to inspect the melons, Digby was all to aware that he was inspecting her melons with equal attention. He could see deep into her cleavage, past a dark grey bra, and to the top of her swollen belly.
He felt the familiar stirring in his pants. "Fuck, not now," he groaned. He could see the bathroom door, it was so close. He looked at the exit, it was far behind him, but he knew it was already too late. He could actually feel his pores opening up, venting pheromones into the air. Even if he left now the damage was done.
He cursed again when the woman's husband came up behind her and placed his hands proprietorially on her near perfect orb of a belly. He was huge, and looked strong. Digby hated it when the husbands were around, especially when they were built like trucks. It seldom ended well for him.
The woman was upright now, sharing a smile with her husband loaded with the intimate warmth only expectant parents could have. Digby hated that he was about to mar that.
Not for the first time he tried to wish away his condition. The woman was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her thick dark hair was tied in a braid that fell over one shoulder. She must have been curvy even before the pregnancy. Her breasts were enormous now. Digby reckoned she was beyond the realm of the average range of proportions and into the exceptional.
She caught the scent a moment later.
Doctor's had traced Digby's SEXUAL CHEMISTRY to a complex group of pheromones he released when he was aroused. These were like a skeleton key, conforming to the pheromone receptors of the subject of his attention. When these connected it was like the key turned and released a life-time of pent-up sexual energy.
The woman sniffed at the air, curiously, as if discovering a pleasing smell. Digby almost couldn't bear to watch. She leaned back against her husband and drew in the air more deeply, her nostrils flaring.
Digby knew, if he was closer, he would have seen the effects hit her like a drug. At this moment her pupils were dilating and her heart rate increasing. Blood was being pumped furiously into her erogenous zones and her nerve endings were being lit up like a Christmas tree.
Her husband looked down, confused, as she moaned loudly and writhed against him.
