Allison's Addiction

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"Allison's Addiction" is a joint literary effort. I joined forces with an author named Anon140 in order to create this story. If you like this story, he should get part of the credit. As always, if you have any suggestions to improve the story, please click on my name, and e-mail me your suggestions.

* * * * *

My name is Allison, and I'm an addict. However, I'm not addicted to cocaine or heroin, or any of the drugs the DEA is trying to keep out of the hands of the public. I'm addicted to being treated like a lesbian sex slave.

No. Wait. I'm oversimplifying things again. Let me start all over again, from the beginning.

My name is Allison Brand. I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman with a history of being very athletic and physically active I have twelve years of ballet training and four years of gymnastics training.

Some of you out there will hear that I've had twelve years of ballet training and realize how impressive that is. For those of you who have never trained as a ballet dancer, allow me to explain something.

Ballet dancers are athletes.

We train just as long and just as hard as any Olympic class gymnast, pole vaulter, sprinter or speed-skater. In addition to whatever else is going on in our lives, we show up every day for anywhere between six and eight hours of ballet training. This includes intensive stretching exercises at the barre, lots of fast leg work, and leg extensions, and that's before you've done centre work and allegro. Then you get drilled on choreography. By the time you've completed a typical day of training, your entire body is drenched with sweat, and almost every muscle and tendon in your body is complaining that you pushed them too far.

And the next day, you show up and do it all over again.

The relevant point here is that I underwent this type of grueling training for

years,

and I endured. More than endured, I thrived. Every year I made extraordinary strides in my agility, my flexibility and my endurance. No matter how demanding the requirements laid down by instructors, choreographers and ballet mistresses, I pushed myself and met those requirements dead on.

As you can imagine, I took a great deal of pride in my body and all of the things my body could accomplish. Almost all of my self-worth was derived from my superior physical abilities. And then; in my early twenties; when most people are at the height of their physical strength and endurance; I began to suffer from chronic fatigue.

This was an unbearable hardship for me to go through. I had spent my life pushing my body to limits that ninety-nine percent of the human race have never even attempted. I was accustomed to having superhuman endurance, and then suddenly no matter how much sleep she I got the night before, I would wake up tired and stay tired all-day long. I tried drinking coffee, but the caffeine didn't seem to have any effect on me.

Now, the good news is that at this point in my life I had already given up on ever becoming a professional ballet dancer. A dancer suffering from chronic fatigue would be destroyed. Dancers have to constantly train, even in the of-season. Lying on the couch all day long is like a death sentence to a ballet dancer. If you lie around idle, you'll slowly lose your muscle tone, your endurance and your flexibility...everything that you need to dance on stage.

When I was nineteen, I had decided to give up on my dreams of dancing on stage at the Kennedy Center, and took up a much easier career as a professional model.

It turns out that the perfect posture, dancer's legs, flat abs, svelte figure and narrow waist that you get from twelve years of ballet are exactly the sort of physical qualities that photographers, artists and fashion designers are looking for when they hire a model. As a result, transitioning from ballet to modeling was an easy changeover in my life.

And; while models don't have to work out nearly as hard as professional ballet dancers; they still need to work out. They still need to put in at least seven hours of serious exercise every week in order to keep their muscles toned, their tummy flat and their figure lithe and sexy. You can't keep a figure like mine by lying on the couch all day, every day.

A model won't lose her muscle tone and svelte figure after just one day of being inactive, but slowly, day after day, week after week, she'll become softer and more unimpressive-looking. Eventually she'll lose everything about her that's impressive and aesthetically pleasing. Then she won't be able to work in the modeling field anymore.

My regular doctor is Dana Anderson over at the Augustus Beach Family Medical Center. I went to see her, hoping for a quick remedy to my fatigue. She checked my thyroid, my lungs and did at least a dozen blood tests, but she still had no idea what was causing my symptoms.

Having run out of ideas, she referred me to another doctor that was conducting clinical trials on a new, experimental drug called modirall.

"Take one of these, every morning," Doctor Khorkina instructed me, "And keep a written log of the results. I'd be especially interested in any side-effects you may experience. Make an appointment to come see me again in two weeks, and we'll discuss your progress and see where we want to go from there."

I took the bottle of pills and promised to see Doctor Khorkina in two weeks. I made the appointment, however I wasn't overly optimistic. Since the drug was experimental, that meant it had never been proven to combat my symptoms. Words like experimental rarely filled anyone with confidence.

* * * * * * * * * *

"How'd your appointment go?" Chloe asked when I returned home with my bottle of experimental medication.

"I got drugs," I announced to my roommate and held up the plastic bottle, shaking it dramatically for effect.

"Amphetamines?"

"I have no idea," I responded, "They're called modirall. I've never heard of them before, and I have no idea what they're supposed to do. I'm not even sure if the doctor knows what they're supposed to do. I think they want me to be a guinea pig and help them figure it out for them. I'm supposed to take one every day, and let my doctor know they cause super-diarrhea or something."

"Are you sure you should take those?" Chloe asked, her voice suddenly filled with concern, "What if they make your symptoms even worse?"

"Worse? Are you kidding?" I asked, "Just walking up one flight of stairs to my doctor's office is a major ordeal now. How much worse could it get?"

There was concern on Chloe's face, but she didn't answer my question. Obviously, it was possible for the wrong medication to make things worse. The wrong medication could induce a heart attack and kill me, but I was at a point where I felt like I was drowning, and I'd grasp at any potential solution that floated by close enough for me to reach.

I'd know Chloe for about five years, and we'd been best friends for about four years. We'd met in Miss Straff's ballet class. We didn't really click at first, but eventually we discovered that we had a lot in common, especially concerning the fact that we both had controlling and manipulative mothers.

I plopped down on the couch and made an

oomph

sound. Just being on my feet long enough to walk from my car to the apartment building had worn me out. It was a short walk, but I was still exhausted.

"So, what's the plan?" Chloe asked, and then she walked over and gracefully set her ass down onto the couch with far more grace than I had managed. I felt somewhat jealous of her. I had lost all of my grace and endurance, but she was just as perky and graceful as she ever was.

"Tomorrow morning, I start taking these," I explained to Chloe, "And I keep a written record of how effective they are. And of course, if there are any weird side effects, like I start growing extra nipples, I'm supposed to write that down, and let the doctor know about it."

"Jesus Christ," Chloe said and recoiled as if I had physically struck her.

"It's a joke," I said, noticing Chloe's reaction, "I'm not really gonna grow extra nipples...probably."

"This is your health we're talking about," Chloe protested, "Don't joke about things like that. I actually care about you, you know."

"I know," I said, sounding somewhat grumpy and petulant, "But I've already tried a more conventional approach to getting better, and it didn't work."

"So, now you're going to try an unconventional approach with untested, mystery drugs?"

"Hey," I snapped at her, "These things just might work! At one point in time the smallpox vaccine was unconventional and untested, and that ended up working out pretty well!"

Chloe folded her arms in front of her in a defensive sort of gesture and gave me a wounded sort of look. She really did care about me. But, I was irritable and desperate, and somewhat jealous of Chloe's excellent health, whilst my health was in a disturbing downward spiral.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," I eventually said, hoping to erase that wounded look from her face, "Look, I don't start taking these things until tomorrow morning. If I get any weird or disturbing side-effects from this drug, I will let you know immediately, and if you think the side-effects are bad enough, I'll give you the entire bottle. You can flush the pills down the toilet if you want."

"Seriously?" Chloe asked.

"Seriously," I replied, "I'm putting you in charge. I'll tell you about any medical problems or reactions even before I tell my doctor."

"You know tomorrow's Tuesday," Chloe reminded me, "I have to go to work tomorrow morning."

"I'll call you at work if anything bad happens," I said, "I swear."

I held up my hand like people do in court when they swear that oath to tell the truth, and gave Chloe my most sincere face. She was almost like a big sister, the way she looked out for me.

"Give me the pills," Chloe said, "I'll give you one tomorrow morning, and if there are no serious side-effects I'll give you another the following morning. And as long as I continue to think that they're safe, I'll continue giving you one every day. How's that sound?"

I was going to object at first, but thought better of it. I'd known Chloe since I was a teenager, and in all that time, she'd never done anything malicious to me. I trusted her to be supportive and caring once again, just like she normally did, so, I handed over my pills to her.

Then she proceeded to make dinner for both of us, and she brought the food over to the couch, so I could eat without having to get up. Chloe can be really sweet like that. Then she cleared away the dishes and we both watched an episode of Lucifer together.

Chloe and I love this show. We both love the fact that it has strong female characters, including a female bounty hunter, a female psychiatrist, a female forensic specialist and a female homicide detective.

And the homicide detective was named Chloe Decker. My roommate is named Chloe Dechert. Her name is almost exactly the same in spelling and pronunciation, so when something bad happens to the Chloe Decker on the TV screen, I can get all emotionally invested and act like it's happening to my roommate.

Like when Detective Chloe Decker allowed Mazikeen (a knife-wielding demon from hell) to take her seven-year-old daughter trick-or-treating, I remember grabbing my roommate by the shoulders, shaking her violently and melodramatically asking her, "How could you let a demon take your daughter trick-or-treating? What kind of mother are you?"

And struggling to keep a smirk off her face, my roommate replied, "Well, an

unfit mother, obviously."

In another episode, Mazikeen and Chloe pretended to be a married lesbian couple in order to infiltrate a private school's event for parents. Of course, I had to give Chloe a hard time at this point and said, "

You married a demon? How could you?"

"Well, yeah," my roommate retorted, "But, she's a really

hot

demon! Have you seen what she looks like in skintight leather pants?" And then she got a sex-kitten look in her eyes and slowly and suggestively slid her tongue across her lips.

I laughed. I couldn't help it.

When the episode of Lucifer ended, an episode some other TV began, but within a few seconds of the show beginning I drifted off to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next morning, Chloe woke me and gave me my pill before she headed off to work. Chloe works as an exercise physiologist over at the Fairhaven Athletic Center. It's much steadier work than modeling, and she's expected to be at work, five days a week, fifty weeks out of the year.

"Call me if you experience any weird side-effects," she told me firmly.

"Good morning to you too," I said grumpily, as I felt groggy as hell and was bitter about being woken up.

"I'm serious," she said, "Hot flashes, chills, vomiting, the shakes, anything like that, you call me right away. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I replied and I staggered off of the couch and took my pill.

Chloe took off for work and left me all alone in the apartment. I still felt groggy, and decided to take a shower. Immersing my body in hot water would at least raise my body temperature, and make me feel more awake for a short period of time. Even if the pill didn't work, a hot shower would make me feel refreshed for a few minutes.

I let the hot water pound my naked body and rubbed scented body wash all over pelvis and torso. This was done more out of habit, than an actual need to get clean. When I worked out I tended to get my entire body drenched in sweat, and I desperately needed a shower to wash away the scent of my own perspiration, but lately I hadn't had the energy to participate in a workout.

And at some point, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

I mean,

really, really

pounding.

My blood ran deliciously fast through my veins, and I could feel a pleasant surge of eagerness in my muscles. I was beginning to feel like my old self again. The whole time I had been suffering from chronic fatigue, my muscles had felt stiff and rigid. Now, I felt limber, my muscles were like coiled springs, eager to be released.

It took me a few seconds to get out of the shower and dry off, then another few seconds to pad barefoot into my bedroom and grab some clothes. My body had been idle and unproductive for too long. Now, it was like my body was screaming at me to get back into action.

I didn't waste any time. I grabbed a sports bra, some yoga leggings, a V-neck t-shirt, some socks and my favorite pair of running shoes. I got dressed in a flash and tied my still-wet hair into a ponytail, stuffed my keys, my iPhone and my wallet into a fanny pack, and fastened the pack securely around my waist.

It took me less than six minutes to get from the shower, down to the lobby of my apartment building and from there I went outside and jogged north up Sycamore Avenue. When I reached the intersection of Sycamore and Birch Avenue, I went west down Birch and headed for Chandler Park.

Chandler Park had a bike path that was three miles long and if you followed it all the way to the end, you'd end up on Lake Drive, where they had a multitude of shops and restaurants. I decided to follow it all the way to end.

It was early morning, and there were some people in suits on their way to work, teenagers on their way to school, as well as bicyclists, joggers and runners all getting their morning exercise. There was a complicated system that we used that allowed us all to share the same path without slowing down the flow of traffic or colliding into each other. I'd lived in Fairhaven almost my entire life, so I knew the system, and easily merged into the flow.

I felt strong and energetic, and sprinted down the path like a speed demon. I passed most of the other pedestrians like they were standing still. It felt good to be my old, vigorous self again and I laughed buoyantly every time I passed someone.

Of course, the people getting their exercise were dressed very much like I was, in yoga leggings or bicycle shorts or tight capris, and I found my eyes lingering on those people. If you do a lot of legwork, you tend to get very toned calves and thighs, and very toned glutes. Without thinking about it, I found myself admiring the shape of the firm, high buttocks that were clearly visible through the thin fabric of their leggings or their shorts. I had never been the type to ogle other people in public before, however it seemed that my libido (which normally is set on two or three) had been cranked up to eleven. And it wasn't just the men. I found myself checking out the shape of women as well. I had never been the type to be attracted to other women before but, damn Fairhaven had some very attractive females! I tried not to stare, but my eyes seemed to have a plan of their own, and they refused to listen to me!

It was confusing, but kind of thrilling. It was like discovering a new type of beauty in Fairhaven that had always existed, but I had always been blind to before. Perfectly shaped thighs and buttocks just seemed to be everywhere I looked. My body responded to the visual display in front of me and I could feel a familiar throb in my loins.

I shook my head and tried to concentrate on my run. I sprinted down the path like a machine, moving so fast that the sight of hips, pelvises, buttocks and thighs disappeared from my view almost as quickly as they appeared. I worked up a sweat and panted as I ran. I gobbled up the miles, and before I knew it, I was on Lake Drive.

I slowed down to a walking pace and allowed myself to catch my breath. I told myself that the inexplicable spike in my libido was just a passing anomaly and by the time I got home, I'd be back to normal.

And then, as I walked leisurely down Lake Drive, I tried to cool down my libido by deliberately taking controlled breaths. Slowing down my heartrate and breathing would slow down the throbbing in my loins, right? I tried thinking calm, boring thoughts as I walked down the lane and it seemed to be working. There was a dull ache in my sex, but it no longer had that insistent throbbing. I just needed to walk it off.

I turned around and began my long walk back home, and then spotted two women on their way to the beach. I mean, one of them had a beach towel draped over her shoulder and they were both wearing two-piece bathing suits. Also, the beach was only about four blocks away from Lake Drive, so it was a pretty safe bet that the beach was their destination.

The way they were holding hands made me think that they were lesbians. Gays and lesbians weren't at all unusual in Fairhaven. I see them pretty much every day, and don't give them much thought. They normally just sort of blend into the background.

Except today, my eyes were inextricably drawn to the lesbian couple. The bikini bottoms they were wearing were both very revealing. The one woman was wearing bikini bottoms with a Brazilian cut, and the other was wearing a tanga bikini bottom, with ties at the sides. Both women were about my age and had high, firm buttocks. I watched them as they meandered away from me, and delighted in the way their buttocks moved as they walked.

Why were my eyes hypnotically drawn to their almost-naked buttocks? I wasn't a lesbian. I wasn't into girls, but as they walked towards the beach, I found my feet taking me in the same direction as the two bikini-clad women, my gaze shamelessly preoccupied with their shapely rear ends.

And as I followed the young couple towards the beach, and kept my watchful vigil on their firm thighs and shapely buttocks, I realized that the throbbing in my sex (which I had just cooled down), was stoked again. My body was now throbbing with sexual need. What was this? Ordinarily, I had a very low sex drive, but now every young, healthy person I spied on the street was stirring up my libido, like I was on ecstasy!