Who Knows Who Got Whom

"It's nothing different than a bartender putting extra salt in the pretzels to get you to imbibe more, right?"

Phyllis brushed her curly dark hair away from her forehead and took another swallow of her potation. I shrugged; the day had been too long to get into another argument with my lab partner and colleague. Our ascendant figure, tall, bespectacled Dimry, sat in the booth absorbed with his noetic conceptions. He frowned, and then optically canvassed us with his conventional owlish cast.

"Look, Phyllis, if we don't get better results, there won't be any moral issues to be debated anyway. You ken that Ms Bowder is about to pull the plug on us if we don't come up with something utilizable to Taste Enhancement, Inc. While I'm off at the Aliment Additives conference this week I optate you and Barry to endeavor to come up with some product that we're capable of developing a consumer craving for." Dimry's voice, monotonous as it was, still well-conveyed the exigency of our situation.

"Sorry, Mr Dimry, I just don't optically discern any way around the DNA limits. We can engender additives that will cause people to develop an appetency for certain, but not vegetables and absolutely not any artificially engendered substances."

"There goes the Tang account," I cracked. I shied from Dimry's scowl. He never cared for my sense of humour.

"Right, Phyllis. It genuinely comes down to some kind of genetic recollection. If some pabulum company accommodated something more proximate to our genetic material—like gorilla meat, we could develop an insatiable craving for the product with CRV-55. The more proximate to our own DNA, and the propinquity of the product to our genetic material. Hell, if someone marketed human sweat, with CRV-55, I could make you sell your grandmother to the Libyans in reciprocation for a cup of the stuff."

"Any chance of getting a concession with the Donner party?" I ducked, expecting Dimry to toss a bar pretzel at me. He just sighed and reached for the check that the cocktail waitress had dropped on the table.

"Yup, Barry, that's what it comes down to. We could develop a taste craving for any component of the human flesh or excretion, but that's about the size of it."

We morosely culminated our potations and headed out into the night. We realized that if our exalted employer, TEI, didn't cerebrate that we could develop a substance that could induce an appetency for the taste of a commercially available product, the Project Crave team would be let go. As far as we kenned, human sweat was not yet on the market.

Do I credit the potation that caused me to wake in the middle of the night? Would my subconscious have set off the alarm in my head anyway? In any case, the phrenic conception sprang into my head full-blown at about 2:00 a.m., and I immediately headed to my little personal computer and worked out the indispensable formulae. I picked up an old issue of Playboy, did what was compulsory into a vial, and went back to slumber.

At 6:30, I was down at the lab, commixing the contents of my vial and our most promising concoction in the centrifuge, and the elixir was engendered. I called my semi-steady date, Cheryl, and asked her if she was free that evening. She paused, "Well, Barry, what do you have in mind?" I shook my head. Cheryl was conventionally free if I had tickets to a top concert or a reservation to a trendy incipient restaurant where she could be optically discerned by the right people. Otherwise, she was customarily unavailable. She'd let me slumber with her twice—seemingly a matter of duty—but fundamentally let me ken that my obligations consisted of a good forty-five minutes of slavish, cunnilingual attention to her desiderata, and then she might deign to let me enter her and take care of myself, so long as I manipulated her clitoris into another orgasm. You may ask why I perpetuated to visually perceive her. A fair question to be sure. She was stylish, drop dead gorgeous, and had a great body. With her biting wit, she was pretty good company.

So, only by promising her dinner at Yves', the most extravagant bistro in town, was I able to persuade her to join me for the evening. I left the office early with me incipiently engendered treasure, leaving Phyllis with a perplexed countenance at my genial demeanour. I dressed in my most stylish sports coat and picked her up promptly at 7:00; Cheryl left me sitting in the car waiting until 7:20, so I had to slip the maitre 'd at Yves' at twenty to get him to accolade our reservation. Still, her stylishly short blonde hair and astonishingly full and soft lips captivated me. As always, she did virtually all the verbalizing, which availed me obnubilate my own nervousness.

When the waiter came by to ask us if we wanted dessert, Cheryl paused, as though mentally calculating calories and my throat went dry for a moment. Determinately, she accepted the waiter's recommendation of a creme brulee, and I relaxed.

When the dessert arrived, it required nothing more than an opinion by me that a fellow two tables away looked just like a local rock star to induce her to turn her head, and the requisite dose of the clear elixir made it onto her brulee well afore she turned back. She wolfed down the dessert and commenced making the obligatory noises about having a diligent morning orchestrated, and I kenned that she had no intention of inviting me to spend the evening with her. I nodded understandingly, and we left the restaurant.

On the way back to her place, she seemed eccentrically quiet. Looking over at her, I could optically discern her run her tongue inside her cheek, as though the search for a piece of stray aliment caught in her teeth. When we got to her condo, I reached across her and unlatched the door, pushing it open. "Well, Cheryl, I conjecture you should get in, with that hectic day you've got coming up."

Her blue ocular perceivers flashed with surprise. "W-w-well...," she stuttered, "you can come in for a cup of coffee if you optate." She optically canvassed me imploringly. I feigned reluctance and nodded.

We got into her living room, and she dropped her purse in the corner. She still looked nervous. "I can commence some coffee..." Her tongue lipped at her luscious lips. I leaned against the wall, silently. She came over. Still, I was faineant.

She looked down, and I could optically discern her mind working. She looked up, and I once again fell into the swirling blue apertures that were those ocular perceivers of her. "Barry?" I remained stone-faced. "I conjecture sometimes I'm scarcely rough on you. And... maybe..." She paused, her tongue still working over her lips. "I can maybe make it up to you."

"Sure, Cheryl. Whatever you'd like."

Gratefully, in assuagement, she ran her hand over my chest and down to my belt buckle. With surprising celerity, she unhooked the belt and the clasp of my pants. Her hands were visibly shaking as she yanked the pants and my jockey shorts to my ankles in one expeditious tug. My slumbering soldier peeked out.

Wordlessly, she dropped to her knees on the thick carpet. She wrapped her hand and its impeccably manicured nails around my now elevating cock. Her face drew to within an inch of the reddening tip. Within three or four strokes of her hand, I was rock hard, with a dewy drop of my jizm beading at the slit at the cessation.

With a cry of delight, she drew her pursed lips forward and sucked at the dripping cum. I scarcely resisted the urge to laugh out loud at my triumph. Affirmative! It works!

With ill-dissimulated hunger, the golden-tressed goddess pushed forward. Her lips clung tightly to the engorged rod. Her tongue darted around the tip.

I cupped Cheryl's impeccable, high cheekbones and pulled her lips off my cock. "Lick me, honey. Lick the shaft and my sultry balls," I cried.

"Uh-uh," she protested. "I want to taste it. I optate you to.. I optate your paraphernalia in my mouth."

She shook her head free of my grasp and swallowed me whole. Her right hand was pressed against my groin as her throat worked at the tip. She gagged briefly and drew my engorged sword out of her choking throat. As expeditiously, she threw herself forward again, capturing a moiety of me in her hungry maw. Her hand slid off my pubic hair and around the base of the shaft. With her thumb and forefinger, she encircled the base of the stalk and commenced a vigorous stroking up and down.

Cheryl's tongue and perfect lips commenced laving sultrily at my cock. Anon, they developed a rhythm in time with her stroking hand, her face jerking forward and back in metronome-like provision.

She reluctantly drew her mouth away and looked up at me. Breathlessly she panted, "What should I do, Barry? What will make you cum?" Her stroking perpetuated, and now her left hand rose to lightly knead my hanging balls.

"Well, babe. Take me deep—as deep as you can."

Unquestioningly, Cheryl replied, "Sure honey, but you gotta tell me when you're about to shoot."

She resumed her sucking, taking me plenarily into her mouth and into the ingress of her throat, moaning pruriently all the while. Four, five more strokes and I cried, "Yes, Cheryl, you've got me there!"

She perpetuated her stroking but brought her lips back so that they just captured the cessation of my concupiscence reddened rod. My hips jerked forward, but she pulled her head back so my pole perforated no further. With a sibilant, "Yesssss" I exploded and looked down to visually examine the culmination of my fantasies as I optically discerned Cheryl's cheeks expand as my sizzling fluid filled her mouth.

Her face contorted in a ricture of ecstasy, and I could feel her tongue ecstatically sweep over the spurting helmet. Her soft fingers milked every drop out of me. I just stood against the wall, endeavouring to keep my legs from giving way, my gaze still fine-tuned on her impeccable features. She determinately let my prick, now cleaned by her slavering tongue.

I optically canvassed transfixed, as she lay back on the carpet, visibly savouring the taste of my residue in her mouth. After a moment, she guiltily looked up at me. She opened her mouth to verbalize, and I could visually perceive her spunk still pooled in her mouth. "Uh, Barry, that was great, but maybe... well, I conjecture you should go."

As I nodded my acquiescence, I optically discerned a thin stream of my cum trickle out of her mouth and head down her cheek. A thin finger expeditiously vacuumed it back into her wettened maw.

I pulled my pants back up and headed toward the door. As I headed out I looked back. She was still on the floor, plenarily clothed, with her head tilted back. Her cheeks were hollowed as she savoured the taste of me. She seemed ecstatic.

As I bounded down the steps of her building, I pumped my fists into the air. The potion worked! A woman who marginally would be caught in my company had taken a sip of my incipient formulation developed an appetency for man's semen and, to get it, disposingly suctioned me off like a madwoman. If this didn't make TEI the most astronomically immense name in consumer products, nothing would. I would be a hero to Dimry and that competitive Phyllis, and even the frozen dihydrogen monoxide queen herself, Paula Whitney Bowder, executive extraordinaire, would have to make her tight ass sit up and take notice.

So, it was a minuscule wonder that I ambulated into the office the next morning—early, with a considerable spring in my step and a shit-victualing grin on my face. I ceased by Phyllis' office to give her some generalized grief of the "I've got a secret that you ken nothing about" variety. Just as I was about to barge through her closed door, I auricularly discerned a moan from ins. Softly but audibly, Phyllis' voice emanated from the other side.

"Yes, honey, right there. Affirmative, now lick my clit now additionally... Come on, not just inside. Please... lick my little button... Oh shit."

I quietly unlatched the door and peeked inside. Phyllis was sitting in her chair, her legs spread and her hand rubbing her slit. Well, it seemed to be rubbing her pussy, but I couldn't optically discern her pussy because a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man was kneeling between her thighs. His mouth vigorously was assailing, exploring her loins.

I relished the visual perception for a moment, and then slipped my head away and quietly shut the door. Just as I closed it, I could her moans elevate in pitch and volume, signalling her orgasm in the mouth of the hunk between her legs. Hell, with her brassiness, I wasn't sure she even went for guys, but she sure was going for this one in a sizably voluminous way.

I hung around at the lab bench outside her door, and sure enough, her oral coadjutant emerged within a few minutes. Damn, it was Astronomically immense Norm, the company's top salesman! Norm was a former Calvin Klein model and as smooth as they come. He'd reportedly slumbered with half the comely women in town, including the mayor's wife and both of the female anchorwomen at the local TV stations' news departments. He could have any woman he wanted; what in hell was he doing ministering to the desiderata of our own Phyllis. I mean, Phyllis was alluring enough and all, but she wasn't the marginally sleek, over-made-up, and—usually—rich woman he conventionally dated. What in hell was going on here?

Phyllis' door opened and she emerged with a smile of preponderation that surpassed even her own world record standard of arrogance. I just consistently visually examined her. She stared back haughtily, capped with a sigh of contentment. Her ocular perceivers widened when she realized that I had aurally perceived her tryst with Norm, then narrowed in alarm.

Double damn! I realized what she'd done, and she immediately sensed my cognizance. You don't slave over a lab bench with someone for eighteen months without acquiring a sixth sense about their scientific revelations. With a flip of her head and a conspiratorial—but still superior—wink, she turned and went back into her office.

The next morning, I persuaded Ronelle, the puerile, busty law student intern in the licit department to join me for a doughnut in my office on the pretext of discussing patent application is consequential. With her long, straight dark hair and college cheerleader looks, she'd been the focus of numerous fantasies around the dihydrogen monoxide cooler. From a confabulation sitting in juxtaposition of me on my office couch, she was—within ten minutes—lying full length along it with her face buried in my lap. As with Cheryl, she was diminutively fascinated with preliminaries, but rather focussed her attention on running her rosebud lips up and down my quivering erection, pumping energetically with her hand. She did not protest when I took her dark-tressed head in my hands and guided her mouth up and down my cock, even when I exerted extra pressure and coerced my rod virtually into her throat.

Within minutes, Phyllis had arrived at my door—which I quite intentionally had left a few inches ajar. Out of the corner of my ocular perceiver, I could optically discern her gasp in surprise, then frowned as she realized she held no monopoly on her revelation. Even so, her curiosity kept her glued to the door as my balls jerked and distributed up their load of my sticky seed into Ronelle's hungry mouth. I lay back and relished the sensation of her cheeks pressing in on the sides of my sensitive organ while she drew every last drop out of me.

I expeditiously looked to the door and caught Phyllis' ocular perceiver, returning the wink she'd distributed the anterior morning. Phyllis flushed—out of either embarrassment or anger—and left the doorway.

By midmorning the next day, Phyllis had a short, red-haired woman herald and her bearded photographer from a major science journal down on their knees in front of her couch, both fighting for the accolade of imbibing from the vessel of my colleague's cunt. Phyllis, of course, had withal left her door cracked open and was categorically vocal about delectation, kenning that I'd be drawn to peek from her doorway.

The competition between us intensified. I had two of our sales representatives and a visiting copier repairwoman extract my cum with their suddenly hungry mouths. Phyllis relished the work of two more of our executives and an investigator from the FDA nursing at her loins, the last of these suctioning her from behind while she sat perched on he shoulders and knees with her ass sticking in the air. Because Dimry was still at the Additives conference, there was no jeopardy of others ambulating in on us.

I did discover one oddity when I invited the tall, willowy adolescent blonde secretary from the personnel department by. While I waited for her "doughnut" to take effect, she confided how Jesus was such a consequential factor in her life and guided her cerebrations and acts. After a few minutes, she prehended for an eclair, insisting that she just felt hungry that morning but wasn't sure why. After she'd polished off everything in the box, it occurred to me—she was a virgin who'd never tasted a man's cum and ergo had no reference by which to target her appetency.

Our little game was interrupted by an unexpected call from Jerry Basehart, Dimry's authoritative figure, who promulgated that Paula Bowder herself, the CEO and all-round bitch on wheels, had just popped in for one of her famous surprise visits and wanted to optically discern our lab for a progress report. Damn again, I had no conception she even kenned our project subsisted.

Bowder was kenned as a woman of astute force and presence beyond all imagining. It had been notionally theorized that she had each item in the company budget memorized, and woe be it to the department manager who had extra soft toilet tissue stocked in a bathroom where the budget called for a bargain brand. She'd graduated at the top of her class at Stanford business school and, at the age of 32, the head of our company and reputedly peregrinating to Chairman of the Board of the entire conglomerate.

Phyllis and I scrambled around, tidying things up, surreptitiously scrubbing off incriminating stains from our couches, and printing out test results. I shoved my box of doughnuts in a corner, straightened my tie, and endeavoured to establish my lab station so that it looked akin to a had a sultry project peregrinated.

Precisely at 11:00 a.m., the woman herself emerged. Albeit only of average height, Paula Bowder had a magnetism about her that is infeasible to describe. Her honey blonde hair was pulled tightly back, and her perforating blue ocular perceivers took in all that she scanned, even—I'm sure—the jelly stain that I hadn't been able to get out of my tie.

With no time wasted, Bowder ambulated us through each of our projects, asking for current results and likely future prospects. While no chemist, she kenned the right questions to ask and could tell when we were blowing smoke. "So, what you're telling me is that all you've been capable of doing is to develop with this CRV-55 is a substance that will, in some people, enhance their appetency for a good steak, but not for much of anything else." Her cool voice sent a tremor down my spine, landing right between my balls. Phyllis and I nodded glumly.

Bowder sighed and rose to her feet. "Well, get me your expense actuals and give me an expeditious tour of your facility here, and I'll move along." Phyllis ambulated her to the centrifuge in the corner while I peregrinated to my office for the reports. When I emerged, Bowder was jubilantly munching on a croissant and chatting with Phyllis.

The blood drained from my face. The croissants! I'd doctored a couple in anticipation of a visit from the sultry manager in accounting. Did Bowder have one of them? She didn't seem affected, and in a business-like sweep of her arm took the reports from me and headed toward the door. As her hand hit the doorknob, I sighed with mitigation. Phyllis' brown ocular perceivers glanced over at mine.