My name's Steve Birch. I'm a 26-year old Londoner, and I'm virtually irresistible to women. That's not male bragging, simply a statement of fact. It's not just because of my looks, although at six feet tall and slim, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes, I'm attractive enough. It's not because of my personality, although I'm generally considered intelligent, witty and good company; it's not even because of my 8-inch cock, although obviously that doesn't exactly put the ladies off. No, it's because of a little gift I have in rather more abundance than most men.
As a kid women always seemed to be crowding round my pram and push-chair gurgling over me and tweaking my cheek. My mother was always very, very affectionate: she loved kissing and cuddling me at every opportunity. It was all completely innocent of course, but extremely noticeable when she picked me up from school and smothered me in front of the other kids. That, and my popularity with the girls, got me beaten up a few times. (I've always seemed to have problems with a certain sort of macho dickhead.) At one point I had three girlfriends at the same time. They were all happy with the situation, as long as they got their share of me, and there were plenty of others queuing up to take their places. I always seemed to get really good marks from female teachers too, without really working harder than anyone else.
I didn't get an explanation for all this until I got to university. A girlfriend there, a scientist, did various tests on me, and told me, when she could detach her mouth from my dick for long enough, that I had an extraordinary level of sex pheromones – dozens of times more than was normal in a human male, possibly hundreds of times. God knows where it came from – certainly not my dad, trust me! – but there it was, I was officially, and more or less literally, a babe magnet. Naturally, being a typical cocky student – no pun intended – I took full advantage of my, well, advantage. I used to make money out of it by betting my mates I could pull any woman they pointed to. Apart from numerous students, I slept with three lecturers, including a 62-year old lifelong lesbian, and my head of department's wife and daughter – at the same time. My greatest triumph, and by far my most lucrative bet, came with our local Member of Parliament. I met her at a surgery she held for constituents, and within five minutes she'd ordered her assistant from the room because of the "confidentiality of Mr Birch's issue". I can't believe the bloke didn't hear her screaming obscenities as I fucked her over a school desk!
Since I left uni I've been a bit more socially responsible. I don't have a girlfriend, and I probably haven't averaged more than eight or ten partners a year. Okay, maybe 12 or 15. In a slow year. Over the years I've learnt to control my 'talent' a bit. It's always there of course: wherever I go women of all ages and types immediately warm to me, and I still have to watch my step around more Neanderthal men. (I had to leave my last job because a woman director wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. She was attractive enough, but there had to be a reason why her six-feet-four, 18-stone rugby-playing husband was nicknamed 'Killer'.) But by driving all thoughts of sex from my mind, and wearing a particularly cloying aftershave, I can generally tone it down. Of course, I can also turn it up too when I want, and I've never been turned down by a woman I wanted to pull.
Until I met Ileana.
She'd been with the company a few months before I really became aware of her. That was because she'd been promoted, and we started attending the same meetings, about three a week. She was 23, only a couple of inches shorter than me, with masses of tawny brown hair, worn swept back from her forehead to reveal a slight widow's peak. She was slim except for C-cup boobs that all the men in our meetings had regular glances at. She always dressed in black, usually thigh- or knee-length skirts and short-sleeved tops, revealing sinewy arms and well muscled legs – I assumed she must work out a lot. She had what might be called a strong face – not unattractive, but with prominent eyebrow ridges, vigorous brows that she made no attempt to pluck, a slim pointed nose, a wide mouth with dazzling white teeth, and not much of a chin to speak of. She had a habit of running the tip of her tongue round her lips which I found dead sexy, together with a deep husky voice. Her eyes were particularly striking – ice blue in colour, and when she locked them on you it felt like diamonds boring into you.
Ileana and I immediately got on well, and found we had a similar sense of humour, cynical and slightly dark. On several occasions we found ourselves cackling together at some off-the-cuff gag that nobody else in the meeting remotely got, with everyone in the room staring at us in a sort of long-suffering way. After a couple of weeks I decided I definitely fancied her, and that she deserved me. (Arrogant? Me?) So I determined to give her the benefit of my special gift. I had to be careful – turning it on full power in a room with quite a few other people can be downright dangerous, with the women throwing themselves at me and the wrong sport of bloke feeling a sudden, previously unrealised urge to punch my lights out. But I found one or two excuses to be alone with Ileana, going over reports and suchlike, and hit her with the full force of my sexual magnetism.
With most women, five minutes of me radiating at them and they'd be on their knees in front of me panting and tearing at my fly. From Ileana, not a thing. The first time I tried it her eyes momentarily flared and I thought, "Here we go"; but the moment passed, and after that I got no reaction from her whatsoever. I'd never experienced that before, and it both fascinated me and unsettled me. The more it happened, the more determined I became that I was going to give her the shagging of her life. After several knock-backs, I decided I was just going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, and actually ask her out. Once I got a couple of drinks inside her my gift was bound to have its usual effect.
My opportunity arrived one Friday when a load of us went to the pub to celebrate a colleague's retirement. I gave it an hour or so, then I managed to manoeuvre Ileana to a corner table, a bit away from the others. We made small talk at first, while I tried projecting at her again. No reaction; she seemed quite relaxed and happy in my company though. I said casually, "Ileana Niculescu – that's an unusual name."
She shook her head. "Not in Romania it isn't. Transylvania, actually – my parents moved here when I was a tot."
I chuckled. "Wow – you're not a vampire, are you?"
She gave me a strained smile, and said sarcastically, "That's a good one; yeah, never heard that one before."
Feeling a complete prat, I was aware of myself blushing. "Er, yeah, right, sorry. Anyway, what time's your boyfriend expecting you home? Or your husband? Or your girlfriend?"
