Short story: Nude beach.

DOS

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[editorial warning: The next chapter doesn't have much sex in it. (It's a true story, after all. :wink1:)]

"Dang", I said, "I have to get that," and as I fished for the phone, raised an eye to Jo and said "I'm a charter pilot, and no, not married, not any more."
I could equally accurately have answered "I'm a nightclub manager," or "I'm an I.T. consultant," or "I'm Maitre-de at a local restaurant." The exaggerations would be on a similar scale, and not really terribly dishonest. (Part time pilot-for-the-jobs-nobody else is available for; part time barman, who is the "go-to guy" whenever the police raid the club, because of apparent seniority; have an ad on the internet for a geeks-to-you sort of home computer service; part time waiter, on call + two fixed nights a week.) Between them all, they sometimes pay the bills, plus sometimes provide a tiny bit of play money. These jobs keep me occupied between twenty and forty-ish hours a week, depending on demand, staff sickness etc.
"Hi, Steve speaking." I answer.
"Steve, it's Mike. We have a family who seem to be Air-star refugees (Air-star= the regional low-cost carrier). They need to be in Auckland by four for an international flight. I've got to stay here for a lesson at three. Can you do it?"
"Yeah. I can be there in half an hour, tops. I'll need to shower - I've been doing dirty stuff outdoors," (private grin) "can you make sure the Aztec is fuelled and get weathers for me? Shortcut things a bit."
"Can do. See you soon-as. Thanks, Steve."

I face Jo and Wendy, genuinely regretful, said "Look, I have to leave, right now. Urgent job. Can we continue this discussion, maybe tomorrow?"
"I think that might be best." Jo said. She glanced at Wendy, got a nod. "Can I have your number?"
I read out the number, Jo pressed some buttons, then my phone rang. "That seems to work," I said, making a mental note to store the number and ascribe a suitable tone, "Hey, I'm real sorry to have to leave. This has been one of the best afternoons for me in a while. I really hope to see you again, soon. You two have a great day."
"Likewise." Said Wendy. Then, as an apparent afterthought "Don't crash into anything."
"OK." I said, seriously, then smiled, quickly semi-dressed, and slogged off down the beach to where my old Toyota was parked.

The Toyota was purchased from a deceased estate twelve years prior. Someone had taken the trouble to purchase and import a Singapore taxi, intending to use it in NZ, got through the paperwork and certification, then had a stroke, the unfortunate guy. Nobody in the family had wanted the car; I got it for a pretty good price and, not really appreciating its character at first, had spent the next 5 years treating it...well, harshly, sometimes, driving it anywhere and everywhere, loading all sorts of crap into it, providing the minimum of servicing and TLC while expecting it to go flat out wherever I needed to be.
Having been unable to kill it, I slowly realised that it was an incredibly solid and reliable beast, and also roomy, comfortable, and not costly to run, so I started to take better care of it. (The gradual realization that it might be a while before I could afford to replace it probably had something to do with that, too.)
It promptly repaid me its first wash and polish by breaking down. Hilarious. It's been utterly reliable since then, possibly because I've refrained from washing it, from that time on.
I keep three suit covers in the back seat; one contains my flight uniform (navy blue trousers, white shirt - no epaulettes, thank God, pale blue tie with a "U-fly" logo) the other two contain bartender and waiter uniforms, which vary...not much. At least all the companies involved pay for dry cleaning.

Pulling up outside the run-down prefab building with the U-fly Aviation sign above it, I grabbed the appropriate uniform, locked the car, and entered the hut.
"Gidday, Mike," I said. Mike Turnbull; part time instructor, office manager, aeroplane cleaner, office cleaner, operations manager, and general good-guy. I liked him from the day we met. He was just...competent. Never gave the impression of being flustered, even when there was a lot of 'fluss' going on. Quite overweight from irregular shifts, junk food, and long hours just sitting around alternating with frenzied activity, he was about my age but had started flying a year or two earlier, and chosen the flight instructor route to gain experience for the Big Career. I'd done quite a bit of training with him.
"Gidday, Steve, thanks for coming in," he said, "this is the Sullivan family. They were supposed to be leaving for Auckland about now on Airstar but there's been a tech issue, and the company can't offer any certainty about a resolution." I reached forward and shook Mr Sullivan's hand. "Hi, I'm Steve. What's your latest check-in at Auckland?"
"Hello, Steve. I'm Gilbert. Giles for short." (About forty five, well dressed, athletic looking, British accent. Just another tired and stressed tourist. We've all been there.) "I think it's four thirty at the latest, we're with LanChile. Airstar are being bloody useless. The story keeps changing. First it was an aircraft breakdown, then a weather problem, then ATC delays, then a sick crew member, it was only going to be half an hour late, nobody kept us informed, and forty minutes later, and only after I asked, turned out they've got to fly a replacement co-pilot in from Christchurch, and we should be underway an hour after that. Well at that point I just spat the dummy and phoned around and came across you guys."
Ahh, the joys of flying a Loco, when things don't go right.
That's not often, but when they do, the delay can be prolonged. One of the tricks of being able to offer low fares, apart from squeezing everyone in and not providing food, is that there aren't reserves of crew or aeroplanes all over the place just in case they're needed. Nor are there any spare staff on the ground to help organize things or keep the customers informed.
"Ok, Giles, I just have to have a real quick cleanup, then we'll be underway. Give us ten minutes." And then, to Mike "Can you do us a fave? Weights and stuff?"
"Already done, mate. The paperwork is all right here. All you need is to put in the plan. I've drafted one out."
"You're a genius. I owe you."

The shower at U-fly is accessed via a sliding door and through a room the size of a phone booth, into which somehow has been crammed a toilet and the smallest hand-baisin in the country. It's like a dolls house, but without the bright colours. The shower consists of a triangular corner of the room that had the required plumbing, with a plastic curtain across it. The water pressure and temperature is surprisingly good considering the appearance, and I felt ready to go after two minutes of vigorous soaping and rinsing. Getting dried and dressed is tricky in the space available. Anyone who has washed and changed in an airliner toilet will have an idea of what it was like, but I actually looked (more or less) the part when I stepped out.
Checked the paperwork,all good. Made a balance calculation, entered the flight details on line, and got the family on board. The mother (Kate, it turned out) looked a bit nervous.
The Aztec was in good condition, fairly clean, but like any six seater, small, with a small "s". The kids were about ten and twelve. The boy looked excited; wanted to sit in the front, I had to explain the aircraft balance would be better if a heavier person sat in the front, and with the amount of luggage on board, that was true.
Got them seated, run through a familiarization and safety briefing, which is only a little more involved than an airline safety briefing, then got it fired up and under way. The old Aztec rumbled to life on the first attempt, both sides.

Back in the sixties, when the design was new, it could have been considered the bees-knees. One of the personal twin aircraft being produced at the time by one of the "big three" -Cessna, Piper and Beech - all competing for sales, it was purchased by flight schools, charter operations, and people like a successful race-car driver, and a round-the-world voyager. It rapidly gained a reputation for being solid and able to haul good loads. Roomy and fairly comfortable, but not quite as fast nor perhaps as sleek-looking as the offerings from it's direct competitors, it still achieved a production run of almost thirty years, and many examples were still flying, mainly as trainers, or lugging freight around, and some, like this one, used for charters. I like it a lot. It shares certain traits with my old Toyota and is, in a way, a sort-of mechanical caricature of how I view myself.

It's not exactly what the average person of the millennial generation picture in their minds eye when the words "charter flight" are mentioned, though, and I had a little bit of reassuring to do - something I've become accustomed to, and gotten good at. (I just tell people it was "the Lear-jet of its day." It hardly ever works, but raises a smile.)
 

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The flight turned out to be uneventful, which is as I like it. I'd rather be a bit bored than have to deal with uncertainty or worse. The weather was great along the entire route, nothing went wrong, and ATC were (unusually) not busy. I had to make a fast approach into Auckland between two Boeings; the alternative was to orbit somewhere out of the way for maybe five minutes. That alarmed Kate a little - seeing this 747 looming large in the side window as I turned toward the runway, fast and low - but the kids seemed to think it great fun.
Safe touch-down, and the family were deposited at the domestic terminal with about ten minutes to spare, for which they were sufficiently grateful they tipped me a hundred dollars!
A tip doesn't happen often. I'd never had a tip of anything more than twenty, before then. A hundred actually just about matched the flight pay I was getting for this trip, and I was mightily pleased. Pleased enough to procure them a couple of baggage trolleys, and show them exactly where to head to locate the short walkway to international. I'd already radioed their airline with the booking reference details, so it was known they'd be a bit late checking in. Altogether, this day was progressing in a most satisfactory manner. If there's one thing I enjoy almost as much as oral sex on the beach, it's flying.

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U-fly's genesis was in the mid-eighties, before the first of the major market crashes of my time. In those days, almost every decent-sized company in NZ was following the mantra cynically alluded to by Pink Floyd - "and I think I need a Lear jet," and fuel and flying was still relatively cheap. My attempts to break into an airline job followed a pretty standard pattern for the time; work in a menial but reasonably paid job to pay my way through training, try and score a job with an entry-level organisation (enter U-fly) or take up instructing, build experience, do an instrument rating, etc, and hopefully get accepted as a trainee first-officer for the national airline, flying "real" aircraft. 40-seat turboprops, hopefully progressing to Boeings, then (much later) long range Boeings or DC10's. I wasn't fussy. First officer on a Friendship sounded mighty good, at that stage. Hell, just flying the Aztec and other U-fly machines had me feeling like I'd already "made it".

It's an expensive pastime. The training and qualifications needed to amass the required experience so as to become employable is considerable. For a too-brief period I was riding the tail of the gravy train, trying hard to climb from the tail onto, maybe, the caboose - but not trying with any real urgency. Life was good, with no indication of hard times ahead. I was naive, flying about 20 hours a week, (on a good week), building experience, partying large, and generally living the dream. Every month or so a new executive jet appeared on the aerodrome, the latest corporate toy of some local company that was doing ok. There was a pilot shortage looming. These companies needed to get crew from somewhere, and although the numbers involved weren't huge, they did cut into the number of locals applying for regular airline work. Some of my peers who were only a little ahead of me in hours and age were being employed by airlines. Some went overseas. A few with the national carrier, as trainee first officers. I kept my ear to the ground, and started applying, but was usually told "come back when you've got a thousand hours twin time." That was pretty standard, and what I expected, but I wanted to register interest and get my name out there.

At that time, U-fly owned or leased three training machines, four tourers - three four seaters and a six seater - and two twins for touring, charter, or training. All these machines were new or refurbished and all were well equipped. There was full time employment for two instructors, an admin assistant/ops manager, and me, and part time for another instructor and commercial pilot (the same qualification as myself, but without the twin engine endorsement).

Then came the crash of eighty-seven. I didn't know what effect it would have, until the effect actually started happening, a few months later. Slowly, my bubble started to burst, though I was slow spotting it. Another six months and I had the required thousand hours, but no-one was hiring. The most recent intake to the national carrier had their training and employment put on hold. An entire mini- "generation" of new pilots from that intake also had their dreams put on hold, with that event. A few months after that I scored a job with what I thought was a promising new carrier, that had pitched themselves to compete directly with the national carrier on third level (provincial towns) routes. We were flying in twenty-seat turboprops, not being paid much (actually, allowances only), but accruing valuable experience whilst working long hours in all sorts of weather. The training was unstructured, and very dependent on the experience level and inclination of the captain, but a lot of the time, with some captains, it was invaluable. (With some others, it was downright scary.) For a time, things looked a little bit promising.

My bubble, having had its leak patched, briefly, burst completely one night when two of my colleagues and five of their passengers were killed. It wasn't a freak accident; they'd been carrying out an approach in bad weather, pushed the margins a bit to get in (most of us did, to one degree or another, when the weather was marginal; it was tacitly encouraged,) and hit a radio mast slightly off the final approach.

My first inkling of the disaster was when I saw the scorched crater on the TV news with bits of metal and burned luggage scattered (and two sinister-looking orange blankets) around it, and one wing, severed, bent. but intact, in the next field over. It hit me like a physical blow. My heart sank; I knew the crew, of course. I'd never had to go to a funeral for one of my peers before. It was surreal.
Investigations showed certain shortfalls in the way the company ran its operations, among many other things, and, pressed for the cash required to put things right, and in the face of seriously adverse publicity-which was utterly justified, the company folded its wings a month before the final report was released. In a shrinking job market, newly flooded with redundant flight crews, pickings were slim. The employment problem was international - unless you were prepared to work in darkest dodge-ville on the edge of a combat zone, and not ask too many questions. I didn't have the cojones for that - it meant living in a jungle, or a desert, or a city that looked like a refugee camp, and in some cases having people shoot at you (one of my friends was shot dead in a riot that he was unlucky enough to have just happen around him on his drive to the hotel after work, in broad daylight; nobody was ever charged) - and so the dream evaporated. With no other strings to my bow except barman, fast-food ''chef'', or delivery driver, I was poorly placed. I'd been living hand-to-mouth ever since, waiting tables and pouring drinks at two different clubs downtown three evenings a week, and flying - maybe once a fortnight - for the once thriving U-fly - during the day. I was paid a retainer by them, for being on call (which almost paid the rent) plus thirty dollars an hour flight pay if there were any charters. The retirement plan wasn't exactly one that the average person would put on their bucket list; there was none. I just worked as many hours as I could, tried to mingle with the right people, and hoped. It could have been worse. Some of my colleagues were still on welfare benefits, having traded their dreams for an easy life of doing nothing, though never having a hope of living well. They rotted in their state-owned rentals, dreaming about when they were almost pilots, and getting drunk every day.

U-fly now owned one trainer, one tourer, and one twin. It employed one instructor (Mike) and had me and another commercial pilot on-call, paid a pittance to jump if the phone went. It was actually doing better than some operations, and at least hadn't scrimped on maintenance and safety culture, even if the office was shabby. In my (plentiful) down-time, I started doing the training online for computer servicing. I knew a little bit about them but was self-taught, so needed a qualification. MVPS provided the opportunity to get one - a respected one, at that. It wasn't until I started the training modules that I started to appreciate how much had to be learned and mastered. I am currently stalled about a third through the training. (It's a bit too dry and unexciting to hold my attention. There are a lot of inter-dependent bits of information that needed to stored in active memory, so to speak.) Fortunately the knowledge attained has been more than adequate for the computers I've 'fixed' for clients; the average home computer owner barely knows how to perform a restart, so it doesn't take much expertise to appear like a wizard. I can't (or won't) charge much for it, though, and it's really not something I see myself doing until retirement.

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I checked for phone messages before departing Auckland. There were none. The flight home was uneventful, although, unlike the flight up, there was air traffic congestion at home, and I ended up holding about fifteen minutes. I landed just before dusk - a beautiful time of day, filled with glowing pastel colours of sky vs sunset - refueled and put the aeroplane to bed, collected my flight pay from the office, and drove home to get changed for barman duty that evening. I was tempted to call in sick. It would have been justified; I was seriously shagged, but even work behind a bar is not something to be taken too lightly in the days following the second near-recession of my time, so I somehow mustered the energy to work through the evening.

Bartending...it can be fun, entertaining, you often get to see some unusual (weird) people and witness some far-out stuff, and it's fun to try and flirt with the part-time uni-student barmaids (who have all, independently, agreed among themselves without even discussing it, that none of them will ever fuck me) but mostly, when it's busy (which is all the time,) it's pretty hard, hot, noisy work, and the novelty wears off after a while. Even when money is tight, there's no shortage of people wanting to drink. (Not many of these people tip much, though. Except, sometimes, to the pretty students.) By the time I arrived at my flat at three the next morning, I was ready to drop. "I wonder if I'm starting to get a little too old for this shit." I said to myself as I undressed for bed and burrowed under the covers.I was asleep before I had even started to mentally re-cap the day.
 

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The next morning I was groggy from a deeper than usual sleep.
I also had a stiffer than usual morning wood. I joked to myself it was robbing the brain of blood. At that time of day, my brain needs all the blood it can get.

In lieu of blood, caffeine and nicotine will do. I staggered out to the kitchen, added water and fresh grounds to the percolator, put it on a low gas setting, then stumbled into the bathroom, my dick bobbing ahead of me.

Ablutions completed, I felt rather revived. In fact, I felt rather great, and that's something that doesn't happen very often in the mornings. I experienced frequent erections - after draining my bladder, periodically in the shower, even brushing my teeth. It was tempting to do something about it, but I didn't want to burn the coffee, and I was impatient to check for missed phone calls. So I quickly got dressed (jeans, tee shirt, jandals) and rolled a cigarette; poured myself a big coffee, then stepped through the back door to start enjoying the day, phone in hand.

It was a beautiful morning. My back yard - a patch of lawn with a stone path to an old clothesline, a small patch of vegetable garden that I'd just started trying to grow stuff in, and a low paling fence - faced the morning sun, and offered a half decent view across the entrance to the harbour. The house I rented the back third of was old and had been overdue for some serious maintenance long before I moved into the add-on flat at the back of it, but it was set into the hillside, had off-street parking for all three tenants, was on a quiet cul-de-sac, and was cheap. It didn't bother me that it was cold in the winter; that in the event of a serious earthquake - and we'd had a couple of fairly good ones recently -it would probably slide down the hill; that I could hear the adjacent couple screwing because the walls were thin; that the neighbours either side seemed like they belonged in a retirement ghetto for alcoholics. It was cheap, it was pleasant in the summer, it was cheap, it provided the basic necessities for living, it was cheap, and nobody bothered anybody else, much. One day it and the adjacent houses would probably be snapped up by a property developer, bulldozed, and new mid-to-high end houses built. It was a real desirable location - quiet, view, sunshine, off street parking.. I was a little surprised it hadn't happened already.

Slightly to my disappointment, there were no missed calls, no texts, no messages. I drank from my coffee mug, inhaled my cigarette, and took my t-shirt off to enjoy the morning sun, then assigned a tone to Jo's phone number. (I chose the opening guitar riff to "Cinnamon Girl". It sounded crap on the tinny phone, but just about anything did, anyway.) Then my mind started to play the game it's played before, in one guise or situation or other: Should I ring her? And what should I say? I started going over the previous days events in my mind, trying to guess what the mystery was about. What was the "project" they had mentioned? What was meant when Wendy said "I think I might like him"? Did that imply some kind of risk, should I turn out to be a suitable 'candidate'? Could I be about to be set up to be the fall guy for something? The more I considered it, the fewer answers I deduced, and the more my mental list of possible theories drifted toward the ridiculous, even the slightly paranoid. Following one such drift, I saw myself in prison, waiting to be charged for bank robbery, because I was the getaway car driver in the wrong place at the wrong time and I was about to be anally probed by some huge hairy horrible prison guard with a mean smirk and knobbly hands, and I snapped out of it, realizing how crazy my train of thought was getting. I had one more attempt at recalling anything the girls had said to each other, any meaningful look, any nuance, and came up with a big fat zilch, except for the lingering visual of Wendy's pretty Asian face and lovely pale pink-tipped breasts, which I was happy to gaze at and replay over and over again, until I perceived that my erection was starting to get seriously demanding, and a small damp spot was apparent on the front of my jeans. I checked inside. Yep, pre-cum. This usually only happened on those all-too rare occasions when I was deeply engaged in foreplay or making out, and I was quite chuffed at the experience of having it happen just by replaying a scene in my mind.
 

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At that moment, the android launched into the unmistakeable guitar riff that made up the start of a certain classic song about a spicy lady. Yippee, I thought, and answered it. Jo's voice.
"Hi Steve. This is Jo. We met on the beach yesterday, if you happen to remember?"
"Jo.....sorry, Jo who?"
"Just some random Jo phoning the wrong Steve at a wrong number, I guess. Oh, wait. That's right. I gave you a blowjob. Jog your memory?"
"Oh, that Jo. Yeah. That was awesome. And thank you from the bottom of my heart."
"Pleased to be of service. Now, umm... would you like to discuss something? Something that would have to stay just between us?"
"There is nothing I'd be more interested in, right now, Jo, so fire away."
"Ok. Can you come and visit, sometime today?"
"You name the time and place. There's nowhere else I have to be."

She gave me an address - only a couple or so kilometers away, and suggested about noon, to which I readily agreed and admitted to extremely piqued curiosity. She told me I'd just have to wait and see, but it was something that indeed was somewhat not-quite-above-board, that it would be totally optional, but that if I opted out, I'd have to keep it a secret, and was I prepared to agree to that?

"Yeah, I can agree to that, sure."
"One more thing. I don't really know how to word this, so I'll just come straight out with it. I know you only met us yesterday, and the situation was...fairly unique, in my experience, anyway, but I just want to know what you think about Wendy."
"To be honest, it was fairly unique, as you put it, for me too. I mean, I've heard of stuff like that happening, or dreamed about it, but it's not been my experience until now. So that kind of blew me away. No pun intended. As for Wendy, I think she's gorgeous, if that's what you mean. I'm not really sure what sort of context you want me to answer from." This was all true.
"I mean, do you think that if things went well between you, and I'm not trying to suggest that's going to happen, but if, would she be...umm...oh, I'll just be direct. One night stand, to be cast aside, or potentially more than that?"

Wow. I didn't know how to answer. I just went with the truth, which was that I would definitely be interested in something more, that I was potentially concerned about the age difference, not that I minded that, but she might, and that as far as I was concerned it was more likely to be up to her than up to me, and that it was kind of early in the day to be thinking into this, much, so anything I said was somewhat conditional. I finished up by mentioning that indeed she (Jo) was rather direct, but that I found that quality quite refreshing. Appealing, even.

She seemed to accept the response, and said "That's cool. That's pretty much what I was expecting to hear, just wanted to double check. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention to Wendy that I asked that, OK? It would seem a bit interfering."
"Sure, OK."
"Great. All will be explained. We'll both be here, and my boyfriend will be along later, too. See you at midday. Ciao."
"Bye." I said, just as confused as before. Equally hopeful and concerned about the questions regarding my as-yet unformed attitude to a potential relationship or something with Wendy. That was weird. I mean, why?

And Jo had a boyfriend???? One who didn't mind her giving blowjobs to strangers? Or maybe didn't know. Maybe, should the topic of oral sex on the beach come up in conversation, well, maybe I'd just skip over that bit.

If this was a scheme to reel in a mug, I was pretty hooked. What's more, I didn't care. Even measures of curiosity and lust were ruling my mind. Admittedly, one of the "lust" fantasies had involved the progression of a three-way threesome with a straight Chinese girl and a lesbian blonde, and that seemed to be not quite so on-the-table as before, but I think I could live with that particular non-happening; it wasn't exactly a deal-breaker. And let's face it: my life and prospects could sure be worse than they currently were, but they could certainly be a hell of a lot better. I poured a second coffee and lit another cigarette and started planning the essential domestics (paying bills - one overdue, laundry, grocery shopping) then got a quick breakfast and started seeing about them. I'd have time to do that and still get there by noon, which left the rest of the day free. And if I was going to be caught and strung up and probed for robbing banks, or whatever, perhaps it was important that my bills were paid and laundry laundered beforehand, I thought. Putting ones affairs in order, I believe it's called.
 

DOS

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Last thing I did was the shopping. You can actually eat well (not gluttonously, but well) on a budget. The trick is to buy vegetables and fruit in season (farmers markets can be brilliant), cheaper cuts of meat and sausages from the butcher rather than the supermarket, and avoid processed foods as much as possible. (Many processed foods are full of simple or highly refined carbs, heat-damaged and/or poor quality fats, and, importantly, additives that make them look and taste good, thusly masking their lack of flavour, thusly causing the consumer to eat more of them than they should, and more often than they should, because the body isn't fooled by the imitation taste for long, and continues to ask for something nutritious. (Ever felt hungry again within an hour of having a Big Mac and fries?) Next minute, obesity epidemic and record rates of vascular disease, digestive problems, and type 2 diabetes.) The most expensive thing in my typical shopping mission - apart from tobacco, which is ridiculously taxed - is virgin olive oil, which lasts over a month, anyway.

I have plenty of spare time through the average week. That confers upon me the relative luxury of being able to plan and prepare meals from first principle, as they say, and I'll often slow-cook a casserole that divvies up to six portions, and freeze four or five of them. Hence my attempt at a vegie garden. I can't afford organic produce, so I'm growing some of my own, including a large pot of herbs that are doing well. If the place was my own, and I had a little more room, I'd set up a chicken run for the eggs.

Anyway, I'm in the vegetable shop, and I spotted flowers, and decided without having given it any thought up to then to get a big bunch. (To celebrate my flight pay, I told myself. 'Coz I really like flowers. Yeah.) So when I turned up at the address Jo had provided - one of a series of five townhouses in a slightly trendier part of the suburb - I was armed, and not dangerous.

Jo answered the door, wearing jeans, a tee-shirt and her face broke into a big smile when she spotted the bunch. "Ohh, for Moi?? Thankyousoooomuch, you shouldn't have bothered, shall I put them in some water?" I moved my mouth to make words, awkward, trying to work out how to tell her they were for the lovely Wendy without causing disappointment, then I spotted the twinkle in her eye, and exhaled, sheepishly, relieved, but not quick enough to come up with a witty retort. Wendy appeared at the door.

Loveliness personified. White figure-hugging skivvy, faded blue jeans, brown sandals, glossy black hair loose and flowing, and golden skin - ever so slightly reddened on her nose, cheeks and forehead from yesterdays sun. It made a scattering of small freckles just visible, than I hadn't previously seen. Very Lucy Liu. Her eyes opened a bit wider when she saw the flowers, and she smiled, took them, stretched upward slightly on tippy-toes to kiss me right on the mouth - a little lingeringly, one hand resting on my arm - and said "Hello. Nice to see you. Come inside." Oh, she smelled nice, too. Like spring flowers, and hot girl. Promising start to the visit, I thought.

The flat was nice. Open plan, plenty of room, nicely furnished and decorated. Better quality stuff than I was used to, including a decent sound system and a big-assed LED telly. Some objets d'art that looked like they might be authentic - expensively so. But I wouldn't really know about the values of such items. I only knew that they looked pretty good. I was invited to sit with Wendy on one of the sofas, and Jo busied herself in the kitchen getting coffee underway. I was about to start into a bit of small talk, talk about the weather, yesterdays flight, yesterdays beach adventures, Wendy's yummy body, but before getting out more than about three words, she said to me, quietly, "You must think I'm forward. Promiscuous."
"You know, umm..I do. Just a little bit. But any forward-ness of yours doesn't bother me at all. I'm sure not about to judge you for it." Brief thinking pause. " I loved what happened yesterday. I'd repeat it again in a heartbeat."
"There's actually a reason for it," she said, and smiled a bit, looking cute, "I really enjoyed it, too. I've never done anything like that before in my life."

So that was the nature of our ice-breaking small talk for a couple of minutes. I started to feel quite head over heels about this girl. Our talking was direct, flirtatious, and placed us on the same page regarding whether we were about to embark on a relationship. (It appeared the answer was a fairly decisive yes.) When I'd mentioned the age difference she just looked straight at me and said it wasn't an issue for her if it wasn't for me, but if I didn't find her mature enough she would understand. My head reeled. She appeared to express more emotional maturity in that one sentence than I had in all of my most mature statements over the past year. (I don't "do" emotion very well.) I just smiled and told her I thought I'd cope, and we kissed, again, a bit more lingeringly.

Jo reappeared, carrying big mugs of coffee, and cream, and real Demerara sugar, and something that looked a bit like a liqueur bottle.
"You two seem to be getting on well," she announced, breezily.
"You know, Jo, I think we are." I said. And Wendy said, "Yes, I think we just might be." (Yippee. Again.)
"How was your flight to Auckland, then?"
"Uneventful. Pleasant. Got tipped a hundred for getting them there on time."
"That's nice. Is that normal?"
"No, not so much. A hundred isn't a lot of cash, of course, but it's a tankful of gas for the old Toyota. Not to be sneezed at." And I added "At the level of operation I'm involved with, we usually aren't flying rich people around, much. Just families, businessmen, and people that need to get to spots where the big planes don't go."
"How big is the plane you fly?" asked Wendy.
"Not big. Six seats, two engines. Weighs just over two tons."
"Six seats??"
"Yeah."
"Oh my God, that's tiny!"
"I learned to fly in a four seater. It didn't seem that tiny."
"The smallest plane I've ever been in is those twenty seaters that go to Blenheim. That felt tiny. I'm only used to Airbus and Boeing. Six seats...." she just shook her head.

The conversation meandered around for a time, and although pleasant as it was, I still didn't know the real reason I was here. Jo must have picked up on my background curiosity and decided to broach the subject.
"Well, what say we tell you what's going on, here?"

---------------------------------------------------
 

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"I'll give you the background, then the situation. Then you get to choose to take part, or not. Either way, it needs to be kept secret." She paused, and I nodded. She seemed to gather her thoughts for a bit, then continued. "Ok, this could take some time, but don't rush me. Wendy and I work at the local industrial pharmaceutical company down in Stead Street. You might have heard of it. Wendelson Chemicals." I nodded again. I'd seen the company - a large warehouse, concrete block, not fancy. "The company used to be more involved in research than it is now. We're working as research assistants, and being sponsored through a pharmacy degree as part of the job. When we started, the hope was that we'd end up working on pure research. You know, helping build new pharmaceuticals. It's a multi-million dollar business, and more interesting than working in a dispensary. Well, the recession put paid to that. Our medical research unit was never that big, not so much in dollar terms, anyway. There wasn't much point, because it's peanuts compared to the dominant world companies out there. But we were doing some interesting stuff, even if it wasn't likely to turn much profit." She sipped her coffee. Looked away for a bit, then carried on. "So, after the recession, the company restructured, which meant that it's core business was given pretty much all the funding, and our division was basically available to be contracted out to whoever bidded for it."
"What's the core business?" I asked.
"Mainly stuff like domestic and industrial cleaning agents, fertilizer, new technology catalysts and stuff like that. Anyway, our research facility was pretty well equipped - one of the best in the region, actually - and what we've been mainly doing for the past three years or so is testing the composition and purity of all sorts of things for various agencies, private and government. Food testing for pesticides, assaying metals for correct composition, and last but not least, analyzing recreational chemicals. This includes stuff like crystal meth, ecstasy, cannabinoids, and whatever else the good folk at the police or customs service send our way. Some of it comes from the street, some sent through the mail, and some of it from houses that have been converted to home labs, and been raided." I nodded again. It made sense. I hadn't thought much about how the authorities actually went about the nuts and bolts of testing whatever suspicious product they encountered, but it made sense.
"So, demand for our services has actually increased since the recession, partly because of the P epidemic, but mainly because more people are purchasing stuff online from overseas and getting it mailed to them now than ever before. Quite a bit of that stuff is delivered, but some of it is intercepted by customs at the border. And that's mainly the stuff we get to test."
"What sort of stuff?" I asked.
"There's all sorts, like party pills, stuff masquerading as MDMA or LSD but isn't, but one of the biggest single test candidates would be the generic Viagras. Lots of people order it online. You'd be surprised at how little active ingredient some of it contains. But maybe a third of it is the real deal...the stuff we get to test, anyway. It's estimated, which means guessed, that customs only stop about half of it from getting through. So there's a lot of non-prescription Viagra and similar drugs in the country, and some of it doesn't work, and some of it actually causes long term health problems. You get small amounts of fairly toxic chemicals in a few of the samples."
"Really? Like what?"
"Like variants of strychnine, or other neurotoxins. In small doses they can mimic some of the effects of sildenafil. In large doses they cause nausea, or worse. Even death, sometimes. But those are the extreme and rare examples. Usually it's just impurities of the type you wouldn't want to ingest. Trace amounts of lead or other toxic materials, because the labs these knock-offs are made in are just some third world shack out in the back of beyond, and they don't really do quality control too well. Anyway, you remember the earthquake about ten days ago?"
I did. Everyone who lived here remembered it. Nobody was killed, but it was a seriously good jolt, and it was looking like quite a few buildings were going to be condemned and torn down as a result. Wendy shuddered and grimaced. "I hate earthquakes," she said. "I moved up here after the big one down south two years back, just to get away from the aftershocks. And now it happens here. Poo!" I squeezed her hand a bit. Jo carried on talking. "So, we were in the process of starting testing on a powder that had been flagged as suspicious. It had arrived in the mail from one of the old Soviet states. There was no documentation or any other identifying feature. The first tests we ran didn't give us many clues as to the structure, so we had to embark on ..."

And she started to talk in technical terms, some of which I'd heard before, most of which I was woefully ignorant about, and although I got the general gist of it, I really hardly understood a single word she said. Suffice to say they were going to do a lot of different stuff to it, and from the results they could start to work out what it was. She continued talking, but lapsed out of the technical language.

"...and while transferring the resulting distillate the Whole Fucking Room started to rattle and shake. All the beakers and bottles were rattling against each other, we couldn't stand up properly, shit was falling over all around us, the lights went off, and I just dropped what I was doing - literally - and followed Wends under the lab bench and hung on. Well, when I dropped it, it smashed on the bench, and splashed everywhere, and some of it got in my mouth, maybe three or four drops. Hard to know."
"Wow." I said. I didn't know what else to say. I could imagine that could be pretty scary.
"Exactly. Wow. I was too alarmed by the shaking to think straight, and I swallowed it before I realized I should be spitting it out."
"What happened next?"
"Well, the shaking stopped, we checked each other for damage, and then commenced shutting down the lab and started to clean up. This took over an hour. By the time I remembered that I should probably have reported the exposure, the drug effect had already started, and it was interesting, and fun, and I decided against my better judgement to ride it out and see where it went. So we packed up and came home. To this day, me, Wendy, my boyfriend Andy, and now you are the only people who know I've been exposed to an ester variant of that white powder." I had been curious before. Now I was extremely intrigued. I waited, a little impatiently, for her to continue, but it was Wendy who spoke next. "She told me it was like the trip up on some really really good cannabis oil, but without the disorientation and body load you normally get with that. All she wanted to do was laugh, and listen to music, or be out in nature. It was funny to be around her. She wasn't like a normal stoned or drunk person, but she was a lot of fun..I mean she seemed to be having a lot of fun. It was cool, in a way, because I was still jumpy as shit from the earthquake, so having Jo giggling a lot, and talking a lot, and singing a lot, and racing around dancing and stuff...well, it was a welcome distraction. So anyway, she stopped dancing and wanted to go out to the back lawn and just enjoy the sunset. And we were sitting on the lawn, watching the world going by and I'm thinking "I want some of what she's having, please", and she suddenly said "Oh, my, my," and I said "What now?" because, something was changing about her, you know, and she said "I've got the most amazing hornies. Oh, my my. I need to get Andy over here," and I just burst out laughing. It was hilarious!"

"I started laughing, too," said Jo, and she laughed aloud at the memory, then looked at the carpet, smiling, and shaking her head. "But the fact of the matter was I was horny as hell. I stayed high all night and all the next day. I stayed horny as hell for another day after that, apart from maybe an hour at a time after poor Andy had finished satisfying me. I've stayed quite horny ever since. The effect is only wearing off slowly. It's still present, just a bit. You can tell, canchya? Canchya?" She gave me a bit of a Gomer Pile look, eyes wide.

To tell the truth, I hadn't been able to tell. But now she'd said that, it was staring me in the face. She was slightly flushed (I'd thought it was sunburn) and her voice was kind of husky (I hadn't heard it otherwise, of course) and I was pretty sure I could detect the gentle aroma of warm pussy. But really, it wasn't obvious at all, if you didn't know, or rather, hadn't been told.

"Naw," I said. "I can't tell at all. Is this for real??"
"Real as I am sitting in front of you. Real as Christmas holiday. Real as a nice blowjob on the beach. And that's where you come in, if you want to."
"Uh, ok, how?"
"Andy is going to be here in about half an hour. I'd really appreciate if you didn't tell him I took part in our little pseudo-orgy yesterday," I nodded emphatically, "and what I've taken has somehow had an affect on him as well."
"What kind of affect?"
"Well, the poor man had to fuck me about five times that night, until he was worn out. I practically had to force him to do it again the next day, as many times as he could. I mean, I was desperately horny. You have no idea. During the night, I woke up having an orgasm, and that next day - probably because Andy was totally shagged - I just had a spontaneous orgasm, about every two hours. Masturbation didn't help. In fact, I couldn't actually get myself off. Honestly, I had to force myself to drink extra water, because I was getting dehydrated. And pretty much all day, all I wanted was a cock in me. And I'm not normally like that. We have a good sex life; don't get me wrong, I like sex as much as anyone, but this was just intense. I was exhausted. Anyway, at the end of the second day, suddenly Andy started to experience unusual penile symptoms."

I was way beyond intrigued. If I'd had nine lives I would have given one of them, right then, to hear the story.

"What symptoms? What happened to him? Did he break it?"

"Nothing of the sort. He can tell you himself when he turns up." She glanced at her watch. "Shouldn't be too long." And then, with a fresh smile "More coffee?"
 

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I had a lot of questions.
The most pertinent (to me) of them, Jo wouldn't answer, simply advising me to wait for Andy. The others they were happy to answer.

They'd finished breaking down and finally writing the structure of the unknown chemical. The molecular chain was unknown, as far as they could determine. More advanced lab technicians and chemists considered it to be related to something that had been developed from something called Melatonin 2, which had been marketed as an agent that, when taken orally, could produce the same colouration to the skin that suntanning achieved. The developed substance was considered to be a female aphrodisiac, following such side effects in some people who had used Melatonin 2. It was removed from the shelves when official approval had been withdrawn, citing various health concerns. None of the pharmaceutical agencies around the world recognised this variant, if that's what it was, nor claimed ownership of it.

So it appeared to be un-patented, untested, unknown. "Bit of a mystery, then?" I'd commented.
"Well, yeah," said Jo, "but that's not uncommon. There are new designer drugs being produced all the time. Smart drugs, empathogens, and stuff designed to substitute for the illegal narcotics that lots of people like to try. Some of these are really dangerous. Most of them haven't gone through any formal testing. Or even informal. You've probably heard about them on the news."
I indicated that I had. "So, any idea what the purpose of this one is, then? What would the manufacturer have been trying for?"
"Well," said Jo, drawing the word out, "I don't know what they were trying for, but it appears to cause a hormonal reaction, among other things, by stimulating several areas of the brain, but primarily a structure called the periaqueductal gray, located in the brain stem. Additional activations seem to..."
"Sorry, the perry - what?"
"Periaqueductal. It's part of the brain stem. Know your biology, much?"
"Well, I thought I did."
Wendy chipped in: "Amygdala. Occipital Gyrus. Hypothalamus.Anterior cingulate cortex.Tee-hee."
Me: "Uh, transponder. Anhedral. Pitot tube. Carrot. Wheelbarrow."

Giggling.

The conversation, such as it was, bounced around like this for a while, we had more coffee - with a shot of Drambuie added, very nice - and I popped outside for a smoke. The girls came with me, occasionally having a drag on the rollie I'd made. (Turns out they didn't smoke. Well, rarely. Sometimes. Only socially. And at parties. And work breaks. And whenever they really felt like it. Actually, both had packets of tailor-mades inside, they just liked the stronger tobacco I used, for a change.)
The arrival of Andy was heralded by the distinctive sound of a big sporty V-twin motorcycle, accelerating then slowing down the adjacent street, with a fusillade of stammering backfires. The engine tone picked up again, gaining in volume and then settling down quickly as the big Ducati entered the driveway, making a rasping sound of tyres on gravel, before idling briefly then abrupty ending in a sort of cut-off wheezing gasp. It's an evocatively tuneful engine, the big sporty V-twin. I couldn't help wondering if such sounds had inspired certain effects some of the great guitarists had somehow coaxed from the strings. Hendrix. Stevie Ray. Frank Zappa.

Andy turned out to be about 6 feet, dressed in leather, dark brown hair, and easy-going features. He stuck his hand out, smiled. "So, you must be Steve? Andy. How's it going? Oo, could I have one of those?" I handed him the tobacco, and we all chatted outside, in the nice sunshine for a time, before heading indoors.

----------------------------------------------------------

"You know that feeling you get when you've fucked yourself silly?" I actually didn't, but when I was a kid I'd wanked myself silly once or twice, and I thought that was probably close enough, so I nodded, knowingly, and Andy continued. "Well, it was like that, but amplified about ten times. This was two mornings later, and my cock actually wouldn't go down for longer than a minute at a time. Even when I had a piss - I had to piss outside, against a tree - even then, it only went down a bit, then popped back up again. This went on for over an hour. And for almost the entire day, I was horny as fuck. Oh, and the other thing was that it ached, bad. Well, since Jo was horny as fuck the whole time, too, I just made an executive decision early in the morning to take the day off work. And we spent the day fucking. And the more we fucked, the more I wanted to fuck. I tell you, mate, it was bloody exhausting!"
I nodded again, knowingly, smiling, envious.
"Well, the morning after that marathon, I noticed my boner seemed to be bigger than usual. But I just put it down to the workout, right? And didn't think too much about it. Until about three days later, when I was having a piss, and I looked down, and I was shocked. I mean, really shocked. My cock seemed to have doubled overnight."
"Oh, come on." I said. "Doubled?"
"Well, it hadn't, of course. But the size increase hit me that way, same as it would have if it had doubled, if you know what I mean. I found it startling. And really cool." I thought I understood that. Any penis growth, even a centimetre, would be an event that would cause a disproportionate emotional response. Fuck, I'd be happy to gain even a single centimeter. Real happy. And that's less than half an inch.
"So, how much did it grow?" I asked.
"So far, four centimeters in length, and about one and a half in diameter. But the head has grown about two."
"So far." (Just a teeny bit skeptical.)
"Yeah. It hasn't been long, right, but when I noticed it growing, I charted it. The rate has started to slow down, but it peaked at two centimetres a week. I guess it's down to maybe five millimeters a week, now, but I won't know for another week or so. What do you think about that?"
"I think that's fucking amazing. I mean, I don't want to doubt you, but it's actually hard to believe."
"I know, right? I haven't got any way to prove it...."
"Ah," said Jo, "I have."
"I know you'll back me up, Jo, because we've both seen the change, but as far as this guy's concerned, you know, we could be both just telling porkies."
"Oh, ye of little faith." Jo rolled her eyes. "I'm not a total dummy. I've got photos."
"When did you take those?" asked Andy, surprised.
"When we went to Bali. I took them one morning when you were asleep, because you looked so cute, and you'd kicked the sheet off."
"Aww, shit, Jo. Kept that to yourself."
"I meant to show you later, but that was the morning that guy had a crash on his bike. We were pretty distracted.
"Oh. That morning. Yeah." Andy stared into the middle distance for a second or two. "I wonder if he got to keep his leg?"

As side-trips go, this was more interesting than it might have been, but, like anyone who wasn't directly involved, it was just a diversion to me. Jo fished her phone out of her bag, pressed the display, flicked through an album -I guess - handed the phone to Andy. "Those four," she said.
"Oh, right. Hey, yeah." He flicked through the photos, dragging one of them to resize it, giggled a bit, "Sneaky wench," and handed me the phone. "It was about that big, with morning wood," he announced, and then, a bit sheepishly, "Sorry about the...intimacy of those. But weird situations call for slightly weird solutions." I nodded, but still felt odd. A bit reluctant. But I also felt OK about the company...'flying the friendly skies' was the jingle that came to mind.
The photo had been taken from the head of the bed, slightly angled, toward a woven wall with a couple of window cutouts with half-open shutters. You could see the outline of the beach through some palm trees in the background. In the foreground, and pretty in focus, a sleeping naked Andy lay on the bed. His penis was engorged and rigid, and reached to within about two inches of his belly button. I glanced at his body, to get a perspective of the scale, and estimated that his manhood was probably about six and a half inches. Say, sixteen centimeters. About a centimeter longer than mine. Quite normal for his build. Perhaps slightly above normal, but not outsized. I looked at the next photo. This was a close-up, just of penis, and you could make out a bead of moisture on the slit. The next photo had been taken from the foot of the bed and showed a similar picture to the first, just in the opposite direction. The fourth was a side on view. Andy spoke to Jo: "Shit, that was a bonza little beach hut, wasn't it? What a holiday."
I checked the next photo. It was a 'Jo selfie', taken in the bathroom mirror, and she was wearing a batik wrap that covered her only from the waist down. Rather sexy. I only glanced at it briefly, and not wanting to violate her privacy (which might have seemed ridiculous) and scrolled again.
The next photo showed a Honda motor-scooter, badly parked on its side around the base of a coconut tree, bent and broken and smoking slightly, and a group of locals and tourists working some first aid on the unfortunate guy pinned at strange angles between it and the tree, bloody. White bone poking through the knee. No helmet, nor any other protective gear. I exhaled, phwoosh. The date on the photo showed it to be from about sixteen months prior.
"Oh, yeah, I'd go there again in a flash. Remember that monster gecko that lived in the restaurant?"
"That wasn't a gecko. That was a fucking Komodo Dragon in a gecko suit."

They reminisced for a few moments, pleasantly, laughing often. I checked the photo prior to the first I'd seen, and it was of a spectacular sunset, the huge red orb just touching the ocean horizon from between two massive thunderclouds, taken from (I guess) the verandah of the hut, or maybe the restaurant. It was all pretty idyllic, apart from the injured motorcyclist. I wanted to be there. I'd seen enough, so I shut the photo album, and returned the phone to the coffee table. I had a good enough idea of Andy's penis size. Wendy looked at me and leaned up a little, winked, said quietly "See? This isn't awkward at all." Her irony kind of relaxed me. It wasn't that I was tense or worried, just that the situation was a bit...weird. Weird and normal at the same time. Just a normal couple, and their normal friends, chatting about a normal holiday and passing around perfectly normal penis photos. Not awkward in the slightest. I said to her "I'd really like to go somewhere just like that, sometime. That looks pretty nice."
"Yeah." She said."You ever been to a tropical island?"
"Only if Australia counts. A while back. You?"
"No, never. My parents weren't rich. They spent a lot of the family savings emigrating here. We stopped in Singapore for a few days on the way, but I was too young to remember. And since I left home, I haven't had the time or money, yet. I want to go, though."
"Maybe if this all works out we could plan a tropical getaway. If you'd like." I immediately felt gauche. A too-familiar feeling for me. Getting ahead of myself, a bit, perhaps. But she responded enthusiastically with delight at the idea, and my gauche-ness slid away, like a weight let go. This girl wasn't only incredibly attractive, she was just so easy to be around. Her comments seemed to be apropos to whatever the situation was. The cynical me, lurking down the back of my brain, the 'loser' brain, tried to tell me that it was all orchestrated to disarm me, but I over-rode it; told myself it was just habitual background paranoia. Probably correctly.

"So, anyway," said Jo, "I know there's no ruler or anything, but that was the 'before'."
"Right. I've got the idea."
"Andy, show him your cock."
"Say what??"
"Oh, don't be a prude. Show the nice man your cock."
"Uh..um...ok. Steve, you want to meet the meat? It's all part of the story."
"Well, since you put it like that...."

He stood up, unzipped, and reached around inside his fly. This was obviously a bit of a mission. "Oh, let me." Jo said, and knelt in front of Andy. After half a minute of careful fishing and fumbling, she extracted Andy's penis, announced "Well, hello, Bo," and moved to the side.
"Holy shit!" I exclaimed. It was large. Very large. Very fucking LARGE. It jutted out from his fly, and then angled down, as though unable to support its weight, between his legs, looking quite engorged. It seemed to reach almost halfway to his knees, and the head, partially hidden by the foreskin, was about an inch and a half across.
"Bloody hell." I exclaimed, again. "Well, well. My, my. Look at that."
Jo leaned a hand over, and petted it a bit, teasing the foreskin back, obviously enjoying the sight, and it started to respond immediately, the head starting to swell even more, and quest upward. Jo looked up at Andy, face slightly flushed, and they exchanged a 'look'. She stood up, and started to lead him away.
"Sorry about this," she tossed over her shoulder as she exited the lounge, "Nature demands her pound of flesh, so to speak. Chat amongst yourselves. Be right back." Andy glanced over, one eyebrow slightly raised in apologetic explanation, maybe, and they vanished down the hallway. Wendy and I looked at each other, askance, and just burst into laughter, slightly suppressed, out of politeness.

"Does that sort of thing happen often with those two, then?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
 

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"So, I suppose you're rather curious about the proposal we mentioned?" Jo asked.

I was, just a bit. I had no idea at all. At least I was reasonably certain it didn't involve pressing my old Toyota into service as a getaway car for a bank heist.

"I am. Rather curious indeed. Make that 'extremely curious'." I said.

"Ok. Well, we've been trying to work out the physiology of whatever actions the drug causes, especially in Andy's case. I mean, he hasn't even taken it, and his cock has gotten rather ginormous. The only thing I can think of that would have caused that is having sex with me, after I took the drug."

"Uh-huh. Ginormous. Yes."

"So we ran some tests on my vaginal lubricant. I don't know if you knew, but the G-spot, under certain circumstances secretes a type of hormone, that I think is associated with possible penis growth. The level of this hormone is high in my secretions, higher than in Wendy's, anyway. It's a bit of a guessing game, because there isn't a 'normal' range. It's not something that's been tested, much. So I can't be sure if mine were affected by the drug, or whether they've always been high, and that the penis growth is due to something else entirely...pheromones, for example."

I hadn't known that about the vaginal secretions. I knew an average amount about pheromones, I guess. I'd seen how fear could spread, like a contagion, for example. It was fast.

"Why don't you test for pheromones, then?"

"Not something that can be tested for, except from reports from another human. The structure isn't well understood, it's believed they break down fairly quickly, and I'm not even sure that the molecule concerned has actually been isolated and studied. Their existence is only known of through the behavioural evidence. Most of the research that has determined that has come from observations of animals, both research animals, and in the wild. They tend to have an unambiguous response. Humans often let their personality get in the way, when you're looking at behaviour or feeling responses. There are pheromones for all sorts of things...fear, pleasure, maternity, strong like and dislike, anger...and, of course, sexual arousal. Some of them are short-term in their action and effect, and some of them have more of a slow build up of effect. It's thought that the pheromone for sexual arousal....I should say pheromones, because there's certain to be more than one - have a mixture of both short and long duration. I could see how that could influence arousal, but it's a big leap of logic - I mean, a leap right outside the logic pool - to consider they'd have an effect on penis growth."

"Have you run any kinds of tests on Andy? Hormone levels and the like?"

"No, that's a bit tricky. All I've done is checked his blood pressure, heart beat, and urine. We don't actually have the facilities to do more than that. I can run the test for the specific hormone from my own lube, but to test for different hormones in a blood sample...I could do it, but it would take a long time, and be hard to cover up. I know people in the medical lab downtown who could do it, but they'd ask why..I'm not close enough to any of them to take them into my confidence." She paused a bit, glanced at Andy. "And can you imagine a fit and healthy Andy going to his G.P? It would be like: Hi, doc. I'm feeling fine, but I've rooted myself silly over the past two weeks, and my dick has doubled. Any idea why?"

We all laughed at that. Andy said "Well, it hasn't actually doubled...."
"Yeah, I know, but you get the idea," Jo interjected, "what would you tell the doctor?"

He had no answer for that, and mulled it over a bit before saying nothing.

"What about your boss?" I asked. "Does he know anything about this?"

"Good God, no! The man is a total conservative. That's probably considered quite a desirable trait in a pharmaceutical researcher-come-administrator. I think he's an administrator first, and a chemist second, to be honest. Seems to have lost any lust for pure research he might have had. I talked around the possibility of conducting further tests on "a" substance, from the research and medical possible profit angle, a few days ago, but I was real careful to not tell him anything about why." Her nose screwed up a bit, and her face grimaced into a narrow-mouthed caricature, presumably of her boss, and in a tone of exaggerated nasal whiny-ness she bleated: "Why would you even consider such a thing, Joanne? Do the research and study opportunities we're providing here bore you a little bit, hmmm? Lost your zeal for cleaning agents? The concept that we could one day soon produce an effective industrial and domestic cleaning agent with a lower than ever environmental footprint at a reasonable price doesn't thrill you? You don't think this country's farming industry needs fertilizers that help maintain the integrity of the soil rather than turning it into some kind of dead matrix? Because, I'll tell you: It totally thrills me. Clean green planet earth needs it. Desperately. But even if it doesn't (and it does, mark my words!) that's our core business, Joanne. Leave the pharmaceuticals to Big Pharma, would be my advice. At least until you've graduated and worked out your bond. You might make some awesome discovery down the track and be employable by the great Pfizer, or Glaxo Smith Kline, or Roche. But until then, your work here is extremely valuable and valued, just as it is. And you should be pleased with that."

We all laughed some more. Her impersonation had character. I could actually picture the guy, in a lab coat, balding, horn rimmed jam-jar glasses, slide rules and other paraphernalia sticking out of a breast pocket, neatly lined up, a big bunch of keys at his waist. I kind of felt a little sorry for him. Someone has to do his job, and be good at it, I guess.

Jo continued. "No, the company don't know anything about this, and if they did, I think I'd be terminated immediately. Heck, if they knew I had a container of one of their confiscated samples, I'd definitely be for the high jump."

"So you have the drug?"

Jo produced a glass dropper bottle, about a hundred mills, almost full of some yellowish fluid.
"Oh, yeah, baby." She smirked. "After the earthquake, it was rather straightforward to explain the loss of substance. Everything of this nature that comes into the premises has to be accounted for, either in experimental processes that are documented, or residue weights, which are also documented. Every bloody thing is documented. It's the way it has to be, I guess. But stuff that inadvertently goes down the drain or up the vacuum cleaner following an earthquake spillage...well, that's down to the integrity of the lab assistants. How much do you reckon went down the drain that horrid day, Wendy?"
"Ohh...not that much. Maybe fifty grams, at a guess. Plus another twenty or so up the vacuum." She sniggered. In chemist terms, seventy grams was a huge amount, when you're talking a raw illegal recreational substance. Some more than others, of course. Jo continued "So the steps for making what I ingested are straightforward, although specialist. We have sixty five grams of the original stored in a safe place. The other five went to making this," she agitates the dropper bottle, "I'm guessing I had about three drops of it. There are about three hundred in this bottle. Wendy had one drop, yesterday, with some effect, as you might have noticed. Andy hasn't had any. So we have here, maybe a hundred doses, and the means to make another four thousand five hundred."

I was impressed.

"What I wanted to do was actually set up a series of experiments, firstly on animals, because that's what you have to do, then on volunteers, then have the company market it to the masses. Clearly there's no way to do that. So that leaves us with informal experiments. Or we could try to sell it to one of the more respected companies - that won't work - or an underground lab. Or we could do nothing."

I saw the problem. Nodded again. Asked "What do you want to do? I mean, what's your aim with this? I'm imagining you could get fairly wealthy out of it if the right group of people bought it."

"That's just the problem. The right group of people won't buy it. Not without FDA-approved tests and research which would, of course, include a clean bill of health. And even if that were to happen, approval and registration of such a thing could easily take two years. Either the wrong people will want to buy it, or the neither right-nor-wrong people will want it, in order to obtain a female aphrodisiac, and grow their dicks in the process. Either way, selling it illegally won't make us real wealthy. Not before we get busted, anyway. I don't see a way to sell it and not get busted. And I'm not even sure about doing that, from the ethical standpoint. To be honest, I don't really know what I want to do in that regard."

I nodded again. It was a bit of a conundrum, all right.

She continued, "So what I do want to do, in case better plans can be forged in the future, is test it some more, on willing volunteers. Only me and Wendy have tried it, and Wendy's dose was low. It hasn't been tried by a male. It's totally unknown, so there could be side effects, and I don't know whether they'd be serious. It puts us all firmly in the territory of recreational drug users or suppliers, so it's illegal. And even if the results are all good, and match our hopes, we don't have a plan to do more with it than that. So it's potentially risky, and I honestly don't know how risky. I've had a basic medical since taking it - the type you can do on yourself with a bit of basic knowledge, as has Andy. And everything was in the normal range. But there is a lot that we couldn't test for that might not be in the normal range. As far as I know, this could cause some kind of smooth muscle damage that won't manifest for a year or more. Or brain damage. I don't think it will, in part because the effects I'm aware of are easing with time, and there doesn't appear to be a downside. In fact, so far, all the sides are up, except for the sleep deprivation thing. And going through five pairs of panties per day. But there is that possible longer-term risk."

I nodded, again, taking that in. She made sense.

She continued, "Sorry to take so long to come to the point, and include all the peripheral flotsam and dross. We weren't actually intending to let you in on so much of the story - just enough to get you to try some of the chemical. But Wendy, it seems, has developed feelings for you, so full disclosure was really the only option." I looked at Wendy, she looked right back. Nodded, smiling, open. I smiled, too.

"So. What do you think? You don't have to answer straight away. And you're bound to have more questions. But, so far, what do you think?"

I thought about it very carefully for all of half a second, and announced "I'm keen to try it."


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[I wanted to post the next bits as an entire chapter, this mini-chapter will do, for now. Set the scene some more.]


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Wendy and I were sitting on the beach, on our towels, under the warm sunshine, looking at a pristine view of slow rolling waves, that only broke close inshore,creating a rhythmic noise of fine beach pebbles dancing against each other with the motion. It was a relaxing counterpoint to the constant chirp of cicadas in the bushes of the hillside behind us. Several other people were at the beach - it was a Sunday, after all - but nobody was nearby. We'd just arrived, and started to remove our clothes, quite un-self consciously.

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The day before, when Jo and Andy had been otherwise occupied, Wendy and I had sat on the couch chatting for about five minutes, then we started to make out. This was pretty hot. Her kisses were soft, warm, and moist. She smelled amazing. She didn't mind in the slightest when I sneaked a hand under her top, and stroked her breast and nipple, gently. She started to stroke the front of my fly. We were getting quite carried away, and she had just suggested that we go into her bedroom when we heard the sound of the toilet flushing and the shower starting up, which meant that Jo and Andy were probably about to return.

I'm quite sure the erection I experienced as a result of that, which was maintained throughout the following conversation about becoming a drug-research candidate, had nothing to do with my ready acceptance of the proposal. I was simply curious, that's all. From the pure research standpoint, of course. Oh, lots of sex and a bigger dick would be kinda nice, too. I'd spent the night with Wendy. It seemed as normal and natural as though we'd been a couple for a month or more. Strange, but great. I just hoped I wasn't going to fuck it up.

It was recognized and understood that, generally, when having sex for the first time, the experience might not be all it's cracked up to be; it can take two or three attempts before the people get into each others rhythm, work out what works (or not), relax around each other, etcetera. That being the case, it was suggested that we "do it" a couple of times to ensure compatibility before unleashing the drug and maybe wrecking the relationship before it even took off. As it turned out, one night was enough. It was bliss. Wendy had asked me to go a little slow - she hadn't had sex since breaking up with her fiancee three months prior. It was probably around that long (ok, longer) since I'd had sex, too, so going slowly was ok. We spent a long time on foreplay. She was incredibly responsive - seemed to have erogenous zones everywhere. Her breasts (just outboard of the nipple, down the sides and into her armpits), her stomach, her thighs, even her feet. I caressed her all over, discovering these zones, while she whimpered in appreciation, and writhed a little. When I licked one of her nipples while stroking the other with my hand, she tensed up, breathing hard, and a minute later started to cum. At that moment, I moved my cock into her pussy, s l o w l y, a little bit in, then out, then a little more in, and so on, until I was as far in as I could get, and our pubic mounds were pressed firmly together, and just rocked back and forth like that for a while. She kept climaxing. As soon as one climax waned, she started to build up another, and each successive climax seemed a little stronger; a little longer. The finale was when her pussy gripped onto my cock, and I could feel the walls of it throbbing against my knob, and she emitted a loud, abrupt, wrung out cry of relief. At the same time, I came, hard, in a lengthy series of spasms that had me feeling like a teenager again. It was fantastic - possibly the best sex I've ever had. We fell asleep immediately, and on waking did it all over again, before falling apart, laughing, then got up and showered together like an established couple.

Over breakfast, we spoke easily, readily; the conversation bubbling and lapsing in natural pauses. We decided that today would probably be a good day to try 'the stuff'. No need to wait any longer. And what better place to try it than at the beach where we'd met?

I'd tried the odd drug before - who hasn't? These included cannabis (and oil, and hash), mushrooms (what a mind-fuck, but fun), and something sold as acid, but I think it was probably a knock-off. It didn't do the stuff that acid was supposed to, and I far preferred mushrooms. Partly because of money shortage, but mainly because I wasn't mixing with a druggie crowd, and had a pilots license to maintain, I didn't have a drug habit, and had no intention of cultivating one, but I was no stranger to their effects. So the setting of a nice beach - perfect example of being in nature - that had a lot of appeal, given the description of the high Jo had experienced. We took with us plenty of water to drink, a sunshade - it was another fearsome hot day - some snacks, a thermos of coffee, and a half decent docking station for our phones that was battery powered. Nothing like a bit of cruisy background music on the beach. We also had one of those inflatable mattresses for paddling around the water on - something bought at the local el-cheapo department store on the way, for ten bucks. "Should we get a bucket and spade, too?" I asked, and she shook her head no, laughing. "I think we'll have enough to keep ourselves entertained," was the response.

So we peeled our clothes off in the hot sunshine, and I appreciated her body, again. Still looked fantastic, the paler creamy areas around her bikini line just slightly flushed with sunburn. "We better put a bit of sunscreen on you, I think," I said, and we went through the necessary chore, trying to turn it into a bit of a game, then a very nice back massage, given and, in turn, received. There isn't too much ozone in the Southern latitudes, and excessive sunburn can be serious. Australasia has one of the highest melanoma rates in the world. Anyone living here takes it pretty seriously. Even what would be a minor sunburn in the tropics takes a lot longer to heal - and is more painful for longer - in the lands down under. The preventative for me is zinc cream. It's gluggy and time-consuming to apply and not everyone can be bothered. I like it because of the absence of chemicals that the other, nicer sunscreens are laced with (said the guy who was about to willingly consume an unknown chemical.) The other thing about it having no chemicals is that should the urge to, say, lick parts of a certain nubile Asian body overpower me, I wouldn't be ingesting anything not fit for human consumption.

Wendy had been straddling me while she rubbed the cream into my back. She rolled off, rubbed her hands over her knees, announced "Finished," and then said "Medicine time. Roll over."
I rolled over on the towel, propping myself up on my elbows, and admired her butt as she rummaged inside her beach bag, before bringing out a dropper bottle - a smaller one. They'd transferred some of the substance to it; kept the main supply somewhere nice and safe. She turned toward me, kneeling, a mock- mischievous look in her eye as she loaded the dropper and said "Open wide." I did. Three drops of the substance hit my tongue. It was sort of bitter-sweet. But without the sweet, much. I swallowed, trying to analyze the flavour, unsuccessfully. Vague tones of stuff that tasted a little like potassium, maybe something sulphur-y, and bitter, like antibiotics, or panadol. I was pretty sure I'd never tasted anything like it before. It wasn't pleasant, and I think I would have remembered. I rinsed it down with a mouthful of water, and Wendy produced a small notebook and a pen.
"Anything that happens, whatever symptoms or fun things you feel, I'll just write them down here, OK?"
"Sure thing, Wendy. Time zero. Three drops just consumed. Doesn't taste great. No obvious affects, yet. Oh....wow!"
"What? What??"
"Nothing. Just practicing."
 

DOS

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"Oh, you bugger!" she laughed. I laughed with her. I was feeling pretty darned good. Any stresses I'd had - stresses that can accumulate largely unnoticed until you get the opportunity to release them - had sublimed away, sloughing the weight off me, the previous night. I had a well being and a state of relaxed-ness that felt great. I felt alert, relaxed, robust and ready. It was, simply, great to be alive. Being on a beautiful beach on a fantastic day was the icing on the cake.

Being in the proximate company of a genuinely beautiful girl who was naked, who seemed to like me, who seemed to get on with me...well, that was the barely believable cherry on top.

I looked at her. Often. She was expressive, curvy, gorgeous. My cock didn't need any drugs to be up and about. It had been gradually hardening since we'd arrived and removed our clothes, and now we were on our backs, but propped up by our elbows - just taking in the day and the surroundings, and each other - and it was sticking up at full mast, raised slightly above the surface of my lower stomach. She kept glancing at it, smirking a bit, and said "How will you be able to tell the difference when the drug kicks in?" Her eye had a twinkle.

"I have no idea. Could that wreck the test? Not being able to tell if I'm naturally horny or drug-horny?" (I imagine my eye had a twinkle, too.)

"Well, if you couldn't tell the difference, I guess..."

"Perhaps we should find a secluded spot," I glanced back behind the dune, to the bushy area, "and deal with it."

Wendy looked up and down the beach, thoughtfully. The nearest people were about fifty meters away, and another fifty or so beyond them was a young family; kids playing in the sand; kids are prone to wander. I didn't want them wandering in our direction while we were playing grown-ups. More people were arriving from the car-park half a kilometre away. Inevitably some of those would be walking past us.
She said "I was thinking of just being discrete and subtle, to see if we could get away with it here, maybe under a towel."

"Wow. That's kind of risky." I thought through it. "And really hot." I said, pleasantly surprised, with her, and with myself. It was a hot idea. How to have sex in a very public place without anyone noticing. Maybe having to stop moving for a minute or more at a time while on the edge, and suppress any noises or other expressions of pleasure should anyone be nearby. My cock started throbbing. She noticed. And she caught the look in my eye, and I hers, and she rolled away from me, pulled her towel out from under her, and nestled her creamy curved bum into my groin, wiggled a bit, passed me the towel to cover ourselves with.

My cock was just long enough to enter her from behind. She was already wet, and slippery, and she gasped a little murmur when I pressed against her pussy, and my knob (but not much else) squeezed into her pussy. I had to keep the thrusting slow and gentle, change the rhythm now and then; didn't want to get spotted. I'd seen examples of audiences gathering about couples on the beach who were making out (or more) and wasn't really exhibitionist enough to want that sort of attention. After a couple of minutes we found a comfortable rhythm that was barely perceptible - little more than an exchange of pressures - and our build up started. It seemed to go on for quite a while, and the result was that the build up was maintained to a higher point that I'd previously experienced - her too, I think - and when we finally came it was impossible not to cry out, just a little. The orgasm was dynamic, and the come-down slow and gradual and pleasant. Laughing quietly to ourselves, we slowly disengaged. I made a "pop" sound with my lips as I pulled out of her (she spasmed when I did) and she laughed, and we resumed our original postures. I started to wipe myself off a bit. She said "Better idea: Lets go for a swim," so we did. Raced down to the water and straight into the face of a wave. It was cold, and we whooped a bit, then splashed around like kids, water fighting and dunking each other. We splashed and played around in the ocean for a time, swam out a bit, and made out, treading water. I was surprised - yet not surprised - to find myself hard. Again. It reminded me that I was now part of a very unofficial drug trial, and I wondered if this frequent hardness was the effect of the substance, or the major recent workout my cock had been put through. I figured it was most likely the latter. It felt normal, just hard.

Not that I questioned it too much. Wendy's lips were warm, her nipples pressed hard against my chest. The ocean was cool and very blue, with a green tinge. The sky was extremely blue, with just a few cotton-wool blobs of cloud.. I squinted at the sun behind Wendy's pretty face, feeling it's warmth, liking the iridescent golden corona, and the glowing pale orange inner fire. Suddenly everything was glowing; iridescent. It looked like a high quality illustration for a good 3D cartoon...'TinTin does Ibiza', or some such. There were flecks of glowing silver in the ocean, which seemed to have a glowing indigo mist just above the surface. We were breathing it. It tasted good. White bubbly lines of light flickered inshore, where each wave was breaking. The rocks and reefs and hills were glowing in the sunshine, enjoying it's warmth, in hues of brown and tan and black. A seagull glided over seeming to pause mid flight - I thought it looked like it was about to cough, it's wings locked slightly down and it stretched one leg up to its face to scratch briefly and vigorously under its chin, it's other leg slightly splayed and jiggling in synch, then it gave me a brief 'look', as if to say "what the fuck are you staring at?", squawked loudly, and flapped away. It was graceful yet comical, and I burst out laughing, and the sound was intense. There seemed to be a brief time gap between the sound I was making and my hearing that sound, which manifested as a kind-of echo, barely discernible. This was amusing, and I laughed some more, enjoying the roundness of the sound.
"What? What?" Her voice played in my ears like a stream babbling over rocks, melodic, nice.
"The drug's coming on," I said, "and it's brilliant." I looked at her again. Her eyes seemed to glow and sparkle, amused, interested. Her face glowed. I could see the glow faintly change and ripple with every expression that passed over it; tell when she was about to blink, open her mouth to breath, or to talk. I tried to second guess what she was about to say, but my perceptions hadn't spilled over into psychic awareness, thank God.
"Tell me what it's like. What are you feeling?"
"Sights and sounds, so far. Colours are exaggerated, and vivid. Textures are exaggerated. I can see the different striations in the rock face behind us, and they're glowing. There's a tiny echo to everything I'm hearing, and the sounds are all one, yet extremely distinct. All the birds and other living stuff I can see looks like it's all taking part in some kind of ballet dance, set to the sound of the ocean. It's all intertwined clicking together and extremely..ah..elegant, would be the right word. And your voice is the prettiest sound I've ever heard."
She grinned, delighted, and actually blushed a bit. I thought I could feel the glow of warmth from her face, kissed her again.

The sounds were incredible. Where the waves were breaking just a handful of meters from the shore (it shelved steeply) they made a massive WHOOOSH that raced along the length of the beach, and as the whoosh was tapering off at one end of the beach, the soft clatter and jingle of pebbles being dragged and tumbled by the hissing backwash sounded like a piece of synthesized echo-ey sound effect, and it moved right to left, following the fading whoosh, then overlapping with the next incoming whoosh. I likened it to the sound a massive steam locomotive makes, working hard, but slowed down maybe a hundred times. It was punctuated by the shrilling of seagulls, carried on the soft air with a clarity I'd never noticed. I swear I could almost make out what they were saying. I almost thought I could hear the buzz and chirp of the cicadas in between the wave sounds. And as a background to these amazing nature sounds a low, low burring thrumming noise, of the props and heavy diesels of a decent sized container ship just leaving the harbour, about half a kilometre due East from where we treaded water. I was totally in the middle of my world, and had a profound feeling of belonging, right here, right now.

I was very, very high, and seemed to be still heading upward, yet my thinking and speech seemed clear and sharp. Win-win.

"Are you feeling any...um..sexual effects, then?" She asked, eyes firing flirty twinkles at me.
"Nope. No different from how I've been feeling since whenever I've been near you." I didn't even care if it sounded corny. (And I'm sure it did.) She didn't care, either, just reached down to give my dick an exploratory squeeze. "Yep. It's still there," she laughed. I smiled, moving slowly up and down in the long, low swell, and said "Hey, try lying down. Float on your back. I want to give you a tongue massage, before it gets too cold."
"What's a tongue massage?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've just had the idea right now. I'm going to start at your toes and work up to your breasts. Want to try it?"
"Oh, yeeaah. Absolutely. Sounds nice."

And it was. I licked each of her toes, starting at the big toe of each foot and moving outboard to the little toes, sucking each along its length, then in toward the big toe again, and then her arches. Her feet were so pretty. I enjoyed this a lot. My cock remained hard, maybe got a bit harder. Then I kissed and licked up the length of her legs, which I had to part slightly as my mouth moved up past her knees and onto each thigh, in turn. She giggled as I licked each inner thigh, just above the knee. They were ticklish, but she didn't flinch away. Then I reached her pussy. I gave this one long, slow lick from bottom to top, and could hear her gasp a little bit. Her body had it's own glow, too. Like her face, the glow rippled around and moved and changed textures as I gently licked each part of her. I dipped under the water and surfaced beside her chest, started licking from her left armpit up to the nipple, and paused on the nipple, making a slight suction with my mouth while my tongue moved around and across the tip. She made a very slight cry each time my tongue crossed the tip, and her pectoral muscle spasmed, just a little. Her breast jiggled, making ripples in the water. I dived under her, and repeated the process with the right side, then her belly button (small, and an 'inny') then moved back to the gap between her legs, and started a repeat of the first day on the beach, swirling my tongue around her clit, slowly, steadily, watching her iridescent body start to tense and twitch as her orgasm built up. It only took maybe two minutes, but it was kind of timeless. It might have been one. Or ten. My perception of time was skewed a bit. I didn't care. She came, her vulva snapping closed then open, repeatedly, and she opened her eyes, and lifted her head out of the water a bit, which submerged me as the buoyancy changed. I didn't care. I was at one with the world. I reckoned I'd be able to breathe underwater, if it came down to that. (No, not really.) But I stayed down (as it were), pretending to be drowning, happy, and she eventually lifted my face free of the water, looked straight at me, and said "Steve, you're pretty special." Wow.


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