Addictive
by Pan
Chapter 3
That night, I barely slept a wink. After downing a glass of milk, I decided to try to work out what was happening.
But no matter how hard I googled, no matter how much I thought about it, I could not come up with an explanation that made sense.
Eventually, I got it down to three theories.
Either:
a) My daughter, for some reason, had gone mad. This wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibilities—her behavior certainly didn’t seem like that of a sane woman.
b) My daughter was playing some kind of elaborate prank. Believe it or not, this was actually less likely than the previous option—I love Fiona, but she’s never had much of a sense of humor.
At least, she never laughs at my jokes.
c) My semen had somehow done something to my daughter.
…
The first seemed unlikely—I’m no shrink, but a sudden onset madness that manifested exclusively as an over-the-top positive reaction to finding semen?
Yeah.
The second was possible, but…well, my Fiona has never really been the pranking type.
And that just left the third option.
I sat in the den until the room began to grow light. It seemed impossible…but the whole situation seemed impossible.
As the birds began chirping, I realized what I had to do. I had to know—if my daughter was playing a prank, no harm done, but if she was actually crazy…that was something I wanted to know about sooner rather than later.
And the only way to know if it was true was to do some experiments.
Crawling into bed beside my wife a few minutes later, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. If my semen did have some kind of mind-altering quality, maybe the right thing to do was to go and see a doctor, or the government. Of course, they might lock me up, or who knows? It might turn out to be the cure to aids.
But until I’d ruled out the possibility that my daughter was playing some kind of uncharacteristic prank, I didn’t really want to go through the humiliating experience of explaining to a doctor what I suspected.
And so I slowly closed my eyes, hoping that my wife would notice the small dish I’d left beside the sink of our ensuite.
I was awoken just a few hours later, by my wife’s frantic shaking.
“Mark,” she whispered. I’m not sure why—she was clearly trying to wake me up. “Mark, I need to ask you something.”
“Mmmm?” I said, rolling over and slowly opening my eyes. My wife was wearing the nightie she typically slept in.
My wife is a few years younger than me, and—I’m not going to lie—keeps herself in much better shape than I do. She has legs to challenge our daughter’s, even if her tits are less than half the size.
Back before I had the allergic reaction, when we used to make love frequently (well, “make love” might be putting it a bit strongly—it was pretty perfunctory from her end, and so both of us were basically focused on getting me off) I used to love her tits. She has huge areolae, and big thick nipples. The kind that you can tug on without causing any pain—I could have spent hours sucking on her big titties…but hell, Fiona had sucked on my wife’s tits more recently than I had.
“I found something,” she said, and I remembered the little “trap” of sorts I’d set the previous night.
“Oh yes?” I asked. Apparently Julie was better at reading my poker face than our daughter, because she shot my a glare in response.
“I know you put it there,” I said.
“Mmm?”
“And I need to know…”
There was a brief pause, and a slight look of confusion passed across my wife’s face, like she didn’t quite know why she needed this so much.
“…I need to know if you have any more.”
“I’ll see if I can find any,” I yawned, and rolled over to go back to sleep. My curiosity was sated—apparently my semen’s magical properties affected my wife and daughter equally, and now all I wanted was to get some more damned sleep.
“What is it?” my wife hissed in my ear. “I can get it, just let me know what it is.”
“Wait until I’m awake,” I said, pulling the pillow tighter against my ear.
There was a long pause and I could feel sleep beginning to overtake me again before my wife spoke up.
“I can’t.” she said flatly.
“Sure you can.”
“No,” she said, and her voice had a serious enough tone that I forced myself to roll over and open my eyes.
My wife was staring at me, pleading with her eyes.
“I can’t, Mark. I…I need more.”