The Breed

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

E. L. Anders on Smashwords

The Breed

Copyright © 2012 by E. L. Anders

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I woke in the middle of the night in a cold
sweat from a dream I could only remember in snatches.
Eyes,
silver eyes staring at me from the darkness. Watching me. Wanting
me…No!

I rolled over, determined not to let it
bother me but the image wouldn’t leave my head. Silver eyes with
vertical slits for pupils—they looked like a cat’s eyes but no cat
I’d ever seen had silver irises. And they weren’t the eyes of an
animal—there was something almost human about them. A knowing look.
As though they were watching me, waiting for something…

Okay, I had officially freaked myself
out.

“Lights, dim,” I said, sitting up in bed. My
bedroom with its high, vaulted ceiling and antique furnishings was
immediately revealed. Nothing but the best for the heiress of
Conley Conglomerate.

I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. I
would read a little while and see if that would help dispel the
dream. But as I reached for my e-reader specs, a nifty little pair
of glasses that held over forty-thousand books on file and
projected the page I wanted right before my eyes, I felt it
starting.

“
No,”
I groaned. “Not again!” But when
I looked down at my thin white nightgown, I could see dark patches
appearing on it, right over my breasts. Since I’d already ruined
four nightgowns and several sets of very expensive Baaja linen
sheets in the past month, I knew I couldn’t ignore what was
happening. Sighing, I got up and went to the bathroom.

My mother had redone the entire penthouse the
year before she died and the bathroom was just one example of her
good taste. I stood on periwinkle blue and agate green hand cut
mosaic tiles in front of the wide silver mirror and pulled the
nightgown over my head.

Sure enough—I was leaking. And not just a
little bit, either.

I stared in dismay at the clear, pale yellow
liquid that was flowing freely from both breasts. I knew (from
doing research, not from experience) that it wasn’t a bit like
breast milk. It was thick—almost syrupy—and it had a sweet
scent—kind of like honey made by bees that had been kept in a
lavender field. It was coming from my nipples which, up until about
a month ago, had been a soft pink. Now they were a dark burgundy
that looked alarming against my pale skin.

My breasts were swollen and achy as well—to
the point where I had to
force
myself to wear a bra. But
there was no question of going without one—I was in charge of a
large corporation. Not the CEO but the power behind the throne,
just as my parents had intended. There was no way I could go to the
office with large wet patches of…of
breast honey
, or
whatever you wanted to call it staining my expensive silk
blouse.

“What’s wrong with me?” I whispered staring
at my reflection in the mirror. I looked normal enough on the
outside—for me, anyway. My exotically tilted pure black eyes and
dramatic high cheekbones were framed with a long straight mane of
white-blonde hair I usually kept in a tight bun at the back of my
neck. I had a good body—or so I’d been told—athletic and curvy at
the same time, although lately I was tending a lot more toward the
curvy side. In fact, a lot of my favorite blouses no longer fit and
I’d heard several of the staff at Conley Conglomerate whispering
that I must have had one of those new anti-grav breast
augmentations done.

I only wished that was the reason for my
recent breast growth—and that there was a similar explanation for
the other strange changes my body was going through. In addition to
my nipples changing color and leaking the pale, syrupy honey, the
inner folds of my pussy were a deep burgundy too—the color of an
exceptionally good red wine. And lately I was so swollen and
sensitive between my legs I could barely stand to wear panties.
That was only in the past week, however. The problem with my
breasts had started over a month ago.

The first time it happened I had panicked.
Being a wealthy heiress to a Fortune five hundred company has its
perks—I immediately made myself an appointment with the best
endocrinologist in town. And since Tampa, Orlando, and Jacksonville
had merged into one large urban sprawl called Torlanville back in
2035, it was a very large town indeed.

I lived in the part that used to be Old Tampa
and Doctor Varnes was closer to the Disney medical complex, (the
Mouse House had diversified of late), so I rode my private car on
the Bullet to meet him. It only took fifteen minutes to get there
but I was freaking out all the way. I had a huge winter coat on
even though the weather was sweltering—ninety in the shade which
felt more like a hundred because of the Florida humidity. By the
time I got inside his private office and slapped the door closed
behind me, I was drenched in sweat.

I was understandably upset but Doctor Varnes
calmed me down. Placing a Magnetic Resonance helmet that looked
like a very expensive white metal bucket on my head, he did a
functional scan of my pituitary gland. He was looking for
tumors—micro adenomas, he called them—but the results were
absolutely negative. So he scanned the rest of my brain and saw
nothing there either. He sent me to a neurologist who sent me to a
breast specialist who wanted to send me to a medical school to be
studied and have experimental treatments. But that was where I drew
the line.

According to every doctor I saw there was
nothing technically wrong with me. Certainly my breasts had
enlarged, my nipples had darkened and I was producing honey-like
stuff at very inconvenient times but I had no tumors or cancers or
malignancies and in every other way I was as healthy as a horse.
Not a single one of them had any explanation for my problem but
they all agreed I was fine. Well, if you can call being sensitive,
achy and leaky fine. I didn’t, but what could I do? I started
wearing larger bras with padding inside—breast pads that nursing
mothers use to keep from ruining their clothes. No wonder my staff
thought I’d had a boob job.

My parents were dead and my brother Lukas was
off being a playboy tycoon which was what he did best. My fiancé,
Richlow Farnsworth, was at a conference in Sweden about the future
of interplanetary banking and I never told him much of anything
anyway. We’d been matched up by a dating service for the uber rich
and we only saw each other rarely, which was, to tell the truth,
kind of how I liked it.

The only other person I could talk to was my
best friend, Sylvia, a professor of Biology at the prestigious
Disney U. Ever since college we’d made it a point to meet once a
week no matter what but after my problems had started, I had
cancelled on her for four weeks in a row. She’d finally called and
demanded to know what was going on. Feeling desperate, I had broken
down and agreed to tell her. To her credit, she’d listened with a
completely straight face and made no interruptions.

As I looked in the mirror, I thought of our
meeting in her office earlier that day…

“It’s almost like you’re going through some
kind of estrus,” she said, frowning over her chamomile tea.

“I’m sorry but some of us got a degree in
business
,” I reminded her. “What the hell is
estrus?”

“A female animal’s cycle of fertility,” she
said. “Specifically, the physiologic changes that are induced by
reproductive hormones in most mammalian females.” If it sounds like
she was lecturing me like a student in one of her courses, she
wasn’t. That was just the way Sylvia talked. In fact, sometimes it
was hard to know where the scientist ended and my friend began. But
that was all right—I would far rather her be cool and clinical
about my problem that start cooing and sympathizing in that fake
way so many woman have.

“Cycle of fertility?” I said blankly. “You’re
saying I’m going into
heat
?”

“Naturally not.” She took a sip of steaming
tea. She’d offered me tea as well but I had refused. It reminded me
of the special herbal blend I had shared with my mother every
single morning for years before she died. In the year since her
death I hadn’t been able to make myself touch a drop of
it—preferring to stick to coffee instead.

“Well then what are you saying?” I
demanded.

“I’m just saying that’s what it’s
like.”
Sylvia pushed the old fashioned glasses she wore up
her knife blade of a nose. Aside from e-reader specs, no one wore
glasses anymore but she refused to have corrective surgery of any
kind. “Have you found yourself feeling more amorous lately? Wishing
you could see more of Richlow?”

“Not especially.” I shifted uncomfortably in
my chair because the words weren’t completely true. I
had
been feeling more interested in sex lately—though not with
Richlow.

During the long strange month since my
breasts had started leaking I’d found myself wanting to read trashy
erotica novels—the kind I usually scorned. Even worse, one night
I’d been flipping channels and had come across a soft-core porn
movie and I’d actually
watched
it.

The plot was bad but the actors were easy on
the eyes. I had meant to flip the channel the moment I saw them
naked in bed together but somehow I couldn’t. It didn’t show
much—not by porn standards—but the male actor had been sucking and
licking his costar’s large, obviously fake breasts while she moaned
and tugged at his hair as though trying to get him closer.

I sat there mesmerized on the couch, my own
nipples throbbing in a way I couldn’t explain. The nightgown I’d
been wearing was a sticky mess after the movie was over and so was
I. Not that I had touched myself in any way—I’d been raised to know
how low class that kind of self gratification was. But for the
first time ever I had
wanted
to touch myself. I’d had an
urge to slip my hand under the hem of my ruined nighty, spread my
swollen pussy lips and stroke my clit which was positively begging
for a release.

It was strange because I normally didn’t have
any sexual desire at all. Even Richlow—who wasn’t exactly a world
class lover himself—had complained about it. He always said I just
lay on my back and took it. But really, what was there to get all
excited about? A few pumps and a tickle between my thighs wasn’t
exactly fireworks material though I was too polite to tell him
so.

I chalked his complaints up to grumpiness
because I always made him wear a condom. Regular birth control
didn’t work for me—it gave me horrible cramps and break through
bleeding. So a condom was my own option. Not that I minded—the idea
of getting any of Richlow’s cum in me was to put it mildly,
disgusting.

“So you’re not experiencing any other
symptoms?” Sylvia’s words had pulled me out of my reverie.

“No,” I said, deciding to keep the more
intimate and recent developments to myself. “I’m just…leaking all
the time. It’s very inconvenient.”

“I’m sure.” She took another sip of tea. “Of
course if you
were
a female animal in heat, your cycle would
run its course faster if you let a male breed you. When is Richlow
coming home?”

I shivered involuntarily. “Not for awhile yet
but I really don’t…don’t think that’s what I need.”

“What
do
you need, then Lexie?” my
ever practical friend had asked, pushing her glasses up again.

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “At the moment,
nothing but a drycleaner who doesn’t ask questions. You have no
idea how many shirts I’ve ruined.”

“You can buy more. I
think
you can
afford it.” That was Sylvia’s way of teasing me about my
inheritance. She’d been a scholarship student during our college
days and had been awed by my family’s house when I brought her home
during breaks and holidays. But unlike a lot of other people who
wanted me for my wealth, she had looked beyond my material assets
and seen the person underneath. I valued her dry sense of humor
almost as much as her analytical mind and firm, unshakable
friendship.