It turned out the doctor was prescribing himself a taste of his own medicine, and judging by the documented doses had turned into quite the junkie, moving from casual use to constant intoxication in just under two months.
The drug also appeared to affect different psyches in different ways. The doctor never should have self-medicated, at least not before he found a way to dilute it. Being a lab nerd since high school hadn’t prepared Madsen’s mind to deal with the drug, and it looked like it had eaten him alive. A guy like Brad, on the other hand, could take a dose of the Breath to amplify what he already had, without the danger of it completely altering his brain chemistry.
Brad leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his thick head of dark brown hair, staring at the briefcase and the open carton of Red Breath. He knew he shouldn’t take it, and the whisper inside him was screaming for him to stop, but Brad smelled the adventure, and loved how much the odds were in his favor.
Dr. Madsen was a nerd, Brad wasn’t.
Dr. Madsen had an endless supply of the drug, Brad didn’t.
Dr. Madsen had an academic interest, Brad’s was purely social.
Of course, Dr. Madsen didn’t have Agent Grayson, who would be furious with him if she knew what he was doing. But she would never know if he didn’t tell her.
The open briefcase was a no-win situation. If Brad said yes, he’d be breaking protocol and the law, maybe even jeopardizing his health or safety. If he said no, he would wonder what he’d missed for the rest of his life.
Red Breath helped men cum multiple times in a row, with no dilution in desire or performance. That was enough to make him pull one of the cigarettes from the package, hold it under his nose, and inhale the sweet scent of chocolate, vanilla, jasmine, fresh rain, spring after a hard winter, and pussy.
He felt an immediate swell in his cock, as the scent made it easy to imagine the Red Breath working inside him. He placed the paper between his lips, then held it there as he fished through the briefcase for a lighter. He pulled a silver Zippo from the inner flap of the briefcase, then held it under the cigarette still dangling from his lips, suddenly too scared to light it.
What if a single breath changed him?
What if he lost control like Madsen had?
What if there was no turning back, and Red Breath was forever?
Brad shook his head at his own paranoia, sat at the edge of the bed, then lit the cigarette, drawing a deep drag of the smoke, where he held it in his well practiced lungs, just like the weed he “officially” never smoked.
Brad blew the first long trail of scarlet smoke into the room and stared at the crimson cloud which gave the drug its name. His head went buzzing, quickly followed by his entire body. He couldn’t imagine doing anything, but sitting in the chair as a flutter of something he’d never felt before rippled through his body like the tease of an approaching orgasm.
His muscles were completely relaxed and he felt like he was sitting in a tube being rushed down a gentle river. For a moment he forgot where he was, as he turned in circles, blinking at his empty hotel room. While the world around him felt as though it had slowed, his thoughts had accelerated. There was a multiple more than usual, and most of them were centered around the same message being sent to his brain.
He suddenly wanted to fuck.
No, he needed to fuck, and not just fuck, but fuck the living shit out of someone.
Brad’s cell suddenly thrummed against his leg. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen — a local Atlanta number. “Hello,” he said.
“Hi there, Agent Hammer, this is Willow, Willow Monroe. We spoke earlier today about…”
“Yes, of course Miss Monroe,” Brad cut her off. “How can I help you?”
The memory of her pert tits and sweet scent made his throbbing cock throb harder.
“I have some information that I think might be relevant to your case.” She paused, then dropped her voice to a whisper and added, “I know it is.”
“What’s loosened your tongue? Don’t you still have a non-disclosure to worry about?” The thought of Willow Monroe’s loosened tongue had him imagining it lapping the fat of his shaft.
Willow whispered even softer. She kept her tone professional, but Brad thought she sounded sexy as fuck. “I think I’m being followed, and I don’t think I’m safe. They don’t want me to tell you what I know.” She sounded like she was trying to keep herself from crying. “I think they might try to kill me, too. Just like they…” she trailed off, then said. “Is there somewhere we can meet? I’m in the car now. I can meet you anywhere.”
“Yes, of course Miss Monroe. Do you know where the Georgian Terrace is?”
“On Peachtree?’
“That’s right,” he said. “I’ll be in the hotel bar in 15 minutes. Can you meet me there?”
“Yes,” she said. I’m on my way now.” After a long second of silence, Willow added, “Thank you Agent Hammer,” then the line went dead.
Brad needed approximately two minutes to get downstairs to the bar, but figured he needed at least five to fist fuck the seed from his cock, and another five to clear the evidence. He couldn’t exactly head downstairs with his dick fat enough to fuck a tailpipe.
Brad was still swimming in the Red Breath when he went into the bathroom, dropped his pants to the floor, took his cock in hand — which felt twice as big as it ever had before — then held himself over the bathtub and tossed one off in under a minute, with a giant glob of pudding flying from the open eye of his snake.
He took a minute to admire the size of his splatter, cleaned himself up, closed the briefcase, slipped it inside the closet with his bag in front of it, hoped to hell he wasn’t making the worst mistake ever, then headed from his room to the hotel bar.
His body was a silent inferno. He stepped up to the bar and ordered a double shot of Patron, hoping the alcohol would do something to douse the Red Breath taking over his body.
He felt like the Terminator of Twat; scanning the room and mentally evaluating every available hole. His eyes settled on a hot piece of ass: his perfect type, with lightly bronzed skin and shoulder length coffee-colored hair, with a modest length skirt and a thin, tight tank top.
Brad didn’t have to move a muscle. He simply stood at the bar and sipped his Patron. She was standing beside him at the bar a minute later.
“Hey there,” she said.
Brad ordered Coffee-Colored Hair a double shot of Patron to match his own, then they made small talk for the two minutes it took the bartender to fill her glass.
Coffee Hair lifted the shot to her lips, winked at Brad, took it down in a fluid gulp and swallowed like a good girl, smiling like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of throat yogurt. She then stood on her tip-toes, leaned into Brad’s ear and whispered, “Ever fucked a tight pussy in a public restroom before?”
Of course he had, more times than he could count, starting back when the little birdie at the bar was probably still in preschool. And holy hotbox and a hell yeah, Brad wanted to fuck her silly in the bathroom right now. His just emptied cock was already throbbing.
Brad whispered back. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you, darling?”
“Of course I do,” she laughed. “Now follow me.” Coffee Hair skipped from the bar, across the lobby, then over toward the bathroom. She stepped inside the men’s room. Brad followed a step behind, locking the door behind him.
Brad’s hands went straight for her firm, young tits as she latched her mouth onto his and started working the zipper of his pants. Brad pulled the straps of her tank-top down past her shoulders, and then unfastened her bra, spilling her spheres of milky flesh with their bright pink nipples pointing straight at him.
Brad kneaded them hard, then brought them to his mouth, first one and then the other as Coffee Hair moaned and writhed beneath his lips.