But there is hope, come Monday morning.

You wake up remembering enough to call in sick today... and you sounded like **** well enough when you did, because the office manager recommended a few days, even.

The rest of your morning is spent sulking through breakfast, remembering what else happened last night: Devi begged you to let her suck you off while you ate dinner, she started doing an analysis on herself at your request, and scheduled enough paid time off to keep this bimbo version of the brilliant Ms. Waltz away from her office, at least until you found a way to keep her from... well, letting you ruin her life.

As if on cue, your front door unlocks (you don't recall giving Devi a key) and the girl next door lets herself in, laptop in tow, with jean shorts and a t-shirt that scream a lack of need for underwear. "Good morning, Derek!" It was one of the first rules you gave your "****": no more of this 'Master' business. "I think you'll find my research quite intriguing."

You nod solemnly. "A cure?"

Her grin falters slightly, but perks back up as she shakes her head. "No, silly! But a few other, more key pieces of evidence about what is happening to you..." She spends the next thirty minutes yammering about enough biological theory and mechanics that you wonder if you really needed to make her spend her vacation days like this, and shows you various charts you can't comprehend. "... and as such, it would seem that my own secretions and pheromones have become synonymous with your own, making me a proxy for infection... or rather, persuasion." You glance at her from the laptop and then back, and then back to her as you realize she somehow got completely naked without your noticing. She was too good at this, now. "What's more, based on what you told me about this strange new sense, and given the updated x-rays I've taken of you... I believe you've proven Thomas Gilgore correct, once and for all."

"Who?" She proceeds to rant about some old nutjob laughed out of the major sciences surrounding biomedical engineering just before the start of the Genome Project in 1990. Naturally, she shows you the most up-to-date source for such research: Wikipedia. With her guidance, you scroll to the reason you have to know this man's name at all. "... Apex Adaptive Radiation Syndrome?"

"AARS was treated as an absurd myth sparked by a perpetual liar, but Gilgore thought the man, who suffered **** by exhaustion, might have been a short-lived link to mankind's key to rapid evolution. AARS was also described in certain 17th-century texts for explaining the evolution of ants, but it was debunked years ago-"

"Devi," you interrupt her, already finished with your six Eggos and half-jug of orange juice, "what does this have to do with me?"

"I'll... jump ahead, then. AARS was thought to be triggered by the perfect storm of inferior, undesirable traits in a human genome." She looks you over, and continues before you can object. "No offense, Derek, but that may well have been the case for you... because AARS is thought to be a defensive mechanism of the host's genetic code to reset or advance the evolutionary progress in his species. It supposedly mutates the body at a pace rapid enough to demand large intakes of energy-" she glances at the empty, syrup-coated plate in front of you, "- and correction of the critically flawed genome by mating, implanting specialized sperm, and having the mate's body return a complete and perfect hybrid of their combined genetic signatures back to the AARS sufferer via pheromones. These new pheromones, aside from spreading the influence network of the host, have properties akin to stem cells, allowing his body to take the data, review it, compare it to his present DNA and capabilities and reconfigure and refine himself closer to... perfection."

You scratch some syrup into your mouth with the edge of your fork, and stare at her blankly as you do so. She sighs... but happily. "When you get women pregnant, they start giving off pheromones with your signature, only better and, when you smell or come into contact with them, your body evolves." She motions towards her nether regions, which turns into slow and sensual masturbation as she talks. "I'm... already giving off your scent, Mas... Derek. With just that, you began to develop this perfect sixth sense to impregnate more women."

"You think I'd do this again?" You shake your head and begin to do the dishes, but she does not relent.

"Impregnating more women would mean your evolution would advance further and further... and if the very first gave you such an inexplicable ability, I have to wonder if you won't develop..." Frustrated, she follows you into the kitchen. "... if you don't develop a way to get what you want." You finally stop. The kitchen faucet runs idly as you absorb her words. Turning slowly, you try to focus on her eyes. She was biting her lip seductively, circling one of those fat, inverted nipples and was two fingers into her own cunt already, and now those sexy details were half-tortuous for you. Her eyes, then. "Your power borders on psionics, fringe sciences that I cannot grasp for years of not giving them proper respect... but here you are, and with only one woman as your ****." You flinch at how she says it. "What about three? What about ten? At some point, you might develop the power to more finely tune our slavery... perhaps even our pregnancies. You might be able to repair everything you think you've done," she says cooly. "You need only continue to... collect... us..."

You... could fix this. You could save Devi... and by extension, whichever other women you inseminated. That glimmer of hope brings you such joy that you scoop Devi into your arms and kiss her, to which she responds with tearful joy and a deep embrace. "God, this is so fucked up, but... I'll do it," you finally declare.

"I'll cheer you on, Derek! The whole way! But for today, please..." She rubs the front of your pants, easily finding evidence of your attention to her details. "... fuck me like your one and only wife. It may be the last time I can believe it," she pleads.