Sex-crazed stallion

CHAPTER ONE

His hands trembled slightly. Yet his appearance was one of outward calm, a methodical thoroughness that obliterated emotional reactions.

There was no room here for the indistinct grey region of emotions, of moods, of feelings.

No. Here, there could be only precision. Calm, detached precision.

Magnificence cloaked in the simplicity of scientific accuracy.

A magnificence he alone could attain.

They had expelled him from their midst. Now, he would return, triumphant.

It would be he to whom they came, pads in hand, bubbling over with questions, with pleas for guidance, pleas for his forgiveness…

Maybe, he would grant it. Maybe.

But he would have no need for them now. He had learned to do without them, they had proclaimed him expendable and now it would be his privilege to return the favor.

He noticed the slight trembling still in his hands, his wrists, as he dipped the pipette into the clear liquid, then carefully, ever so carefully let it empty into the small glass dish. He flicked a button and a bright light shot through the dish, while at the same time, a previously blank screen flickered, cleared and slowly came to focus.

The object was hazy still, a kind of patchwork worm seen through blurry eyes. That's how it looked. Ah, but that patchwork… that would be his ticket back. It would make the world stand up and take notice. It would make the name of Lucus Simpson once more not just one of the leading names in medical science, it would make him the leading name. He would rule.

A slow turn of a dial on the console in front of him sharpened the image to the point that separate segments became noticeable… links in a chain, pieces in a puzzle, fragments of a text…

It was a molecule. A living reproducing molecule. Some would say it was the essence of life itself. A chromosome. Messenger of life. The ordering structure of heredity.

But a chromosome like no other on earth. One that he and he alone had created. True, it was still a small scale operation. But the major line had been crossed. Ahead lay difficulties in logistics, but the fundamental problem had been solved. The answer came finally to focus before his eager eyes.

A living chromosome, forced to accept and duplicate genes of a wholly different species. A mutant. A life form never before conceived.

Sure, there was work going on all over the world; using bacterium, splicing in this genes to fool the organism into duplicating insulin here, interferon there, maybe a few illegal drugs now and again… the possibilities were endless.

But the fools. They'd strapped themselves into a straight jacket. Would you ask a neurosurgeon to work wearing boxing gloves? Never!

Yet, the entire industry had done exactly that, by declaring human manipulation off limits.

He shivered every time he thought of those vast international cartels with their virtually unlimited resources playing around with microbes while the true work of their calling gathered dust on the pages of obscure publications and texts.

But for himself.

Man was the laboratory.

Man was the experiment.

Man, was the product.

Like Nietzche, he believed that man was something to be transcended. He, Lucus Simpson, would be the bridge. The human race would forever and for all time sing praise to his foresight, his knowledge, his daring, his genius…

There was so much left to be done. Still such a long road ahead, he felt constantly weighed down by the task. Yet his heart was light. And his mind clear. Quite clear.

This simple chromosome was but a start. There would come an embryo. Then more, each with a greater and greater blend of genes, a fuller and more equal mix until he could predict with accuracy which traits from which species would appear in the mutant. His pulse quickened at the thought of it. No longer would we need to rely on unstable population pools for the human resources so necessary to the growth of the system as a whole.

Now, people could be bred specifically for the tasks required. Qualities envied in other species could be matched with the superior intellect of man producing unimagined benefits. It was so obvious as to be painful. A tool so awesome surely must have applications never yet conceived.

And as long as his fellow scientists ignored the path of the future, it would be up to him, Lucus Simpson to lead the way.

He looked back at the chromosome. Not alive, yet vital, vibrant, filled with possibilities, able somehow, by an incomprehensible blend of physics, biology and sheer magic to duplicate itself exactly, atom for atom, molecule for molecule, gene for gene.

A human chromosome. With a few stray genes added in. Taken from the blood cells of a horse.

It would develop no further. But others would follow. The tests would become more and more complex. But the first and most crucial stage had at last been reached, and banished from his own kind, he had been forced to develop the capability and the technology all on his own.

He had succeeded. He would continue to succeed. Nothing would stop him now.

It was some time later that Lucus Simpson emerged from the depths of his laboratory.

From the living room came the sounds of Chopin. His daughter Sherry paused in her practicing as she heard her father shuffling down the hallway to his room.

She sighed. He would be about due again. It had been almost a week. And it was her turn this time. Carrie had taken the last two sessions and had let her know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to go again until Sherry had taken her turn.

Dear little Carrie. She was so headstrong. Of course, Sherry could easily understand her sister's reluctance to indulge their father's strange little quirks, but he was so weary from his work these days, and he had been spending so much time down there. It seemed a simple thing to ease his burden, however slightly. True, he did get a little rough at times, but that was only when he took too much of the drug. Usually he was docile as a lamb, putty in her hands.

He seldom took them both at once anymore. Probably a general lessening of his stamina.

But he could still be a wild man when the feeling grabbed him.

For years, they had been his only release. They had served his needs, they had been his… his women. Sherry was old enough to understand. She had been six when their mother left. That was after the bad time, the time of reporters and newspaper articles and police and investigations and inquiries and an entire collage of images and recollections that she simply filed away in her mind as BEFORE. Now, it was AFTER, and had been for years. Almost as long as she could remember, and certainly longer than Carrie could remember.

He had taken them away. He had run, taking them with him, into hiding. The years had been hard, awkward, at times dangerous, but he had managed to keep them alive and safe and clothed and fed, and now they had this beautiful house in the wilderness that she had grown so to love. It seemed at times that there could be nothing to interfere with the idyllic life their father had carved out for them. Nothing, except that unexplained stubborn streak in Carrie. Sherry had noticed it long ago, though she doubted her father was aware of it yet.

But Carrie was becoming restless. She was becoming dissatisfied. She was starting to wonder about the rest of the world. She was asking questions.

"How do other people eat, Daddy? Do they grow all their food like we do?"

And their father would patiently explain about the evil of cities and civilization and of other people and she would listen but Sherry could see that she really didn't hear.

But most dangerous, she was beginning to wonder about other men. And why there were none around. Or any people. Their father had seen to their education. He had instructed them well in the way's of civilized society. He didn't want them to feel like they were prisoners here. He wanted it to be their choice. He wanted them to realize that there was only evil and pain and suffering beyond the safety of the Eden he had created for them in the mountain wilderness.

Where else could one breathe clean air, catch fish in an unpolluted lake, fish without chemicals, fish from water you can swim in. These questions and hundreds more he would patiently confront Carrie with, but she was still unconvinced.

It saddened Sherry, because she knew that at the final point, their father would never permit them to leave. He had learned to need them. To depend on them. They would sign his death warrant should they leave. Sherry knew that. She had almost, in her own way, made peace with the fact. It was a beautiful place to live. And it was so easy, so simple, so undemanding an existence…

She heard him coming down the hall again, his gait a little less steady.

When he came into the room, she could tell by the slightly out-of-focus stare in his eyes that he had taken the drug. She had no idea what drug. Once, he'd confessed that it was some kind of extract from a mushroom, varied according to his own special formula. He claimed to have bacteria in petri dishes working overtime to produce the stuff. Sometimes she worried about him, worried that maybe he was taking too much of it.

But the poor dear, it was the only real recreation that he enjoyed. And it seemed to be the only way he could arouse himself…

"Come to me my dear," he said in the characteristically thick voice of his drug induced euphoria.

"Would you like me to finish this Chopin Etude, Daddy?" she asked, knowing that he would show no interest.

As expected, he simply shook his head and held out his hand. She rose from the piano bench, carefully folded her music and stacked it in a neat pile, then she turned to face her father.

It was easy to understand how someone, male in particular, would find her an appealing sight. That this male happened also to be her father could perhaps be forgiven in light of the fact that until recently, the young woman standing before him had been the one and only woman to cross paths with Lucus Simpson for close to ten years now. In the early years when it had been necessary to rely on his considerable intellectual powers merely to avoid detection, it had often been necessary to exist right in the midst of the very people who would have screeched for his capture in the shrill tones of hysteria so typical of the general uncomprehending populace.

Hide where they'd least expect it!

And he'd done it with his usual success.

Except he knew that there would be less and less safety for them. Eventually, whether or not by design, something would slip. He was, after all, no fool. He knew the law of averages, he could calculate odds. A chance meeting (remember, according to chain-letter enthusiasts we're never further than five people through a chain of acquaintance from anyone else in the country), some connection of links totally beyond the powers of prediction, and it would be over.

At its peak, his case had been a national story, and when one spoke of the peak, one spoke actually of three separate events, spaced apart by six weeks or so, that assured Lucus Simpson of initiation into that select circle of the near-famous, the nefarious and the infamous whose names trigger a spark of recognition in most of the populace. And if the trigger's sharp enough, it can even conjure up details of the case itself.

Would they remember?

He wondered.

There certainly was enough to remember.

"SIMPSON THE BABY-RAPER says fearful wife"

Headlines of a similar nature filled the hinterlands and the cities, with enough follow-up reports on national news to keep him up nights worrying about that one stray fool who'd actually remember…

And he'd had no doubt that somewhere, someday they would meet. No matter that there had never been a single shred of evidence against him that would stand for a moment on its own support in a court of law. No!

Never mind the fact that not a single eyewitness raised a voice against him.

Ignore his record of brilliance, of dedicated service to his profession, the long list of credits, his awesome credentials.

Who among the mad mob could recall any of those?

But the lurid details… the pictures of those poor children… The anguished cries of heartbroken mothers… The circumstantial evidence…

He knew there was no shortage of morbid ghouls spread across the entire land who soaked up precisely such facts as a way of life almost, trying to season the bland stew of their own dull existence with the blood and sweat wrung pitilessly from the pages of magazines, tabloids, non-fiction thrillers…

He had no stomach for it, and knew that ultimately the final disappearance would be necessary.

It had happened, precisely for the same reasons that he had managed to slip away unnoticed in the first place.

There were still a few, a very select few who believed in him, who knew of him, of his work, who even now were ready to lend whatever assistance they could manage.

No, Lucus Simpson was not without friends.

But he was without human contact. He had planned it that way, structuring his life so that it became a closed box, a sealed jar, a self sustaining system.

Their terrarium needed no attention now.

There were no outsiders.

No one to recall old nightmares.

No one to betray, no one to lie.

No men to prey upon the two jewels of his daughters, no one to soil the perfect life he had fashioned.

He had kept them pure. He had kept them unsoiled.

He had kept them for himself.

Since she'd been aware of her body, Sherry had regularly been called upon to ease her father's tensions.

"I'm tense, daughter, yes, I'm tense indeed. Ease the tension in my loins girl, come to you father and ease my pain."

He would whisper it to her in her sleep, he would call to her in the afternoon from the porch as she played in the yard, he would read to her at night and at the close reach his arms out to her: in short, she was at his command whenever he felt need of her.

It wasn't a conscious decision on his part.

It simply evolved into the custom.

Tradition starts with a single act.

The act had been placing her small hands on his swollen cock, letting her squeeze it, pull on it, jerk it until the fountain of white jism spurted forth and coated her arms, her chest just beginning to blossom with breasts.

She stared wide-eyed.

"What happened? What did I do to you Daddy? Are you bleeding?"

She was petrified.

"Easy little girl, easy," he'd laughed, gently, calming her as only he could.

The bond, forged almost at the moment of her awakening awareness was never something grafted onto her from the outside. It was from the start something interior, something organically fused to her own developing personality, something that was innately her.

By the time she had sufficient analytical powers to try and make some sense of the situation, objectivity was beyond her.

It was a bond that could be questioned, liked, disliked, approved of or disapproved of, but never broken.

She was a part of him.

And it was a bond she accepted in the center of her soul with welcoming pleasure.

The ritual was always the same, although lately he had begun taking more and more of the mysterious drug that he prepared in his laboratory.

"Purely by accident, purely as a result of tripping and stumbling into some previously unsuspected part of my mind, I have invented the first genuinely authentic aphrodisiac!!"

Sherry remembered well the day he had proclaimed that discovery, and remembered as well the first test of the substance.

It was then that he discovered the psychedelic properties as well.

Mild, but nonetheless real.

Once a week, he would treat himself to an excursion, and always accompanied by one of his daughters. In the past year, their sexual tasks had slowly merged with his drug experiences so that now, they knew that they would usually be called upon to assist. Which meant that as soon as their father's brain cleared enough from the first rush, he would develop a massive hard-on which would take most of the night to wear away.

Though she doubted Lucus was aware of it to any degree, Sherry knew without a doubt that she enjoyed the sessions far more than her sister Carrie.

Carrie's awakening years had come at a point when Lucus was still quite virile and Sherry was sufficiently matured that their sessions were both involved and frequent. As a result, Carrie was not brought into their special relationship until later in her life than Sherry.

She had never evolved into her father's instrument to the extent that Sherry had.

Which was fine with Sherry, because even though she may not exactly look forward to their fucking sessions, she never failed to find them exciting once she was involved in one.

Lucus was just standing watching her. She was beautiful. Long brown hair that hung straight to her waist in a thick cascading mane (Carrie's hair was as thick and long, but much curlier and a brilliant summer blonde in hue)… breasts as full and ripe as the honeydew melons they grew in their greenhouse… beautiful long slender legs with perfectly curving thighs…

He would sometimes simply watch her asking her finally to remove perhaps her shirt, her pants, sit in front of him dressed perhaps only in her panties…

Lucus made certain that his daughters had the proper apparel when he so desired it.

His favorites were the flimsy crotchless panties that split right over those juicy pink slits, so hot, so heavy with musk, so inviting…

He could never control himself when he stood in front of his daughters. Either of them could reduce him to jelly.

He stood now, transfixed and Sherry slowly unraveled herself from the dress she wore. It was a wrap-around style (he made certain they had access to moderately current fashions), a loose fitting piece of cloth that gently molded itself to the delicious curves of her young body, not glued itself to her, but simply suggesting the shape of that pliant flesh beneath.

She was his release. The safety valve that kept him sane, sane to continue his work, sane to keep them protected… and yes, sane enough to stay his hand in those awful early morning hours, when the urge would creep onto his soul like a black fog. When the pressure in his temples would flare, press outward against the inside of his skull, when he could think only of one thing, the small tender bodies, their warmth, their innocence, their need. OH GOD their fierce overwhelming need!!

And he would wake from a soiled sleep.

He would call for his Sherry and she would be there, and as he would gently stroke her smooth young skin, running his fingers over her face, her slender throat, her soft breasts, down into the wet folds of her youthful pussy, he would forget, he would block the past from his mind, he would return to the present, to his new life… to his new destiny…

He wanted her now. So gracefully she moved! Like smoke, only with structure, coherence.

She turned to him now, nipples flaming a deep crimson against the backdrop of the two dark eyes of her aureole.

Her breasts were perfectly round, perfectly tight, firm and taut so that they merely rippled when she moved.

It never ceased to amaze him the way those two huge globes of flesh could simply hang there exactly in place and simply ripple. It never struck him as being short of miraculous.

He reached for her now, saw her weave her way through the space that separated them, approaching, coming closer, closer, closer…

Her lips were on his mouth, her hands on his body, reaching between his legs, cupping his balls through his trousers, squeezing. Them gently, more firmly, hard…!

He let out a gasp of pleasure mixed with pain. That too was perfect. She knew exactly what he liked, what he wanted. They thought as if with one mind.

She unzipped his trousers and as they slid down his legs she circled the suddenly exposed head of his cock with her thumb and forefinger, forming a ring only slightly larger in diameter than the head of his swollen shaft.

She slowly started to slide the ring up and down, focusing mainly on the bottom ridge of his glans at the point where it flares then curves sharply back into the main shaft. He loved it there, claiming it to be the most sensitive part of a man's cock.

She stroked with these miniature strokes for as long as it took him to start drooling from the tiny mouth-like opening at the center of his cock.

As soon as the first clear droplet appeared, she began to rub it into the deepening purple colored head, enjoying the sound of his throaty moans as she did so.

Again stroking his cock, back and forth, back and forth until again a crystal droplet appeared, oozing slowly out and down.

This time, she lowered her body just enough for her breasts to hang down on either side of his prick.

She took one in her hands and guided the hard red nipple to the collected liquid.

Cock against nipple, the friction of each spreading through both their bodies.

Sherry felt a tingling in the deepest portions of her cunt, felt her body gather itself for an explosion of orgasmic fury, still distant but unmistakable even in its earliest stages.

She spread his juice all over her nipple, her aureole, down between her breasts…

Then she squeezed both fleshy mounds against his cock burying it in the folds of her thick breasts. She squeezed hard into him, felt his hips begin to move in and out against her in response and then start to get faster.

But she wanted to make sure that wouldn't come too fast. On the drug, he was able to come several times without getting soft, but it was still best for them both if she could stretch it out a little.

Which sometimes could mean hours!

She got down on her knees and began to feed the stiff piece of meat before her straight into her mouth. All the way in, till it pressed against the back of her throat, her hungry throat that had swallowed enough of her father's cum over the years to fill a bath tub… her sweet hot throat that waited for this next load to come shooting out of his cock, splash against her tonsils and slowly slither down the pink walls, down her throat into her stomach.

But again, Sherry was only building him up. Tension, release. That was the key.

Play with him, get him hot, fill his balls, wait till he's just about to blow his entire load, then pull back, leave him hanging, frustrated, unfulfilled…

Until the process starts up again, this time taking him just a little bit further, leaving him dangling from an even higher position.

Tension.

Release.

Tension.

Release.

Except that as each pause builds upon the tension that proceeded it, they too merely contribute to the gathering pressure in his balls, his cock, his thighs.

Until at last, there is no line left to cross. He is standing directly on it. Poised right at the brink of orgasm, yet still, somehow, not coming.

That was her style with Lucus, one she had never wavered from. She'd learned to read her father, to interpret his body language, his non-verbal cues, the noises he made. She knew when he was going to come and she knew at any moment exactly how much it would take to make him spill over.

And always, she could withhold just that last tiny bit, keep him in limbo with a cock so hard it could cleave a diamond and oozing so much juice that she would feel almost that he had come in her mouth after all, so much of it did she have to lick off.

But yet, not coming. Still with the tortured balls, filled to bursting.

It was an agony for him, one that he gladly endured, but the strain was obvious from his face.

He could only remain standing for a short while. Once the session got under way seriously the only thing he could do was to lay back and let her do whatever she desired.

And to be sure, Sherry got a lot out of giving her father sex. She got sex for herself, for one thing, and that was something that she had long since learned to value greatly.

But she also got the satisfaction of knowing that she was helping a great man resume his position of greatness in the world.

About her father's past, the past she was too young to remember, she knew virtually nothing.

She knew only, at the moment anyway, that her pussy was beginning to ache badly for the feeling of that hard cock in her mouth. She wanted it to be in her pussy.

She wanted to be fucking him. Sometimes she would let him lick her cunt, leave her pussy suspended above his lips for what seemed like an eternity while his tongue and lips and teeth gladly wandered each minute part of her pink flesh.

But not tonight. Tonight she wished only to be fucked.

She'd long ago learned that her father was glad to trust her judgment. Whatever she felt like doing, that's what he felt like doing.

It was a very convenient relationship.

She slowly slid her body around, letting her breasts drag across his body and then the head of his cock was at the lips of her pussy, lips spread and parted by the angle of her thighs as they straddled his waist, but spread also from the sheer force of her mounting passion.

It was at her, moving at her, in her, sliding through her.

Deep.

Deeper still.

Down, down, all the way to the bottom of her cunt. All the way into the back of her cunt wall. She gasped, for no matter how often he rammed his swollen cock into her, the feeling of a cock first entering you still carries echoes of the first time a cock ever entered you.

It was like rediscovering what your pussy was really supposed to feel like, as if in those dull moments when the rest of the world intrudes and you aren't fucking, you somehow forget it's purpose.

But she always remembered.

Now, he began to slide it in and out, her thick juices providing perfect lubrication.

In and out, faster and faster, he began fucking her like it was the first time he had ever fucked, like it would be the last time he would ever fuck.

Fucking her the way he always fucked her, with passion and desperation.

Harder. Harsher. Hips slamming against hips, sweat mingling, her breasts crushing down on his body beneath her…

She came, five times, ten, a dozen… she had no idea. She knew only that this was why she kept it up, why she found finally, nothing wrong with her relationship with her father.

The bottom line was that she couldn't live without these massive jolts of orgasm that left her body limp every single time they made love.

Again and again his cock crashed into her, splitting her cunt in two, splitting her body in two, driving orgasm after orgasm from her ravaged pussy.

At last, she felt him come. She always knew when he was coming, because he started to plunge his cock in and out of her a lot faster, and suddenly the friction eased up as wad after wad of thick white cum shot from his prick.

And then, surprisingly, he was still.

Could it be that he wanted no more tonight?

It seemed so, because he simply rolled off of her after gaining his breath and held her hand for long moments of silence. Then he started to stroke her hair, but she thought that he seemed… almost distracted.

Something must be on his mind, she thought, after he gave her a kiss and strode from the room. Perhaps his work is going well, she thought. She hoped so.