as Mr. Farringworth, but security is equally important. Every window in the mansion is Lexan—it was very expensive. And you’re correct, the mansion as well as the grounds are extensively alarmed. Every door is secured by an electronic lock system. We don’t want anybody getting in.”
Or out, Westmore thought.
(IV)
Fadden was not familiar with such anomalies but if he had been?
The genetic disorders were multifarious: entropy of the digits, supernumerary thumb, and, above all, unilateral hemihypertropy with congenital asymmetry, not to mention acute hyperpituitaryism. The woman on the bed’s name was Carol, though her name was as useless as her life. She was twenty-nine years old but she had the face of a ten-year-old, and the basic body growth of one. Basic body growth. That was it. The hemihypertrophy had caused half of her four-foot six frame to grow faster than the other half. Right leg and arm were twice the girth of the left, and several inches longer. Her thumbs were as large as bratwursts, while her remaining fingers had stopped growing when she was five. Even at almost thirty, though, she looked like a little monster child.
Fadden cursed himself, humping the woman/child so hard he was nearly bending her ruined body in half. He didn’t want to do this.
He couldn’t help it.
Pieces of reason sliced through his mindless lust. Fadden was a priest as well as the spiritual counselor for the White House Chaplain Unit. In a sense—a diocesan one—he was quite famous, having provided psychological counseling and spiritual guidance for three presidents and innumerable high-echelon executive personnel. He’d been celibate for his entire life, a faithful steward of God.
Now that same steward was frenetically copulating with a grievously defected invalid. And he couldn’t get enough. He’d come three times already, and was going again, shuddering as Carol’s sausage-sized thumb roved in his rectum. Fadden didn’t remember how he’d gotten here, and after they’d forced him to swallow the pink pill, he didn’t care. His lust raged and would not abate. Every conscious minute—or second—made him aware of this most grueling of sins. But he couldn’t stop. If he kept it up at this rate, he’d have a heart attack—in fact, part of him wanted to have a heart attack. If felt as though death was the only thing that could turn off the lust and arousal.
Another of Carol’s anomalies was called transverse vaginal septism. She had, essentially, two vaginal canals packed into the confines of one. Fadden’s cock traded from one canal to the other, with frequency. Evidently, they’d given the woman one of those pills too, because, in spite of this heinous abuse, she couldn’t get enough, and if she were able to talk, that’s what she’d be crying out for: more.
Fadden gave her more.
For quite a while.
A moment before his crisis, he was able to withdraw, then jumped up, slipped his penis into her mouth, and came. His heart skipped beats, his exhaustion crushed him, and his sperm seemed to slide out of his cock like a warm worm. Carol gulped the worm down greedily, bucking as she masturbated with the shit-smudged thumb.
God Almighty, what is wrong with me? He could scarcely move, so instead he lay back, his crotch to the girl’s face, gasping. Give me strength. If God couldn’t give it to him, who could? He knew he’d need it from somewhere. Fadden was spent, drained, wrecked by fatigue…yet still erect, desires still raging. It was only a minute ago that he’d ejaculated, and now he wanted to go again. He needed to go again.
Forgive me, God. I can’t help it. Forgive me…
The giant thumb bridged his cock, while her tiny fingers tickled his testicles. Soon the testicles were in her mouth, being sucked.
Fadden felt mindless, buried in sin, in evil. That’s what was going on here, surely. Why were they doing this to him? What other explanation could there be?
He let the queer little
Or out, Westmore thought.
(IV)
Fadden was not familiar with such anomalies but if he had been?
The genetic disorders were multifarious: entropy of the digits, supernumerary thumb, and, above all, unilateral hemihypertropy with congenital asymmetry, not to mention acute hyperpituitaryism. The woman on the bed’s name was Carol, though her name was as useless as her life. She was twenty-nine years old but she had the face of a ten-year-old, and the basic body growth of one. Basic body growth. That was it. The hemihypertrophy had caused half of her four-foot six frame to grow faster than the other half. Right leg and arm were twice the girth of the left, and several inches longer. Her thumbs were as large as bratwursts, while her remaining fingers had stopped growing when she was five. Even at almost thirty, though, she looked like a little monster child.
Fadden cursed himself, humping the woman/child so hard he was nearly bending her ruined body in half. He didn’t want to do this.
He couldn’t help it.
Pieces of reason sliced through his mindless lust. Fadden was a priest as well as the spiritual counselor for the White House Chaplain Unit. In a sense—a diocesan one—he was quite famous, having provided psychological counseling and spiritual guidance for three presidents and innumerable high-echelon executive personnel. He’d been celibate for his entire life, a faithful steward of God.
Now that same steward was frenetically copulating with a grievously defected invalid. And he couldn’t get enough. He’d come three times already, and was going again, shuddering as Carol’s sausage-sized thumb roved in his rectum. Fadden didn’t remember how he’d gotten here, and after they’d forced him to swallow the pink pill, he didn’t care. His lust raged and would not abate. Every conscious minute—or second—made him aware of this most grueling of sins. But he couldn’t stop. If he kept it up at this rate, he’d have a heart attack—in fact, part of him wanted to have a heart attack. If felt as though death was the only thing that could turn off the lust and arousal.
Another of Carol’s anomalies was called transverse vaginal septism. She had, essentially, two vaginal canals packed into the confines of one. Fadden’s cock traded from one canal to the other, with frequency. Evidently, they’d given the woman one of those pills too, because, in spite of this heinous abuse, she couldn’t get enough, and if she were able to talk, that’s what she’d be crying out for: more.
Fadden gave her more.
For quite a while.
A moment before his crisis, he was able to withdraw, then jumped up, slipped his penis into her mouth, and came. His heart skipped beats, his exhaustion crushed him, and his sperm seemed to slide out of his cock like a warm worm. Carol gulped the worm down greedily, bucking as she masturbated with the shit-smudged thumb.
God Almighty, what is wrong with me? He could scarcely move, so instead he lay back, his crotch to the girl’s face, gasping. Give me strength. If God couldn’t give it to him, who could? He knew he’d need it from somewhere. Fadden was spent, drained, wrecked by fatigue…yet still erect, desires still raging. It was only a minute ago that he’d ejaculated, and now he wanted to go again. He needed to go again.
Forgive me, God. I can’t help it. Forgive me…
The giant thumb bridged his cock, while her tiny fingers tickled his testicles. Soon the testicles were in her mouth, being sucked.
Fadden felt mindless, buried in sin, in evil. That’s what was going on here, surely. Why were they doing this to him? What other explanation could there be?
He let the queer little
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