The Mad Scientist's genetically engineered, pus-expelling fuckbeast was performing better than expected. So too were the array of impulse-inhibiting and mood-influencing injections he'd spent so long concocting. He knew this because he had tried them out a week earlier on the Parker family daughter Irene, a besequined co-ed freshman at nearby Starflake College whom he'd snatched off a back street in a flurry of curls, perfume, and palm-muffled cries.
That was a fine memory. He'd used his EMP box, a fruit of his twisted brilliance, to catch her. To stalk her, he had used his high-tech "peeper," an infrared camera and spectrum corrector that had allowed him to peer into Irene's powder-room as though its walls were made of glass. One Sunday morning he watched her freshen up and this was how he knew that she had run out of lip gloss and that, when she skipped with pink purse bouncing at her hip down daddy's long, swept driveway and started up her Glow Worm, it was to scoot over to the drugstore for some more.
He tailed her and when she followed her usual shortcut through a back neighborhood, he switched on the EMP box next to him in his black station wagon, shutting down her Glow Worm's engine and scrambling her cell phone. He made the block and pounced on the girl in broad daylight as she padded up a front walk to knock on a stranger's door. She pumped her legs and twisted her hips for purchase as he dragged her back to his waiting station wagon. But once he gave her the sleeping gas, her irritating fight for freedom subsided. None of the suburbanites, presumably lost in their own homes, took notice as Irene was kidnapped and sedated.
Back at his lab, the Mad Scientist cinched Irene down and used an array of drugs on her, all of which coaxed the exact effect intended from the pert and healthy but diminutive little maid. From the tranquilizer that made her dreamy and subdued, but just mildly enough that she still quaked with revulsion against her bonds when the Mad Scientist or the shriveled, sinewy fuckbeast groped her, to the impulse suppressant that enfeebled and physically exhausted her, quieting the twitching shudders that overtook her body and enervating her struggles against the ropes that pinned her down.
The oleaginous sperm creature performed successfully as well with the one slime-engorged cocksac the Mad Scientist stitched to it, following an implanted impulse to massage its greasy, unctuous organ on the pinioned college girl until the cocksac shot its foul load. The sexbeast did this hungrily, without even bothering to first strip Irene all the way down. It burrowed its cocksac in the narrow seat of Irene's panties, stimulating itself in her underwear's downy, satin fabric, luxuriating in the warm caress of her bobbing haunches against its belly. It stroked its organ in the soft furrow between the young filly's powdered buttocks. Then it held her upright by the neck, on her toes, and humped her like she was a stubborn mule. Its thrusts bumped her body, which rocked back and forth. It growled dully and salivated, groaning, "Some oil for your saddle," as it gave two jamming thrusts against Irene's bouncing bottom, spurting a cascade of quivering cocksac slop onto the small of her back.
