Unknown - Sex-crazed stallion

And then, after a week, they could leave… perhaps before the girls woke up, yes, that would do it. Simple, neat, surgically clean. Remove the malignant growth before it choked them.

Life would return to normal. He was convinced of it. He was certain of it.

He was depending on it.

In fact, it was threatening to become an obsession.

That was something Lucus could not allow, not even to the extent of denying a portion of himself, a very vital portion, denying its very existence. It was a question of role. It was his firm grasp of that concept that allowed him to keep his hands rock steady during the transfer of minute units, the performance of delicate surgery, slow careful surgery, like he would perform on those two malignant pests, carefully shaving layer after microscopic layer from their cortex, probing deeper, ever so deeper into the very depths of mind itself, locate at last the chemical code by which neurons passed their information from one to the next, how it arranged it, how intelligence itself is generated…

It would become his primary weapon, the major tool of his research… the chemical genesis of intelligence… its control… its enhancement…

No, there was, at the cold immobile center of Lucus Simpson's soul, no doubt whatsoever as to the primary role he was meant to play, the essential face he was to wear…

He looked to the screen.

The figure remained, as it was earlier, still a misshapen blob, yet even now beginning to take on a crude shape… here and there small extensions of the primal protoplasm that one could almost pretend, with enough concentration, were arms, legs, the beginnings of a neck…

For the first time, the notion of 'cross breeding' had expanded to include the whole genus of mammals as its domain. But need it stop there? No!

If man could be blended with lower forms, drawing on specific superior constructions within certain systems, yet retain man's nature, his innovation, his spontaneity… his mind. Who could predict? What limits might be surpassed?

Could you imagine the implications of an army of one celled amoebae… that were intelligent? Cells that could attack body organizations with infantry-like precision…

Yes, there was a lot resting on the next few hands. Lucus felt it like a breath of ice on the surface of his skin. He heard it with his fingernails, at the tips of each hair, at the core of his marrow. He was alert. He was attuned to his essential rhythms. He was ready.

Walking to the small ice-box, he opened it, selected from among the neatly rowed bottles, each with a small white label, its molecular structure and noted properties expertly sketched and lettered in by Lucus' own hand, one bottle. It contained a deep purple colored liquid. It sloshed in the bottle with a oil-like sluggishness.

Carefully, taking in those same rock steady hands a sterile hypodermic, he punctured the seal of the bottle, watched as the liquid rose to nearly the halfway mark on the line gauge, added several more increments for good measure, and set it on the silver table. Its point gleamed in the light of the screen. Beyond the electronic interface, the little blob watched, it too preparing for an alteration of the very building blocks of its reality. Lucus felt a mental bond click into place in that instant, spanning the space, temporal and electronic between them.

Quickly tying the rubber tube tight around his arm, he found a vein and the dart was home.

Had a living organism entered his arm and begun eating its way through his body, it would have felt like this.

Lucus knew that for the next half hour, he would stay as he was, inert and insane.

And then would come the craving. The blind mindless craving, the hot flooding of his testicles with lunacy. Yes! Lunacy!

Mindlessness.

Pure primal instinct.

Lust!

There would be Sherry for that. Indeed.

And then, the long space of heightened awareness, of senses sharpened to the point of puncturing the thin fabric of reality.

At that plateau he planned to maintain himself for the next several days. Small maintenance doses at seven hour intervals would keep brain waves in phase through far more complex variations of their separate frequencies. His data was vast. He knew exactly what was happening to him, and exactly why. Perhaps his daughters looked upon his chemical experiments as tolerable eccentricities. Well and good.

None of them would ever know what hit them.

Lucus Simpson looked back at the silent screen, looked a long time in total awe… then he began a long deep laugh, a laugh which continued long and hard.

It was a strange laugh. There was something more there than simple laughter. Something complex and mysterious. Something that hinted at deep inner sadness.

Rod stopped and listened. Damn! he thought. No fucking way to see a thing!

He listened to the delicate roar of wilderness sounds of the night, the endless variations of crickets, owls, mixed with less definable ones, the rustles, scrapes, thuds, an occasional scamper of miniature feet.

But nothing that could possibly tell him which way Carrie had gone. How the hell did she find her way in this blackout?

He stumbled over a log and landed in something mushy. As he pulled back and started to scrape the gunk off his arm, it moved.

Yeecchhh!! Fuck! He hated the dark, he thought as he lashed his arm around trying to shake whatever the fuck it was back to wherever the fuck it came from.

Then he turned and was running, where, he had no idea, but he ran.

He hated to admit it but he was really scared. For some reason, just before he had slipped out of the screen door to follow Carrie's swiftly disappearing shadow into the woods, he'd almost reconsidered.

Greed's what did him in. Greed pure and simple.

Well, he thought ruefully to himself as he struggled through a thicket of ferns, a man's gotta do what he's gotta do, but why the hell did I have to go do this?

He was about to give up and just sit it out till dawn, when he'd most likely get his nuts shot off by ole Doc Simpson as he crept back inside the house just on general principles.

Then he heard it!

Closer than he would have thought too!

The muffled thunder of hooves biting into the ground at a brisk gallop.

He'd been right!

At once his cock was hard and getting stiffer all the time inside his pants. He thought of their first meeting, still stunned at the sight of that wet pink slit opened in front of him, so inviting, so innocent…

Lord! He wanted her, wanted to have her legs wrapped around his shoulders, wanted to be able to drop his head quickly each time his body rose up to flick first one breast, then the other with a rapid fire burst of his tongue, wanted to feel that young pussy wrapping his cock in its hot sopping walls, the enclosing warmth of her pink flesh seeping through him as though he were merely a sponge growing satiated with her juice.

He wanted to fuck her God damned eyes out. By God!

But he still wasn't sure in the least how to best go about it. She was by far the strangest customer he'd ever encountered.

True, her circumstances almost demanded it. Still, he had a feeling she'd have wound up with an unpredictable kink or two if she'd been brought up in the cleanest W.A.S.P. nest or the scungiest ghetto. The girl was in her own little bubble, and damned if he knew whether or not he had the guts to pop it.

But, with a deep breath, he followed his ears to the grassy fields of pleasure.

Sherry walked on tip-toes. Even so, each board seemed to have a special squeak they'd reserved for just this night.

But her father had remained secluded. She was glad. With his work to occupy him, he would think less of her, which was fine because just at this moment her mind was getting ready to meltdown from over activity.