The Teratologist (4 page)

Betty had been born with no limbs of any kind but rather one long aquiline torso ending in two stumps that had been intended to be thighs but had rather merged together into something that looked more like a tail. Wedged between them her sex was barely accessible. Farrington knew. He had tried to gain access to it on more than one occasion. Now he contented himself with the phenomenal blowjobs she could perform. Since he’d taught her to swim she’d not only lost quite a bit of weight but she’d also learned to hold her breath for a miraculously long time and since he’d started raping her esophagus with his cock, she’d completely lost her gag reflex. She could now deep throat like nobody’s business.

Her gigantic breasts and mountainous ass were his two other favorite pleasure points. Betty had so many ripples and folds that just about any spot on her body could adequately substitute for pussy when properly lubricated. She was happy to pleasure him, to show her gratitude for the love and care that he gave her, and John took his fill, attacking her throat and ass on an almost daily basis, except when he was saving his strength for the angels. He loved to watch as she sucked down his seed with childlike enthusiasm, his erection throbbing in her throat, her lips buried in his pubic hair, and her eyes looking up into his for approval. He loved it when she smiled up at him after he’d bathed her face in semen and it dribbled off her lips and eyelids and even the tip of her nose. She never looked happier.

When John Farringworth’s assistant had brought her here she could not move on her own power at all except to lift her head. She was so enclustered with fat that she was little more than a formless corpulent blob scarcely recognizable as human. Her skeleton was smothered beneath hundreds of pounds of useless tissue. She was a tragedy that utterly delighted Farrington. This was clearly an example of something that was not meant to be; an obvious mistake. “And on the 9th day God created Betty and said: ‘Ooops!’”

Her body, which was now rather sausage shaped, looked then like that of a bloated leech engorged with blood. Her tremendous breasts had been nearly squashed flat and were blistered and calloused from lying on them. They had showed her how much lighter she was in the pool and had taught her to swim. The first day she was able to propel herself through the pool on her own power she had squealed with delight. That same night John seduced/molested her for the first time and she’d been more than willing to show her appreciation. Now she practically lived in the pool, waiting for John to come swim with her each day so that she could pleasure him. But today he didn’t seem interested.

Betty glided to the edge of the pool where Farringworth sat with his limp penis dangling just above the water. She eased up beneath him and kissed and licked at his flaccid sex organ but Farringworth pushed her away.

“
What’s the matter John? Don’t— don’t you want me?” Anyone else looking at the beautiful billionaire and the twisted freak floating between his thighs would have thought her question absurd, but Betty knew that Farringworth adored her for some incalculable reason and his apathy now could only mean one thing… he was dreaming of angels.

“
Nothing’s wrong, my lovely. I’m just not in the mood right now.” He was staring off across the pool with a sad forlorn expression marring his perfectly sculpted face. He didn’t even look at Betty when he spoke.

“
No, John. Don’t. Please don’t, John. Don’t go in there again. They always hurt you. Just let me take care of you. I’ll do anything you want. The angels are evil! They’ll kill you!”

“
Perhaps I like to be hurt, Betty. Perhaps I deserve it.”

Farringworth stood up and dried himself off with one of the huge monogrammed beach towels that lay stacked on a rack by the pool house door.

“
Don’t go, John! I’ll let you do anything you want! You can piss on me again if you want!”

John left the pool house, slamming the door in disgust. He was still nude as he strode down the hallway toward his harem. He reached the end of the hall where a wrought iron gate covered a huge wooden door. Both were locked and only Farringworth and his manservant Micheals possessed the key. The door separated one entire half of the house from the other half. Beyond that door an entire world lay separated from the rest of reality. Here horror, legend, and tragedy lived naked and resplendent. The beauty of nature in grotesque ruin displayed on silk sheets and satin pillows and clothed voluptuously in lace, leather, and latex. Wanton and irresponsible genetic failures limping, crawling, and slithering in appalling ill-crafted forms and near absences of form collected here by Farrington to shame God himself with his lack of perfection. Only Farrington was truly perfect and in his mind that entitled him to the seat now held by the lord of creation.

There were thirteen bedrooms on this side of the house. Ten of the bedrooms were occupied by one or more of Farrington’s “lovers.” The other three awaited new acquisitions. Some rooms he visited fairly regularly and others were reserved for his rarest moods, when only the most grotesque and revolting acts would soothe his desires.

John passed the room where his “Monster” lived and stopped to listen at the door. Inside he could hear squeals and screams, begging, crying, and praying followed by the guttural moans and grunts of his Monster. “Please! More!” a woman’s voice pleaded. “God in Heaven-more!” John slipped his key into the lock and cracked the door.

The Monster was on the bed facing John. His name was Billy Meyers and he had one of the most horrible congenital disorders, the most severe case of Neurofibromotosis anyone had ever seen. His skull had tremendous horn-shaped bone growths and massive tumors that stuck out as much as ten inches from the top of his head like gun turrets. His entire skull was elongated into something that looked like a watermelon. His overgrown jaw hung down to his chest and was filled with two extra rows of teeth on the bottom and one extra row on top. His face looked absolutely prehistoric with cheekbones that jutted out so far they looked like some type of armament. From that twisted lump of meat and bone shone eyes that gleamed with a madness so intense and ferocious that it was like staring into a burning sun. One eye was blue and the other was green yet Billy himself was black as obsidian. But it was his body where nature had been its cruelest. His chest and stomach were untouched and gave a hint of what he may have been. Finely sculpted, heavily muscled pecs like a weightlifter and a washboard stomach made up his torso yet suspended from them were arms so massive and twisted they looked barely functional. The tumors in his right arm were so pronounced that it looked like a kindergartener’s drawing of a superhero with misplaced muscles that were little more than lumps and bulges. His left arm was longer than the right and was just one thick tube with no visible elbow. His hips were tilted askew and massive legs like the gnarled trunks of some malformed tree erupted from them. Billy Meyers made the elephant man look like James Dean.

This mistake had spent most of his life in hospitals and state foster homes. His parents had left him in the hospital soon after he was born and had never returned to reclaim him. He’d been alone and unloved his entire life until he’d come to the mansion. It was his eighteenth birthday when Farringworth arrived at the juvenile correction facility where Billy was being held on aggravated sexual assault charges. After Billy hit puberty and realized that no one would want to have sex with someone so freakish of their own freewill he’d begun breaking into the homes of elderly women and raping them in their beds. No one knew how many he had done before he’d been caught. He’d been incarcerated for three years before Farringworth had come to claim the young monster for his collection.

Bent over in front of Billy was a middle-aged nun chained at the wrist and ankles and squeezed into a latex bustierre that pushed her fat oversized breasts up around her neck. She had a choke collar around her neck with the leash firmly gripped between Billy’s countless teeth. Her face was turning blue as she struggled to scream, but even though that blue tint, there was a wantonness raging. From the waist down she was naked… and bleeding. Billy was ramming a fireplug shaped penis roughly eight inches long and nearly seven inches around with a head the size of an apple into her puckered anus as she shrieked and begged and cried out for her savior. Farrington could only hope that he would hear her and come.

The Metopronil’s working better than anyone could imagine,
John thought. Who could argue? He’d dumped a hundred million dollars of his own pocket change under the table into Daye Pharmaceuticals’ coffers so they’d continue developing the new sexual stimulant that FDA had banned further research on. Metopronil, ideally, was to be the next generation of Viagra-like drugs, not only stimulating blood flow to the groin but stimulating libidinal hormone activity. In the end, the technicians at Daye grimly realized that the little red pill worked too well, turning even the most sexually uninspired into rapists and unslakable erotopaths. “What you want me to do is illegal!” the president of Daye had insisted to John. “It’s a federal offense. We can’t develop this stuff anymore.” “Develop it exclusively for me,” John had replied and left the office of company’s Grotten, Connecticut, headquarters. That’s when Michaels had started bringing in the suitcases full of untraceable cash. Money talked.

The appearance was crucial.
There must be lust in their eyes, there must be true desire.
Otherwise the videos, pictures, and internet feeds would be seen for what they actually were: forced performances. It was one thing to force nuns and priests into sexual scenarios, but it was another to make them willing. The drug made them willing. There were no guns to their heads here, and the videos would easily pick that up. What the public would see were celibate servants of God slavering for sex. Priests enthusiastically copulating with street prostitutes? Nuns moaning in orgasmic bliss, begging for more, during a twenty-man gangbang? This was just what Farringworth needed for his plan, and it was exactly what he was getting thanks to the Metopronil.

Oh, the wonder of pharmaceutical science…

John watched, fascinated, as the nun grinned lasciviously through what must be incalculable pain.

Her eyes were glazed in lust as the freak’s turgid flesh split her wide and punched up into her bowels, bruising internal organs. John could see the remnants of her reason shutting down, a lust-crazed insanity replacing it. All will was lost in this nun now. Her faith too was lost, abandoned. A rosary still hung down between her tightly wrapped breasts swaying back and forth to the rhythm of the monster’s pelvic thrusts.

Her name was Mother Angelina and she was very nearly a living saint. Her humanitarian efforts with AIDS and Ebola victims in Southern Africa were known all over the globe. She’d negotiated peace talks with terrorists and even traded herself for the release of hostages. Just last week she’d addressed the United Nations to plead for an end to the war in the Middle East. And now this sainted woman, revered all over the globe, was taking inch after inch of gnarled cock flesh between her flabby ass cheeks and loving every minute of it.

Cameras in each corner of the ceiling were recording her every moan and shriek. John smiled and winked at his beautiful monster who was obviously having the time of his life. From deep beneath his Cro-Magnon brow Billy winked back. John hoped that his cameras would record the exact moment when Mother Angelina’s mind flew asunder. He wanted it all—every second—for the feed they piped anonymously onto the internet. Later, Michaels would shoot her full of heroin and dump her off on a street corner in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district with the transvestites and prostitutes or in the middle of Time’s Square or even on The Las Vegas Strip. He had the resources to put her anywhere in the world. In a donkey show in Tijuana, in Hong Kong in one of the Filipino brothels in Lan Kwai Fong. He could dress her in a French maid’s outfit and drop her in Bangkok, in Pat Pong where Thai girls shot ping-pong balls out of their vaginas with overdeveloped kegel muscles. No matter where she ended up, her days as an inspiration to millions were over. When this tape hit the streets it would shake the faith of half the world. Then God would have to come to him. He would have to reveal himself in all his flawed and imperfect glory and John would capture him like a firefly in a jar. Then he’d have all the power he needed to make the angels love him.

Farringworth’s last glimpse of the scene was this: Mother changing positions, her tits hanging. She was fellating Billy’s waste-smeared cock with gusto, leaving brown marks around her mouth like a sloppy child eating a chocolate ice-cream cone.

The billionaire eased the door quietly shut and relocked it. He then continued next door to the suite where his beautiful angels lived.

The angles were John Farringworth’s first acquisitions. They were twins, lithe and elegant giants nearly seven feet tall, albinos, hermaphrodites, gaunt as scarecrows. Niveous elongated forms so achromatic they were nearly transparent. Ethereal wraiths wrapped in paper-thin white skin that appeared to be little more than a sheer blanket draped over their wiry muscles. Their eyes were as cold and bloodless as their flesh, utterly devoid of pigmentation save for the pinhole-sized pupils. Long spidery fingers ending in nails, so overgrown that they curled under at the ends and spiraled, dominated their hands. They refused to let them be clipped. Their hair was likewise overgrown. Spilling in long luxurious locks down their backs to the tops of their upturned buttocks. Their sexual organs, both male and female, were not the half-formed diminutive aberrations found on most beings of combined genders. They had long fully formed penises that hung down over perfectly shaped and fully functional vaginas. When erect their enormous members were nearly as long as a baby’s arm and just as thick. Their grapefruit sized breasts were the only hints of adipose tissue on their otherwise anemic forms. John longed to suckle at those luscious tits but his attempts to do so had all ended poorly.