Mad Medicine With Rollins and Warren
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete - by AuthorWench
Chapter 2
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2 - It's entirely fair to call this story's main characters Dr. Rollins and Dr. Warren "mad scientists." One invented healthy cigarettes, and the other enhances anal sex surgically. If smoking or butt sex bother you at all, please read something else.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Science Fiction Incest Mother Son Father Daughter Aunt Nephew Anal Sex Masturbation Body Modification Smoking
Fred, Frederick Rollins-Warren, was fourteen and waiting for high school to start in a month. He was also horny and stuck alone at home. His mother had firmly insisted, “Your father and I will be away until Sunday night. Don’t leave the house, and no having friends over. I’ll check the security cameras when I get back.”
He was terribly frustrated, horny as Hell, but the family WIFI and TV had parental controls. He didn’t know the code number, and could only watch things rated PG and below. Like nearly everybody, he puffed down a Smoke Cure or two every hour, which helped balance out his aroused male angst.
Fred sprawled across the velvet sofa, the silence of the mansion weighing on him. On the screen, a beach party scene played out, sun-drenched gold and azure water. A group of girls in skimpy, neon-colored bikinis were lounging on the sand, their laughter muted by the movie’s soundtrack. They were smoking, long, slender cigarettes held between manicured fingers, inhaling deeply and blowing plumes of white smoke into the salt air. The way they tilted their heads back, the slow, deliberate movement of their lips around the filters, sent a jolt of heat straight to Fred’s groin.
He closed his eyes, the image of those girls burned into his retinas. Suddenly, the beach scene morphed in his mind. He imagined the scent of salt and tobacco mixing with something muskier, something warmer. In his mind’s eye, those girls weren’t smoking cigarettes anymore; they were smoking him. He pictured them kneeling before him, their lips parting not for a filter, but for the head of his throbbing cock, inhaling him like he was the finest Smoke Kure in existence. He could almost feel the wet, hot glide of a tongue licking the length of his shaft, mimicking the rhythmic draw of a cigarette, savoring him with an appetite that felt bottomless.
His hand dove into his waistband, gripping himself tightly. He groaned, his hips arching off the sofa as he imagined a chorus of them, their eyes wide and hungry, taking turns licking and sucking, treating his penis like a sacred, addictive habit. He wanted to be consumed, to be the only thing they craved. He worked himself into a fever pitch, the friction of his palm mirroring the imagined wetness of their mouths. He was right on the edge, the pressure building in his balls, a white-hot tension that threatened to shatter his composure.
Then, with a jagged gasp, he came. He didn’t just ejaculate; he erupted, a series of thick, hot bursts that splattered across the expensive mahogany floor and the edge of the velvet sofa. He slumped back, chest heaving, the sudden drop in tension leaving him feeling hollow and exhausted. He looked down at the mess, viscous, white streaks contrasting sharply against the dark, polished wood.
“Dammit,” he muttered, his voice raspy. He hated cleaning up. He grabbed a handful of napkins from the coffee table and began scrubbing the floor with a grimace, the scent of salt and bleach filling the air. The aftermath was always the worst part, the sticky residue and the sudden, crushing boredom of being alone in a house that felt far too big for one man.
Hunger eventually gnawed at his stomach, pulling him away from his post-orgasm slump. He wandered into the kitchen, mindlessly chewing on a piece of cold leftover chicken from the fridge, his thoughts still drifting back to the neon bikinis and the way those girls had looked at the camera. As he finished his meal, he reached for the cigarette pack in his pocket, only to find it empty.
He sighed, the familiar itch of craving hitting the back of his throat. He needed the artificial calm, the rhythmic draw that centered him. He pivoted toward the walk-in pantry, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous kitchen as he headed for the stash of Smoke Kures.
As he crossed the hall, something caught his eye, a sliver of golden light spilling onto the hardwood. He stopped dead. His parents’ bedroom door, the sacred, forbidden threshold that had been locked since the dawn of his conscious memory, was standing ajar. It wasn’t just unlocked; it was an invitation, a glitch in the rigid architecture of his childhood. The sight sent a thrill of illicit adrenaline through him, far sharper than any nicotine kick.
Fred crept forward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He pushed the heavy oak door further, stepping into a room that smelled of expensive perfume and stale tobacco. It was a sanctuary of excess, but as he wandered deeper, his curiosity shifted toward the dresser.
He slid open the top drawer, the one where his mother kept her lingerie. His face contorted in immediate revulsion, seeing a strap-on, many vibrators, and a ‘dragon’ dildo the size of his lower leg! Most had pubic hair stuck to them! He gagged a bit and dashed away.
A little later he returned to searching, giving his mother’s dresser a wide berth. Beneath the bed, he found buried treasure, not gold, but far more valuable to a lusty college boy. He dragged out a sleek black memory drive, its surface matte and cold. He plugged it into his father’s bedside laptop, the machine whirring to life with a low hum.
He expected family photos or tax documents; instead, he found a folder titled “Clinical Validations: Coloclitoplasty Recipients.” Within were dozens of subfolders, organized by date and patient ID. He clicked the first one. A video blossomed on the screen, raw, high-definition, and utterly explicit.
He watched, breathless, as his father, Dr. Will Warren Junior, worked with a clinical yet primal intensity. The video showed him from the chest down, his muscular thighs braced against a woman who was arched like a bow, her face blurred but her pleasure evident in the guttural moans echoing through the speakers. Rod wasn’t just performing a check-up; he was hammering into her rectum with a rhythmic, driving force that made the bed frame groan. He watched the way his father’s cock slid deep into that surgically altered channel, the skin stretching and yielding with a wet, slapping sound that filled the silent room.
Fred’s hand dove back into his pants, his fingers finding his cock already leaking. He scrolled through more videos, different women, different positions, but the same relentless focus on the rear. Some were soft and slow, others were frantic, with his dad grunting as he pushed himself to the limit, ensuring each patient’s “butt button”, the clitoris surgically implanted in their rectum, was functioning at peak capacity. Fred groaned, his hips mimicking the motion on the screen. He spent the next three hours in a fever dream of self-stimulation, coming again and again, his vision blurring as he watched the mastery of his father’s invention.
Then, he clicked a folder labeled “Family Testing: V & H.”
He paused, a cold chill of anticipation running down his spine. He clicked a file. He was horrified and then some, to see his father shove a soda can into his mother anus! Followed by two more! It took far too long, over a second, for him to click the ‘close’ button.