Abomination

The letter rested on the mantle-piece, daring him to read it again, and he knew he would, just not yet. If he had been partial to alcohol, then he guessed he would have a glass of whiskey to drown his sorrows. He was sat in the semi-darkness of his mid-terraced house in his worn armchair, staring at the letter wedged behind a glass mantel clock. It told him he no longer worked at the college, no longer taught the students molecular biology. It didn’t state why, although he knew. It was a simple, stock standard letter with a photocopied signature. It was basically saying, thanks for the time you spent here, now fuck off.

    He was more interested in performing experiments for himself than for his students, and two of those even put a complaint in. Saying basically he wasn’t interested in teaching them. All he did sometimes was give them exercises from textbooks, while he read up on the means of experimentation himself. As far as he was concerned, what the students were learning, and what he was supposed to be teaching them, was standard science that was long established. He was trying his hand at various experiments for himself and most of what he needed was there, in the science laboratories. He worked part-time, but spent most days there, even when he wasn’t teaching. Most people simply put up with him, but his superiors were growing more and more tired of him not fulfilling his job requirements and sent the letter. 

    It was a major jolt to the experiment he was currently obsessed with. Cross-breeding. It was impossible to produce a hybrid from certain species, such as a fish and a horse, or a rodent and human. He was convinced that he could unlock the genetic code preventing such things from happening, and produce the very first human/animal hybrid. The thing was though, even if he could, what would the end result be? It could be nothing less than an abomination.

   He had a kind of methodology worked out on paper, but he needed more time in the college. He was close to producing a frog/rat hybrid, unlocking their dna to interlock and produce, well, undoubtedly a mutant. Yet, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t, he had it worked out that he guessed he was fairly close to getting a rat pregnant. 

   That letter though, changed everything. It seemed his experiments would have to cease. However, he guessed that for a few days at least, he could still walk the college, with nobody being any the wiser as to his dismissal, and he decided that that was what he was going to do.

   With grey, thinning hair, Ron Patterson at 53 usually always wore a suit, even though it never looked washed, as though it was handed to him by a local vagabond who thought he could do with it. He was slightly over-weight, and fitted the XL clothes nicely.

   With the express intention of extracting sperm from a frog, he walked the college corridors to the biological wing, nodding acknowledgements to some students, but he was soon stopped by a geography teacher whom he had barely met before. 
“Are you supposed to be here? I hear you’ve been dismissed,”

   He knew there and then that his experiment was over. He would have to go straight into the main trial, the human/animal abomination.

   After a few days at home with the ingredients he had already taken from the college, he thought he finally had it, and sat leaning on his desk staring at a jar of liquid containing his own blood, and chemical L-glutamine and glycerol, which he had heated to 48 degrees, at which point their elements blended. It was then allowed to cool where it settled into what he believed to be the formula which was to be intermingled with human sperm, and then inserted into the animal’s uterus.

   He needed the human ejaculate from the sperm bank at his local health centre, which he thought he could have accessed via the university, but since his dismissal, he guessed all doors would be barred, but still he knew he could but try. He’d come this far.

   It was one of the student nurses who put paid to his access, as he’d managed to get past reception by telling them he was from the university and needed a sample. He was asked to supply the necessary documents, and when they were told he didn’t have them, was asked to wait in an unused consulting room, where the female on placement student simply looked in on him to say that without the necessary paperwork and signatures, she couldn’t let him have any. He decided it was too risky to try and find the place himself. If he was to be seen again by cameras, or those he’d already spoken too, or maybe caught in the room taking the samples, then his experiment might never see fruition, so he simply turned, and slowly left the building, and he knew there and then what he had to do.

   When he was back at home, with the jar back on the table, his hands were shaking at what he knew had to be done, so he waited for night to fall, barely eating anything as fear burned within him, but as the street-lamps came on, he knew that it was time. 

   On the outskirts of the town, there was a small farm with not too many animals. He’d been there a few times, and knew of ‘Celia’ the donkey, a recent acquisition. If he went there and inseminated her himself, then results would come far sooner. With three new syringes, a torch, and the jar in his coat, he ordered a taxi to take him to the nearest pub from the farm so as not to arouse suspicion. From there it was nearly a mile walk. There were no street-lamps along the road, only a half-moon to reveal his path. At around halfway, it began to rain, and by the time he reached the farm, it was pouring.

   The main gate was set back along a rough path, but he clambered over that with no problem. He could hear chickens clucking somewhere and snuffling piglets, but he quietly headed across to the left, to the stables, the one second from the end. He felt around in the darkness for the bolts and slowly slid them back. The heavy wooden door opened with a creak, and he walked in and pulled it closed behind him.

   His nerves were on fire, his hands trembling as he took out the torch and flicked it on. He illuminated soggy straw on the ground. The stable could do with clearing out, he thought. He shined it to the right, and there she was, ‘Celia’ the dark brown Catalan donkey looking nervous, pressed against the wall, looking at him. 
“Ok,” he said, “Now or never”. He took off his coat, took out the jar and one syringe, then leaned back against the wall, switched off the torch and laid it on the floor, needing only the sense of touch as he undid his trousers and with his boxer shorts took them down to his knees. He filled the three inch syringe from the jar, which he placed on the floor, then took hold of his genitalia, and without hesitation pierced his right testicle with the needle. As it slid in, pain shot through him and he cried aloud. The plunger was pressed and the fluid mixed with his sperm.

   After a few minutes, he stood there with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily as though he’d just ran a mile. He picked up the torch and walked across to Celia. As with all donkeys, she was docile, and did not resist when he tied the rope that was already on her against the hook which held up a bale of netted straw on the wall, effectively meaning she could hardly move her head. He saw that her rear was much higher than he’d anticipated, so looked around for something he could use as a step, and found it in the form of a metal bucket containing grain and vegetables. He tipped it out and walked behind the animal, lifting her tail and shining the torch onto her anus and vagina, only to find himself getting aroused. Oh my, he thought, I think I’m going to enjoy this. Could I have been doing this for years? He wondered if it was a fetish he had discovered within himself. His penis was erect without any handling, and he knew that time was of the essence. This had to be done quickly, so he placed the bucket upside down behind her, and stood on it. The animal shifted, and Ron placed one hand on the animal to keep his balance. He realised he didn’t need the torch, so threw it aside and used both hands on Celia’s rear to keep steady. His left thumb probed its way down to the vagina, and with his other hand, guided his penis inside where he thrusted a few times, the animal grunting in what was clearly discomfort.

He soon found that it was too big for him to effectively climax, and thought about masturbating to ejaculate inside her, but his newly found sense of arousal and fetish made his thumb probe its anus, and he forced his penis inside there and thrusted with pleasure for around thirty seconds. He soon found himself approaching climax, and as the sperm rushed up the shaft, he withdrew and quickly inserted it into the vagina, his sperm spouting inside, but as it did, the vagina walls reacted and tightened, effectively trapping his penis. He tried to withdraw but couldn’t. The animal screamed, and thrashed around. Ron lost his balance, the bucket tipped over, and his shaft was ripped up his stomach and the skin tore like paper. The weight of Ron tore his genitals away and he collapsed back, blood gouting out of the wound. He screamed, and Celia kicked back, smashing him in the face. 

   He tried to crawl, blood pumping from the opening, but as he did, found himself becoming weaker and more faint. He crawled as best he could, his mind not even making the futile gesture of trying to make his hands stem the wound, just crawling directionless in the gloom, the torchlight in the straw lending him a warm yellow hue, and as his consciousness faded, blood still pouring out, it left him as Celia’s screams could be heard throughout the farm, and for the first night ever there, she silenced all the other animals.

   After two weeks, Celia had yet another visit from the vet, and the farm owner was called into the stable to be told: ‘This animal is pregnant’.