95 - The Homunculus

Leroy gave a tight smile as he picked up one of the last candles. He sat by his sister, and she draped one arm on him, one cheek against his shoulder, sharing the light.

"So it has come to this. My last story. I call this one...

THE HOMUNCULUS

Two fingers slid in and out of his ass. His hips bucked into the air. Sweat dripped down his body, limned by the red light of the ancient furnace. One hand tugged at his glans. The fingers curved, found his prostate—the little spot that made his body tense and the hot spurt of cum dribble out of the tip of his dick and into the glass lip of the old milk bottle. A strangled cry came out of his body as he tensed.

It was his fifteenth load of the day.

"Leroy?" Auntie's voice called down from the top of the stairs.

With a curse, the 19-year-old capped the bottle and pulled his underwear up. The bottle rolled along the floor, and wedged itself next to the furnace.

Forty days. In the dark. The heat.

The off-white spunk did not boil, but it began to bubble. Individual semen that should have died began to merge together. Alone in the warm, glass womb, something began to grow. A different sort of life. Hungry. Inchoate.

"What the fuck is it?" Leroy asked.

Latoya stared at it. The sludge had thickened, clarified, and the gel on top had formed something that might have been a bubble—except that it moved to track them.

"Brother, I think you have accidentally done something very cool," she said. "But if this is what I think it is, it needs something. Give me your pocket knife."

The smell, when Latoya opened the bottle, was like an exhalation from fermenting cum rag. She pricked her finger and squeezed. Ten bright drops of blood fell onto the clear liquid. As they watched, it grew cloudy and pink.

That became their little habit. Every day, Latoya would feed it blood. Over forty weeks, they watched as the thing in the bottle grew and developed. Another eye. A face. Tiny teeth. A head, a neck. Not that of a child, but of an adult woman, similar to their own age. For a long while, the figure was translucent, and sexless. Yet as the weeks went on, its parts became more defined. Breasts. Hair, black and kinky. Pale skin marked with white stripes, like Leroy and Latoya.

"I've read about how the alchemists tried to make life," Latoya told him, as the tiny, naked figure in the bottle stared up at them, her tiny, perfect hands splayed against the inner side of the bottle. "They call it a homunculus."

In the fortieth week, Latoya took the bottle with her to the room she and Leroy shared. She set the bottle on the desk beside her bunk bed, and took off her clothes. Leroy was already on his own bunk, stroking himself. The homunculus watched in fascination as Latoya slowly peeled her pussy apart. She watched as the dark fingers rubbed at her clit. Hesitantly, in the bottle, the artificial being spread her legs. She looked back and forth, from her pussy to Latoya's. Carefully, she began to rub.

The two of them watched, teacher and student, though the bond felt more strange and intimate than that. Latoya felt her own anticipation rise as she saw the innocent face twisted in the discovery of pleasure. Her nipples hard, her body quivered and shook.

Latoya's moans grew too loud.

The door to her room slammed open.

"Girl, what are you—" Auntie said and took in the sight. The old woman's eyes widened. She had seen birth and ****, but this was something new.

Her hand clutched her breast. She staggered. Too late, Leroy and Latoya saw which way she would fall. Naked and in the throes of passion, they scrambled off the bed. Yet the dying woman staggered against the desk. The bottle wobbled.

Fell.

With a crash, the glass broke.

Neither of them saw where the homunculus scrambled too, the small naked female figure that disappeared into the darkness. Nor did they see her later, after the funeral, though they heard a scramble in the walls. And to this day, they do not know if it is a rat...or the homunculus.

Leroy's eyes were sad as he brought his fingertips to his lips and doused the candle. As in memory of something brought unbidden into this world and lost, leaving behind an ache that none could fill.