Yet another

You smirk. "Well, first, I'd like to put an end to her annoying constant sobbing. And second, it's the perfect timing to turn her into another ****." You're sure she understands the innuendo.

"She's in the latter half of the follicular phase, and has potentially begun ovulation?" Sadly, she understands way more than the innuendo.

"Devi, you know I don't like when you speak nerd-science babble." you sighs.

She lowers her heads and nods. "Yes, Master."

You continue "Anyway, I thought you could come with me. You have a good understanding of all this lame science stuff and you could help me manipulate her."

Devi bites her lower lips, not at ease with what she has to say. "Master, I would love to be of use to you, but I'm afraid I have to disagree. I may be an expert in genetics, but I don't know much about human behaviour."

You sigh. That, you don't need the slightest knowledge of biology to guess. Suffice to talk one minute with her to realize she basically live in the uncanny valley. "Fine, I want to look at you eating each other's pussy. Happy, now?"

"Y... Yes, Master." Despite the hesitation in her tone, you can feel she's less tensed than before.

You smile. "Who knows, maybe she could also look after you to be sure you take showers, don't starve yourself to **** and fuck you when I don't have time for you bitches and your pregnant cunts."

She shivers, but you don't know if it's because she's excited by your dirty talk and the thought of another naughty woman sharing her lab and her condition, or because she's upset by what you implied about her not washing and not feeding herself properly. Actually, you don't care. You both get out of the apartment and head into the elevator of your building. Given its tendency for malfunctions, you're half hoping that you will find yourself stuck inside it with your ****, giving you an excuse for a second round -not that you need any- but the door soon open to the next floor. Devi lead you to the Cross' apartment, and you find that the spacing of the doors suggests that this one, too, is a nicer apartment than your own. You focus your jealousy on the knuckle-dragging gorilla of a man who lives here, that vaguely-Caucasian musclehead named Daniel Cross, instead of on the sobbing woman... probably that young, tasty wife you've been hearing such vague details of from neighbors in the laundry room. Considering the source (worn-out, middle-aged women, bitterly resenting the young wife), you hope she's an impressive sight.

You knock once, and wait. You open your senses wide and detect the nearest women beyond Devi: birth control, birth control, menstruating, birth control... and then ovulating, mere paces from the door and now against it, no doubt to peer at you through her peephole. You look into the glass eye and speak just loud enough to be heard by her, and virtually anyone in the halls. "Mrs. Cross, are you there?" You remain nervous; you can detect women from considerable distances, sure, but men could still sneak up on you. With any luck, Mr. Cross was out for the day.

"... Who are you? Are you friends with that... that terrible woman who-?" The voice was high and muffled through the door, but you can still tell she all but bit her tongue to keep from yelling her version of Devi's reported encounter. You're slightly disappointed, as it would have amused you to hear what she had to say. Anyway, you'd never met her, of course, and you heard she was young, but you're still surprised to hear what sounds like a teenager from the depths of the man-ape's home. You turn to your **** with a smirk, waiting for her to defuse the situation, as it might be interesting. She reacts by grabbing your arm and pressing her body against you.

"Derek here has shown me the wrong in my actions... and saved my soul."

This one took you by surprise, you have a hard time containing your laughter. The best part is, you're almost sure she's half convinced of what she just said.

It gave you an idea, though. You turn to the door and add, "I'm here to talk about Jesus. This repentant sinner here told me you already saw the light but still suffer in a way a good Christian shouldn't have to. I'd like to help you. I'd say more, but talking through the door is-" You hear the sound of chains - and of the locks being disengaged. The well-worn door, painted a loud green to cover the rot underneath, opens a crack, the brass glint of a doorchain hangs overhead on her side, likely reflective of her bondage to that half-ogre she calls a husband.

A near-albino ginger greets you there in the doorway, her crystal blue eyes glittering with recent tears and red along the edges from the same. Her giant red mane of hair, a wavy and curly mess, is too heavy to maintain volume properly and instead droops in chaotic, winding paths. The slightest hint of freckles dots her neck and the uppermost parts of her chest, peeking out from an almost oversized tank top with a massive, Catholic crucifix fading on it. It is "almost" because while she doesn't have her monstrous husband's massive torso, she makes up for it in cup: double-D, or G, or some other, insane imaginary letter that indicates a future of back problems for this woman. Each of her colossal tits are swollen, perkier than you'd expect (but not perky enough to be fake), and veiny in the hints of them that you catch out of the edges of the tank top. The top droops over her breasts like queen-sized sheets on a king-sized bed, and her midriff peeks out between this and a pair of jean hot pants. Though she has a rather plain face bereft of makeup, you still find yourself growing hard. You thank the Lord for his lamb, and the excitement of pillaging so fertile a field is all that keeps your eye contact steady. Realizing you've not the willpower to keep it up, you send your eyes heavenward, both to appeal to faith and to stop being led down so obviously a sinful gaze. You look at Devi, and realize with fright that this lesbian bitch wasn't as insightful. She sure isn't staring at Mrs. Cross's cross.

"Devi!" you exclaim in a stern tone you don't have to fake. "I thought we chased the sin out of you. Do we need another session?"

"Forget me, Ma... Mr. Peck. It won't happen again." she whispers, lowering her eyes. She looks sincerely contrite. She might be, and she should, she could have brought down your whole plan.

Mrs. Cross looks at the both of you, silent except an audible sniffle, and only turns away when she hears the tiny, guiltless cry of her baby son. You turn instinctively towards it as well, and apparently look concerned enough to convince her of your sincerity. She nods at you, and quickly lets you in before running off into the bedroom to fetch her child. Even now you can't not appreciate it: her massive thighs and ass, that toned but thick waist, her picturesque birthing hips. You watch her trot away, and see in full bloom the fertility statue that bastard managed to score. You were quickly growing jealous of... Cross.

No, not her husband. Cross. A cross. Crosses. Crucifixes. Fucking. Everywhere. The nearest wall is dotted with three versions of the Christ in suffering, and portrait of the savior sits over an artificial fireplace in which some miserable male figure in robes, probably Judas, suffers. You turn from that to the living room sofa with a cross-bearing throw-cloth over it, the porcelain Mother Mary statues on the coffee table, the Bible quotes pinned to the wall in scrolls, almost all of them, bizarrely, from Leviticus. A cross wind chime hangs by a window that you're honestly surprised isn't made of stained glass portrayals of the Second Coming. Another Bible quote, about a woman's place, sits over the kitchen entrance. Only one family portrait exists: the happy Mrs. Cross, with a newborn in her arms, the ever-angry Mr. Cross clutching her in his half-bear hug, and a tall, lanky Catholic priest behind them, dripping water on the baby's head. Even in this memorial baptism photo, the Father looks terrified of the father.

"I'm sorry, Master," Devi whispers, still ashamed, distracting you from your observation and slow build-up of discomfort. "I swear I didn't mean to..."

She shut her mouth as Mrs. Cross appears again... with her massive left tit, larger than a human head, bared. A massive, engorged nipple all but hangs from her ridiculous udder, and this stunning scene is only doused by the fact that her son's tiny head censors it with a hungry mouth. Guilt and arousal wrestle in you, not unlike when you enslaved the old friend who even now was quietly sighing her arousal.

"Sorry, he's got quite the appetite... I didn't... catch your name, Mister...?"

"Peck!" you eagerly offer. "Derek Peck."

She smiles as she takes a seat on the long couch, framed entirely by the will of her God. This seems criminal, even to you... and you've managed to ignore the fact that much of what you're up is criminal... but you've made your choice. You'll stand tall on faith to get in those short shorts.