FrankenFam: Steampunk Breeding for Science

The storm had been going for seventy-eight hours, thirty-two minutes, and—Johann glanced at the ancient grandfather clock held together by ratchets and cobwebs—ten seconds.

Perfect.

And it should storm, after all. A tempest was the only weather appropriate for genius. Sunny days were for picnics, poetry, and tragic mediocrity. A proper thunderstorm, now that was thematic.

It howled.

It seethed.

It rattled the buttresses and struck the lightning rods with a thunderous Zzzrakt! that raised the hair on Johann’s arms. As though the sky itself was broadcasting approval of his prodigious intellect.

Castle von Crackenshteen (formerly the Abbey of Saint Humility, repurposed under violent protest) loomed like a vulture over the Varnholt Valley, which lay below in a patchwork of wolf-infested forests, thatched-roof villages, and people who still believed in outdated notions like natural causes of ****.

Fools. They had no imagination.

From the tallest tower—his laboratory, observatory, workshop, forge, and solarium—Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz was doing what all visionary geniuses do at three in the morning…

Joahnn was screaming.

He leaned out into the maelstrom, static sparking off his brass-buttoned lab coat. Grinning into the wind, which whipped his wild shock of white hair into a frenzy.

“Is that all you’ve got?!” He cried to the roiling heavens. “Bow to my supremacy!”

The good doctor was tall and wiry in the way that made coat racks self-conscious, with limbs that moved like a flailing marionette. His face—angular, stubbled, perpetually soot-smudged—wore the exuberant expression of someone who had won an argument no one else was invited to. His eyes gleamed madly behind a pair of violet-tinted goggles.

The laboratory beneath him was a cacophony of infernal invention and glowing diodes.

Sturdy work benches bowed under the weight of brass automata, bubbling beakers, steaming tinctures, and one particularly lively jar of leeches that hadn’t been fed in days but were showing real entrepreneurial spirit.

Copper wiring snaked like arterial vines across the floor, connecting arrays of Tesla coils, humming dynamos, pneumatic pumps, and some bellows crafted of suspicious leather that no one dared to ask about.

Johann threw his arms wide, drinking in the scent of ozone, scorched rubber, and imminent science.

“Yeeees!” He shrieked over the crash of thunder. “Sing, you storm gods! Serenade your new master!”

Another bolt struck the lightning rod directly above him. Somewhere, deep in the guts of the lab, a generator roared to life. Johann flung back his head and laughed like a man who’d just tricked God into signing a lease.

He turned, sweeping back into the lab, boots clanking on the iron catwalk. Beneath him, vast machines pulsed with unnatural energy. They whirled. They thrummed. They were all his inventions.

“And to think,” Johann ranted, pacing along the railing. “The University of East Vörglestein revoked my grant. Ha! They called me unstable. They said I lacked ‘restraint’ and ‘moral fiber.’ Pah!”

He threw a switch. A vat of glowing green fluid rotated gently, illuminated from below by an eerie phosphorescence and what may have been a trapped soul. The tube above it hissed, exhaled a puff of steam, and emitted a moan.

It might’ve been the wind.

It probably wasn’t.

“I weaved my own moral fiber!” Johann bellowed, fists clenched. “I stitched it together from the most philosophical minds in the province and installed it in a prototype automaton named Bertrand! Which immediately collapsed under the weight of its own ethical dilemmas, but still! Progress!”

He spun again, arms spread like he was about to embrace the world or maybe smack it in the teeth.

“Those fools—my critics, detractors, rivals—they speak of safety. Of boundaries. As if greatness were achieved by coloring within lines! No, no no no, let them dabble in theories and ethics. I shall reshape humanity with a bone saw, scalpel, sutures, and serum!”

He paused before a set of levers and stroked them lovingly.

“I have danced on the edge of **** with my eyes wide open. I have peeked beneath the petticoats of Mother Nature and dared to ask: what if I improved her?”

Above him, lightning struck again. The machines buzzed.

He lifted his gloved hands, fingers splayed as though about to play an invisible organ, and whispered:

“Tonight, I remind that cranky bitch who her favorite child is.”

For one brief moment, the universe paused, possibly considering applause. When thunder shook the crumbling masonry, the mad doctor threw the first lever.

Sparks showered from the electrical array, and the tungsten bulbs dimmed, as lightning channeled into the glowing vat of what the doctor called his “revitalizing solution” and the University council had classified a “biomedical abomination.”

“I AM THE LIVING DEFINITION OF SURGICAL BRILLIANCE!” He crowed, shaking fists in the air, goggles fogged with the condensation of scientific smugness. “Others lose their loved ones to deadly lab explosions. I not only saved mine. I upgraded them!”

Johann cackled maniacally and toggled the following three levers with deliberate timing. The green goo boiled and crackled. A scent rose—equal parts sulfur, pickled herring, and untested innovation. Science, as always, smelled faintly of regret and blue cheese.

“They called me insane!” He screeched, pacing the catwalk like an animated scarecrow. “A lunatic meddling in life’s sacred architecture! A reckless ghoul with a scalpel fetish! Well, I’ll show them! I’LL SHOW THEM ALL!”

“How can anyone relax when he keeps yelling like that? Mama, tell him to shut up. He’s ruining our spa.”

Huh?

Running to the railing, Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz, the master and scourge of Varnholt Valley, gaped down at the sight of two women lounging naked in the boiling vat.

They floated among the bubbles of his glowing, revitalizing compound like it was a bloody mineral bath, splashing each other and sipping from cocktail glasses that definitely weren’t part of any approved laboratory equipment.

His wife, Magdela, and daughter, Liselotte, hadn’t been much to write home about before their near-**** experience. But after some… compulsory donations of the surgical kind from the local populace, their outward appearances were vastly improved.

Doofenshmirtz hadn’t been satisfied with just any replacement parts for his nearest and dearest. Oh no, never one to settle for anything less than perfection, he’d taken the best the villages and surrounding farms, hamlets, roadhouses, courthouses, whorehouses, and even outhouses could offer.

Well, offer wasn’t the right word for what he stole. But nobody had died. Probably. And in any case, their contributions now served a purpose far grander than their previously cabbage-eating existences.

Namely, progress and Johann’s blinding brilliance.

“Wha–? Get out of there! You’re contaminating a crucial experiment!” He cried, shooing them with a gloved hand. “That’s my–”

“–revitalizing solution. We know.” Magdela drolled in a bored tone. She barely looked older than her eighteen-year-old daughter, thanks to his efforts, and acted like it. “Half the valley probably knows by now. Your incessant shrieking carries for miles. Give it a rest, egghead. We’re trying to enjoy ourselves, and you’re spoiling the mood.”

Spoiling the mood?

The MOOD?!

He, Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz PhD, dabbler in forbidden knowledge and lord of Castle von Crackenshteen, a medical pioneer who had defied ****, the gods, and (worst of all) academia to bring back these ungrateful…

“Ugh, he’s making that face again, Mama.” Whined Liselotte, flipping her candy-pink hair like a shampoo commercial. Her heavy breasts–harvested from the bustiest of milk maids–heaved hypnotically, shiny with viscous slime. “It’s so ugly and off-putting. Make him go away.”

Oh, the injustice! Must the fates continue to heap indignities upon him?

Doofenshmirtz had saved their lives, sculpted them into the peak feminine paragons with his own hands. The stitches were invisible. Not a scar marred their flawless flesh. Yet they still scorned him!

The two breathtaking beauties, frolicking like nymphs in a forest glade, were his magnum opus: their bodies, chimeric amalgams of sinful seduction. Impossibly buoyant breasts floated above flat four-pack tummies. Cinched sixteen-inch waists flared into firm round hips and pert rears that could deflect musket balls.

Their long athletic limbs housed hidden strength. Sleek defined muscles flexed and rolled with every cock-hardening movement as they splashed about in the glowing green goo. Biceps gleaming and skull-crushing thighs bunching, mother and daughter cavorted together like horny Amish maidens on Rumspringa.

Only the iron electrodes jutting from opposite sides of their necks betrayed Johann’s infernal intervention. Electricity licked those steely projections, sending little sparks across damp skin. Both moaned, arching together in a scene that would have gotten him excommunicated if the Church hadn’t already thrown him out.

“Heavens and hells be damned…” The Doctor groaned, pressing fingers to his temples as the two women nuzzled and giggled in the bubbling goo. “This is most vexing!”

“Oh my, that felt amazing.” Magdela crooned, slurping the slime off Lisolette’s cheek while her daughter kissed her shoulder. “Up the voltage, noodle dick, and you may actually make me cum for once.”

“Yeah, more voltage and more of this green stuff.” The pink-haired ingrate agreed. “I think it’s making our tits bigger. My whole body is tingling.”

Were their breasts growing? Doofenshmirtz couldn't resist a peek at the mammaries in question. For research, of course.

They were squished together as mother and daughter groped each other, practically shoved up under their chins. And, yes! As he observed those magnificent mounds with less than clinical coolness, they appeared to be swelling like rising bread dough.

“It’s a breakthrough!” He proclaimed, cock stiffening within his surgical gown. “A miracle of alchemy. Further proof of my staggering intellect–”

“Shut up and crank the damn power!”

Two stunning sets of green and blue eyes glared at the Doctor. He’d been unsure which to give to whom, so he gave them one of each. Heterochromia. Now they pinned him in place like a cockroach under a **** ray.

“Yes, yes.” He muttered dejectedly, staggering over to a smoking generator and cranking the dial, losing the heart to muster an evil laugh. “Anything for my dearest ones. Go ahead, revel in the fruits of my brilliance. Don’t mind me.”

The Tesla coils crackled as chain lightning zapped the frothing vat. The women within gasped and moaned, spasming in mutual ecstasy, while Johann watched, nursing an aching boner.

His revitalizing fluid was a success. Yay him. The reward for his tireless toil was to sit on the sidelines, rejected by his own creations.

Well, that would soon change. When his disappointment of a son returned with the special harvest he had ordered, Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz would have the last laugh.

A vein pulsed on his forehead when Lisolette began sucking on his wife’s massive breasts.

“Where is that miserable boy?!”

It was a well-known fact in the village of Unterbrödel that one should never trust a man with a limp, a clipboard, or a loose definition of "consent." Heinrich Doofenshmirtz had all three, and a hunch to boot.

The youngest and least symmetrical child of the infamous Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz, Heinrich moved with the slow, shuffling gait of someone whose legs had been built from leftover furniture.

His right arm whirred. His left knee clicked ominously every third step. He smelled faintly of urine and moldy cheesecloth. But behind the asymmetrical eyes and badly-sewn hairline lurked a brain sharp enough to slice bratwurst paper-thin.

Which was good. Because the rest of him looked like it had lost a knife fight with a grave robber.

Unlike his mother and younger sister, who had received the premium reconstruction packages, Heinrich had been stitched back together by his dear ol’ dad on a Tuesday afternoon using the bottom drawer of the lab’s organ storage, three feet of catgut, and a broken alarm clock.

“Functionally adequate,” Johann had declared. “No refunds.”

But Heinrich had plans.

Big plans.

Vengeful plans.

Big shout-out to FuckTheCondom, who commissioned this exceptionally silly story. I honestly wasn't sure how to categorize this one. The narrative features ****, elements of horror, and a fantasy steampunk setting. But most of all, it has jokes and isn't meant to be taken seriously. So I went with humor and satire. If you like what you see, please check out my Patreon. Members get early access to my latest smut. Cheers and happy reading!