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Wife meets new neighbour instead of her husband.

Come on, a little further." When the water was up to her chest, Tiffany's nipples perked. Porneau switched to the underwater cameras. He saw how they stood out in the fabric of her bikini bra. She had wide half-dollar areolas, "Damn! She is hot!"

Porneau took his cock and began to stroke. His accident left him unable to wear pants; he didn't even need lubricant for related reasons. He watched the blonde move through the water, timing his strokes to hers. She broke the surface and orgasmed; he matched it with a blast from his prodigious member.

"Oh man," he thought, thankful he had the foresight to point away from the monitors. He pressed the button for the autocleaner (a gift from his technologically gifted counterpart), "You're going to be busy tonight," he told it.

The curvy blonde splashed ashore. She sat for a few moments, quivering, muttering. "Ah, she's trying to figure the water out." She stood and started towards the door, "Uh uh! We can't have that. I want this honey to stay awhile."

Porneau's finger hovered near a switch, but wait! The girl stopped. "What's she doing?" Tiffany walked back towards the water, a pensive look on her face. She looked around the hall, then at the pool. A decision was made; she reached behind her back, "Oh no! She's not going to do it, is she?!"

Porneau was drooling; his wish (and the aforementioned editor's) was confirmed as Tiffany untied the bikini bra, freeing those wondrous melons, "Yes!" and then the bottoms. Porneau zoomed on the crotch, "Dark muff, not too bushy, I like that."

The girl ran back into the water and began to play. Porneau's cameras showed every curve, captured every move, from the water-influenced conical tits to her spread legs. He saw her pussy, swollen with water-induced lust, and made a decision of his own, "That does it! I'm bringing out Roger."

Porneau's career as a government-connected mad scientist was not without hiccups. The accident responsible for his altered condition was a prime example. When it occurred, the government wanted to move him to a secret research facility in Nevada. He'd been to the lab before, on business. It was a shithole.

"Boring as fuck." Porneau promptly informed the "men in black" that he had enough goods on enough important people to cause catastrophic damage. If the media found out, and the media would, "If you assholes even think of putting me in that pit." Besides, he didn't trust his research in the hands of "Those fucking idiots."

He made a deal; he'd stay on the island, throw some genetic tidbits their way; they'd leave him alone while he worked on his personal problem.

Dr. Porneau, with considerable government assistance, moved his research lab and living quarters underground. The island was hollowed out; vast underground tanks were constructed for his pets. The swimming pool was modified; the island was stocked with state-of-the-art-surveillance.

The house was sealed, the lab and living quarters packed with the most advanced technology. "Not quite a shithole," he thought. The living area looked more like a bachelor pad. The lab was world-class. Porneau occupied his time searching for cures to his condition.

Porneau's pets were byproducts of years of research, combining and re-combining DNA, usually sea animals. Usually he euthanized the results, but occasionally he kept one or two for various reasons. Some produced profitable chemicals; others were kind of cute; and some provided entertainment, like Roger.

Porneau named him after Roger Corman. He considered naming him Russ after Russ Meyer, but decided Roger was more appropriate. Porneau was playing around with some DNA, "A little octopus here, some sea slug there, a touch of whale, a dab of lamprey. Boy! I can't wait to see what comes out. Bwahahahaha!"

The result was something that squirted what looked like invisible ink.

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