The Sharpesvale Chronicles, Chapter 463

In which dude looks like a lady and a dude.

I who fuck what? Andrew thought, just enough of his superego simultaneously grinding back online that the phrasing embarrassed him. On the topic of embarassment, his ego informed him, he was lying naked on the cold steel floor, his pasty white ass scraping against the rivets as he breathed, fully obscured from the world by the rest of his pasty white bulk. His pasty white penis, inexplicably erect, waved cheerfully to the world but made no apologies on behalf of him, his ass, or its trembling self.

“I,” said Andrew, and he tried to think of something better to say than “who fuck what,” but it’s what he said anyway.

“That was lovely,” Beatriz crooned, tenting her fingers and gazing ceilingward, dreamily. “You’re almost as talented a poet as you are a lover.” She was bathed in white light as the accidentally-activated cloning lab systems slowly, slowly wound down, banishing all shadows from her curvilinear form and, conveniently enough for my purposes, from the illustrations as well.

Andrew looked up at her, and his id explained to him why his penis was still erect.

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