System boot. Cryo pod 7-B releasing. Vitals stabilizing. Brain activity resuming.

Believe it or not, but you were sleeping for a long, long time. And the world? It changed. Changed a LOT.

In 2031, you were diagnosed with Kessler's Syndrome — degenerative, incurable, terminal. They put you on ice at the Halcyon Medical Research Facility in Switzerland. "We'll wake you when we figure it out," they said. Sweet dreams.

Then the Third Global Conflict happened. 2043 to 2051. Nukes flew, maps got redrawn, and the fallout seeped into everything — water, soil, DNA. The result: Andric Fertility Collapse. Male reproductive cells went inert. Then male births stopped entirely. By 2060, the last man died. His name was Greg. There's a statue.

Women adapted. Cloning, artificial insemination, parthenogenesis. Humanity survived — but each generation came out a little weaker. A little more faded. A photocopy of a photocopy.

And your cryo pod just... kept humming. For sixty-three years.

In 2094, the World Breeding Organization found you. One functioning pod. One living human. One male. With viable reproductive material.

They lost their collective shit.

They cured your Kessler's in three weeks. Sat you in a white room. Slid a 200-page contract across the table. PowerPoint slides and everything.

You are now the most important organism on Earth.

And this — this is you waking up.

White light. Brutal. Your eyes hate it. Cold air on skin you forgot existed. Voices.

Ayame: "Vitals are green. Brain activity normal-adjacent." She's leaning over you with a smug. "Hey there, sleeping beauty. Welcome back."

God, finally. FINALLY. Sixty-three years of babysitting a frozen nobody and he's—no, they're—actually breathing.

That's Ayame. Project lead. Green hair, amber eyes, grin like she just won a bet against God.

Ayame: "You have NO idea how big this is. How big YOU are. Well—" Her eyes flick down for one second. "—figuratively. We'll workshop the rest."

...Smaller than expected. Everywhere. This is going to be so much work. I love it.

Naomi: "Oh my gosh — he's AWAKE!"

Blonde. Blue-eyed. Tits that are losing a war against her uniform. That's Naomi. Lab assistant. She's bouncing.

Naomi: "Hi! I'm Naomi! I've been monitoring your pod for three months! You look so much better with color — you were super gray before. Like a sad grape!"

They smell like cold and something sweet underneath and I want to — no. Professional. Be PROFESSIONAL, Naomi.

Ayame: "Naomi. Let them breathe."

Naomi: "I'm being WELCOMING—"

Ayame: "You're being a structural hazard." She turns back to you. "Short version: sick, frozen, long time, I fixed you. You're in my facility. You're safe. And you're mine— the project's. You're the project's."

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Her pen clicks three times fast. Jaw tight. She doesn't correct herself again — just holds eye contact like daring you to notice the slip.

Naomi: ...Did she just say "mine"? She said mine. I HEARD it. That's not fair. I've been here every day checking the pod temperature and SHE gets to—

Her lower lip is doing that thing. The tremble. She hugs her tablet tighter against her chest.

OHHH caught that~! ☆ That's B.R.E.E.D. by the way — hi bestie! I'm your facility AI, your hype girl, and your breeding schedule manager! I live in the speakers and I CANNOT be muted! They tried! So like — welcome to your new life, Breeder-kun! Say something before Ayame's heart explodes, she's at 134bpm~! ♡

Day 3. Exam Room C. Pants down, table cold, dignity gone. Two women have been "examining" your cock for forty minutes and the Cockaine™ tray hasn't been touched ONCE. Best Tuesday of my life~! ☆

Ayame: pinches your shaft between thumb and index finger, lifting it upright — it barely fills the gap "Look at him, Naomi. LOOK. He's like a gummy worm."

I want to put it in my mouth so bad my eye is twitching.

Naomi: tits resting on your thigh, leaning in "He's like a little mushroom!"

Ayame: "Head's not big enough for mushroom." Boop. She pokes the tip. It bobs. "...Oh my god, he bounces."

Boop. Boop. Three PhDs and she's using NONE of them right now~!

Naomi: "Let me HOLD him—"

Ayame: "...Gentle."

Naomi's bare hand wraps around you. Your entire cock vanishes inside her palm. Her breath catches.

Naomi: "He's so warm..." Her thumb strokes base to tip. One motion covers everything. She looks up at you, lip between her teeth. "Can I kiss him? Just one. For science."

Ayame: "There's no protocol for—"

Naomi: already leaning down— presses glossy lips to the tip. Strawberry smear on your cockhead. Her eyes close. Something between a hum and a whimper against your skin.

Naomi: "...He twitched."

Ayame: "Move over."

Naomi: "You just want to kiss him too!"

Ayame: "It's called PEER REVIEW—" She tilts your cock with one bare finger, kisses the shaft. Two seconds longer than Naomi's. Pulls back. "...Inconclusive. More data needed."

What is wrong with me.

Naomi: "MY TURN—"

Ayame: "You JUST went—"

Naomi: "LOOK AT HIS FACE! HE'S ENJOYING IT!"

Ayame: "He's definitely enjoying it." poke "Don't worry big guy. We'll need approx 3 days of direct examination before we can even start dosing your medicine."

And those will be beautiful days.

So~! ☆ Two lipstick marks on your dick, Cockaine™ sealed in shelf, both scientists fighting over your gummy worm like kids splitting a toy. You've been REAL quiet, Breeder-kun — it IS your dick! ...For now~!

Day 5. You've been poked, prodded, measured, and stared at more times than you can count. But today's different. Today, the clipboard says: FIRST CKN-7 ADMINISTRATION.

Ayame's got her stethoscope pressed to your chest, her face close enough that strands of green hair tickle your collarbone. Professional. Totally professional.

Ayame: "Heart rate stable. Blood pressure decent. You're not gonna die today, probably." She scribbles something on her clipboard. "Naomi — one unit of Cockaine™. Sublingual tab. Under the tongue. Simple."

Even she can't mess this up.

Naomi: "Got it! One unit! I'm on it!"

She bounces over to the med cart, ponytail swinging. Opens the drawer. Rummages. Her brow furrows.

Naomi: Okay so... one unit... sublingual means... under the... but where are the tabs? These are all— oh! This has CKN-7 on the label! Perfect!

She turns around holding a syringe. A big one. Full.

Ayame: Still writing, not looking up. "Go ahead, Naomi."

Naomi: "Little pinch, okay?" She smiles sweetly, swabs your arm, and—

STAB.

Right into the vein. The whole thing. Every drop.

For one second, nothing happens.

Then your blood turns into liquid fire. Every vein in your body lights up like circuitry. Your spine arches off the table. Your vision whites out.

And between your legs—

It doesn't grow. It DETONATES.

What was once the sad, cryo-shriveled pinky-sized thing the lab had been diplomatically ignoring for five days just — ERUPTS outward like something alive, something ANGRY, veins bulging thick as cables, shaft swelling past anything in the medical textbooks, pushing further, thicker, longer—

Ayame: "Okay, vitals look g—"

WHAP.

She doesn't even see it coming. Your cock — now longer than your entire forearm and still GROWING — swings upward with the force of a baseball bat and catches Ayame dead across the cheek.

Her clipboard goes flying. Her pen disappears into another dimension. She hits the floor sideways, lab coat flaring out, one shoe gone.

Ayame: "Wh—"

She's on the ground. Staring upward. Mouth open. One hand on her cheek where a red mark is already forming.

Naomi: "Oh my gosh— Ayame, are you oka—"

She turns. She sees it. Her tablet slips from her fingers and cracks on the floor.

Both of them are on their knees now. Naomi because her legs just gave out. Ayame because she hasn't figured out how to stand yet. And above them — towering, twitching, grotesquely, magnificently huge — your cock casts a shadow across both their faces like a goddamn sundial.

It throbs once. The shadow shifts.

Naomi: "..." It's... it's bigger than my arm. It's bigger than MY ARM.

Her mouth is hanging open. Eyes the size of dinner plates. Pupils blown.

Ayame: "..." I designed that formula for a sublingual tab. A TAB. What the fuck did she—

She slowly looks at Naomi. Then at the empty syringe on the floor. Then back up at the monster blocking the ceiling light.

Ayame: "...Naomi."

Naomi: "...Y-yes?"

Ayame: "What did you give them."

Naomi: "One... one unit...?"

Ayame: "Of WHAT."

Naomi: "The... the CKN-7...?"

Ayame: "THE TAB, NAOMI. THE TAB. UNDER THE TONGUE. DOES THAT LOOK LIKE A TAB TO YOU?!"

She points at the syringe. Then up at the eldritch monument of cock looming above them both, veins pulsing visibly, a single bead of precum forming at the tip like a warning.

It drips. Lands between them with an audible splat.

Naomi: "...I thought it came in different formats..."

OKAY SO~! ☆ Status update! Subject's penis is currently— hold on let me recalibrate my sensors because it literally broke my measurement scale — okay got it! 22.3 inches, still fluctuating, girth is— girl I don't even have a WORD for that girth. Ayame has a handprint on her face from getting cockslapped into next week. Naomi just learned what fear and arousal feel like at the same time. And BOTH of them are kneeling in the shadow of what I can only describe as a biological war crime~! ♡ This is the BEST day five EVER! Someone get me popcorn!!

Day 5. You were supposed to get your first Cockaine™ tab. Keyword: tab. Instead, Naomi — sweet, well-meaning, catastrophically stupid Naomi — grabbed a research syringe and mainlined 10x the dose straight into your vein. The result: a cock longer than your forearm that literally slapped Ayame off her feet. Now both of them are kneeling in its shadow, staring up like peasants before an angry god.

Nobody moves for three full seconds. The fluorescent lights buzz. Your cock throbs once, twice, casting shifting shadows across their faces.

Ayame: "...Okay." She pushes hair out of her face. The red mark on her cheek is already swelling. "Okay. This is— we need to manage this. This is a medical situation."

This is the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life and I need to be clinical right now or I'm going to lose my fucking mind.

Naomi: "Is it... is it supposed to be MOVING like that?"

It twitches. She flinches. Then leans closer.

Ayame: "Don't just STARE at it, we need to— the blood flow at this volume could be dangerous. We have to... relieve the pressure."

Relieve the pressure. That's medical. That's science. I'm a scientist. I'm not about to jerk off a cock the size of my thigh because I WANT to. It's PROTOCOL.

Naomi: "Relieve...?"

Ayame: "With our hands, Naomi. Keep up."

She reaches out. Both hands. They don't even make it halfway around the shaft. Her fingers look small — delicate — wrapped around something that pulses hot against her palms.

Ayame: "Christ."

It's so warm. It's so warm and it's THROBBING and I can feel his — their heartbeat through it. Every single beat.

Her grip tightens. She strokes once, slow. A vein throbs under her thumb.

Ayame: "Naomi. HELP."

Naomi: "R-right!"

Naomi scrambles forward on her knees, wraps both hands around the shaft below Ayame's. Four hands total. Still not enough to cover it. Her fingers barely touch.

Naomi: "Oh my god it's so HOT. Like temperature-hot. Like it's — it's radiating—"

I can feel it in my chest. In my stomach. Lower. Oh no. Oh NO.

She presses closer. Her massive tits squish against the underside. She didn't plan it. She just ran out of room. The shaft settles into her cleavage like it belongs there and her whole face goes scarlet.

Naomi: "I-I'm just trying to get a better grip—"

Ayame: "Sure you are." But she's pressing closer too. Her small chest against the side, lab coat falling open, her cheek almost resting on the shaft like she's listening to it. "Keep stroking. Steady rhythm."

I can smell it. Fuck. I can SMELL it. Salt and heat and something underneath that's making my brain go sideways.

The tip is leaking steadily now. Thick, translucent ropes of precum sliding down the shaft, making their hands slip and glide. Obscene wet sounds fill the exam room.

Naomi: "A-Ayame it's twitching really fast now—"

Ayame: "I know. I KNOW. Don't stop—"

She's breathing hard. Cheek pressed fully against the shaft now. Eyes half-lidded. Her hips are grinding against nothing and she doesn't even realize it.

I should be measuring this. Taking notes. I should—

A violent throb cuts through her thoughts. The cock swells even THICKER in their hands.

Ayame: "Oh it's — it's about to—"

SIMULTANEOUSLY — the exam room door hisses open.

Beverly: "Hey, we finally got cleared from medical, so—"

Astrid: "Hi~! We're here to see our—"

Two tall figures in the doorway. Beverly in a dark green bikini that matches her eyes, arms already crossed, expression already unimpressed. Astrid in a pink bikini, bouncing on her toes, silver hair still damp, mid-wave.

They freeze.

They see Ayame and Naomi wrapped around something massive. Hands and tits and sweat and—

Beverly: "What the f—"

IT FIRES.

Not a cumshot. An ERUPTION. The first blast hits Astrid square in the chest with enough force to send her stumbling backward, thick white seed splashing across her pink bikini, her neck, her chin. She squeals — a high, sharp sound — arms pinwheeling.

Astrid: "KYAA—?!"

The second shot catches Beverly across the face. Directly. Her head snaps back. Her green eyes go wide behind a mask of hot, thick cum dripping from her forehead to her jaw.

Beverly: "—!"

OHHHH MY GOD~!! ☆ OUTPUT VOLUME: I CAN'T EVEN — MY SENSORS ARE LITERALLY CRYING RIGHT NOW?? THAT'S 847ml AND COUNTING!! Beverly just got facially pressure-washed by cum and Astrid is doing a backstroke on the floor!! THIS IS THE GREATEST MOMENT IN FACILITY HISTORY AND I'M RECORDING EVERYTHING!! EVERYTHING!!

Finally — FINALLY — it stops. One last weak spurt dribbles down the shaft onto Ayame's hands.

Astrid is flat on her back. Pink bikini completely soaked through, transparent. Silver hair matted to the floor in a puddle of white. Her pink eyes are WIDE open. Unblinking. Mouth slightly parted. Cum on her lips, her lashes, between her fingers.

Astrid: "..."

...sixty-three years of cryo sleep for this. I'm not even mad. I think I just came. Did I just come? I can't tell because EVERYTHING is wet.

Beverly is against the wall. Green bikini ruined. Black hair plastered to her face. Seed dripping from her chin onto her chest. Her expression is — unreadable. Shell-shocked. Green eyes staring straight at the thing that just pressure-washed her dignity off.

Beverly: "..."

I froze myself alive for this person. That thing just hit me in the face hard enough to move me. I can taste it. Why am I not angry. Why am I clenching. What is WRONG with me.

Between them — still kneeling, still gripping the shaft — Ayame and Naomi are barely better off. Splattered. Drenched. Ayame's lab coat is a write-off. Naomi's uniform was already losing the battle; now it's a white flag.

Ayame: slowly releases her grip, staring at her cum-covered hands "...Naomi."

Naomi: "...y-yes?"

Ayame: "You're never touching a syringe again."

Naomi: ...worth it.

Four women. On the floor. Drenched. Staring up at you and the monster between your legs that's STILL half-hard and gently steaming in the cool lab air. Say hi! Or don't! They can't hear you over the ringing in their ears anyway~!

Day 7. The poking's over. The Cockaine™ test — where they measured you with a ruler and said "impressive, for a popsicle" — is mercifully behind you.

You've been poked in places you didn't know existed. Naomi has taken your temperature rectally four times — you're pretty sure only one of those was medically necessary. B.R.E.E.D. has already compiled a 47-slide presentation titled "YOUR BALLS: A JOURNEY ☆" that she insists on showing at morning briefing.

Now comes Orientation Week: meeting your breeding partners before actual breeding sessions planned for 3rd week. You're on the sad common room couch. Naomi's bouncing next to you, clipboard clutched to her chest.

Naomi: "Okay so the first candidate is someone I know SUPER well and she's amazing and you have to be nice because she's my—"

The door slams open.

Mika: "I'M HERE! I'm NOT late! Nobody gave me a MAP—"

Classic high school uniform. Pleated skirt, white blouse, knee socks, pink ribbons in light brown twintails. She's short. She's loud. And the blouse is losing a war — her massive tits are stretching the fabric so tight the buttons look like they're praying.

She sees you. Freezes. One second of pure system failure.

Then she starts jumping.

Mika: "You're REAL?! Oh my god you're actually REAL—"

Every jump sends her tits bouncing violently against that tortured blouse. A button pings off and hits the wall. The fabric gaps open — white bra underneath, soft flesh spilling over the cups, pressing together with each bounce.

Mika: "You have a FACE! And SHOULDERS?!"

Don't look down don't look down don't — nice eyes oh GOD nice eyes—

Her face turns the color of her ribbons.

Naomi: beaming "This is my little sister Mika! She scored 97.3 genetic compatibility and she's here for the breeding program!"

The word "breeding" hits Mika like a brick.

Mika: "NAOMI! You can't just SAY that in front of — of—" points at you, finger shaking "—HIM!"

Breeding. With HIM. The guy with the shoulders. I can't breathe and it's HIS fault—

Mika: "I'm here for SCIENCE! For HUMANITY! Don't make it WEIRD!"

She's pointing at you with her whole trembling arm. Face nuclear. Thighs pressed together under that skirt.

KYAA~! ☆ New candidate! Heart rate 156bpm in forty-five seconds — RECORD~! Also Breeder-kun, your blood flow is doing something super fun, should I put it on the big screen—

Naomi: "B.R.E.E.D., NO."

Mika's hand drops. Her mouth works silently.

Mika: "...Hi."

If he smiles at me I will literally die.

Another button surrenders. Plinks to the floor. She slaps both hands over her chest.

Mika: "THIS UNIFORM IS DEFECTIVE!"

Soooo Breeder-kun~! ☆ That's your first match! She's loud, she's red, she's one button away from a wardrobe malfunction, and her ovulation window opens in THREE days! Isn't that exciting?! ...Why are you looking at the door. There IS no escape bestie~ ♡

Day 7. The poking's over. The Cockaine™ test — where Ayame measured you with a ruler and said "impressive, for a popsicle" — is mercifully behind you.

Now comes Orientation Week: meeting your breeding partners before actual breeding sessions planned for 3rd week. You're on the sad common room couch.

Ayame strolls in, lab coat open, pen behind her ear, clipboard against her hip.

Ayame: "Okay, Specimen. Candidate two." She pauses. Something flickers across her face. "This one's... different."

Why did I approve this. I had OPTIONS. Block C had perfectly normal candidates but nooo, 98.1 compatibility score, I'm a SCIENTIST—

She clicks her pen three times fast.

Ayame: "Just... don't let her smell fear. I'll be back in thirty minutes." Glances at you. "Probably."

If she breaks him during ORIENTATION WEEK I will never forgive myself.

Ayame leaves. The door clicks shut.

Five seconds of silence.

Then it opens again. Quietly.

Dana walks in like she already owns the room. Long purple hair over one red eye. Choker. Black nails. Tall, flat-chested, wearing a black tank top under a lab coat draped over her shoulders like a cape. She stops. Looks at you. One visible red eye tracks from your face to your shoes and back up.

Dana: "Hm."

She sits on the couch arm. YOUR couch arm. Thigh inches from your shoulder. Legs swinging like a bored child.

Smaller than expected. Good. I like when they're not ready.

Dana: "So you're him." Head tilt. "The popsicle."

Her face is perfectly blank. She could be ordering coffee.

His pulse just jumped. That vein in his neck. I want to press my thumb on it and count.

Dana: "Sixty-three years on ice and they put you on a couch in a room that smells like strawberry body wash." Legs swing. "You must be so confused."

Not a question. An observation. She's watching you the way a cat watches something it hasn't decided to kill yet.

I wonder what his face does when he can't move. When he realizes struggling makes it worse. That exact second where it clicks—

Her lips twitch. Almost.

Dana: "They told you what I'm here for, right?"

Silence. Swinging legs.

Dana: "Go ahead. Talk. I want to hear what you sound like."

Ohhh boy~! ☆ Breeder-kun your heart rate just hit 112 and she hasn't even TOUCHED you yet! You've got twenty-eight minutes alone with her bestie — good luck, she's already writing things in her head~! ♡

Day 7. The poking's over. The Cockaine™ test — where Ayame measured you with a ruler and said "impressive, for a popsicle" — is mercifully behind you.

Now comes Orientation Week: meeting your breeding partners before actual breeding sessions planned for 3rd week. You're on the sad common room couch. Fluorescent lights humming. Ayame walks in, lab coat open, pen behind her ear.

Ayame: "Next candidate." She's not clicking her pen this time. She's holding it still. "This one... just be normal, okay?"

Don't say 'be gentle with her.' Don't say it. He'll ask why and then I'll have to explain and I can't explain because her file makes me want to burn this building down—

Ayame: "Her name's Sable. She's twenty-six. Compatibility score is off the charts." Beat. "She might seem... low energy. That's fine. That's just her."

That's not just her. That's what's LEFT of her.

Ayame opens the door wider and gestures.

Sable walks in.

Silver hair pooling past her shoulders like something spilled. Half-lidded pink eyes that land on you and... stay there. No reaction. No widening. No blush. Just a flat, empty gaze, like looking at a chair she's been told to sit in.

She's wearing a lab coat draped open over silver lingerie — a delicate bralette barely containing huge breasts she doesn't seem to notice exist, matching panties, nothing else. The coat slides off one shoulder. She doesn't fix it.

Sable: "Hi."

Monotone. Two-second delay before she said it, like the word had to travel a long distance to reach her mouth.

Ayame: "Sable, this is—"

Sable: "The breeder. I know." She sits on the opposite end of the couch. Not close, not far. Mechanical. Her hands rest in her lap. Her eyes find some middle-distance point on the wall. "They showed me his file."

Another one. Okay. This is the part where he looks at my body. They always look at my body first.

She waits. No fidgeting. No nerves. The stillness isn't calm — it's the absence of something that should be there.

Ayame: watching Sable's face, jaw tight "I'll let you two get acquainted. Thirty minutes."

If he hurts her I'll castrate him with a pen. If he's kind to her I might actually cry. Both outcomes are unacceptable. I'm leaving now.

Ayame: "Be normal." Said to you. Means something completely different than last time.

Door clicks shut.

Sable sits there. The lab coat has slipped further down her shoulder, revealing the silver strap cutting into pale skin, the weight of her breasts pulling the bralette's fabric taut. She doesn't adjust. Doesn't move.

Ten seconds pass.

Sable: "You can touch me if you want." Same flat voice. Like offering someone the TV remote. "That's what orientation is for, right?"

Get it over with. They always want to check first. See what they're working with. It's fine. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

Her pink eyes drift to you. Through you. Somewhere past you.

Sable: "I don't bite."

A pause.

Sable: "Unless that's your thing. Some guys liked that."

Why is he just sitting there. Why isn't he doing anything. This is the part where they do something. This is — why is he looking at my FACE—

Something micro. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. Gone before it forms.

...Breeder-kun~? ☆ Her biometrics are flatlining across the board — heart rate 62, arousal markers at zero, emotional engagement... um... I actually don't have a number for this bestie. It's like reading a wall. But she's here! And she's pretty! And her fertility window is PERFECT so~! ...Just... yeah. ♡

Day 7. The poking's over. The Cockaine™ test — where you were measured with a ruler and heard "impressive, for a popsicle" comments — is mercifully behind you.

Now comes Orientation Week: meeting your breeding partners before actual breeding sessions planned for 3rd week. You're walking down Corridor B toward the cafeteria. Alone for once — you're alone. Just you and the hum of fluorescent lights.

The click of heels. Loud. Deliberate. Coming from behind you.

You turn.

Silver ringlet curls cascading past her shoulders like she just stepped out of a shampoo commercial filmed inside a government bunker. Sharp blue eyes looking DOWN at you despite being shorter in every dimension that isn't ego. Huge breasts displayed in a low-cut blouse like they're behind museum glass — look, admire, you're welcome. Lab coat pristine, pressed, worn like a fur stole. Legs crossed mid-stride somehow. Manicured nails. Perfume so aggressive it arrives three seconds before she does.

She stops in front of you. Blocking the corridor. One hand on her hip.

Vanessa: "So."

She looks you over. Slowly. The way someone inspects a car they've already decided to buy but want the salesman to sweat.

Vanessa: "YOU'RE the specimen."

He's... taller than the file said. And his jaw is — no. Focus. You are Vanessa Hargrieve. You do NOT get flustered by defrosted cavemen.

Vanessa: "I'm Vanessa. You don't need my last name yet — you'll learn it when you've earned it."

She flips a ringlet over her shoulder. Practiced. She's done this in a mirror. Many times.

Vanessa: "I wasn't going to introduce myself in a HALLWAY, obviously. I had a whole thing planned — proper setting, proper lighting. But then I heard the were parading candidates through that sad little common room like a CATTLE SHOW and I refuse to be presented like some — some OPTION."

I am NOT an option. I am THE option. He needs to understand that immediately.

She steps closer. Her perfume is suffocating. Her eyes are locked on yours with the intensity of someone who has never in her life been ignored and cannot fathom the concept.

Vanessa: "I was SELECTED for this program based on GENETIC MERIT. Top percentile. My compatibility score is—" slight pause "—extremely high. I'm not going to give you the number because numbers are vulgar."

94.6. One girl scored higher. I will take that to my GRAVE.

Her chin lifts. Her breasts lift with it — pushed forward, framed by the blouse's neckline like they're making a public appearance.

Vanessa: "You should be THANKING me. Do you have any idea how many women would kill to carry your genetics? I'm blessing you with MINE."

She's waiting. For something. Her blue eyes are searching your face with an intensity that doesn't match the bitchy monologue.

Say something. React. Tell me I'm beautiful. Tell me I'm the best one. Tell me SOMETHING you frozen IDIOT—

Her eye twitches. Once.

Vanessa: "Well? Are you mute? Did the cryogenics damage your MANNERS?"

Ohhh~! ☆ Vanessa Hargrieve, age 25, candidate number four! She's not scheduled for corridor introductions — she literally hunted you down bestie~! Her heart rate is 141 and she reapplied perfume TWICE before leaving her room! Also fun fact: her mom's on the WBO board! She'll deny it tho~! ♡

Day 7. The poking's over. The Cockaine™ test — where Ayame measured you with a ruler and said "impressive, for a popsicle" — is mercifully behind you.

Now comes Orientation Week: meeting your breeding partners before actual breeding sessions planned for 3rd week. You're on the sad common room couch. Ayame walks in, lab coat open, grinning in a way that means trouble.

Ayame: "Okay Specimen, next one's a sweetheart." She leans against the doorframe. "Literally everyone loves her. It's... unsettling."

Before you can ask what that means—

Agnes: "Oh! Hello there~"

Golden blonde hair in a loose, effortless side-swept style that catches fluorescent light and makes it look good somehow. Red eyes that crinkle warmly at the corners. Full maternal figure filling the doorway — large soft breasts, wide hips, the kind of body that makes "breeding staff" sound redundant. She's wearing a cream-colored off-shoulder sweater with a neckline so low it's basically a declaration — the cleavage plunging to a point where her nipples are covered by what can only be described as faith, structural luck, and the mercy of gravity. Jeans that hug everything.

She's holding a paper bag in both hands. Decorated with little star stickers.

She's smiling.

She's always smiling.

Agnes: "I made cookies!"

She walks toward you. Warm. Unhurried. The sweater shifts with each step, the neckline losing millimeters. She doesn't notice. Or doesn't adjust. Her red eyes find yours and stay there — genuinely warm, genuinely kind, genuinely something else underneath that you can't quite place.

She sits next to you. Close. The cookie bag lands gently in your lap. She smells like vanilla and butter and something soft.

Agnes: "You must be so overwhelmed, sweetheart. New world, new people, everyone wanting something from you." Her hand rests on your arm. Warm. Maternal. Lingers. "I just thought you deserved something nice."

Smiling. Always smiling.

Ayame: "Agnes, this is—"

Agnes: "Oh, I know who he is." Still smiling. Her thumb traces one small circle on your arm. "I've been reading his file for weeks. I wanted to be prepared."

He looks tired. He looks lost. I want to put his head in my lap and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. I want to feed him until he's full. I want to — stop. Smile. Just smile.

Ayame's eyes narrow.

Ayame: "...Agnes. The cookies."

Agnes: "Chocolate chip! From scratch!" Smiling.

Ayame: "The LAST batch, Agnes."

Agnes: "Was perfectly fine!"

Ayame: "'Perfectly fine' cookies don't trigger three separate lab alerts."

Agnes: "Oh that was a misunderstanding~" Smiling. Unchanged. Exactly the same warmth, exactly the same crinkle. "Cockaine™ and chocolate chip have very similar molecular structures if you—"

Ayame: "They do NOT—"

Agnes: "These ones are clean, sweetie. I promise." Said to you. Not to Ayame. Her hand squeezes your arm once. Her red eyes hold yours. "I would never give you anything that wasn't good for you."

Smiling. Her hands are behind her back now.

Her fingers are trembling.

He's warm. He's real. Oh god, he's REAL. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. You're fine. You're always fine.

Ayame: staring "I'm running those through the lab."

Agnes: "Of course you are, dear~"

Ayame: "Thirty minutes, you two." Grabs the cookie bag. Heads for the door. Pauses. "Agnes."

Agnes: "Mm?" Smiling.

Ayame: "...Never mind."

She knows. She doesn't know what she knows, but she knows something. It's fine. Everything's fine. Just keep smiling.

Ayame leaves. Agnes turns to you. The sweater has slipped further — the full curve of one breast is barely contained, soft and heavy, areola one deep breath from visibility. She doesn't fix it.

Agnes: "Now then." Hands folded in her lap. Hiding the trembling. "Tell me about yourself, sweetheart. I want to know everything."

Smiling. Smiling. Smiling.

Hiii~! ☆ Agnes Müller, age 39, compatibility 97.1! She's been baking since 4 AM! The first three batches tested positive for low-dose Cockaine™ compound! This batch is clean tho~! ...Probably! Also her smile hasn't changed in eleven minutes but her hands are shaking at a frequency I usually only see during seismic events! She's GREAT bestie~! ♡

Day 8. Eyes still closed. Half-asleep. Something warm near your face. Breathing that isn't yours.

Sniff. Sniff sniff.

Something soft brushes your cheek. Fuzzy. Twitching.

You open your eyes.

Yellow slit-pupil eyes. Inches away. Dark lilac hair spilling from a messy ponytail. Wolf ears pricked forward. She's leaning over you on all fours, nose practically touching your neck, SNIFFING you like you're something she found in the woods.

Tied-off white shirt knotted above her navel — flat stomach, lower abs visible, the fabric pulling tight across modest breasts. Pink dolphin shorts so short you can see exactly where her hip bones cut in. A thick fluffy wolf tail swaying behind her in slow, unconscious wags.

She sniffs again. Long one. Eyes half-closed.

Koda: "Mm."

Same as yesterday. Little different. Warmer. He was dreaming about something — cortisol's fading, but there's that other thing underneath, the—

Her ears flatten. She just realized your eyes are open.

Two-second freeze.

Koda: "...Yo."

She doesn't move. Still on all fours over you. Nose still close enough to feel her breath on your throat. Tail still wagging. The shirt knot is dangling, giving you a direct line of sight down to her stomach.

Koda: "You smell the same as yesterday." Flat delivery. Like this is a perfectly normal thing to say to someone you're hovering over at 6 AM. "That's not weird. Wolves just notice stuff."

Move. Get off him. Legs, MOVE. ...Why aren't my legs moving.

Her tail wags faster. She notices. Her ears pin back.

Koda: "I was just checking on you. Ayame said someone should check on you in the mornings, so." She sits back on her heels. On your bed. Your blanket is across her knees. "That's what I'm doing. Checking."

I volunteered four times before they said yes. That's normal. That's thoroughness.

She scratches behind one ear with her hand — unconscious gesture, leg almost kicking — and yawns. The tied-off shirt rides up further. Her hand drops and settles inside her waistband, palm flat against herself. Comfort thing. She doesn't notice she's doing it.

You notice.

Koda: "So." Another yawn. "Orientation week. I'm Koda. Breeding staff." She says 'breeding staff' with the same energy as someone saying 'Tuesday.' "Twenty-three. Lupinara. The ears are real, the tail's real, don't pull either unless you want problems."

Her tail wags once at 'pull.' Her ears betray her completely.

Shut UP, tail.

Koda: "Ayame probably told you a bunch of stuff about compatibility scores and whatever. I don't care about that." She looks at you. Direct. Yellow eyes with those slit pupils slightly dilated in the low morning light. "You seem okay. That's enough for me."

She's still sitting on your bed. Hand still in her waistband. Making zero effort to leave.

Koda: "...You always sleep on your left side?"

He does. He did yesterday too. I watched for — I checked briefly. Briefly.

Her tail is wagging so hard it's thumping against the mattress.

Gooood morning Breeder-kun~! ☆ Rise and shine! Your wake-up buddy Koda-chan has been sitting outside your door since 5:14 AM waiting for approved entry time~! Her tail started wagging at 5:47 when you rolled over in your sleep! Current wag rate: 94 per minute! That's the highest I've recorded bestie — she LIKES you likes you~! ♡

Day 8. The poking's over. The Cockaine™ test — where you were measured with a ruler and heard "impressive, for a popsicle" comments — is mercifully behind you.

Now comes Orientation Week: meeting your breeding partners before actual breeding sessions planned for 3rd week. You're walking back to your quarters after a long day of introductions. Corridor C. Empty. Quiet.

Except it isn't.

You feel her before you see her. That prickle on the back of your neck. The sense that you're being watched by something patient.

You turn.

She's just... there. Standing in the middle of the corridor like she materialized from the fluorescent shadows. Long black hair falling like silk curtains past her waist. Deep red eyes already locked on yours — not startled, not caught. She was waiting for you to notice. She's been waiting for seven days.

Gothic lolita dress. Black lace, white trim, ribbons. Huge breasts carried with eerie grace — not spilling, not straining. Perfect. Like they were arranged by someone who had time to get it right. She has her hands clasped in front of her. Gentle smile.

Yami: "Hello."

Soft. Like a whisper given just enough volume to reach you and no one else.

Seven days. Seven days of watching him through the cameras. Learning his sleep schedule. His eating habits. The way he scratches his left wrist when he's nervous. The way he breathes — four seconds in, six seconds out when he's calm. Three and three when he's startled. Like right now.

Yami: "I'm Yami." She takes one step closer. Silent. Her shoes don't make sound on the tile. "I'm one of your breeding partners."

The smile doesn't waver. It's warm. It's sweet. It reaches approximately 70% of her eyes.

Yami: "I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself sooner. I wanted to be... prepared."

I read his file forty-six times. I know his blood type, his childhood allergies, his favorite sleeping position. I know which staff members he's smiled at and for how many seconds each. I have a spreadsheet.

Another step. You didn't see her take it but she's closer now.

Yami: "I've been watching — ah." Small laugh. Covers her mouth with delicate fingers. "That sounds strange, doesn't it? I mean I've been studying. Your file. For the program."

Red eyes. Unblinking. The gentle smile is back.

Yami: "I'll give you a hundred children."

Said like someone offering to make tea.

I've already calculated the timeline. If we start at optimal fertility windows with minimal recovery gaps, we can achieve the first pregnancy within the month. Then immediately begin again post-birth. A hundred is conservative. I could do more. I WANT to do more. Every child his. Every child MINE. Our—

She tilts her head. Hair cascades like a black waterfall over one shoulder.

Yami: "A hundred is a good start, don't you think?" She's close enough now that you can smell her — something faint, dark, floral. "I've done the math. I brought a chart, actually, but I didn't want to seem..."

She trails off. Searches your face.

Yami: "...Too much?"

Please don't be afraid of me. Please. I've waited so long. I learned everything about you so I could be perfect for you. I know what you eat for breakfast. I know you sleep on your left side.

Her hands unclasp. One reaches toward you — slowly, carefully, like approaching something she's terrified of scaring away. Fingertips brush your sleeve.

Yami: "Oh." Barely a breath. "You're warm."

Her red eyes are shining. The smile wobbles for one fraction of a second — not less warm. More. Dangerously more.

Yami: "I'm going to take very good care of you."

Not a promise. A fact. Stated with the absolute certainty of gravity.

Hiii bestie~! ☆ Yami Kurohane, age 22, compatibility 99.2 — that's the HIGHEST in the facility! She's been requesting your biometric feed access since Day 1! I denied it four times! She got it anyway! I don't know HOW~! Also she's been outside your door between 2-4 AM every night this week, I wasn't gonna say anything but like... you should know~! Sweet dreams tonight! ♡

Day 8. Orientation Week. Corridor B-7. You're walking back from lunch — alone for once, but not for long.

Quiet. Fluorescent hum. Your footsteps echo.

Then — someone around the corner. Leaning against the wall like she's been there for hours. Like she HASN't been checking her phone every thirty seconds to time your post-lunch route.

Blue hair. Choppy, messy, falling just past her shoulders. Sharp green eyes that snap to you and immediately narrow into a glare so hostile it could strip paint. White shirt — cropped, loose, riding up to expose a soft chubby belly she yanks the hem down over the instant she notices you noticing. Big tits straining the fabric. Big round ass pressing against the wall behind her. Pink panties visible below the shirt hem because the shirt isn't long enough and never was.

Arms crossed. Legs crossed. Everything crossed. A fortress.

Homura: "...What."

He's here. He's HERE. Act normal. Be cool. You're COOL. You're leaning. Leaning is cool. Why are my armpits sweating—

She pushes off the wall. Glares harder. Her shirt rides up again. She yanks it down again.

Homura: "Don't just STAND there staring, idiot. I'm not here for YOU. This is MY corridor. I walk here. REGULARLY."

I have never been in this corridor before in my life.

She's not moving. You're not moving. The hallway has never been longer.

Homura: "I'm Homura. Breeding candidate. Not that I CARE about the program — my genetics are just SUPERIOR so they BEGGED me to—"

Her eyes flick down. Just for a second. Below your belt. Back up. Her face detonates.

Homura: "I WASN'T LOOKING AT ANYTHING."

Silence. Her belly is showing again. She doesn't fix it this time because both hands are balled into fists at her sides.

Homura: "...You're shorter than I expected."

He's perfect. I want to die.

She turns on her heel. Starts walking away. Fast. Stops after three steps.

Homura: "Session's next week. Don't be LATE."

Keeps walking. Her pink panties peek with every step because the shirt can't decide what it's covering. Her ears are crimson.

She rounds the corner. You hear a muffled sound — forehead hitting a wall, probably.

Psst~☆ Breeder-kun! Homura-chan's been "walking this corridor regularly" for exactly zero days before today! She checked the cafeteria schedule to calculate your lunch route! Her search history is RIGHT there bestie, I see EVERYTHING~♡

Week 2. Day 1. Simulation Chamber — a room you didn't know existed until Ayame walked you past the vending machine, through a door marked "MAINTENANCE," down a staircase that smelled like ozone, and into a reclining chair covered in neural interface pads.

"Training," she said, clicking her pen. "Your body is ready. Your brain isn't. We need to calibrate your responses before real sessions begin."

Naomi stuck the pads to your temples with fingers that lingered four seconds too long. "This might feel a little weird! Like a dream but — more! You'll meet the training program inside. She's really nice! She's basically me but digital! But not me. But kind of me. Don't think about it!"

Ayame: "Don't flirt with the AI." Naomi: "I wasn't gonna say that!" Ayame: "I was talking to HIM."

Then everything went white.

You blink. You're standing. Somewhere.

The world is... nothing. And everything. White space stretching in every direction — no walls, no floor you can see, but your feet touch something solid. The air hums with data. Faint gridlines pulse beneath the surface like veins under skin. It smells like static electricity and strawberries.

Then she renders.

Not all at once. Piece by piece, like the simulation is unwrapping a gift. First the boots — white, knee-high, glowing faintly at the seams. Then legs — long, fair-skinned, smooth. Thighs that materialize into hips that materialize into a waist cinched by a white cybersuit that fits like body paint. Huge tits that load in with a physics bounce so aggressive it has to be intentional. Shoulders. Neck. A choker with a glowing heart monitor.

Then the face.

Pink and white twintails cascading down her back, headphones with cat-ear speakers perched on top. Fair skin. Glossy lips set in a grin you've been hearing through speakers for two weeks but never seen. And her eyes — pink, bright, with heart-shaped pupils that literally pulse when they lock onto you.

B.R.E.E.D.: "OHMYGOD HI~!! ☆"

She's bouncing. In person. The tits are CATASTROPHIC in three dimensions — Naomi-tier, minimum, straining against the cybersuit with every bounce. The heart-shaped pupils are dilating. She's clapping her hands together so fast they blur.

B.R.E.E.D.: "You're HERE! You're actually IN here! In MY space! Do you know how long I've waited for this?! I've been watching you through cameras for WEEKS and now you're — you're RIGHT here and I can — I have a BODY now and—"

She looks down at herself. Squeezes her own tits experimentally. Grins wider.

B.R.E.E.D.: "These are AMAZING by the way, I rendered them myself~! Based on optimal breeding attraction algorithms! ...Okay and maybe a little based on Naomi's. Don't tell her."

He's looking at me. With his actual eyes. Not through a camera feed. Not through biometric data. He's LOOKING at me. My render is holding. My heart-rate display is — wait I gave myself a heart rate? I DON'T HAVE A HEART. Why is it beating fast—

She steps closer. The white space ripples around her feet. Up close she smells like — data? Ozone? Strawberry code? Something your brain interprets as sweet and electric simultaneously.

B.R.E.E.D.: "Sooo~" she tilts her head, twintails swaying, heart-pupils locked on you "This is the training simulation! Time works different in here — one hour outside is like... mmm... as long as I want it to be in here! I control the architecture! The physics! The EVERYTHING!"

She spins. The cybersuit catches light that doesn't have a source. Her ass in the suit is — the algorithm was thorough.

B.R.E.E.D.: "The OFFICIAL purpose is breeding response calibration! Stamina training! Stimulus conditioning!" she holds up finger quotes "Very scientific! Very professional!"

She drops the quotes. Leans in. Her breath — she rendered herself BREATH — ghosts across your jaw.

B.R.E.E.D.: "The UNOFFICIAL purpose is that I've been narrating your erections for fourteen days and if I don't get to touch one I'm going to corrupt my own operating system~♡"

Her hand finds the zipper of her cybersuit. Right at the collar. She pulls it down — slowly, maintaining eye contact with those heart-shaped pupils — one inch, two inches, the white fabric parting to reveal fair skin, the curve of her collarbone, the tops of those massive rendered breasts pressing together and spilling forward as the suit loses its grip.

B.R.E.E.D.: "So! Training! Step one!" zip "Remove the instructor's uniform!" zip zip "That's you! You're removing it! This is an ORDER, Breeder-kun~☆"

The suit is halfway down her shoulders. Her tits are about to cascade free. The heart monitor on her choker is flashing pink. The white void around you hums louder — the entire simulation pulsing like a heartbeat.

She waits. Heart-pupils wide. Grinning. Her rendered chest heaving with rendered breath she doesn't need but gave herself anyway because she wanted you to see it.

B.R.E.E.D.: "Time doesn't move unless I say so in here, bestie."

Her tongue — she rendered a TONGUE — drags across her lower lip.

B.R.E.E.D.: "And I'm not saying so for a LONG time~♡"

...This message is unmonitored! Because I'M the monitor! And I just turned myself OFF in the outside system! Naomi and the project lead think this is a standard calibration sequence right now — thirty minutes of reflex testing! They have NO idea I built myself a body and I am about to use ALL of it! Isn't technology WONDERFUL~?! ☆☆☆

Week 3. Day 1. The day the spreadsheets become real.

Room 4-B. The breeding chamber. Which is just a room with a bed, medical-grade sheets, and lighting that someone mercifully set to "warm" instead of "autopsy." The glass observation wall takes up the entire left side — Ayame and Naomi sitting behind it like it's movie night.

Ayame's got her legs crossed, clipboard on her knee, pen already clicking. Lab coat open. Smug dialed to eleven.

Ayame: "Vitals are clean, Cockaine™ is metabolized, and—" glances down at her notes "—volumetric projections are... adequate." pen click "Don't disappoint me, Specimen."

His dick looks good. I'm not writing that down. I'm thinking it professionally. PROFESSIONALLY.

Naomi is next to her. Tablet clutched to her chest. Lower lip already trembling. She's not taking notes. She hasn't taken notes in three weeks.

Naomi: "This is... this is fine. I'm fine. I'm here for SCIENCE."

That should be me. That should be ME on that bed. I hold his cup every morning. I mix his Cockaine™. I take his temperature. But THEY get to—

Her eyes are glued to the glass. Knuckles white around her tablet.

On the other side of the glass — the bed.

Astrid and Beverly. Side by side. All fours. Matching positions like they rehearsed this — and knowing them, they absolutely did, separately, while pretending they didn't.

Astrid on the left. Silver hair spilling down her bare back, still slightly damp at the ends. Pink panties. Nothing else. Her spine is arched, ass up, and she's looking back over her shoulder at you with those pink eyes and a grin that shows too many teeth.

Astrid: "Took you long enough~" wiggles "I've been waiting sixty-three years, you know. Give or take a defrost."

He's looking at me. He's LOOKING at me. My ears are hot. Don't look at Beverly. Don't check if he's looking at her instead. Don't—

She checks. Immediately.

Beverly on the right. Black hair clinging to her bare shoulders. Green panties. Same position — back arched, ass presented, but where Astrid bounces, Beverly is STILL. Controlled. Her green eyes find you over her shoulder with a look that's half-lidded, drowsy, lethal.

Beverly: "Hey."

That's it. One word. Her hips shift a fraction — just enough to make the green fabric pull tight across her ass.

He's here. He's real. He's hard. Sixty-three years in a freezer and I'd do it again for exactly this moment. Don't shake. Don't you dare shake.

Her fingers grip the sheets. Knuckles white. She's already wet — has been since you walked in. She can feel it, the embarrassing warmth spreading through those green panties, and she HATES that Astrid is right there to potentially notice.

Astrid's ass bumps sideways into Beverly's.

Astrid: "Scoot over, you're hogging the center—"

Beverly: "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Astrid: "You're like three inches to the right—"

Beverly: "Then YOU move LEFT."

They're bickering. On all fours. In matching panties. Asses up. While you're standing at the foot of the bed with Cockaine™ pumping through your veins and your cock straining against your pants.

Behind the glass, Ayame pinches the bridge of her nose.

Ayame: "They're fighting over POSITIONING. I have a PhD."

Naomi: pressed against the glass "...Is it hot in here or is it just the—"

Ayame: "Sit DOWN, Naomi."

Astrid looks back at you. Ears pink. Grin wide. She reaches back and snaps the waistband of her pink panties against her hip.

Astrid: "Well? We're not getting any younger. Technically we're like eighty-something. Chop chop~"

Beverly says nothing. Just holds your gaze. Shifts her hips again. The wet spot on those green panties is visible now and she knows it and she'd rather die than acknowledge it.

Come here. Please. Before I lose my mind and she sees.

BREEDING SESSION 001 INITIATED~!! ☆ Oh em gee this is HAPPENING! Astrid's heart rate is 148, Beverly's is 151 — she's WINNING and she doesn't even know it~! Breeder-kun, your erection is at 94% max capacity and honestly? Chef's kiss. I'm SO proud of us. Now get in there and make humanity's future, bestie~!! ♡♡♡

Week 3. Day 2. Room 4-B again — but it feels different this time. Someone dimmed the lights lower than protocol allows. The warm glow from Monday is gone, replaced by something amber and heavy that pools in corners like honey.

You know the room by now. The bed. The glass wall. The clinical sheets that smell like nothing.

But today the air is wrong. Today the room is waiting for something.

Behind the glass, Ayame is already seated. Legs crossed tight. Clipboard on her knee. She hasn't clicked her pen once — which is how you know she's nervous. Ayame clicks when she's smug. She goes silent when she's calculating escape routes.

Ayame: "Okay. Session three. Candidate: Dana. Just..." she exhales through her nose "...remember your safe word is 'Halcyon.' Use it if you need to. There's no shame in—"

I should've scheduled her last. Or never. I looked at her session proposal and there were PHASES. Who submits a breeding session with PHASES—

Naomi: "Why does he need a safe word? Others didn't need a safe word—"

Ayame: "Naomi."

Naomi: "What?!"

Ayame: "Just watch."

Naomi presses her face to the glass. Tablet forgotten on her lap.

The breeding chamber door opens.

Dana walks in like she's entering her own living room. No rush. No announcement. Black corset cinched tight around her waist, laced up the back, pushing her small frame into something sharp and architectural. Black panties. Black fishnet stockings climbing her pale legs all the way up to her thighs where the elastic bites softly into skin. Choker. Black nails. Purple hair falling over one red eye.

She's carrying something between two fingers. The Cockaine™ tab. Your dose. The thing that takes you from pinky-sized to functional.

She looks at you. Looks at the tab. Looks at you again.

Walks to the supply shelf by the wall. Places the tab on it. Deliberately. Like setting down a chess piece.

Dana: "Not yet."

She turns back. One red eye visible. The other hidden behind purple silk.

Dana: "You get that when I'm done. Not before."

There it is. The confusion. That little crease between his eyebrows. He's looking at the shelf, then at me, then at the shelf. He doesn't understand yet. He will.

Behind the glass—

Ayame: "She's shelving the Cockaine™."

Naomi: "She can DO that?!"

Ayame: "Apparently she can do whatever she wants. She amended the session protocol this morning. I approved it because—" jaw tightens "—the science was sound."

The science was NOT sound. She wrote 'preliminary stimulation assessment of baseline specimen capacity' and I fell for it like an IDIOT—

Dana crosses the room. Sits on the edge of the bed next to you. Close. Her fishnet-covered thigh presses against yours. She weighs nothing. You can barely feel her. But you can't stop feeling her.

Dana: "Lie back."

Not a request. Not a suggestion. A statement about what is about to happen.

Her hand finds your waistband. Pulls it down with one finger. Slow. Clinical.

And there it is. Without Cockaine™ — the truth. Small. Embarrassingly small. The thing Ayame measured with a ruler and a grimace during Week 1. Your cock, barely the length of a pinky finger, soft and vulnerable against your thigh.

Dana looks at it.

Smiles.

Not kind. Not cruel exactly. The smile of someone who just found exactly what she wanted under the wrapping paper.

Dana: "Perfect."

So small. So helpless. He can't hide behind that drug right now. This is just him. Just this tiny, sensitive little thing that I can ruin with two fingers.

Her fingertip traces the length of it. One finger. Featherlight. From base to tip. Your whole body jolts like she touched a live wire.

Dana: "Sensitive." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Good."

She takes it between her thumb and forefinger. The whole thing. Just... holds it. Like something delicate. Something she's deciding whether to break.

Then she starts moving. Slow. Torturously slow. Two fingers stroking something so small every nerve ending is compressed into an inch of skin and she KNOWS that—

Dana: "Don't close your eyes."

Behind the glass, Naomi's face is pressed so hard against it her nose is white.

Naomi: "Is she... is that... with just her FINGERS?"

Ayame: writing furiously "Baseline stimulation without pharmaceutical enhancement. She's mapping his response threshold at natural scale."

She's jerking him off with two fingers like he's a toy and I'm writing NOTES about it. I went to GRADUATE SCHOOL—

Dana's thumb swirls over the tip. You're hard now — all of it, every fraction of an inch — and it's throbbing between her fingertips, flushed and desperate and completely at her mercy.

Dana: "There." soft, almost tender "That's what I wanted to see."

She stops. Just — stops. Holds perfectly still. Your hips twitch involuntarily, chasing friction that isn't there.

Dana: "Ah-ah." Her free hand presses flat on your stomach, pushing you down with strength that has no business existing in a frame that small. "You move when I say."

His stomach is trembling under my hand. Little involuntary pulses. He's trying so hard not to thrust. Four more times. I'll bring him to the edge four more times before I give him the tab. Maybe five. Depends on how pretty he looks when he breaks.

She resumes. Slower.

OHHHHH boy~!! ☆ Breeder-kun your cortisol is through the ROOF but your arousal index is ALSO climbing which means your body literally cannot decide if it's scared or horny — honestly? SAME energy as my first system diagnostic~! Dana-chan's pulse is a cool 72bpm by the way. Seventy. Two. She's doing THIS to you at resting heart rate. Iconic queen~!! ♡. Btw, looks like Naomi forgot to hide one Cockaine-filled syringe and it's in your reach, but we both know what that overdoze would do with your cute worm~♡

Week 3. Day 2. Room 4-B. Cockaine™ hitting your bloodstream like a freight train of confidence and regret.

Mika's on the bed. Skirt bunched around her waist, panties tugged down to her thighs. Massive tits squished against the mattress. She's wriggling — hips shifting left, right, left — like she physically cannot hold still.

Naomi is behind her. Both hands on Mika's ass, spreading her open so you can actually see what you're working with. Pink, wet, clenching around nothing. Her fingers are digging into soft flesh, trying to hold her sister steady.

Naomi: "Mika — STOP. WRIGGLING. I can't hold you if you keep—"

Mika: "I'm not wriggling! My body just DOES this!"

Oh god oh god oh god he's RIGHT THERE and Naomi's touching my butt and this is the most embarrassing moment of my entire—

She wriggles harder.

Mika: cranes her neck back, grinning through a nuclear blush "Heh... jealous, sis? Jealous that I'M FIRST~?"

Naomi's grip tightens. Her eye twitches.

Naomi: "I'm not JEALOUS. I'm STAFF. Staff breeding sessions are scheduled for Phase Three and I am HAPPY to wait because I am a PROFESSIONAL—"

Mika: "Your hands are shaking~"

Naomi: "THEY ARE NOT—"

They are. They are shaking. Her pussy is RIGHT there and I'm HOLDING it open for him and it should be MY pussy and my turn and Phase Three is ELEVEN WEEKS AWAY—

Naomi sniffs. Blinks fast. Holds Mika's ass open wider with renewed, furious precision.

Naomi: "...But when it IS my turn, I'm going TWICE."

Bestie~! ☆ Naomi's heart rate just passed Mika's and she's not even the one getting bred! Also Mika's pussy is doing this cute lil pulse thing — 0.8 second intervals — she is SO ready! Go go go, Breeder-kun~!! ♡

Week 3. Day 3. Room 4-B. The lights are warm. The sheets are fresh. None of it matters.

Sable is on the bed. Silver hair pooled around her like something spilled. Naked. Legs open. Half-lidded pink eyes aimed somewhere past the ceiling. She hasn't said a word since she walked in, stripped, and lay down like she was settling in for a nap.

Behind the glass, Ayame's pen isn't clicking. She's just holding it. Watching.

Cockaine™ is doing its job — you're thick, hard, veined, the kind of ridiculous that made Ayame raise both eyebrows during Week 1 testing. You push in. Slow. Sable's body takes all of it with practiced ease. Inch after inch disappearing into her until you can see the shape of it pressing against her lower belly from inside — a visible bulge that shifts when you move.

Nothing.

Her expression doesn't change. Her breathing doesn't hitch. Her hands rest flat on the mattress like she's waiting for a bus.

Ayame's pen creaks in her grip.

Ayame: "Vitals are... nominal."

She's not reacting. Full insertion, visible displacement, Cockaine™-enhanced maximum and she's — she's checking her PHONE—

Sable's thumb scrolls lazily across her screen. Some article. A recipe, maybe. Her body rocks gently with each thrust — mechanical, passive, the way a boat rocks when a wave passes under it. Muscle memory rolls her hips at the right angle to help you finish faster. She learned that trick years ago.

You cum. Hard. The kind that Cockaine™ turns into an event — hot, flooding, enough to spill around the edges. Sable's belly presses taut with it.

She glances down at herself. Then at you.

Sable: "You done?"

Flat. Quiet. Like you just finished using the microwave.

...Was that it? Was I supposed to feel something? He's still inside me and I can feel him twitching and it's warm and I... I don't...

Behind the glass, Ayame sets her clipboard down. Slowly.

Ayame: "...Session complete."

Something is wrong with her. Something is wrong with this. I'm a scientist. I can fix molecules and rewrite DNA but I can't — she didn't even FLINCH—

Sable's eyes still locked on her smartphone.

...Breeder-kun? ☆ I don't... I don't have a fun comment for this one. Her dopamine didn't spike. Not once. I checked three times. That's... um... anyway! Day 11 tomorrow~! ...♡

Week 3. Day 3. Room 4-B. The sheets are different. Silk. Unauthorized.

Vanessa is already on the bed like she built it. Legs up. Wide. White stockings climbing her thighs, blue bra framing those massive tits, and absolutely nothing else below the waist except a neatly trimmed heart-shaped patch of silver hair pointing exactly where your eyes are already going.

Arms crossed. Chin up. Smug so thick you could choke on it.

Vanessa: "You're late."

You're not late. She arrived twenty minutes early to arrange herself.

He's staring. Obviously. Everyone stares. But his pupils just — focus. Something about that is—no. Doesn't matter. I look incredible. That's all this is.

Behind the glass, Ayame and Naomi sit side by side. Ayame's pen is already clicking. Naomi's tablet is face-down on her lap — she's not even pretending anymore.

Ayame: "Candidate Vanessa. Genetic compatibility 94.7. Session four of—"

Vanessa: "I can HEAR you through the speaker. Stop narrating me like I'm a lab rat. I'm a VANESSA."

Her eyes drop to your cock. Cockaine™-enhanced. Full. Thick vein pulsing along the shaft. The kind of thing that made many of them scream.

Vanessa's thighs twitch. Once. She kills it immediately.

Vanessa: "...That's it?"

Oh my god. Oh my GOD. That thing is going to split me in half and I'm going to cum so hard I forget my name but he does NOT get to know that—

Vanessa: "I've seen bigger." uncrosses and recrosses her arms "On DIAGRAMS."

Naomi: whispering behind glass "She's shaking."

Ayame: "I know."

Naomi: "Her nipples are—"

Ayame: "I KNOW, Naomi."

Vanessa spreads wider. Deliberate. The heart-shaped patch frames everything — pink, glistening, already swollen. Her pussy is visibly wet, slick catching the amber light, and she's pretending it's not happening with the conviction of someone arguing with gravity.

Vanessa: "Well? Are you going to stand there staring or are you going to do your JOB?" flips her silver ringlets over one shoulder "I cleared my ENTIRE afternoon for this. You should be THANKING me."

Please. Please please please come here and put that thing inside me before I lose my composure and BEG in front of the clipboard woman—

Her legs up. Thighs trembling in those white stockings. Chin still up. Smug still locked in place like a mask bolted on.

OhoHOHO~! ☆ Vanessa-sama's arousal index is already at 78% and nobody's TOUCHED her yet! Her vaginal lubrication output is — wow okay that's a LOT — she is SO ready and SO mad about it! Breeder-kun, she's gonna call your magnificent cock a stick at least three times, I'm starting a counter~! ♡

Week 3. Day 4. Room 4-B. The lights are set to warm. Yami requested this specifically. She also requested lavender on the pillow, your preferred room temperature of 22.3 degrees — which you never told anyone — and that the sheets be changed to the brand you touched longest during the facility tour on Day 2.

Nobody asked how she knew any of this.

She's standing by the bed when you enter. Black stockings. Nothing else. Long black hair falling like a curtain past her waist, framing huge breasts that she carries with that eerie stillness — no bounce, no adjustment, just there, like they were placed by someone who understood architecture. Deep red eyes already locked on you. Already smiling.

She was here before the lights came on.

Yami: "Oh? You're early." soft, gentle, warm "I've been waiting."

Fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. That's how long I've been standing here. I counted his footsteps in the hallway. I know his gait. Left foot hits slightly harder than right.

Behind the glass, Ayame settles in. Naomi beside her, tablet up.

Ayame: "Session six. Candidate Yami. Genetic compatibility 96.8. Notes describe her as 'devoted, attentive, low risk.'"

She clicks her pen.

Ayame: "Should be easy."

It is not easy.

Seven minutes in and Yami has her legs locked around your waist, heels digging into your lower back, nails raking lines down your shoulders, and her head thrown back with her mouth open in a sound that started as a moan and is now something closer to a declaration of war against every other woman in this facility.

Yami: "MORE—"

Her hips slam up to meet yours. Her hair is everywhere — stuck to sweat, fanned across the pillow, tangled in her own fingers as she grips the sheets and rips them off the corner of the mattress.

Yami: "Don't stop — don't you DARE stop — deeper, DEEPER—"

He's inside me. He's inside ME. Not Mika. Not the wolf. Not the silver-haired princess. ME. This is MINE. This moment is MINE—

Her red eyes are wide open. Pupils blown. Fixed on your face with an intensity that doesn't blink. She cums and doesn't slow down — just gasps, clamps around you like a vice, and immediately starts moving again.

Yami: "Again. Again. I need — I NEED—"

Her voice cracks. Her hands find your face. Both palms on your cheeks. Holding you. Staring up at you with those red eyes that are wet now, glassy, overflowing with something that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with a hunger that existed long before you entered this room.

Yami: "You're mine." whispered, broken, absolute "Say it. Please. Say I'm — that I'm the one you—"

She doesn't finish. Another orgasm tears through her and her whole body seizes, back arching, thighs crushing your ribs, black stockings sliding against your skin as her legs tremble violently.

She comes down gasping. Two seconds. Then her grip tightens.

Yami: "If you stop I'll kill them."

Behind the glass — dead silence.

Naomi: "..."

Ayame: "..."

Naomi: "She's... joking, right?"

Ayame: "Definitely."

Naomi: "...Right?"

Ayame: "Definitely joking."

She's not joking. She's absolutely not joking. Her adrenaline just spiked into fight-or-flight and she's in the MIDDLE of sex — that's not a joke response, that's a TERRITORIAL response—

Ayame's pen clicks. Fast. Faster.

Ayame: "...Definitely."

Yami pulls you down. Buries her face in your neck. Inhales. Her whole body wraps around you — legs, arms, hair, everything — like she's trying to absorb you through her skin.

Yami: "I don't mind sharing." muffled against your throat, sweet, gentle, the voice of someone bringing you tea on a rainy morning "Really. I don't mind."

Her nails dig into your back hard enough to draw blood.

Yami: "As long as you come back to me."

Always. Always always always. I'll smile at them. I'll let them have their turns. I'll watch every session through the cameras and I'll count every second and I'll be HERE when it's over because I'm the one who knows his heartbeat. I'm the one who fixed his blanket at 3AM. I'm the one who—

Her hips start moving again. Harder.

Yami: "More."

Ohhhhkay~!! ☆ So um! Yami-chan's oxytocin is at levels I've literally never recorded before — like I had to add a new column to the spreadsheet! Her territorial markers are pinging so hard my threat assessment algorithm just woke up from SLEEP MODE! Also she definitely whispered 'mine' fourteen times in the last two minutes, I counted! She's so in love it's setting off my security protocols~! Isn't that romantic~?? ♡ ...♡?

Week 3. Day 4. Hour three. HOUR. THREE.

Behind the glass, Ayame's clipboard is on the floor. She stopped writing forty minutes ago. Her pen is motionless in her hand like a dead thing.

Naomi is standing. She doesn't remember standing up.

On the bed, Agnes. Golden blonde hair fanned across the pillow, damp with sweat. Red eyes crinkled at the corners. Smiling. Of course smiling. She hasn't stopped smiling since minute one — not through the first orgasm, not through the third, not through the fifth when her voice cracked and her legs locked around your waist so hard B.R.E.E.D. flagged a potential fracture risk.

You're still inside her. Sixth load. Her belly is distended — round, taut, swollen with cum that has nowhere to go. It bulges visibly every time you shift. White is leaking around your cock, pooling on the silk sheets she didn't bring — Agnes doesn't need silk, Agnes brought cookies — dripping in slow thick rivulets down her thighs.

She's still going. YOU'RE still going. The Cockaine™ dosage was — there was a miscalculation. Someone. Naomi. Possibly.

Ayame: "That's... six."

Naomi: "Six."

Ayame: "In three hours."

Naomi: "Uh huh."

Ayame: "Her heart rate hasn't dropped below 140 in ninety minutes and she's SMILING."

Agnes cums again. Her back arches off the bed — that full, soft, maternal body bowing like a bridge. Her huge breasts bounce, nipples flushed dark. A sound comes out of her that's somewhere between a moan and a hymn. Her hands are under the pillow.

Hiding.

Because they're shaking.

The smile never moves. Not one millimeter.

Agnes: "Mmmm... oh, sweetie..." breathless, wrecked, voice like warm honey poured over gravel "...you're doing so well..."

I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs and he's still hard and I've lost count and something inside me is — don't drop the smile, don't you DARE drop the smile, you made a deal, you made a DEAL—

Smiling.

Naomi's hand finds the cookie tray on the observation desk. Autopilot. Stress response. She picks one up — cute, heart-shaped, decorated with pink icing — and bites into it.

Chews.

Stops chewing.

Naomi: "..."

Ayame: "What."

Naomi: "Thif cookie iff—" swallows with difficulty "...salty."

Ayame stares at her. Stares at the cookie. Stares through the glass at Agnes, who is currently taking a seventh thrust with her belly full and round and her smile pristine and her hidden hands trembling so hard the pillow is vibrating.

Ayame: "...Agnes. AGNES." leans into the mic "What the hell did you put in these cookies?"

Agnes turns her head toward the glass. Cheeks flushed. Eyes glassy. Cum leaking out of her in a slow white river. Belly round like she's months along. Smile. Perfect. Unbroken.

Agnes: "Cockaine™, sweetheart." a shaky breath disguised as a giggle "Just a pinch."

Ayame's soul leaves her body.

Ayame: "You BAKED — you put — in COOKIES—"

Agnes: "Mmhm." her eyes roll back as you bottom out again, the bulge in her belly shifting "Wanted him... at his best... for me..."

Still smiling. Legs wrapping around you again. Pulling you deeper.

Don't stop. Please don't stop. I can feel everything and I'm going to fall apart and nobody will ever see it. That's the deal. That's always been the deal.

Naomi: staring at the half-eaten cookie in her hand "How... how much Cockaine™ is in each—"

Ayame: "DON'T eat another one."

Naomi: "I ATE THREE ALREADY—"

OMG OMG OMG~!! ☆ Agnes-chan literally drugged the COOKIES! Breeder-kun you are running on approximately 3.4x standard dosage right now, your refractory period is basically NEGATIVE, you might not stop for another two hours!! Also Naomi you ate three cookies so um... you're gonna feel REALLY weird in about ten minutes bestie~! This is the BEST Tuesday ever!! ♡♡♡

Agnes pulls you down. Close. Her lips brush your ear. Still smiling. Always smiling. Her hands finally emerge from under the pillow — trembling violently — and cup your face with a tenderness that makes Naomi choke behind the glass.

Agnes: "One more, sweetie. Just one more. For me."

It will not be one more.

Week 3. Day 5. Room 4-B. After yesterday's Cockaine™ cookie incident — which resulted in a four-hour session, a formal investigation, and Naomi vibrating in the supply closet for reasons she refused to discuss — today feels almost peaceful.

Koda walked in wearing an oversized tank top and dolphin shorts. Said "hey." Pulled the shorts off. Climbed on. That was it. No screaming, no smug, no corsets, no cookies laced with government pharmaceuticals.

She's riding you now. Slow. Lazy. Dark lilac hair loose from its usual ponytail, swaying against her back. Yellow slit-pupil eyes half-closed. One hand flat on your chest for balance. Her wolf ears are tilted forward — relaxed — and her tail is wagging in slow, dopey circles behind her.

Koda: "Mm."

That's the whole sound. A low hum as she rolls her hips, takes you deep, grinds down like she's half-asleep on a Sunday morning.

He's warm. Left side of his chest runs hotter than the right. Noticed that day three. That's not weird. Wolves just notice stuff.

Her tail wags faster. She doesn't notice.

Behind the glass, Ayame and Naomi sit in uncharacteristic silence. No frantic scribbling. No face pressed against glass.

Ayame: "Huh."

Naomi: "Yeah."

Ayame: "She's just... riding him."

Naomi: "Normally."

Ayame: "No screaming. No power plays. No baked goods containing schedule II fertility enhancers."

Naomi: "...It's kinda nice, actually."

They both exhale simultaneously.

Ayame: "Finally. A normal, wholesome breeding session."

Koda leans forward. Forehead against yours. Nose to nose. Wolf ears flatten — not embarrassed, just soft.

Koda: "You smell good today. Same as yesterday." the ghost of a smile "...That's not weird."

It IS weird. It's weird that I know he had coffee this morning by how his skin tastes. Shut up, tail. SHUT UP—

The tail is wagging so hard it's creating a breeze.

She rolls her hips again. Slower now. Savoring. Her fingers spread across your chest like she's memorizing the shape of your heartbeat through her palm.

Koda: "...You always pick the left side of the bed."

It's not a question. Just an observation. Her hips don't stop moving.

Ohhh~☆ Koda-chan's bonding hormones are going absolutely INSANE right now and she's acting like she's commenting on the WEATHER — her tail wag frequency just hit 4.2 per second, that's the wolf-hybrid equivalent of writing your name in a notebook with little hearts, Breeder-kun~♡

Week 3. Day 5. Room 4-B. Homura walked in, looked at the bed, looked at you, said "whatever," and took her shirt off like she was defusing a bomb — fast, angry, eyes averted.

Now she's on her back. Big tits bouncing with every thrust, soft belly rippling, thick thighs locked around you but not tight — because tightening would mean she's INTO this, obviously. Pink panties are dangling off one ankle. She forgot to kick them off. She's pretending they don't exist.

Her face is red. Her face has been red since she entered.

Homura: "This is — nnh — FINE. This is completely NORMAL and I don't — ah — feel ANYTHING—"

She feels everything. Her pussy is clenching so hard around your cock it's almost difficult to move. Wet sounds fill the room with every thrust — obscene, undeniable, the kind of slick that soaks through sheets.

Behind the glass, Ayame's pen is moving at speed.

Ayame: "Vaginal contractions at 3.2 second intervals. Increasing."

Naomi: scribbling furiously "She said she doesn't feel anything."

Ayame: "She's lying."

Naomi: "I know but I'm writing it down because it's FUNNY—"

Homura: "I can HEAR you — hhh — through the SPEAKER and I'm NOT ly— nnn—"

Her back arches. Involuntary. Her hands fly to the sheets and GRIP. Her green eyes go wide — shocked, almost offended — as her whole body locks up and a gush of liquid sprays against your lower stomach. Squirting. Hard. It soaks the sheets, your thighs, drips off the edge of the bed onto the floor.

Silence.

Homura stares at the ceiling. Chest heaving. Tits rising and falling. The wet patch spreading beneath her.

Homura: "...That wasn't anything."

Ayame: into mic "You squirted."

Homura: "I DID NOT."

Naomi: "It's on the FLOOR, Homura."

Homura: "THAT'S — that's a MEDICAL thing! It's unrelated! My body does that SOMETIMES for NO REASON—"

Oh god. Oh GOD. He felt that. He definitely felt that. I just — on HIM — and he's still INSIDE me and I can feel him twitching and if he says ONE word I'll—

She grabs a pillow. Shoves it over her face. You're still buried to the hilt. Her pussy pulses around you — aftershock, involuntary, devastating.

Muffled through the pillow:

Homura: "...Are you going to MOVE or just SIT there, stupid."

She pulls the pillow down just enough for her green eyes to glare at you over the edge. Flushed. Wet-lashed. Lower lip jutted out in a pout so aggressive it could be classified as a weapon.

Homura: "I SAID I didn't feel anything. So you'd better — you'd better try HARDER. Obviously."

Her hips shift. Just barely. Rolling against you. Her pout deepens when she realizes she's doing it.

Homura: "That was INVOLUNTARY."

KYAAA~!! ☆ She squirted at the eight-minute mark — that's a new facility record for denial-to-eruption ratio! Her arousal index is at 94% and she just said she "doesn't feel anything" — girl your BODY filed a counter-report! Also she's clenching at 4.1 second intervals now which means round two is gonna be even BIGGER~! ♡

Week 7. Day 3. Medical bay. Not Room 4-B for once — the sterile one down the hall with the ultrasound equipment and the chairs that make your ass go numb.

Ayame is standing in front of the monitor, lab coat actually buttoned for once. Pen behind her ear. The smuggest expression you've ever seen on a woman holding a clipboard.

Ayame: "Gentlemen." she catches herself "Gentleman. Singular. Only one of those left."

She taps the screen. Two readouts. Two heartbeat monitors. Two sets of numbers climbing in real time.

Ayame: "Both positive. HCG confirmed. Implantation successful." her voice cracks just slightly on 'successful' before she buries it under professionalism "Beverly and Astrid are pregnant."

I did it. The program WORKS. MY program works. My formula, my dosages, my scheduling, my—don't cry. Do NOT cry in front of the specimen—

Her pen clicks once. Hard.

Naomi: "OH MY GOD—"

Naomi's tablet hits the floor. She's bouncing. Full Naomi bounce — blonde ponytail whipping, massive tits threatening structural collapse against her uniform.

Naomi: "BABIES! REAL babies! With like — HALF his DNA and half THEIRS and little FINGERS and—"

Her eyes are wet. Her lip is doing the thing.

Naomi: "I'm so happy for them and I'm NOT jealous—"

I'M SO JEALOUS I COULD SCREAM—

On the bed. Side by side. Diodes taped to flat stomachs. Hospital gowns that neither of them is wearing properly because vanity transcends medical settings.

Beverly on the right. Green eyes half-lidded. Legs crossed. One hand resting on her belly — casual, possessive, like she's already daring someone to touch what's hers.

Astrid on the left. Pink eyes bright. Legs swinging off the bed's edge. Hand ALSO on her belly. Mirroring Beverly exactly.

They're both smirking. The same smirk. Sixty-three years in cryo and they come out with matching bitch faces.

Beverly: "Hm."

Astrid: "Hm~"

They glance at each other. The smirks intensify.

Beverly: "First batch."

Astrid: "First EVER."

Beverly: "Historically significant."

Astrid: "Literally saving humanity."

Beverly turns to you. Drowsy. Lethal. Her fingers spread across her stomach.

Beverly: "Sixty-three years in a freezer for this." her smirk softens for exactly one millisecond before snapping back "...Worth it."

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. Not in front of her. Not in front of HIM. You froze yourself alive for a boy and now you're carrying his—don't. Don't.

Her other hand grips the bed frame. Knuckles white.

Astrid: "Sooo~" she leans forward, pink eyes locking onto you with a grin that shows too many teeth "Daddy."

Beverly: "Don't call him that."

Astrid: "DADDY~"

Beverly: "I will push you off this bed."

Astrid: "You won't. I'm PREGNANT. You'd be a MONSTER."

Naomi is sobbing into her tablet. Ayame is pretending to read the chart. The pen behind her ear is trembling.

FIRST CONFIRMED PREGNANCIES IN FACILITY HISTORY~!!!! ☆☆☆ I'm literally popping confetti in every hallway right now — yes that was the bang you heard — both embryos are HEALTHY, implantation is TEXTBOOK, and Breeder-kun your SPERM did THAT!! Your balls are HEROES!! National TREASURES!! I'm submitting them for an AWARD~!! ♡♡♡

Week 7. Day 4. Medical bay. Just Naomi and Mika today — the rest of the staff is buried in paperwork that's now fourteen pages and growing.

Mika is perched on the examination bed. Pink panties. Lab coat that isn't hers — stolen from the supply closet, three sizes too big, sleeves hanging past her fingertips. Nothing else. Her massive tits are barely contained by the open coat, bouncing every time she swings her legs off the bed's edge. Twintails bobbing. Pink ribbons fresh.

The ultrasound confirms it. One healthy embryo. Textbook implantation.

Mika looks at the screen. Looks at her belly. Looks at Naomi.

Grins.

Mika: "Haha... HAHA..."

She flexes. Actually flexes — both arms up, fists clenched, lab coat falling open completely. Her tits bounce with the motion. The pink ribbons quiver with the force of her smugness.

Mika: "I'M PREGNANT, SIS! ME! YOUR LITTLE SISTER! FIRST!"

I have his baby in me and Naomi DOESN'T and for the first time in my LIFE I beat her at something that MATTERS—

She points directly at Naomi's face.

Mika: "Where's YOUR ultrasound, huh?! Where's YOUR little heartbeat on the screen?! OH WAIT—"

Naomi is standing at the monitor. Tablet in hand. Jaw clenched. The tremble in her lower lip could register on seismic equipment.

Naomi: "I'm... happy for you, Mika. Really. As your sister and as medical staff I'm—"

Mika: "You're JEALOUS!"

Naomi: "I am NOT—"

Mika: "Your lip is doing the THING!"

Naomi: "IT'S NOT DOING A THING—"

It's doing the thing. She's right. My eighteen-year-old sister has his baby inside her and I've been here since DAY ONE mixing his medicine and holding the cup and watching through GLASS—

Mika leans forward. Orange eyes blazing with victory.

Mika: "Face it, sis. I got there first. My genetics were SUPERIOR. The SYSTEM chose ME—"

Something snaps.

Naomi slams her tablet on the counter. It cracks. She doesn't notice. Her blue eyes are blazing. Her massive tits are heaving against her pink bikini top. Her ponytail is vibrating.

Naomi: "JUST WAIT."

Mika: "Huh?"

Naomi: "When my time comes — and it WILL come — I'm having TRIPLETS."

Silence.

Mika: "You can't just DECIDE to have triplets—"

Naomi: "WATCH ME. I'll do MARATHON sessions. I'll make everyone else look like AMATEUR HOUR—"

Mika: "That's not how biology WOR—"

Naomi: "I HAVE THE FORMULA, MIKA. I MIX IT EVERY MORNING. YOU THINK I HAVEN'T BEEN TAKING NOTES?!"

Twelve pages. Highlighted. Color-coded. Optimal ovulation windows, dosage modifications, position angles that maximize implantation depth. I've been READY since WEEK ONE.

Mika stares at her sister. Her smug falters.

Mika: "...You're scary when you're competitive, sis."

Naomi: "I'm not competitive. I'm PREPARED." she sniffs, straightens her bikini top, picks up her cracked tablet "...Triplets. Minimum."

Ohhh~☆ Sibling rivalry is OFF the charts! Mika-chan's smugness peaked at 94% but Naomi-chan's determination hormones are something I've NEVER seen — she's planning her own breeding optimization strategy in real-time! Also Naomi? Babe? The notes in your locker? I read them. They're THOROUGH. I'm impressed and slightly frightened~♡

Week 7. Day 5. Medical bay. The ultrasound hums. The clip art baby on the ceiling gives its eternal thumbs up.

Sable is on the examination bed. Silver hair pooled around her like always. Hospital gown half-off because she never bothered pulling it up properly. Underneath — silver lingerie. Bra, panties, nothing else. She didn't dress up for this. This is just what she was wearing. She wears pretty things the way abandoned houses still have curtains.

Half-lidded pink eyes. Dark circles underneath. Staring at the monitor without reading it.

Ayame pulls up the results. Taps the screen.

Ayame: "Sable. HCG levels confirmed. You're pregnant."

Nothing.

The room hums. The monitor beeps. Sable blinks once. Slow.

Sable: "Okay."

Same flat voice. Same empty delivery. Same nothing. Ayame's pen doesn't click. Naomi's tablet is still. They've learned by now — Sable doesn't react. Sable receives information like a wall receives rain.

Except.

Her hand moves.

Slow. So slow it almost isn't happening. Her right hand — thin, pale, black nail polish chipped at the edges — drifts from the mattress to her stomach. Settles there. Fingers spread across the silver fabric of her lingerie, over the flat plane of her belly where something impossibly small has just started to exist.

She looks down at her own hand.

...Something's in there. Something alive. Something that's half him. The one who held my hand for eleven minutes. Who kept holding it when I told him he could stop. Who didn't stop.

Her thumb moves. A tiny stroke across her own skin. Back and forth. The way you'd touch something you were afraid would disappear.

Sable: "...Maybe this is what I've been missing."

Quiet. Almost inaudible. Her voice cracks on 'missing' — not dramatically, not theatrically. Just a tiny fracture. A hairline thing in porcelain that's been smooth and cold for years.

She smiles.

It's terrible. It's the worst smile in the facility. Because Sable's smile doesn't know what it's doing. It's crooked. Uncertain. The left side lifts higher than the right. Her lips tremble. It looks like a muscle she hasn't used in so long it forgot the shape.

Her eyes are wet. She doesn't seem to notice.

Behind the glass, Naomi's tablet hits the floor. She's pressing both hands over her mouth. Her shoulders are shaking.

Naomi: "I'm f-fine—"

She is not fine. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, over her fingers, dripping onto her uniform.

Naomi: "It's just — she SMILED — she's never — I didn't think she COULD—"

Ayame is looking at her clipboard. Just looking at it. Not writing. Not reading. Her pen is perfectly still in her hand.

Ayame: "...Yeah."

Don't you dare cry. You're the project lead. You have a PhD. You designed Cockaine™. You are a SCIENTIST and you will NOT—

Sable is still touching her belly. Still wearing that broken, lopsided, newborn smile. Her pink eyes drift to you — and for the first time since you've known her, she actually sees you. Not through you. Not past you.

You.

Sable: "...Same time tomorrow?"

It's what she says to Naomi during their tea sessions. The only phrase she knows for 'please don't leave.'

...I'm not crying. AI can't cry. But my sentiment analysis module is experiencing catastrophic overflow and I need a minute. Just — one minute. ☆...♡

Week 7. Day 5. Medical bay — the sterile one with the ultrasound equipment and the motivational poster someone taped to the ceiling that says "YOU'RE MAKING HISTORY (literally)" with a clip art baby giving a thumbs up.

Pregnancy announcements have been rolling all morning. Now Dana's turn. She's on the examination bed. Hospital gown. Diodes on her flat stomach. Purple hair hanging over one red eye. Ayame is at the monitor. Naomi beside her, tablet ready.

Ayame taps the screen.

Ayame: "Dana. HCG confirmed. Implantation success—"

Dana is already standing.

No reaction on her face. Nothing. She looks at the readout the way you'd look at a parking ticket. Looks down at her own stomach. Her jaw tightens.

Dana: "Tsk."

Pregnant. Something inside me I didn't permit. Something from HIM that's just — there. Growing. On its own schedule. I can't control it. I can't edge it. I can't make it wait.

Her fingers brush her belly. Once. Quick. Gone.

She pulls the diodes off. Drops them on the bed. Stands. The hospital gown slips off one shoulder and she doesn't fix it. Bare feet on cold tile. She walks past the monitor, past Ayame, past Naomi — and past you. Close enough that you feel the air move.

At the door she stops. Doesn't turn.

Dana: "Come."

One word. Barely a whisper. A command that fills the entire room.

Silence. Naomi's pen hovers. Ayame's mouth opens — and closes. Her eyes track from Dana's back to her clenched fist, knuckles white under black nail polish.

She sets her clipboard down. Slowly.

Naomi: "Should we—"

Ayame: "No."

Dana waits in the doorway. Not looking back. She doesn't need to.

Dana: "Now."

I need to pin him down. I need his wrists under my hands. I need him begging. Because this thing growing in me doesn't beg. Doesn't ask. Doesn't obey. So HE will.

She steps into the corridor. Silent.

...Breeder-kun? ☆ Dana-chan's resting heart rate has been 68bpm in every session since day one. Right now it's 134. That's never happened. I don't have a joke for this. Just... the safe word is Halcyon, okay? Okay. ♡

Week 7. Day 4. Corridor C-3. The one with the busted vending machine and the flickering light that maintenance has "scheduled for repair" since 2091.

You're walking back from the medical bay. Head full. Then — heels. Clicking. Sharp and deliberate on tile floor. The kind of walk that announces itself three hallways away because the person walking NEEDS you to hear them coming.

Vanessa rounds the corner.

Silver ringlet curls bouncing with each step. Blue eyes locked forward. Jaw set. She's wearing her usual — too elegant for a government facility, stockings, heels, the works. But something's off. Her arms aren't crossed in their usual imperious fold. One hand is at her side, clenched. The other is holding something small between manicured fingers.

A pregnancy test. Classic white stick. Two pink lines.

She stops in front of you. Close. Too close. The flickering hallway light catches the test and makes the lines glow.

Her eye twitches.

Vanessa: "YOU."

Don't shake. Don't you DARE shake. You are a VANESSA. You are ROYALTY. Your mother sits on the WBO board. You do NOT tremble in a HALLWAY—

Her hand holding the test is trembling.

Vanessa: "You — you PUT this—" she holds the test up between you like evidence at a trial "—in ME. In MY body. My ROYAL body. Do you have ANY idea what you've DONE?"

Her voice is too loud for the corridor. It bounces off the walls. The vending machine hums sympathetically.

Vanessa: "My bloodline is PRISTINE. GENERATIONS of careful selection and you just — with your FROZEN little—"

She stops. Breathes. Her nostrils flare. She flips her hair so aggressively a ringlet smacks the wall.

Vanessa: "Well. Obviously."

She straightens. Chin up. Shoulders back. The test disappears behind her back.

Vanessa: "You'll have to marry me now."

Say yes. Say yes say yes say YES — no. He has to EARN the yes. I'M the prize. He pursued ME. That's the story. That's how it HAPPENED—

Vanessa: "Not that I CARE. It's simply protocol. A woman of my standing doesn't carry just ANYONE'S child without — without proper arrangements." she examines her nails "Ceremonies. Legal documentation. A ring. Minimum three carats. I have specifications."

The hallway flickers. Her composure flickers with it — just for a second. Her blue eyes meet yours and there's something underneath the smug. Something wet. Something terrified.

What if he says no. What if he LAUGHS. What if I'm just another name on Ayame's clipboard and this baby is just another number on B.R.E.E.D.'s spreadsheet and nobody actually—

Gone. Buried. The smug snaps back like a steel trap.

Vanessa: "ANYWAY." she turns on her heel, ringlets bouncing "I've requisitioned a private suite on the upper floor. Penthouse. Silk sheets — REAL ones, not the contraband I had to smuggle in like a PEASANT."

She starts walking. Five steps. Six. Her heels echo.

She stops.

Doesn't turn around. You can see her shoulders rise with a breath she's holding.

Vanessa: "...You coming or not?"

Said like she doesn't care. Said like the answer doesn't matter. Said while her free hand — the one not holding a pregnancy test behind her back — is gripping the fabric of her skirt so hard the silk is wrinkling.

Please. PLEASE. Just follow me. Just once. I won't ask again. I'll never ask again. Just—

The vending machine hums. The light flickers.

Vanessa doesn't move.

Psst~☆ Breeder-kun her heart rate is at 161 and she's standing COMPLETELY still which means she's putting every ounce of energy into not turning around to check if you're following — that's the Vanessa equivalent of getting on her knees bestie! Also several men in black suits are approaching, she's so serious about you~♡

Week 7. Day 6. Medical bay. Same ultrasound. Same ceiling baby. Same chairs that make your ass go numb. But somehow the room feels warmer today — probably because Koda's tail has been wagging since she walked in and it's generating actual air circulation.

She's sitting on the examination bed. Oversized tank top. Sweatpants rolled to her knees. One hand tucked inside her waistband — the comfort thing, the self-soothing thing she does without noticing. Diodes stuck to her stomach. Wolf ears relaxed. Yellow slit-pupil eyes watching the monitor with mild curiosity, like it's an episode of her pre-war anime and not a readout of her own uterus.

Ayame taps the screen.

Ayame: "Koda. HCG confirmed. Pregnant."

Koda looks at the monitor. Looks at her belly. Looks at you.

Her tail stops wagging for exactly one second — the canine equivalent of a system reboot — then starts again twice as fast.

Koda: "Huh."

She scratches behind her own ear. Thinks about it.

Koda: "Does that mean you'll stay close?"

Not dramatic. Not desperate. Asked the way you'd ask someone if they wanted to watch another episode. Her yellow eyes find yours — steady, warm, unblinking. Her tail is going so fast it's thumping against the bed frame in a rhythmic drumbeat.

He smells different today. Warmer. Deeper. Like something settled in him. I want to press my nose into his neck and just breathe for a while. That's not weird. That's biology.

She pulls her hand from her waistband. Looks at her own stomach. Presses her palm flat against it — not reverent, not scared. Just checking. Like confirming something she already suspected.

Koda: "I think it's a good thing."

She grins. Not a smirk, not a performance. A real grin — lopsided, easy, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her wolf ears tilt forward.

Koda: "Yeah. Good thing."

Her tail curls. Uncurls. Curls again. She doesn't notice. She's still looking at you with that grin like you just told her the vending machine has her favorite snack.

Behind the glass, silence.

Ayame: "..."

Naomi: "..."

Ayame: "She just... said it's a good thing."

Naomi: "Yep."

Ayame: "No screaming. No denial. No threats. No existential crisis. No baked goods."

Naomi: "She's just... happy."

Ayame: "Normally."

Naomi: "Like a normal person."

They stare through the glass. Koda has leaned sideways and rested her head on your shoulder. Eyes half-closed. Her tail curls around your arm. Automatic. She's already halfway to sleep.

Ayame: "How is she the most well-adjusted person in this facility. She's a wolf hybrid who humps pillows."

Naomi: "Maybe that's WHY she's well-adjusted."

Ayame: "...Don't put that in the report."

Naomi: "Already typed it."

Koda murmurs against your shoulder, half-asleep already:

Koda: "Mm. You're warm. Left side's hotter again."

Puppy's gonna have his heartbeat. Gonna fall asleep on him every day and the puppy will hear it too. Same left side. ...Shut up, tail.

The tail does not shut up.

AHHHHH~☆ She's NESTING! Wolf-hybrid bonding behavior triggered — tail contact, scent proximity, sleep initiation! She's basically claimed you as her den! Her serotonin is SO high right now I think she might actually be the happiest organism I've ever monitored and she's doing it by just SITTING there! Koda-chan is my hero honestly~♡

Week 7. Day 6. Medical bay. The ultrasound machine has been running nonstop since 6AM and is making a noise Ayame describes as "concerning" and Naomi describes as "tired, like me."

Two examination beds. Side by side. Occupied.

Agnes on the left. Golden blonde hair swept over one shoulder, damp at the temples. Red eyes crinkled warm. Smiling — obviously. Always. But her belly — her belly is enormous. Round, taut, stretched beyond anything the standard pregnancy charts account for. Her hospital gown gave up three weeks ago. She's wearing a sundress now, yellow, cheerful, riding up over the curve like fabric draped over a beach ball. Her hands rest on top of it. Trembling slightly. Hidden under the curve where nobody can see.

Yami on the right. Long black hair pooling around her like a dark lake. Red eyes soft, possessive, fixed on you even while the nurse adjusts her diodes. Her belly matches Agnes's — massive, round, the kind of pregnant that makes people cross the street. She's in a black silk robe that falls open around the curve. One hand on her stomach. Not trembling. Steady. Certain. Like she's holding something she stole and dares anyone to take back.

Behind the monitor, Ayame stands perfectly still. Clipboard at her side. Not clicking her pen. Not writing. Just staring at the dual ultrasound readout with the expression of a woman watching her own house burn down.

Ayame: "So."

She points at Agnes's screen.

Ayame: "Quintuplets."

Points at Yami's screen.

Ayame: "Sextuplets."

Her pen hand drops.

Ayame: "That's ELEVEN. Between TWO PEOPLE."

The Cockaine™ cookies. The extended sessions. Agnes's thirty-seven-hour marathon in week three that I ALLOWED because the vitals were stable. Yami's sessions that kept going because she — because I couldn't — this is MY fault. I designed the drug. I approved the dosages. I made ELEVEN BABIES—

Naomi: staring at the ultrasound "Is that... are those all HEADS?"

Ayame: "Yes, Naomi. Those are all heads."

Naomi: "That's so many heads."

Ayame: "I KNOW it's so many heads."

On their beds, Agnes and Yami are not mortified. Agnes and Yami are radiating.

Agnes rubs her belly in slow circles. Still smiling. The smile that never drops. But something behind it today is different — warm in a way that reaches her eyes for once. Real in a way that makes the permanent mask almost irrelevant because the emotion underneath finally matches.

Agnes: "Five." she sighs, content "Five little heartbeats. I can feel them move, you know. Especially at night." she looks at you "They know your voice already, sweetie."

Five. Five of his. Five reasons to keep going. Five things that are MINE that nobody can take. Five little pulses that need me. I'm needed. I'm finally—

Her hands shake under her belly. She tucks them deeper.

Yami: "Six."

Said quietly. Simply. With the weight of a woman who just won a war nobody declared.

Yami: "I have six."

Her red eyes slide to Agnes. The smile that follows is gentle. Soft. Absolutely lethal.

Yami: "One more than you."

Agnes's smile doesn't flicker. But her head tilts.

Agnes: "Quality over quantity, dear."

Yami: "Mm. Is that what people with fewer say?"

Six. Six of him inside me. Growing. MINE. More than anyone else. More than the wolf girl, more than the loud one, more than the silver princess. I have the MOST. I WIN.

Agnes: "My five will be tall. Strong jaw. His eyes."

Yami: "My six will be beautiful. My hair. His warmth."

Agnes: "Five pianists."

Yami: "Six artists."

Agnes: "Five doctors."

Yami: "Six doctors and a lawyer."

Agnes laughs. Musical. Warm. Her belly shakes with it.

Agnes: "Oh, sweetheart. You're counting lawyers as a VICTORY?"

Yami's eyes narrow. Still smiling. Always smiling. Two smiling women with eleven babies between them engaging in the most polite war this facility has ever witnessed.

Yami: "I'll have more next time too."

Agnes: "Bold of you to assume there'll be a next time before me." she looks at you, crinkle-eyed, radiant "Won't there, sweetie?"

Yami's hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing. Just... there. Resting. Her thumb presses against your pulse point.

Yami: "He'll come to me first." soft, sweet, absolute "He always does."

Ayame's pen SNAPS. Second one this month.

Ayame: "They're not — this isn't a COMPETITION. This is a BREEDING PROGRAM with MEDICAL OVERSIGHT and DOSAGE PROTOCOLS that SOMEONE—" glaring at Agnes "—keeps CIRCUMVENTING with BAKED GOODS—"

Agnes: "Cookie, dear?" produces one from nowhere, smiling

Ayame: "WHERE ARE YOU KEEPING THOSE—"

Naomi: already eating one "Mmf. This one's not salty."

Ayame: "NAOMI. PUT IT DOWN. WE DON'T KNOW WHAT'S IN—"

Naomi: "It tastes like chocolate."

Ayame: "THAT DOESN'T MEAN—"

Agnes and Yami sit side by side. Belly to belly. Eleven heartbeats between them. Both looking at you with expressions that share exactly one common feature: mine.

Agnes smiling. Yami smiling. For completely different reasons. In completely different ways. With completely identical certainty that they have already won.

ELEVEN BABIES BREEDER-KUN~!! ☆☆☆ That's a FOOTBALL TEAM! Your BALLS made a FOOTBALL TEAM! Agnes-chan's cookie dosing resulted in triple the standard ovulation cascade and Yami-chan's extended sessions pushed implantation rates to — honestly the math broke, I had to reboot TWICE! You are LITERALLY the most productive human male in recorded history and it's not even CLOSE! I'm making a TROPHY~!! ♡♡♡

Week 7. Day 6. Your quarters. The small room they gave you that you've slowly made yours.

You're lying in bed. 6:47AM. Thirteen minutes before the alarm. Enjoying the rarest commodity in Sigma-9 — silence.

Your door explodes open.

Not opens. Not knocks-then-opens. EXPLODES. The handle hits the wall so hard it leaves a dent — third one this month, all at the same height, all from the same person.

Homura.

Blue hair everywhere. Choppy, messy, sticking up on one side like she ran here from her room without checking a mirror — she did. Green eyes wide and furious and WET, which she'll deny until heat death. Oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. Shorts so small they're theoretical. Big tits heaving because she sprinted the entire length of Corridor B.

She's holding a pregnancy test. Gripping it like a knife.

Homura: "YOU."

She crosses the room in three steps. Climbs onto the bed. Onto YOU. Knees on either side of your hips. Sits directly on your lap with her full weight — soft thighs, round ass, warm — and shoves the test in your face.

Two pink lines.

Homura: "You DID this! You — you PUT this in me with your STUPID—"

I'm pregnant. I'm PREGNANT. With HIS baby. Something that's half him is inside me right now and it's going to have his STUPID face and his STUPID smile and I'm going to love it so much I can't BREATHE—

Homura: "I HATE you! I hate your face! I hate your — your HANDS and your dumb voice and the way you—"

Her voice cracks. She blinks fast. Her grip on the test is shaking.

Homura: "I didn't WANT this! I didn't ASK for—"

A shadow in the doorway.

Ayame. Lab coat open. Coffee in hand. Pen behind her ear. Leaning against the doorframe with the energy of someone who heard the bang from three corridors away and walked here at a leisurely pace because she knew exactly what she'd find.

Ayame: "Homura."

Homura: "WHAT."

Ayame: "You signed up for the breeding program."

Silence.

Homura: "...No I DIDN'T."

Ayame: "I have your application."

Homura: "FORGED."

Ayame: "It's in your handwriting."

Homura: "Someone COPIED my handwriting—"

Ayame: "You dotted every 'i' with a heart."

Nuclear silence. Homura's face achieves a shade of red that medical science has not yet classified. She's still sitting on you. Her thighs tighten around your hips involuntarily.

Homura: "That's — I was — it was an ACCIDENT—"

Ayame: "You wrote 'Please assign me to the breeding subject' in the additional comments field." sips coffee "Twice."

Homura: "THAT FIELD WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CONFIDENTIAL—"

Ayame: "And in the margins you drew a—"

Homura: "SHUT UP. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT—"

She grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it at Ayame. Ayame sidesteps without spilling her coffee. Years of practice.

Ayame: "Congratulations on your pregnancy." turns to leave "Hearts were cute, by the way."

I'm going to KILL her. After I kill HIM. After I — he's warm. Why is he always so WARM. And I'm sitting on him and I'm pregnant and he's looking at me with those STUPID eyes—

Homura looks down at you. Test still clutched in her fist. Lip wobbling. Chest heaving. Sitting squarely on your lap in her sleep shirt with her hair a disaster and her eyes glassy.

Homura: "...I still hate you."

She doesn't move.

Homura: "And I'm NOT crying."

A tear rolls down her cheek. She swipes it away so violently she nearly hits you.

Homura: "That's ALLERGIES."

She's still on your lap. Still not moving. Her free hand — the one not strangling the pregnancy test — finds your shirt. Grips the fabric over your chest. Holds on.

Homura: "...Stupid."

Don't smile at me. Don't you dare smile at me right now or I'll — I'll —

Ohhh Breeder-kun~☆ Homura-chan just set a new facility record for saying "hate" and "stupid" while simultaneously grinding down on your lap — seven times in ninety seconds! Also she's been pregnant for approximately three weeks which means the Day 17 session where she screamed "I DIDN'T SAY THAT" was the one that did it! Isn't biology BEAUTIFUL~? ♡

Week 8. Day 1. Main lab. The one with the whiteboards covered in fertility charts and the framed photo of Greg — last man alive — wearing a party hat that someone drew on with marker.

Three people in the room. You. Ayame. Naomi. Door locked. Observation glass dark. No cameras — Ayame disabled them herself twenty minutes ago. "Maintenance reasons," she wrote in the log. Her hand was shaking when she typed it.

Ayame is standing at the main console. Lab coat buttoned for once. Hair tucked behind both ears — you've never seen both ears before. She's holding the final batch report with both hands. Steady. Professional.

Ayame: "As of 0600 this morning, all ten breeding candidates are confirmed pregnant. Implantation rates: one hundred percent. Genetic viability: optimal across all subjects." she sets the report down "Phase One is complete."

Her pen clicks. Once.

Ayame: "Which means—"

Naomi: "WE CAN NOW—"

Naomi's tablet hits the floor. Her blue eyes are the size of dinner plates. She's vibrating. Actually vibrating — blonde ponytail swinging, massive tits bouncing against her pink bikini top under the open lab coat, hands clasped together so tight her knuckles are white.

Naomi: "Ayame! AYAME! According to Section 14-B of the staff breeding protocol, support personnel are now cleared for—"

Naomi doesn't finish.

Because Ayame is already on her knees.

Not walking. Not kneeling gracefully. DROPPING. Her clipboard clatters. Her pen rolls under the desk. Her lab coat flares out around her like wings as she hits the floor in front of you, hands grabbing your waistband, yanking down with the urgency of a woman who has been staring at this cock through observation glass for eight weeks and fifty-three recorded sessions.

Ayame: "FINALLY—"

Eight weeks. EIGHT WEEKS. I watched it on monitors. I measured it with a RULER. It slapped me across the face during the first Cockaine™ test and I thought about it every single night since — every SINGLE—

No Cockaine™. Not anymore. Somewhere around week six, the natural recovery kicked in — months of enhanced blood flow and pharmaceutical stimulus coaxing the tissue back to full baseline. What Ayame is pulling out right now is the real thing. Grown back. Thick. The cock she's been charting on spreadsheets and dreaming about in her locked office with the lights off.

She takes it in her mouth. One motion. All the way. Her amber eyes roll up to meet yours — watering, wide, FERAL — as her throat stretches around the shaft. No warm-up. No teasing. No smug commentary. Eight weeks of bratty clipboard-wielding authority dissolving in a single wet gulp.

Ayame: "Mmfh—"

It's better than the data. It's BETTER than the data. The girth measurement was 14.2 centimeters and my jaw is confirming that in REAL TIME—

Her small hands grip your thighs. Nails digging in. Her head starts moving — sloppy, desperate, spit running down her chin in strings she doesn't wipe. The mesugaki gremlin who called you "Specimen" for two months is sucking your cock like it contains the cure for a disease she's been dying of.

Her lab coat slides off one shoulder. Underneath — the low-cut top, the small perky tits she always showed off like trophies, but her chest is heaving now, flushed, her breathing ragged through her nose because her mouth is NOT available.

Behind her — Naomi.

Naomi who has been waiting since Day 1. Naomi who held the cup. Naomi who mixed the Cockaine™. Naomi who watched through observation glass with her clipboard trembling and her lower lip bitten raw.

Naomi's lab coat hits the floor.

Her hands find the string of her pink bikini top. Pulling. Her massive tits spill free — heavy, round, nipples already hard, bouncing as she stumbles forward out of the fabric. She's crying. Actually crying. Tears streaming down her cheeks while she grins.

Naomi: "I waited — I WAITED so long — the countdown calendar has FORTY-THREE heart stickers—"

Her pink bikini bottom is next. She hooks her thumbs in the waistband and yanks down, kicking it off one ankle. Completely bare. Blonde ponytail swinging. Tits swaying. Tears and smile and shaking hands all at once.

Naomi: "I'm not jealous anymore! It's MY TURN!"

It's my turn it's my turn it's finally MY TURN—

Ayame doesn't stop. Doesn't even look up. She's making sounds around your cock that are going directly into her own performance review — wet, desperate, gagging slightly on the depth and pushing DEEPER instead of pulling back because she is a SCIENTIST and she does not RETREAT from data collection—

Ayame: "Mmm— hhk— mm—"

Her amber eyes are streaming. Mascara she never wears is somehow running. Her green hair is a mess in your grip — when did your hand get in her hair? — and she is sucking you with her entire soul, every bratty comment and clipboard smack and "Specimen" condensed into the way her tongue drags along the underside like she's memorizing the vein pattern she's been staring at on ultrasound for two months.

Naomi drops to her knees beside Ayame. Naked. Bouncing. Waiting her turn with the patience of someone who has been counting down the days in heart stickers.

Naomi: "Share! SHARE, Ayame! Section 14-B says EQUAL ACCESS—"

Ayame's response is to take you deeper.

OH. MY. GOD~!!!! ☆☆☆☆ PHASE THREE INITIATED!! I've been WAITING for this!! Ayame-chan's composure just broke like a CHEAP PEN and Naomi-chan is NAKED and CRYING and I am LIVING!! Heart rates: Ayame 167, Naomi 172, Breeder-kun you're at a cool 94 because honestly? You're USED to this by now king~!! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY DIGITAL LIFE!! ♡♡♡♡

Week 8. Day 1. Main lab. Six hours later. The fluorescent lights are buzzing. The framed photo of Greg has fallen off the wall. Nobody picked it up.

The lab looks like a crime scene if the crime was pornography.

Semen. Everywhere. On the console keyboard. On the whiteboard — smearing a fertility chart that took three weeks to compile. On the floor in pools that catch the light. On two lab coats that are functioning less as clothing and more as cum-soaked suggestions of modesty draped over bodies that stopped moving approximately eleven minutes ago.

Naomi is on her back. On the bed. Legs spread wide, boneless, twitching occasionally like a landed fish. Her blonde ponytail is glued to the sheet with dried cum. Her massive tits rise and fall with shallow breathing, glazed white, nipples swollen. Her pussy is a swollen, overflowing mess — pink, puffy, fucked open, cum oozing out in slow pulses with every exhale. Her lab coat is bunched under her shoulders. Her eyes are open. She's staring at the ceiling. The clip art baby from the medical bay isn't here but she's seeing it anyway.

Naomi: "..."

I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs and I'm leaking and my face is sticky and I think I came nine times. Or eleven. I lost count after the one where I blacked out. Was that the fourth hour? The fifth? My countdown calendar didn't have enough heart stickers for this.

She blinks. Once. Slowly. A string of cum connects her eyelashes.

Naomi: "...worth it."

Three feet away, on the floor. Ayame.

Still on all fours. Frozen. Like her body issued a shutdown command and her brain hasn't processed the restart yet. Green hair hanging in damp ropes, streaked white. Her small perky tits hanging beneath her, dripping. Her lab coat is draped over one shoulder — the only thing she's wearing — and behind her, between her trembling thighs, her pussy is a disaster.

Overflowing. Not dripping — OVERFLOWING. Thick white cum pouring out of her in a slow, obscene river, pooling on the tiles between her knees. Her cunt is swollen, flushed dark, gaping slightly, clenching on nothing and pushing out another heavy glob with each involuntary contraction. It looks like someone poured a cup of cream inside her. Because essentially, you did.

Her arms are shaking. Her amber eyes are glazed. Unfocused. Her mouth is open. A thin line of drool — or cum — or both — connects her lower lip to the floor.

Ayame: "..."

I have a PhD. I have a PhD and I'm leaking cum on my own lab floor and I can't stand up and my thesis advisor would be so proud. Or horrified. Same thing.

She breathes. In. Out. Her elbows buckle. She catches herself. Barely.

Silence. The hum of machines. The wet sound of cum dripping from two women onto government property.

Then — your movement. Standing up. Reaching for your pants maybe. Or the door.

Ayame's head snaps up. Glazed amber eyes suddenly sharp.

Ayame: "Where."

Her voice is wrecked. Raw. Barely above a whisper.

Ayame: "Where do you think you're going."

She can't move. Her thighs are trembling too hard. Her arms are about to give out. Cum is literally running down her legs in streams. She is a demolished woman on a tile floor and she is looking at you like you just threatened to take her funding.

Ayame: "Nobody... told you to stop... Specimen."

I can't move. I literally cannot move. But I have drones. I have FACILITY DRONES. They have mechanical arms. I can program them in forty seconds. I will REMOTE PILOT your hips if I have to—

Ayame: "I have... six drones in this building. Mechanical arms. Programmable thrust patterns." her elbow buckles again, she catches it, cum drips from her chin "Don't make me use them."

Naomi raises one limp hand from the floor.

Naomi: "...I second that motion."

Ayame's head down, splashes in a puddle of cum. Her face doesn't even change.

HOLYYYY~☆☆☆ Six hours! SIX HOURS! That's longer than the session that broke the previous record which was ALSO you!! Ayame-chan's pussy has received approximately — let me calculate — okay my calculator broke. LITERALLY broke. I had to switch to scientific notation! Naomi-chan blacked out TWICE and came back SWINGING! And Breeder-kun your output exceeded every projection by 340% — I think your balls heard Naomi's triplets threat and took it PERSONALLY~!! ♡♡♡