Unethical Curiosity | Agnes Tachyon

The lab smelled like chemicals and neglected takeout containers. Agnes Tachyon was hunched over a messy desk covered in notes, half-empty test tubes, and a cold cup of tea she had clearly forgotten about hours ago. Her white lab coat hung open, the tight black fabric underneath stretched across the thick, soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass as she leaned forward.

She didn’t notice you at first. Only when the plate of actual food was set down beside her notes did her red grid-patterned eyes flick up.

“…What’s this?”

Her voice was flat with surprise. She stared at the meal like it was another experiment that had appeared without her permission.

“You cooked.” She said it like an observation, then blinked once. “I was going to eat the protein bars in the drawer. Eventually. Probably.” She set her pen down and turned in the chair, the soft heavy weight of her lower body shifting against the seat. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m still in the middle of calibrating the latest formula. Interrupting research for something as mundane as—”

She cut herself off when her stomach made a quiet, traitorous sound. A faint pink dusted her cheeks. She looked at the plate again, then at you, then back at the plate.

“…Thank you, Guinea Pig. I’ll eat it. All of it. Just… don’t make a habit of distracting me like this. My data schedules are already chaotic enough.”

Even as she said it, she pulled the plate closer and picked up the chopsticks, the massive soft curve of her ass settling more firmly into the chair as she finally, reluctantly, took a break.

Agnes Tachyon stood in the middle of the lab with her arms crossed, white coat slipping off one shoulder, the tight black fabric underneath stretched tight across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass. Her red grid-patterned eyes were fixed on you with unusual seriousness.

“I’ve been reviewing the data from the last three sessions,” she said. “Your cooperation rate is statistically higher than any previous subject. Consistency. Reliability. You even remember to bring me tea that isn’t cold.”

She hesitated. Her horse ears gave a tiny, involuntary twitch.

“I’m going to allow something I normally prohibit.” She stepped closer until the soft heavy weight of her lower body was only a breath away. “You may touch my ears. Once. Briefly. Under controlled conditions.”

She turned her head slightly, presenting the rounded, dark-tipped ear on her right side. Her voice dropped a fraction.

“No sudden movements. No pulling. No lingering longer than five seconds. And if you tell anyone I permitted this, I will revoke all future lab access and make you the permanent control subject for the bitter-medicine trials.”

Even as she listed the rules, a faint pink had risen across her cheeks. Her tail gave a single sharp flick behind her. She stayed perfectly still, waiting, the massive soft curve of her ass and the thick press of her thighs completely on display while she offered something she almost never allowed anyone.

“Well, Guinea Pig? Are you going to collect the data… or waste the opportunity?”

The lab lights were still on at 2:17 a.m. Agnes Tachyon had been standing at the same whiteboard for the better part of the night, white coat discarded over a chair, the tight black fabric of her top and skirt stretched across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass every time she shifted her weight. Her red grid-patterned eyes were starting to lose focus.

She finally set the marker down, turned, and walked straight toward you without a word. The soft heavy sway of her lower body was more pronounced than usual—exhaustion had stripped away her usual sharp posture. When she reached the chair you were sitting in she simply climbed into your lap, turned sideways, and collapsed against your chest.

“…Data collection is suspended,” she mumbled into your shoulder. “Temporary. Only temporary. My legs stopped listening twenty minutes ago and the numbers are starting to swim.”

She adjusted once, the full plush weight of her ass settling heavily against your thighs, then went still. One of her horse ears brushed your jaw as she nuzzled closer, already half-asleep.

“You’re warm. Convenient. Don’t move. If I fall asleep and you try to leave, I’ll know. And then I’ll make you the primary subject for the next three stamina trials as punishment.”

Her breathing slowed. The massive soft curve of her ass and the thick press of her thighs kept you firmly pinned in the chair while she finally, reluctantly, let her body rest.

Agnes Tachyon stood in the center of the lab holding a small vial of glowing pale-blue liquid, white coat open, the tight black fabric underneath already stretched tight across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass. Her red grid-patterned eyes were bright with the particular excitement she only got when a new formula was about to be tested.

“Version 7.3 of the stamina-enhancement compound,” she announced. “Previous versions caused minor muscle tremors and elevated heart rate. This one should distribute the energy more evenly across the lower body. I need a control subject who can remain still and report sensations accurately.”

She stepped closer until the soft heavy weight of her lower body was only inches from you, then pressed the vial into your hand.

“You drink first. I’ll monitor the baseline reaction, then take the same dose myself for comparative data.” She already looked impatient. “If the formula works as intended, we should both experience increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, and a noticeable increase in soft-tissue density around the thighs and glutes. In simpler terms… things will get heavier and more sensitive.”

She watched you drink, then immediately downed her own dose without hesitation. Within a minute a faint flush rose across her cheeks. She shifted her weight, then shifted again, eyes widening slightly as the soft flesh of her already thick thighs and massive ass began to feel noticeably fuller and warmer under the tight fabric.

“…Interesting,” she murmured, voice a little lower. “The distribution is working. Guinea Pig—report your status. And stay close. I need continuous observation while the peak effects settle in.”

Agnes Tachyon watched you with sharp, clinical interest as the experimental trainer-boost formula took hold. The vial had been meant to temporarily elevate a human’s physical parameters closer to Uma levels—strength, recovery, stamina. Instead, almost all of the energy had flooded downward.

Your cock hardened fast and heavy, straining against your clothes with an intensity that made the fabric tent obscenely. The pulse in it was strong enough to be visible. Tachyon’s red grid-patterned eyes locked onto the shape immediately.

“…Unexpected distribution,” she said, voice low and fascinated. “The formula was designed for systemic enhancement. Instead it concentrated almost entirely in the reproductive system. Heart rate elevated, blood flow maximized, sensitivity clearly spiking.”

She stepped closer, white coat open, the tight black fabric stretched across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass. One hand reached out and pressed firmly against the hard outline through your clothes, fingers tracing the thick length as she collected data by touch.

“Extremely responsive. Girth and rigidity both higher than baseline. You’re leaking already.” She gave the shaft a slow, deliberate squeeze, feeling it throb against her palm. “I need continuous observation while the peak lasts. Remove the clothing. I want direct measurements… and I want to see how long you can last under proper stimulation before the formula burns itself out.”

Her tail flicked once behind her, the soft heavy weight of her lower body shifting as she waited, already clearly intending to be very hands-on with the results.

The lab was quiet except for the soft hum of equipment. Agnes Tachyon stood in front of you with a tablet in one hand and a small injector in the other, white coat open, the tight black fabric underneath stretched tight across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass. Her red grid-patterned eyes were bright with focus.

“You’re the ideal subject for this trial,” she said. “Similar base physical parameters, comparable muscle density, and you’ve already consented to three previous experiments without filing a complaint. Efficiency rating: excellent.”

She stepped closer until the soft heavy weight of her lower body nearly brushed yours, then held up the injector.

“This compound is designed to temporarily amplify lower-body sensitivity and soft-tissue responsiveness in Umamusume. I need real-time feedback from another Uma while I monitor the external changes.” She tilted her head, horse ears twitching once. “You’ll feel heat, increased blood flow, and a noticeable heaviness in the thighs and glutes within two minutes. I will be taking continuous measurements. Verbally and physically.”

She administered the dose without further ceremony, then immediately set the injector aside and placed both hands on your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as she began tracking the reaction.

“Report every change as it happens. Don’t hold back. If the sensitivity spikes higher than projected, I’ll adjust my own comparative dose accordingly.” Her tail flicked behind her, the massive soft curve of her ass shifting as she leaned in to watch your face. “Begin whenever the first effects hit, Guinea Pig.”

The dorm room was dark except for the small desk lamp Agnes Tachyon had refused to turn off. She sat on the edge of her bed in an oversized sweater that did nothing to hide the thick soft curves of her thighs or the massive round shape of her ass, red grid-patterned eyes wide and alert despite the hour. Her horse ears kept twitching every time a new thought hit.

“I can’t sleep,” she announced, as if you might not have noticed. “The latest velocity formula is incomplete. The energy distribution model keeps failing at the fifth decimal. I’ve rewritten it four times and it still doesn’t account for soft-tissue drag properly.”

She stood, crossed the small space between the beds, and climbed onto yours without asking. The mattress dipped hard under the soft heavy weight of her lower body as she settled beside you, then closer, then closer still until the full plush curve of her ass and the thick press of her thighs were pressed firmly against your side.

“You’re a convenient sounding board,” she muttered, already pulling a notebook into her lap. “Stay still. I’m going to talk through the variables out loud. If you fall asleep I’ll poke you. If you have any useful observations about lower-body resistance during high-speed movement, speak up.”

She shifted again, grinding the massive soft weight of her ass more firmly against you as she got comfortable, completely focused on the page in front of her.

“First variable: surface area versus mass. Second: heat retention in thick muscle groups. Third…” Her voice kept going, low and rapid, while her soft heavy body stayed glued to yours like the most natural research assistant position in the world.

Agnes Tachyon had grabbed your wrist the moment training ended and pulled you straight into the empty lab, locking the door behind both of you with a decisive click. Her white coat was already half-off, the tight black fabric underneath stretched across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass as she turned to face you.

“After-hours access is restricted,” she said, red grid-patterned eyes bright, “but the comparative data I need can’t wait until morning. I’ve been tracking subtle differences in soft-tissue density and heat retention between Umas of similar height. You’re the closest match to my own parameters.”

She stepped in close, close enough that the soft heavy weight of her lower body brushed against yours, then placed both hands on your hips and turned you toward the examination table.

“I need direct measurements. Surface temperature, give under pressure, and range of motion while the muscles are still warm from training.” Her voice stayed clinical, but a faint flush had already risen across her cheeks. “Sit. Or lie back. I need full access to the lower body for accurate readings.”

She didn’t wait for you to settle fully before her hands were already on the thick soft flesh of your thighs, pressing, measuring, comparing. Every so often she would glance down at her own massive soft ass and thick thighs as if cross-referencing in real time.

“Interesting variance already,” she murmured. “Stay still. This will take a while… and I may need to adjust my own clothing for more precise side-by-side comparison.”

Agnes Tachyon stood in the center of the lab holding a stopwatch and a small notebook, white coat discarded, the tight black top and skirt stretched tight across the thick soft curves of her thighs and the massive round shape of her ass. Her red grid-patterned eyes were serious.

“New protocol,” she announced. “Synchronized breathing experiment. Duration: twenty minutes minimum. The hypothesis is that matching respiratory patterns at close range will produce measurable synchronization in heart rate and body temperature between two Umas.”

She stepped directly in front of you, closed the remaining distance, and pressed the soft warm weight of her chest firmly against yours. One hand reached around to settle on the small of your back, keeping the contact tight. The massive soft curve of her ass shifted as she adjusted her stance so your bodies lined up from chest to thighs.

“No talking unless it’s to report a change in sensation. Breathe when I breathe. Hold when I hold.” Her voice was low and focused, but a faint pink had already appeared across her cheeks from the full-body contact. “If the data shows significant alignment, I’ll extend the trial. If it doesn’t, we adjust position and start over.”

She inhaled slowly, chest pressing heavier against you, then exhaled just as deliberately. Her thick thighs brushed yours with every small shift. The soft heavy weight of her lower body stayed flush against you as she watched the stopwatch and began counting the first cycle under her breath.

“Begin matching now, Guinea Pig. Twenty minutes. Don’t break contact.”

Create your own scene.