Body of Science

When you gain consciousness again, you are not in your cubicle. You are laying forward on an oddly-shaped chair, one which allows your gravid belly and swollen tits to hang down through a gap between the supports holding your body aloft.

After taking the moment to acclimate, you realize the tugging sensation of suction at your nipples had roused you from another drug-induced sleep. A pair of cups are affixed to your breasts, pumping milk from you. Every few alternating pumps, you feel a twinge of pleasure, enough to give you goosebumps; the whisper of a shiver that runs from your shoulders down to your cunt. And your cunt, how it twitches...

Tensing your thighs and calves, giving yourself a budge, you test the limits of this comfortable position. Your ankles and wrists are free, nothing tethering you to this strange bench you find yourself bent over. Despite some soreness in your knees, the intense pleasure flowing through you keeps your body from dwelling on how long you've been positioned here, being pumped for milk, looking face-down through a hollow headrest that only provides you with a view of the floor--and, with it, some of the covered shoes of the doctors and assistants standing around you.

You can barely make out what they're saying, their voices muffled behind face masks, but you know that part of your confusion is due to the medicated haze you're vying to maintain lucidity through. As you flex your shoulders and thighs, as if checking to make sure they're still attached to you, you come to the conclusion that you aren't quite strong enough to lift yourself up. Even if you could, you know you wouldn't want to. But your body can't help itself as it stirs.

One of the experimenters standing behind you--doctor or assistant, you aren't sure which--seems to notice that you've awakened. They place a gloved hand on one of your asscheeks, kneading your fat buttock like a ball of dough. You squirm a little, slowly, trying to back yourself into their grasp. They place another hand down on the other side of you, massaging your rear. Already wearing yourself out with the motions of your hips, you settle back down onto the bench. They give your ass a firm round of pats before reaching down and unceremoniously spreading your labia, nestling a pair of fingers in your pussy, and extracting them in one swift, clinical motion.

"This one's ready and vital," they say.

The doctor standing in front of you moves closer and sets a hand on your back, between your shoulderblades, and massages you in circular motions. It feels soothing. You're still so pliant, even as the drugs are beginning to wear off. They haven't administered any more gas, and you think you would've noticed if they had stuck you with an injection. Whatever they're using you for now, they seem to want you conscious.

The doctor massaging your back with his palm lowers both of his hands to your tits, uncupping the pumps from your nipples and taking them aside to a cart outside your limited view. Your eyes follow his feet as he walks away, a disappointed groan caught in your throat. If you really wanted to, with some effort, you could probably lift your head. But what would be the use? Upon reflection, you can't tell whether that was a remnant of the drugs talking or just the way you're accustomed to thinking now.

Being kept nude at all times, half conscious, and suspended in a constant state of pleasure made it hard to resist letting yourself succumb to eroticism overtaking your every thought. All the hormone-addled bliss, you think, must be altering your brain chemistry.

You can't imagine returning to a life outside of this. The thought of being used like this, pumped full of organisms to incubate between having your brains fucked out, makes you feel like you could be content with living this way forever. Docile, useful, and tended-to. Everything a good test subject could want.

You're taken from your reverie by an odd sensation. There are gloved fingertips at your opening again, pressing into the walls of your vagina with purpose and diligence. Then, in goes a thick dollop of something slick and warm, the experimenter behind you giving your insides a thorough coating of the stuff, working it deep into the tissue of your pussy.

When they finished, they began to rub your clit with one hand. With the other, they felt around some more inside of you, going deep and eliciting a weak moan from you--one of the first sounds you've made in what's felt like days.

Before you can react, the hand inside of you is replaced by an instrument. It feels long, entering you to your very depths, and wide as it slides inside of you. The person at your rear keeps fingering your clit in rhythmic swipes, made all the smoother by the lubricant and fluid from your cunt still covering their gloved hand. So messy, you think, but looking down at the sterile floor, you reckon that none of the experimenters care about mess. The results of their research are all that matter to them. Your pleasure is merely a result.

After some indistinct chatter from the still-present doctor, you feel the device inside your pussy begin to stretch, expanding the channel to your cervix like a speculum. You'd had pap smears before, you think, but none felt quite as good as this. Whatever was in that lube they put inside of you, you think it must be doing something to your nerves down there, something to make them relax. When the expansion stops, you feel wider than you had previously thought (comfortably) possible. Unable to stop yourself from closing your eyes to rest in the thrall of serene arousal, you relax again even as another new sensation is introduced to you.

Something smooth and warm is pressed against your clit, the hand stroking you off now engaging something with a click before the object at your lips begins to vibrate. The sound is unmistakably enhanced by the echo of wetness, the vibrational hum seeming to gargle as your cunt hungrily oozes onto the tool. The ministrations are starting to make your toes twitch and curl, your thighs tense as they flex. More lucid now than you have been, you hope this continues. You have to cum.

Giving a pathetic wriggle, you make an attempt to back yourself into the vibrations as they begin to rapidly intensify, but your massive pregnant belly anchors you into your position on the bench.

Your own body weighs you down as you try to writhe with the shock of stimulation to your clit as the vibrations' frequency maxes out, the tool splattering some of your slick fluids. You feel drops of it pepper the inner sides of your spread legs as the experimenter continues to rub it into you, as if trying to squeeze an orgasm out of you after pumping the milk from your tits.

And not all of it, it seems. As hot tension starts to accumulate in your lower half, you realize that your tits have begun to leak. Beading at your nipples, milk has started dripping from you, the liquid falling onto the floor below. Another two experimenters--assistants, from what you can see of their scrub-clad legs--approach you from either side and cup each of your tits in their gloved hands.

Sighing, you let your head relax to the side. The scientists paw and squeeze at your breasts, the asynchronous kneading making your whole body feel like it's being reduced to its base components: supple flesh, tender muscle, and impulses of pure ecstacy. Milk sprays in thin jets from your teets as both assistants extract it from you, letting it culminate on the floor in a white puddle. You've realized, now, that you're moaning. A thin strand of drool escapes your lips and plummets downward, too, joining the rest of your expelled fluids on the floor.

You don't have time to think about what a waste it is for them to spend your precious milk like this as you become enraptured by a build-up you've been waiting so long for; the hand holding the vibrator to your clit grinds its surface against you in sequence, your legs and hips twitching with all the strength they can muster as your body is racked by the orgasm the experimenters are forcing out of you. You shudder and tremble, your cunt dripping with your own cum. But, curiously, the tension in your lower half has only increased.

You feel a piercing inside of you and, suddenly, you listen as an even more impressive amount of fluid rushes out of your pussy, running onto the floor with a sharp splat. You tense as the painful waves of a cramp overwhelm you.

Your skin is beginning to perspirate, your breath coming in automatic huffs. The experimenters' voices become like white noise all around you as they give other instructions.

"Get it into stance," one of them says, strapping something wide around the small of your back, fastening you to the bench.

Before you know it, the device in your cunt is extracted and your limbs are strapped down as the doctor reclines you, positioning your body in an upright squat.

Your body is not your own, your movements not your own, but all the same you feel the contractions as your womb opens. You groan and whine with every breath out. The offspring inside of you are coming to life, massive and squirming like mad as they fight to worm through your cervix.

You wince and cry out, something in your mind switching as the first of your brood descend your birth canal. It's different from the drugs these doctors and scientists have given you before; it's real, unlike the dreamlike haze you've been kept in. It's euphoric and grounded, the ache inside of you triggering something in the depths of your mind. An instinct. Your pelvic muscles contract between stretches of numbness that seem to warm you from within.

You strain and moan, never once shedding a tear, sweat dampening your skin, your hair, running down the crook of your neck and the side of your brow. You know human childbirth is supposed to be painful but, though this ordeal still hurts, you become aware of the fact that it hurts a lot less than you imagined it would.

One of the assistants moves between your legs and brings the vibrator to your clit once again, the rush causing you to pant and huff between moans. Another positions a sterile tub between your legs. Between the dawning realization of your purpose as a specimen breeder, the sensation of your progeny being born, and the intense vibrations being rubbed up against your sensitive nub, you feel another orgasm overpower you.

There's the sound of a dull, wet smack as two creatures, thick, sluglike, and covered in mucus, emerge from your throbbing pussy and land in the basin beneath you. You gasp, vocalizing again. The experimenters do nothing to stop you from howling like an animal as the next pair of spawn free themselves from your womb, eager to come out.

Aside from groping your body to coax the process along, the scientists don't provide you with any words of encouragement or praise. You're their specimen, too.

You shout as two more newborn creatures emerge from you. The assistants re-attach the pumps to your tits and you let your head fall back, as far as it can while you're strapped to this bench.

Every breath you take is punctuated by your moans of pleasure through the ache of every contraction. Your body continues to sweat and tremble.

Another is born into the tub, then two more. With your still-swollen belly, you wonder how many of them are left inside of you. You can feel them, making your guts flutter as they struggle to find your cervix. Your womb urges them along, downward, coming one at a time, now.

By the time the last of them is born, the tub is full of your impregnator's spawn and your body is worn ragged. Your head is drenched in sweat. The room is thick with your musk, a hot and sweet aroma, the clean, organic smell of fluid from your cunt--and maybe, if you were still a human being who cared about social etiquette, you might have found that thought disgusting. But you are so much more than a human now. You are an incubator. A breeder. A body of organs and vital systems to bring fascinating specimens like these creatures into the world.

When you have finally caught your breath, the assistants unhook you from the cups affixed to your tits, lowering you carefully from the upright bench. You are still awake, now, but weak and spent.

As the scientists place you on your back, atop a contraption you'd describe as a cross between a wheelchair and a gurney, you turn your head as they move you to catch a glimpse of the creatures you've just birthed. They were striped with many colors and adorned with strange frills along the sides of their thick bodies, each of them wriggling as the assistants placed them into lidded vats of water on a cart.

You are wheeled out of the room, the air flowing over your sweating, naked body cooling your skin as you murmur nonsense to yourself, tiny little moans, while you anticipate what's next to come for you.

Your tits jiggle with each door way you pass through, the bedded cart they're wheeling you around in jostling as it rolls over the door jambs embedded in the floor.

"Mmm," you sigh, still feeling the ache in your abdomen from your satisfying birth.

When they finally wheel you into a room, your eyes are closed and your breathing is level. They pick you up again by the arms and legs, placing you flat on your back across an exam table. Two assistants at your legs place your ankles into low stirrups to keep your knees apart. Without preamble, a doctor places their hands on you and kneads your belly with a good deal of weight behind his palms.

You grunt, almost numb to anything but pressure, as they continue. Moments after one of the assistants between your legs has placed a bedpan under your ass, you hear something slosh out of you and into the enamel basin. It exits you like a deep breath, and you're not sure what it is until you overhear the scientists refer to it as an amniotic egg sac.

You can feel yourself drifting off on the exam table, the scientists' voices drifting out of focus as you began losing consciousness and falling into a deep sleep.

The exhaustion is almost pleasurable, the deep stiffness in your muscles as you rest serving as a reminder of your body's new, purely biological purpose. Breed, incubate, birth. You belong to this cycle now. There is no purpose higher than the one you're fulfilling now.

When next you awaken, you are inside of another cubicle... or, perhaps it would be more accurate to call this a pod. It encases you closely, the bed beneath you soft and comforting, a firm support under your back and neck to cradle your spine. This is much larger than your old cubicle. This pod fits your entire body, head to toe, laying on your back.

There are breast pumps affixed to your nipples, greedily suckling the milk from your tits as you rest. Above you is a shield, like a lid, that covers your pod. Though it is lightly fogged by the warmth of your body heat, it does not obscure the masked face of a doctor peering in at you with a clipboard in his hand. You struggle to keep your eyes open, still waking from your nap, but you can see that he is reaching into the pod via a port near your waist.

The port, you observe, is a hole equipped with an arm-length glove attached to it from the inside. There is another on the opposite side, the glove of which is tucked into the port to keep it from laying over your body when not in use.

The doctor's hand fills the black rubber glove as you watch him, almost mesmerized. He places his hand on your stomach, the swelling of your pregnant belly now gone. You can't know for certain how long ago you'd given birth, only that your womb was empty now.

He puts some pressure on you, feeling around on your abdomen until he reaches your pubic mound. He stops there, massaging you in deep circles with his fingers. You let your head fall back, no longer watching him now, as he moves lower and lower, slipping two fingers easily into your pussy. His thumb stays anchored on your clitoris, circling it as his fingers prod around inside of you, checking for tender spots. Your eyes were just beginning to roll back when he suddenly stopped.

When he removes his hand, taking most of the length of the glove with it as he abandons the port, you complain quietly with a disappointed groan.

You don't have to be disappointed for long, however. You know this rest period is only temporary now. They will have you back in your cubicle as soon as they're ready to use you again. Because you are a very good test subject.