Chapter Text
I wonder what you're thinking the first time you step into the waiting room of the Human Fertility Project's Wellness Lab, a crumpled flier clutched tightly in your grip.
What kind of expectations do you have as you sink into a chair, your gaze darting nervously around the otherwise empty room?
Are you oblivious to the reality of what you're walking into, just as you're oblivious to the eyes already watching you through a one-way mirror and several hidden cameras?
Probably. Our test subjects rarely notice.
A smile plays on my lips as I idly tap a stylus against the datapad holding your electronic intake forms, silently sizing you up through the screen. I can practically taste your naivety, your desperate need for a few extra bucks. Based on the questionnaire you've already filled out, I know that you're a college sophomore who's a long way from home, working part-time to help pay for a liberal arts degree. Based on the way you slump and curl in on yourself, you seem like the shy, quiet type who's unlikely to put up much of a fuss in the face of low-key discomfort.
And honestly? Those qualities make you the perfect candidate for my current project.
So I stand, grab my tablet, and stride out of my office to greet my newest test subject.
Anyone who works in a STEM field knows how inundated it is with committee politics, paperwork, and more ethical red tape than you can shake a stick at. But here, in the glass-walled sanctum of HFP Biocontainment Facility 9 (publicly known as the "Wellness Lab"), I've finally found a place to call home. Here, I have near-total freedom to run whatever trial I can justify—so long as it's remotely connected to reproduction, and so long as any blunders aren’t too expensive to clean up. Here, I'm more than just a cog in a corporate wheel; I'm a pioneer, a fearless innovator, with access to some of the most cutting-edge research and tech in the world.
It's a dream come true for a bright guy who'd graduated in the bottom third of his med school class and got thrown out of his first postdoc for "unprofessional conduct," a flimsy excuse for little more than academic prejudice. My teachers and peers never even tried to understand my nuances. What's wrong with striving for a more… personal touch?
But I'm not bitter. No, how could I be, when the HFP scooped me up and essentially handed me a blank check to aid humanity while broadening the horizons of my own intellectual curiosity? The rest of the field is free to tangle themselves up in all that bureaucracy, while I enjoy the fruit of more unfettered work.
Considering what I've already got planned for you, I'm eager to get started.
You start slightly as I approach, my lab coat billowing around me as I extend a hand. "Welcome, welcome," I say, keeping my voice at the perfect balance of professionalism and friendliness. "You must be here for the PureGlow Trial."
"Yeah," you mumble, hesitating for only a moment before reaching out to accept my handshake. Your eyes widen a little at the strength of my grip, held just firm enough and just a bit too long to reinforce who is in control.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, releasing you and gesturing for you to follow. "My name is Dr. Jack Mayer. I've already reviewed your forms, and I believe you'll be a great fit for the clinical trial I'm leading. How about you come with me while I give you a quick tour and share a little more information about the project?"
You're quick to obey, grabbing your backpack and trailing after me as I lead you down one of the Wellness Lab's broad, sunlit hallways. "Most people think of the Human Fertility Project as a pharmaceutical company," I say, glancing over my shoulder to catch your wide-eyed gawking at our pristine surroundings. "But really, our mission is much broader. We're innovators—explorers, even. And lately, we've been pioneering exciting new approaches to reproductive health and related aesthetic therapies. That's where folks like you come in."
You grunt something that might be a question, or maybe just an acknowledgment, so I don't slow down. Your worn sneakers squeak on the polished floor, betraying each nervous adjustment of your stride. As we pass an alcove, I see your gaze snag on a floor-to-ceiling poster: a glowing, radiant woman, her belly perfectly round, her skin photoshopped into luminous oblivion.
I pause to let you get a closer look. "As you probably already know," I continue, "pregnancy has some positive side effects, including increased blood flow that can leave one's skin brighter, plumper, and overall more youthful in appearance. It's just, well, not everyone wants to actually be pregnant, do they?"
You shake your head in clear agreement, your lips pursing at the thought.
"That's where my research comes in—I'm searching for cosmetic alternatives that give similar effects without the consequences of bringing a new human into the world." I keep my tone bright and casual as we resume walking, as if we're simply two peers discussing a group project, not a human research subject being ushered into the unknown. "In fact, I'll be personally overseeing your participation, so I guarantee you're in good hands. All you really need to do is submit to a simple procedure, then return to the facility for a few check-ups over the course of the trial. Should be quick and easy 'work' for a student like you, and you get to walk away with a few hundred bucks."
You give a faint, nervous laugh. "That, uh, sounds good. I'm up to try just about anything, as long as there's no actual pregnancy involved." You raise a hand to shield your eyes from a blinding patch of sunlight refracting through the nearby windows. "I've just… never done anything like this before."
"Not to worry; medical trials aren't the sort of thing that usually requires experience." I extend my arm in a practiced flourish, inviting you to continue following me down a side corridor. "Now, if I haven't scared you off yet, I'd love to introduce you to the star of my current project."
This hallway isn't as open as the others, and the only light available comes from overhead panels that cast both of us in a clinical glow. After passing a series of doors, each marked with a vivid red light, we finally come across one lit in green. "Right this way," I say, tapping my badge to open the door with a quiet beep.
I gesture you into a compact examination room. An exam table sits in the middle, topped with a faux-leather pad, and against the opposite wall lies a glossy black counter bearing a rectangular glass tank. A faint blue glow emanates from the tank, casting an almost aquatic shimmer across the walls and ceiling. Inside, a gelatinous creature undulates slowly through the water, its core pulsing with concentric rings of blue-green radiance. "This," I say with no small amount of pride, "is an Aurelia Slime."
You freeze, seemingly transfixed by the sight, your jaw working silently as you struggle to make sense of the odd little creature. "Is it—it's alive?" you finally manage to say, eyes darting from the lazy throb of its body to me and back. I can see your mind racing, a hint of apprehension already draining the color from your face, but you clamp it down with impressive discipline.
"Very much so, though it's not sentient in any meaningful way," I say, delighted by your visceral reaction. "Aurelia Slimes are a recent HFP acquisition, something we haven't revealed to the public yet, and totally new to the realm of modern science. Technically, they're neither plant nor animal, but something of a cross between the two. Fascinating, right?" I step close to the tank, tapping a nail against the glass. The slime responds by flexing a delicate tendril toward me, the tip splitting into three thinner ones before retreating back into the mass of its jelly.
I watch your gaze flick from the swaying, pulse-lit mass to the large assortment of medical equipment scattered around the room. Your faint shiver of discomfort doesn't go unnoticed. "I assure you, the slimes are perfectly harmless."
"And… what exactly does that slime thing have to do with the trial?"
Your eyes keep darting back to the tank. You swallow hard. I let the silence stretch before answering, enjoying the thrill of power that rises at your growing anxiety. "The substance I need for the next stage of the trial is created by these slimes after they've had extensive contact with human tissue," I finally explain, smiling with practiced reassurance. "Once harvested, I believe it can be applied to enhance the skin's natural radiance—essentially a temporary, non-hormonal version of the 'pregnancy glow'."
You nod, the effort visible in your trembling jaw, but even as you look away from the tank, your eyes catch on the pale teal light and the way it dapples your skin. "So you… inject it?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not quite." I reach to the counter and select a small, clear ampule, its contents swirling with faint bioluminescence. "It's more a matter of introducing a slime to a naturally occurring cavity in a willing host, where it can settle in and produce the compound. That way, you're inconvenienced as little as possible over the course of the trial."
You cringe at my words. I expect that you're imagining how it might feel to have something squirming around inside you, but you don't bolt, so I press on. "Since your intake form indicated that you still possess a uterus, you would be especially compatible. Now," I pause here, closing more of the distance between us to lay a soothing hand against your arm, "unless you've decided that you don't wish to participate, I want you to disrobe and take a seat on the examination table so we can proceed."
I watch with studied neutrality as you weigh my words, gnawing your lower lip, gaze darting from the ampule to the tank and back to the closed door. My presence is a subtle pressure all on its own, the weight of my lab coat and credentials hanging between us like an unspoken command. I see the calculation cross your face, the thought of that tempting stipend counterbalancing any worry sparked by the strange slime creature. Your tongue wets your lip, and for a moment, I almost expect you to take off. Instead, you bob your head, the motion jerky yet decisive, and say, "Yeah. Okay. Let's do this."
"Excellent." My smile is, I hope, comforting rather than the wolfish baring of teeth I feel inside. "I'll give you a bit of privacy. There's a gown over there; just undress and put that on, then hop up on the table. I'll be back in three minutes."
I wait until the door closes behind me before letting out a slow exhale, the anticipation I'm feeling both sweet and exhilarating. It only takes a few steps to bring me to the adjoining room, where a one-way mirror embedded in the wall offers me an unimpaired view of you, of the way you fumble off your hoodie and jeans and set them aside. You stare at your reflection in the mirror for a long beat, expression unreadable, unaware of your rapt audience.
Then you slip your shirt off and, after only a brief pause, peel away your binder and boxers.
Your body is a study in contradiction, an intriguing blend of the usual gender stereotypes that draws my eyes like a magnet. The binder hid a generous bulk of mammary tissue at your unaltered chest, and there's a hint of softness left at your hips despite your hormone therapy, but beneath it all is a scrappy, undeniable masculinity that I find far more compelling than the overly photoshopped models decorating the lobby. A faint smattering of hair dusts your pecs, trailing down to your navel and then still lower, where I can spy the dense thicket of curls that shrouds your sex.
Oh, you're exquisite.
All too soon, you're donning the paper gown with a kind of defiant efficiency, cinching it around your midsection as if to armor yourself for my return. Then you pivot with a visible sigh, padding across the tiled floor to hop up on the table, ignorant of how heavily my gaze caresses your buttocks.
I leave you waiting just long enough for your nerves to start catching up again, then slide back into the room after a sharp knock.
You're perched on the table when I return, a picture of resignation and bottled-up nerves. I settle onto a rolling stool and meet your eyes. "Everything alright?" I ask, even though it's clear that you're anything but relaxed; your fists are balled into the creases of the gown.
"Yeah," you say, unconvincingly.
"Great. I'm just going to do a quick, routine physical before we proceed. If anything feels uncomfortable, let me know."
It doesn't take long to check your blood pressure and listen to your chest while I rattle off a list of general intake questions. There's a precise pleasure in this kind of choreography, in knowing exactly how to touch someone, where to press, where to pause, and how long to hover at the boundary between necessary and gratuitous. I manage to 'accidentally' drag the stethoscope's cold rim across your areola while I work, then retrace the path with the warmth of my palm as though trying to compensate for the chill, catching the tip of your nipple as I go.
I watch your face for signs of protest the whole while, but you appear determined to be a good subject, still and compliant.
After finishing that perfunctory check, I drape the stethoscope around my collar, eyes never straying from your exposed chest. The gown is bunched at your waist now, offering me an unobstructed view of your tits—plush, a bit pendulous from binding, and dappled with peach fuzz. Your nipples are soft, but as the room's cool air continues its assault, they begin to tighten and pebble under my gaze.
I bring my hands to rest on your upper torso, the touch a mockery of clinical detachment. My thumbs circle slow, diagnostic patterns around each nipple, pressing into the underlying tissue. I feel the temptation to pinch, but I restrain myself and instead let my fingers drift lower, down to the subtle softness that still lingers at your waist. The heat of your skin radiates into my palms, and I'm acutely aware of your shallow, unsteady breathing.
"The texture and elasticity of your skin is about what I'd expect considering your testosterone use," I murmur, watching the color crawl higher on your cheeks. "I don't see anything that should negatively impact your participation in the study, if you're worried about that."
A little of the tension finally goes out of your shoulders. "Ah. Okay."
I hum encouragingly and continue to drag out my examination, content to let my hands wander for as long as I can. I note the faint sheen of sweat breaking out over your chest, the flush that rises and then stands its ground, refusing to recede. Then I let my fingers trail lower, rapping knuckles against your ribs before pressing them gently to your abdomen. "Lay back, please, with your arms at your sides."
You comply, the table creaking faintly when you shift your weight. I rub my hands together to warm them before lightly pressing my fingertips into your lower abdomen. My thumbs massage the pliant flesh just above your pelvic crest, while I scan your face for the slightest wince or flinch. The movement is so methodical, so adept, that anyone walking in might believe I am merely searching for potential issues.
Of course, the truth is not nearly as innocent. There's a high I get from the knowledge that I can touch someone like you, really touch you under the pretense of medical necessity, and you'll only swallow hard, maybe look at the wall, but you'll never say 'stop'.
I lift the gown higher, exposing your lower belly and the vulnerable skin just above your genitals. Testosterone has left your folds a little thicker than I'm used to seeing, and your clit is a couple of inches long and fetchingly flushed. The draw to toy with it is almost overpowering, to slide my fingers along the length of you and watch it stiffen, but for now, I refrain. Instead, I let my hands settle on your lower belly before sliding incrementally downward, closer but not close enough to touch.
Through it all, you don't protest, just gaze at the ceiling with your jaw tight and knuckles white against the edge of the exam table. Still so good. Still so obedient.
I let the silence hang between us, then clear my throat. "Everything looks to be in order. At this point, the next step is implantation." I keep my voice easygoing, almost offhand, as though this is nothing more complicated than a routine vaccination. "Just relax and part your legs for me, please."
Your eyes flicker with a brief moment of anxiety before you force yourself to comply, your knees slumping outward to reveal more of you to my view. Grabbing a latex glove from a nearby dispenser, I snap it onto my right hand, savoring the way you shiver at the sound.
The slime applicator is an elegant instrument, all smooth lines and medical-grade plastics despite its obvious resemblance to lewder implements. The long, flexible shaft ends in a widened tip, designed to deliver a single Aurelia Slime exactly where I want it. It only takes me a moment to lubricate the shaft and guide it into place, letting the tip nestle between your labia.
I don't bother to ask if you're ready before I continue.
After adding some pressure, the shaft slips inside with only the faintest resistance, your body falteringly welcoming me in. "There we go," I murmur, watching the applicator disappear into your depths, inch by delightfully captivating inch. The sight of you lying out like this, helpless and trusting, fills me with a heated sort of excitement. "You're doing great."
You exhale in a shaky, involuntary rush, your hips tensing, but you don't close your legs or try to stop me. You just lie there, accepting my attention.
Good.
You're staring at the ceiling like it's the only lifeline you have when I finally inject the slime deep into your waiting womb.