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HFP Side Projects: Specimen 4582

Commission for: @cosmic-kinks Rating: Explicit (dubcon sexual content) Word count: 7,076 Summary: You're a captive fairy being used in experiments to test fertility. You've carried eggs, bugs, slimes, and more. But now it's time to see if you can successfully reproduce with a homo sapiens—whatever that is. Transmasculine carrier, he/him pronouns.

Theme(s): NSFW, dubcon, non-human pregnancy, fairy pregnancy, size difference, micro kink, hyperpregnancy, light inflation (drugs and come), intoxication, aphrodisiacs, strong fetal movement, medical experimentation, urethral fucking (fairy to human), fingering, leaking amniotic fluid, immobilized by belly, labor suppression (drugs), lactation, mild breathing struggles (due to size difference)

Gendered anatomical language used for reader: cunt, folds, dick

Exists in the same universe as The Experiment series; parallel but separate.

"Good morning, little one. It's time to wake up."

You stretch your limbs, feeling soft fabric shift beneath you as the voice pulls you out of your reverie. Everything's fuzzy where you linger along the border of consciousness and sleep, and you want to resist the pull of growing awareness, but you can't doze forever.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find yourself staring up at the bars of a cage.

"There you are." The voice is calming, its low, masculine timbre peaceful. It's a familiar voice, one that you've grown used to hearing for… how long has it been? The weeks and months have flown by so fast that you're no longer sure.

You don't know his name. You only know him as the Researcher.

Rubbing at your eyes, you push yourself into a seated position, your wings fluttering behind you to work out the kinks of sleep. He's standing outside of your cage, an absolutely gargantuan figure of a human in comparison to your own two-foot height. He's holding some sort of board with a piece of paper clamped to it, and he seems to be taking notes as he observes you.

You'd think after all this time, he'd run out of things to write.

But then again, it feels like there's always something new happening with his work.

Your recollections of existing as a free fairy in the outside world feel like a fading dream these days, the forest where you grew up almost a distant memory. You'd only just reached maturity and struck out on your own, as your kind is wont to do, when you discovered what you now know to be a fairy trap: offerings of fresh fruit, honey, and milk laid out within a strange wire-wrapped box. You were cautious enough to examine the box with a critical eye and deem it harmless before venturing in, but all of the caution in the world meant nothing after the door snapped shut to trap you inside.

You remember hurting yourself in your panic, the cold iron of the wire burning your skin and delicate wings in your frantic struggle to escape. Then came a bright light, booming voices, pain, and then… nothing.

When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in this cage, with the Researcher at your side. It's been that way ever since.

You think there are others of your kind here in this place, somewhere. You hear them sometimes. But you've never seen them.

"It's time for your morning exam," the Researcher informs you, as dispassionate as always, his gloved hands unlatching the front of your cage. "And today's medicine. I've also got a treat for you if you're good. Will you be good for me today?"

You learned a few things of note early on in your captivity. First, that you were much better off cooperating than fighting back. The damaged ligaments of your wings, sliced with a surgeon's precision to leave you unable to bear your own weight during flight, are evidence enough of that. And second, while you are perfectly capable of speaking, the humans talk about a whole lot of things you don't understand and show no interest in actually listening to you. So, why bother trying to hold a conversation?

So you dutifully stand and stretch your arms wide, letting the Researcher's objective yet almost gentle touch flow over your nude body. He strokes over your extremities before working his way toward your torso, where he pauses to knead your faintly bloated pecs with both thumbs. The touch should disgust you, but after being subjected to it day in and day out, it's started to grow… oddly pleasant.

"Looks like the tissue here is still a little swollen from the last reproductive test," he murmurs to himself, the tips of his thumbs rubbing circles over your tightening nipples. You can't help but shiver at the sensation. "You might still have some milk in your ducts, which is surprising, considering that you last carried…" He glances at the paper he'd set aside before opening your cage. "Ah, yes, the modified larvae of Specimen 78251. Not exactly a creature known for nursing, but then your body doesn't know that, does it?"

It's impossible to forget those creatures, honestly. The large, worm-like things filled your belly to the limit, constantly squirming and writhing beneath your skin until slithering free of your womb during their inevitable birth.

His hands finally move lower to palpate the loose skin of your belly, covered with silvery stretch marks from all of the unnatural pregnancies you've had to endure since your capture. Some of them were easier than others; the slimes were chilly but extremely supple, while the hard shells of those mysterious eggs were uncomfortable but small enough to pass without too much trouble. You can't possibly remember everything that's been stuffed inside of you to gestate at this point, but it should be coming to an end soon.

The Researcher promised.

"Well, I have to say that you've recovered quite nicely. I believe that it won't be long until you're ready for the next step in our little experiment. Isn't that exciting?"

You stare up at him and shrug. What choice do you have?

"But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Medicine first, then a tasty little tidbit for being so cooperative." The Researcher finally lets go of you to retrieve a small tray covered in a variety of medical supplies, most of which you can't make heads or tails of. Thankfully, it doesn't appear that you'll be receiving an injection today, but the syringe filled with a pale pink liquid is all too familiar.

The Researcher seems to notice the hesitance on your face and smiles, the expression nearly genuine. "Remember, as long as you remain fully cooperative, we'll release you when we're done with our tests."

You sigh and open your mouth, resigned.

The nozzle slips easily between your lips and over your tongue. You watch the Researcher start to depress the plunger and instinctively begin to guzzle the medication, letting the cool, sweet-and-bitter fluid slide right down your throat. It's easier just to take it instead of fighting—the sore jaw and near-drowning associated with being forced to swallow are not experiences you wish to repeat.

If only there weren't so damned much of it. You gulp and gulp and gulp, feeling your belly start to fill and bulge from the sheer volume of the fluid. It's a struggle to get the last mouthful down, but you somehow manage without wasting any. You're left groaning, though, rubbing a soothing hand over your rounded gut as it twinges and burbles in protest.

"There you are. Good boy. Now sit down while I get you your treat."

You drop to your knees and then shift to your rump on the bottom of your cage, plucking idly at the soft fabric that lines it while you wait for the man to follow through. Already, you can feel the strange liquid starting to blur the edges of your vision and leave your thoughts a little woozy, but it's okay.

It's okay because good boys get honey.

He only gives you a tiny dollop, but that liquid gold might as well be the nectar of the gods to a fairy like you. You forget all about your aching tummy as you greedily devour your treat, grunting and moaning as you lick the small saucer clean of every remnant you can find. At one time, you might have been embarrassed for showing such enthusiasm, but your experiences in this place have leeched most of the shame from you. It's better to gobble down the good things when they come than do without.

The Researcher takes your saucer as soon as you've finished sniffing and lapping at the plastic dish, reluctantly accepting that there's no more honey to be had. You smile lopsidedly up at him, your thoughts muddled like he'd stuffed your head full of cotton.

He's so nice for taking care of you and giving you such nice things. So big and strong and sweet, almost as sweet as the honey.

You hear the sound of a pen scratching on paper, but it doesn't bother you. The honey and other substances flow through your veins like the pleasant buzz of alcohol, wicking away all of your worries and cares, until you inevitably find yourself slumping backward.

"Whoa there, little one," he chuckles. A large hand cups you from behind and slowly lowers you down so you don't hurt yourself.

Such a nice human. The tiny squeak of a hiccup leaves you giggling, though you giggle even harder when you realize it was you who made the sound. Your medicine always makes you feel so silly. So silly and… and… warm. And fuzzy.

You hum happily to yourself, mindlessly sprawling across the fabric like a starfish.

You're so out of sorts that you don't even react to the sound of rasping metal or the stroke of something firm and slick between your legs. Something's happening, something that you probably should be concerned about, but your mind is shrouded in a pink, swirling haze of bliss.

There's… something rubbing against you. Something that feels good.

You whimper and wriggle your hips in search of a bit more friction.

"Does that feel pleasant, little one?" the Researcher asks, his voice sounding like it's coming from somewhere unexpectedly far. The rubbing between your legs continues, eased by some unknown fluid. "Would you like me to continue?"

Your chin bounces in an eager nod.

"Ah ah, I'm going to need you to use your words," he clucks, pulling that wonderful pressure away and leaving you whining. "I know you can speak."

You don't want to. If he's not going to help, then you'll just do it yourself. Eagerly spreading your knees apart, you slide a hand down over your belly and dip your fingers into the hollow void that demands to be filled. You're impossibly wet, your dick already erect and throbbing above your folds, and–

But then there's pressure at your wrists, tugging your arms away. You let out a petulant moan, thrashing against the cruel hold.

"What did I say? Speak for me."

These humans are heartless creatures, dragging you away from the pleasure your body so desperately needs. But you also really need that whatever-it-is back between your thighs before you simply explode. "Yes," you bawl, too strung out to see more than a blur of color where his face probably is. "I need it!"

"There's my good boy." And just like that, the wet friction is back.

It swirls around your straining dick and along the seam of your wet opening, spreading your juices around to make the slide even easier. You can't tell what exactly it is –a finger, perhaps, or some sort of tool– but it's difficult to care when you're in this state. When all you want is to feel something breach you and fill you up. To drive rhythmically into your body until that strange heat is sated.

Your hips drunkenly undulate, hoping against hope that whatever the Researcher is teasing you with might finally slip inside, but no matter how hard you grind down on it, it seems like it's simply too big to fit.

It's not until you're practically sobbing with frustration that the human changes the angle of his assault, and suddenly you feel your dick sink into a warm, wet recess. Your hips buck again, feeling yourself sink into that opening like it's been made for you to fuck. You're not sure what it is, but it feels incredible.

Sniveling from the sheer overpowering rapture of it, you find yourself clawing at the floor of your cage while you squirm, your hips rocking up in jerky, irregular thrusts. You need more of that squeeze around you, sucking you in, soft and warm and slick. The pressure, the friction, the way your dick throbs with every movement—it's doing something to your addled mind, making you lose yourself in the pleasure of it. You shove harder, your breath coming in short, frenzied gasps.

And then your orgasm slams into you, so intense that you find your vision blurring even more. You cry out, your body shuddering through the violence of it, your dick pulsing vainly inside that tight, wet space.

But things don't end immediately after your climax. Whatever-it-is pushes firmly against your ravenous cunt—not hard enough to enter you, but firmly enough to seal the opening of your hole over the tip.

There's a deep, groaning sort of grunt in a voice that's not your own.

Liquid heat floods your belly, forcing the skin of your abdomen to jerk and swell, until it's stretched painfully tight.

And then, your vision finally goes dark.

"Good morning, little one. It's time to wake up."

You stretch your limbs, groaning at the pressure and soreness that grows with each passing day. It's started to make it hard to get a full night's sleep, and you're exhausted.

But the Researcher's soothing voice keeps you tethered at the edge of consciousness.

"Specimen 4582 is progressing well through the twentieth week of gestation. The hybrid fetus is smaller than what might be expected for a cross with homo sapiens, but it is within acceptable estimates considering its progenitors." Familiar fingers rub over your bulging middle and begin fondling it in a clinical yet surprisingly thorough manner. "An ultrasound has not yet been conducted, but a manual exam reveals that the fetus is likely around the size of a lemon."

Your mind isn't awake enough to try and grasp the meaning behind his words, not that many of them make sense to you anyway. Instead, you let out a whine of displeasure, trying to shift away from that uncomfortable touch.

"There's no way to tell how long this pregnancy will need to progress to reach viability. We do not yet have enough data to determine how long creatures of this sort typically gestate their natural young. Experiments with other specimens have been inconclusive in this area. With that in mind, it appears to be a reasonable hypothesis to infer that this point could occur anywhere up to the usual nine-month mark."

You manage to crack your eyes open, squinting up at the man who is still talking into a little metal box and rolling your tender belly around under his fingers like a tennis ball.

"However, considering the rapid growth of Specimen 4582 thus far–"

Finally reaching the limits of your patience, you growl and smack warningly at the human's fingers, though you have enough sense to keep your claws sheathed.

"Ah, the specimen is awake. Voice log to be concluded later." You hear a click.

"Was that too much stimulation, little one?" His touch gentles and slows until it grows pleasant again, and you no longer feel the instinctive urge to bite. "I'm sorry. I forget how sensitive you're getting sometimes."

You huff in annoyance but otherwise allow him to continue caressing your swollen womb. It can be comforting as long as he's careful.

"Your belly is starting to get rather big, you know. Such a pretty little thing. But you've got a long way to go, so you simply must refrain from being so frisky. Otherwise, I may have to restrain you for your own good."

Restraints. The thought of being tied up in this state fills you with fear, and you can't choke back the whimper that rises in your throat.

"Shh, shh, little one. It's okay. I just don't want you to come to any harm." The Researcher's fingers come up to stroke the line of your jaw, a pale imitation of a lover's touch. "It's my job to look out for your well-being. Why don't you relax for me?"

Then he does something he's never done before. The Researcher leans down and presses his lips to your bulging middle, the touch soft and warm against your straining skin. It's almost affectionate.

A confused breath shudders its way out of your lungs. All you can do is nod.

He's still kissing your abdomen when you feel the warm, blunt tip of one of his fingers nudge its way between your legs. "We're going to try something different today," he murmurs, petting your sensitive flesh. "Since you'll be giving birth to something a bit larger than you have before, I need to make sure you're well-prepared. Will you let me take care of that for you?"

You swallow, your thoughts racing. You have no idea what he's put inside your womb this time, but you do know that you need to cooperate if you ever want this to end. Cooperation means freedom. So, while your instincts beg you to remain wary, you glance up at the Researcher through your lashes and give an uncertain nod.

"Wonderful," the human says with a faint smile, already reaching for something you can't see. There's a sharp pop, a bit of movement, and the Researcher's slick-coated finger is back between your thighs. It's cool, but something about the liquid leaves your skin tingling in a very agreeable way.

Maybe it's the near-constant stream of medicine flowing through your veins. Maybe you've simply been conditioned to react to his touch. Regardless of the reason behind it, you find faint sparks of pleasure starting to rise beneath his finger, the friction and pressure teasing your reluctant nerves alight.

The Researcher slowly circles your entrance, the deliberate pressure just enough to make your hips twitch. You bite down on your lower lip, trying to stifle the soft sound that threatens to escape.

Then his finger presses inside of you, and your back arches off the cage floor. You're no stranger to this part of you being stretched, not when you've already given birth to eggs, bugs, and slimes, but this feels different, somehow. Maybe it's the way he's watching you so intently, or maybe it's the mystery of having no idea what's gestating in your womb. Whatever it is, it makes your pulse pick up like the beat of a drum, your chest rising and falling with shallow, panting breaths.

You lie there as he works his finger deeper, the slick glide smooth and unhurried. It's a tight fit—you're not built to take something this big, and the Researcher knows it, but the knowledge doesn't seem to slow him down. Your body clenches instinctively around his fingertip, and he hums softly with a sound that might be approval. His other hand shifts to your hip, holding your body steady as he starts to move with more confidence. In and out, each thrust as deliberate and measured as the next.

Sensation builds quickly, causing heat to pool low in your belly. You can feel every wrinkle of the strange white glove he wears, every subtle shift of his finger as it drives and curls inside of you. Your maimed wings quiver at your back, a telltale sign of your growing arousal, and you can't stop the small moan that slips past your lips.

"Good," he murmurs again, his voice a low rumble that's unlike any your kind makes. "You're taking me so well."

The Researcher's pace quickens slightly, the rhythm of his thrusts becoming more insistent. Your hands tangle in the fabric that covers the floor of your cage, your knuckles turning white as you tighten your grip, pleasure coiling within you like a spring. His fingertip nudges against a particularly sensitive spot that makes you gasp, and your hips buck wantonly against his hand.

"There it is," he says, almost to himself. You have no idea what he's looking for or what it does, but he seems to focus on that spot anyway with each precise, unrelenting movement, even if you can barely take him to the first knuckle. The pressure of your lust builds deep in your core until it's almost unbearable, your body trembling with the need for release.

"Please," you whisper, though you're not sure what exactly you're asking for. For more? Faster? Harder? For freedom from this near-torturous pleasure?

He doesn't respond, but his finger doesn't stop either. He just keeps driving it into you, rocking your tiny body with the force of every shove. You're left staring sightlessly up at the ceiling of your cage, gasping, panting, whimpering, until finally, the tension just snaps.

You cry out, feeling an orgasm quake through your body and shake you to your very foundations. Convulsing, your cunt clenches around his finger like a vise.

The Researcher keeps moving through it, drawing out your orgasm until you're shaking and mewling with overstimulation. Only then does he withdraw the digit from your well-fucked hole, the sudden emptiness making you sob. Your vision wavers as you watch him step back, peeling off the glove with a practiced motion and tossing it away.

"That was adequate, at least for now," he says, reaching for the board and paper again. "We'll continue further preparations tomorrow."

You don't have the energy to respond. Your body feels heavy, your mind a haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure. But as the Researcher's footsteps fade, you can't help but wonder what he might have in store for you next.

"–wake up."

No. You just want to sleep. You have just enough freedom of movement to sort of curl up around your increasingly ungainly abdomen, yawning and trying to ignore the voice.

It's been so hard to sleep lately as the offspring in your womb continues to grow. You've never seen a pregnant fairy get as large as you are before; your belly is far too massive to allow you to move with any ease. But with your offspring's increased size comes more activity. It started out as faint flutters, like tiny butterflies flying around in your stomach. Now, every time whatever you're carrying shifts or kicks, it's enough to shake your whole body.

"Specimen 4582 has reached the thirtieth week of gestation. The hybrid fetus remains active and seemingly healthy. A recent ultrasound shows that the fetus is approximately the size of a cantaloupe and could weigh as much as a pound, which is impressive considering that the pre-pregnancy weight of Specimen 4582 was recorded at approximately eight pounds."

You crack your eyes open to peek at your belly. You have no idea what a cantaloupe is, but it must be enormous.

As you watch, the hot, red skin of your abdomen starts to ripple and contort. You stare in hazy fascination while the life within you shifts—a new being gestating within your body like you're little more than a fleshy sack.

The thought should probably bother you more than it does.

"In order to make the pregnancy more… tolerable for the subject, I have been administering a daily dose of a synthetic methamphetamine to stimulate their libido upon waking, as well as a daily tocolytic to prevent pre-term labor. So far, there have been no negative side effects."

There's a faint pinch and then a sting in your arm. You grumble, wishing he'd not bother you with his senseless babble or by filling you with medicine when you're so tired, but you know better than to move until the needle slides free.

The offspring inside of you jolts and starts to squirm like it's been energized by whatever he's pushed into your veins. Wide-eyed, all you can do is gape at the sight of your skin as it starts to stretch and expand around spindly limbs. Your belly shudders like it has a mind of its own, clearly agitated. Not for the first time, you wonder what they've put inside of you.

But the contents of your womb are not all that the medicine stimulates.

The Researcher's voice drones on as liquid heat starts to spread through your gravid form. It's subtle at first, almost something you can ignore, but it flares brighter and hotter with each passing minute. It's getting harder to breathe, your breath coming in short, heavy pants, and an unnatural flush feels like it's on the cusp of setting your skin afire.

But it's nothing compared to the ember of lust that bursts to life between your thighs.

The background noise dies out, and the next thing you know, the Researcher's voice is much closer. "Oh, you poor thing," he whispers in a syrupy-sweet voice as he strokes your writhing abdomen. "My apologies for leaving you in such a state. Let me fix that."

Between the restraints and the massive size of your pregnant belly, there's not much you can do to avoid his attention, even if you want to. You're suspended in a medical hammock that cradles your ever-growing form without forcing you to lie flat, your legs and feet dangling free while your useless wings hang limp. The device puts you roughly at the same level as his belt buckle, a fact that doesn't mean much to you until you realize that he's opening the front of his pants to dip a hand inside.

Oh.

Your mouth falls open in wonder as you watch him free his cock and begin to stroke it, the flesh gradually beginning to plump and rise before your gaze. It's just as huge as the rest of him, and you know for a fact that there's no place in your body where that could possibly fit.

Gods. It's a good thing it can't fit, too, because otherwise, he might be able to plant his seed in your belly and get you pregnant. The possibility is horrifying.

There's no way you can carry a human child!

"Don't worry, little one, I'm not going to pierce you with this, no matter how much we'd both like that," he chuckles, completely ignorant of your growing panic. "Unfortunately, you're just too small for such things right now. But that doesn't mean that I can't help you in other ways."

He slides a crooked finger up along the cleft between your legs, gathering the fluids that have already begun to leak out of you on the tip of his finger. It's just enough of a touch to steal your breath and make your back arch as you let out a high-pitched whimper.

Your mind isn't sure that it wants this, but your body sure as hells does.

"That's right, just relax." The swell of your wriggling belly blocks you from seeing most of his movements, but it doesn't do anything to stop the pleasure that's starting to curl in your core. The Researcher's fingertip circles around the straining nub of your dick, making it rise eagerly from its nest among your folds. "We both know how much of an insatiable little thing you are when your womb is full, and it's going to help you feel so much better if you let me take care of you."

You don't understand why this is happening, why your body reacts so intensely, why this alien touch makes you feel so good, but it does. Curling your fists over the straps that keep the hammock suspended, you can't stop your hips from canting up to meet the pressure and grinding into his finger, not any more than you can stop the hiccuping mewl of pleasure that it wrings out of you.

"Good boy," the Researcher says, helping himself to a fresh batch of slick before his strokes begin moving faster and with more focus.

It's… it's too much. The heat blazing through your body burns with a fury that wipes your mind of any coherent thought. All you are in this moment is a being of lust whose fires are being stoked out of control. You writhe and cry out, needing more, harder, inside–

"Let's hear you come for me."

You hear his words, and you feel his finger slide into you and drive deep, and you shatter into stardust.

All you can do in the wake of your orgasm is hang there and gasp frantically for breath as he rubs his hard shaft against your belly, until your skin is painted with something warm and wet.

Sleep is fitful when it comes these days.

You feel like you're constantly hovering in a state of semi-lucidity, spending more time dozing than you do awake. And even your waking hours remain hazy, shadowed by the inexplicable lust that seems to dog your every moment.

Someone is talking. There's a familiar pinch. You struggle back to awareness.

"Specimen 4582 has reached the thirty-third week of gestation. The health and activity levels of the hybrid fetus remain within the expected parameters. Yesterday's ultrasound showed that the fetus has grown to roughly the size of a head of cauliflower."

A warm palm comes to rest against your abdomen, curling appraisingly over the tight dome. A thumb rubs almost affectionately over the stretch marks littering your once-pristine skin before circling the bulge of your popped navel.

"While the restraints are no longer necessary due to the subject's size reaching a state that leaves them immobile, I have elected to continue using them, as well as the tocolytic, to reduce the symptoms of false or pre-term labor. I remind the board that it is imperative to my research that Specimen 4582 gestates their offspring for as close to the term of a normal homo sapiens pregnancy as possible."

The distended spheroid of your pregnant abdomen hangs heavily before you, every movement of your hybrid child visible through the veil of your skin. It's been stretched so tight at this point that it's practically translucent, a sheer, paper-thin layer of flesh decorated by a delicate network of blood vessels. When the light hits your skin the right way, you can see a dark shape shifting within—undoubtedly humanoid and very, very large.

There's nothing 'normal' about your pregnancy.

But despite your apprehension, the heat at your core is rising again, twisting under your skin and leaving you squirming. It feels wrong, but you find yourself almost craving what you know will come next.

"I have also decided to employ manual techniques to prepare the subject's body for the upcoming birth. Further details will be listed in my written reports."

His hand drifts lower, cupping momentarily beneath your overgrown belly before a finger nudges purposefully between your legs.

You barely even hesitate before pulling them further apart.

Your body is clearly ready for him, if the slick dripping down your thighs is any indication. The tip of his finger is blunt but thick as it circles your opening, teasing, pressing lightly—just not nearly enough. Your feet and toes curl as you try to thrust your hips greedily toward his touch, as if you could somehow force the finger deeper out of sheer need. But unfortunately for you, you lack the strength necessary to shift the weight of your ponderous abdomen.

He's completely ignoring your dick right now, but you can feel the pulse of your heartbeat throbbing through the erect flesh. Gods, this isn't fair.

"Take it easy, little one," the Researcher gently murmurs, another muted push leaving you moaning in frustration. "Think of the baby."

But you can't think of the baby, not when every nerve ending in your body is screaming to feel him inside of you. You can't think about your captivity, or your strange compliance, or his broken promises of release. You can't think of anything but more and harder and now now now–

One hand grips you through the hammock, steadying your form, while a finger of the other finally plunges into you.

You howl.

It's big, almost too big, that foreign intrusion into your most secret place. But your desperate body still welcomes it in with a wet squelch and tries to swallow it whole. Your eyes roll back in your head, wide yet unseeing, every shred of your consciousness narrowing down on the single point of mind-melting lust between your legs.

"That's good," the Researcher says, sliding his finger in to the second knuckle. "Look how well you take it."

It's not like you have a choice when your body burns and aches for it with a fervor that threatens to drive you mad. Half keening, half sobbing, you throw your head back and buck your hips as best you can under your abdomen's hefty weight, every bit the picture of mindless lasciviousness.

Unperturbed by its parent's torment, the child in your womb turns and kicks, tenting your delicate skin over a not-so-tiny heel. It's strong enough to be uncomfortable, to even leave the overtaxed skin burning a little.

The Researcher's finger crooks and hits something just right.

And just like that, you shatter again.

You're leaking.

Your chest aches from the burgeoning pressure of glands swollen with milk for a yet-unborn child, but every brush of your nipples sends a thrilling spark of pleasure through your body.

"Specimen 4582 has reached the thirty-sixth week of gestation. The hybrid fetus shows no signs of health issues, and ultrasounds indicate it has reached approximately the size of a honeydew melon. While we are still a week away from the typical period when labor can be expected to begin, my estimations calculate that the fetus is taking up an increasingly high percentage of the subject's total body mass, so some symptoms of parturition may not be too far off."

Panting and squirming with need, you fondle your chest and let out a little hiss of relief when you manage to coax some of that liquid free. It spills over your fingers and down over your impossibly large belly, a pendulous mass that hangs heavily from your hips and swings with every movement.

There's fluid between your legs, too, a mixture of your slippery natural lubricant and a faint dribble of the clear fluid that your womb is no longer able to hold inside.

"I have employed additional straps to cradle the underside of the subject's abdomen in hopes of reducing some of the strain on their small frame. While the tocolytic continues to stave off labor, the unfortunate reality is that the subject's body is not intended to carry such a large offspring, and Specimen 4582 has been continuously leaking amniotic fluid for the past few days. We may have no choice but to bring this experiment to a close sooner rather than later."

You should probably be worried about the things he's saying, but it's impossible to think straight when the Researcher is slowly plunging two of his fingers in and out of your hungry cunt.

Everything about you is drawn tight and stretched to the max, leaving you feeling like a balloon pumped full of too much air. But your belly isn't full of air—it's full of a living, wriggling baby that continues pushing your physical boundaries past what you think you can handle.

It's only thanks to the Researcher's care that you've been able to make it this far.

With his fingers in your cunt and his bare cock rubbing over the overstretched skin of your aching middle, the entirety of your existence is centered on the man's twisted attention. All you can focus on is the unbearable pressure—the weight of the offspring inside you, the hungry void between your legs, the way your chest dribbles with every shallow, gasping breath.

The Researcher looms over you, your god as much as he is your tormentor. The fingers inside of you are still buried deep, curling and stretching you open, while he grips the base of his cock and drags it along the taut curve of your belly. "According to my observations, it appears that Specimen 4582 is amenable to participating in a more manual approach to the induction of amniorrhexis. I will therefore begin the process now, and continue my notes once the procedure has concluded."

You haven't a clue what he's talking about, with all of those long, nonsensical words, but you are very well aware of the pulsating emptiness that fills you when he slowly withdraws his fingers. You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. The loss of him is nearly unbearable, at least until his fingers are almost immediately replaced with the blunt pressure of something much larger against your sopping hole.

"You're ready," he says, his voice cool and detached, as if he's stating a fact rather than an observation.

Your body instinctively protests, your cunt clenching around nothing as if it could possibly hope to deny him entry. But all of the conditioning the Researcher has been subjecting you to has done its work too well. Your hips twitch forward, seeking more of him despite the muddled fear inspired by his overwhelming size. He's massive compared to you, with a cock thicker than your arm, and the thought of him pushing that thing into you should be terrifying.

Instead, it sends a jolt of delirious need straight through your core.

He doesn't wait for permission—not that he ever has, nor could you give it even if you wanted to. With a firm grip on your hip, he pushes forward, the head of his cock stretching you open in one slow, deliberate motion.

The sensation makes you cry out, your back trying and failing to arch beneath the impossible weight of your belly while your body struggles to accommodate him. Even with the lubricant and his careful movements, the stretch is still excruciating, your inner walls burning as they're forced to yield to his unnaturally large girth. But buried beneath the pain is a deep, aching pleasure, the kind that makes your impaired wings flutter and your breath catch in your throat.

"Relax," he commands.

You want to argue, to tell him that your body is simply not built to take someone of his proportions, but the words die in your throat as he pushes deeper. Your cunt spasms around him, trying in vain to adjust, but he doesn't stop. Inch by excruciatingly slow inch, he fills you, until you can feel the sheer mass of him lodged in your torso. You can feel every ridge, every vein, as he stretches you to your limits and beyond.

Gods, if you weren't already obscenely pregnant, you'd probably be able to see his cock bulging right through the skin of your abdomen.

Once he's fully sheathed inside you, the Researcher pauses to give you a moment to adjust. But it's not enough. Your body already felt overloaded by the offspring in your womb. Adding his cock on top of that makes you feel like your middle might split like an overripe fruit. You pant, sucking frantic, heaving breaths through lungs that barely have the room they need to expand, the restricted oxygen leaving you lightheaded. And yet there's still a strange, satisfying sense of fullness that makes your head spin.

Then he moves.

The Researcher's first thrust is slow, careful, but it nevertheless drives more of the limited air from your lungs. Your cunt clutches at him, trying to hold on as he pulls back and pushes in again. The rhythm he sets is relentless, each stroke driving him deeper into you and making your enormous abdomen bounce hard enough to make you cry out in pain. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your ragged breathing and his occasional grunts, and the cage rattles as he fucks you with a precision that borders on heartless.

In the midst of it all, a visible bump rises just beneath your ribs, pushing out against the skin and slowly dragging along the dome of your stomach before vanishing. Then comes another shift, a hard, sudden jolt from the inside that leaves your flesh rippling, the curve distorting, like a wave rolling from one side to the other. A knee or an elbow –or some stubborn, unknown part– presses out and doesn't ease up, giving your womb a full-on shove. It's a slow, grinding push, as if the baby is stretching as far as possible in both directions at once, testing the boundaries of its prison.

The ache is enough to leave you gasping. You're not sure how much more of this abuse your belly can take.

Still, the pleasure of being fucked builds quickly and distracts you from the pain, a coil tightening in your belly with every movement. The aphrodisiac amplifies every sensation, making it impossible to think of anything but the way he fills you, the way his cock rubs against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your legs tremble, your toes curling as the tension in your body grows unbearable. Your hobbled wings shudder and twitch beneath you in anticipation of the rapture to come.

"You're close," he observes, his voice calm and clinical even as he fucks you with a ferocity that is far too much for a being of your size, the force of it leaving you gasping. "Good. Let it happen. Your body knows what to do."

You don't have a choice.

The orgasm crashes over you without warning, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. Your cunt clenches around him, milking his cock as waves of ecstasy wash away your thoughts. You scream, the sound raw and unfiltered, as your body betrays you completely.

But he doesn't stop. If anything, he fucks you harder, driving into you with a fervor that makes your vision go white around the edges. The overstimulation is almost too much to bear, but you can't fight it. Your body responds eagerly, chasing the pleasure despite the pain.

And then it happens.

Your cunt gushes with liquid warmth, far too much for what you've just done. But rather than be deterred by it, the Researcher simply punches even further into your battered body and shudders, adding his own seed to the mess leaking out of you.

It's only then that he pauses to observe you, panting softly. "There you are," he murmurs, his fingers brushing over the swollen mass of your stomach, which has begun to tighten and clench in a way it never has before. "It seems that the procedure was successful."

You barely hear him. Your body is still trembling, your mind clouded by orgasm and exhaustion. But somewhere in the haze, a new kind of panic begins to set in.

The baby is finally coming.

You just don't know what will happen now.

"Don't worry, little one," the Researcher says with a smile that's almost warm. "I promise I'll take care of you."

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