Imagine you're a genetic anomaly
Imagine you’re a test subject in a vast genetic research project.
There’s a gene in you the researchers like. You’re durable. You have survived many tests that other humans didn’t, taken damage and injury and healed quickly and fully. The researchers are trying to multiply such a gene in other species in their control, and they’re doing it by breeding them, all of them, with you.
You’ve been through this before more times than you can count. In fact, you stopped counting because for the most part, you stopped paying attention. They pull you from your cell, breed you, stick you in an observation block until you give birth, move you to a post-partum unit until the offspring are weaned, then drop you back into your living cell until you’re ready to carry again and they have another sire.
So, it catches your attention when a tech says they have something new for you in store as he retrieves you and leads you to the breeding labs.
When you walk through the swinging doors, you’re immediately seized by two more techs and ushered to an examination table. They hoist you onto it and prop your legs apart on extendable stirrups, then proceed to secure you to the table using leather straps around your chest, arms, and neck and a spreader bar latched to your thighs just above your knees.
You watch as the techs leave the room through doors on the opposite wall, leaving you cold and exposed in the sterile room with only two doctors setting up a table with equipment you can’t see, but know are metal because you can hear it clinking together.
Finally, the doctors turn their attention to you. Or, rather, they turn their attention to your exposed holes. You, they ignore. You’re but another tool for their projects. All they care about is your parts. They don’t even spare consideration for your comfort as they begin working.
A choked squawk escapes your throat when you feel a cold metal device forcefully shove its way into you and begin slowly opening, granting the doctors easy access deep inside you. Both doctors stare into your gaping hole, one asking for tools and the other passing them to him. You groan and writhe as much as you can in your restraints to try and ease the burn off them penetrating and stretching your cervix with dull, cold rods until you’re dilated enough to proceed.
You hear them talk to each other about the procedure, hearing things like ‘evacuate the environment’ and ‘prepare harvested eggs for freezing’ and 'implanting endometrium’. These things mean nothing to you, and you can’t see them work, only feel them as they scrape, scratch, pull, suction, and prod at your insides. You’d be bored, but the techs returned several moments ago with two of their biggest horses: Clydesdale horses, a stallion and a mare. You know the stallion. He was used to sire foals into you many times before. You know the mare, too, as you’ve shared observation cells with her before. You know she produces litters of foals, and ovulates multiple eggs at a time. By the way she and the stallion are acting, you assume she’s doing it now.
You watch as the horses are bred. They secure the mare to iron bars and bracers, then let the stallion have at her. And have at her, he does, several times. Growling, grunting, snorting, hooves smashing against the rubber floors as he rears up and lands on the mare, gnawing on her shoulder as he thrusts into her hard enough to rattle the bars holding her. He goes into her again and again until his seed sprays out of her with each thrust because she’s too over full to hold any more of him. The stallion is then lead away out of the lab as the doctors turn to spread open the mare, and dig around in her, too.
You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you wake up with a start as you feel a sharp needle prick deep inside you. “Three eggs,” a doctor says, and then he orders the techs to unstrap you and take you to an observation cell.
After only a few days, you already feel the tell tale signs that the eggs took, and you’re successfully pregnant again. A test after a week confirms it, and you spend the day rubbing your stomach in anticipation of feeling yourself stretching and growing along with the foals you know will come in a few months.
Two weeks later, you’re taken back to the lab and secured to the table again. Another procedure ends with another three eggs planted in you. Two weeks after that, three more eggs. Impregnated with nine foals, all at different times? This IS new, you think.
Twenty three weeks later, you’re lying in your cell, rubbing your belly gently. It’s grown so big you can’t sleep even on your back and have to lay on your side all day. You can’t even walk from your nest to your toilet without needing to rest. You spend your days sleeping, eating a special diet, walking short distance, and masturbating to the feeling of your womb stretching to accommodate the growth within, and the sensation of the older foals twitching about your insides. You mostly sleep, though, because the whole process leaves you drained within hours.
The techs show up at your cell door again. They sit you in a wheelchair and cart you off to another, larger observation cell next to the labs. You’ve never been here before; you don’t know what to do or expect. You feel tense and hug your stomach protectively against your own fear. The fear of what, you aren’t sure.
Doctors and techs enter an adjacent room separated by a thick glass window, and the lights in both rooms dim.
You begin to relax after a while of nothing happening. As far as you can tell, you’re alone in the dark. It’s silent, save for a soft tapping coming from the ceiling. You can’t tell what’s causing it, but you don’t think it’s anything that should worry you.
You’re more annoyed than anything, honestly. You’re tired, all of your joints from the ribs down ache from the weight of the foals in your oversized midsection, and you just want to go back to sleep in your nest. You groan in annoyance and effort as you glare at the viewing room and make your way slowly towards the doors, hoping they get the picture.
You move but a yard or so and freeze. A new sound has started up. Hissing, screeching, rattling, high in pitch and so loud it echos off the walls and makes you fall to your knees, covering your ears. The sound is more muffled by your hands, and it’s low enough now for you to determine the general source. The ceiling!
You glance up just in time to watch two insect-like creatures fall and land on the floor behind you. You scream and scramble to your feet, but you’re too burdened to move quick enough and before you know it, one of the creatures is on you.
It pins you down with four of its six legs with two on your ankles and two on your shoulders. The other two legs reach under the third segment of its body and hook under your thighs where your legs meet your groin. It lifts you up off your knees, arms lined with small but long and sharp needle-like spines that dig deep into your muscles.
For a second, you feel a hot, acidic liquid shoot into your thighs, and then your body goes completely limp.
You inwardly groan as you can’t even move your eyes away from the reflective surface of the nearby viewing window. You’re stuck watching the scene unfold helplessly.
The creature on top of you adjusts its posture and you can see it better. Multiple segments on its body, six legs, four membrane wings folded carefully under a shell on its back, head mostly big eyes and antennae, all bright green. You assume its a female from the swollen lower segment, full of lumps you think might be eggs.
The other creature is similar to the first, but about half her size (though still larger than the stallion that had sired the foals within you), red in color, with spines on all its limbs and underside. Its last segment is mostly translucent on its underside and you can see a fluid sloshing around as it climbs on the back of the female and hooks its spines into her thick exoskeleton shell. A male?
You don’t have much time to speculate before the feel of two thick, ribbed, slippery appendages shove their way into your hole and inch their way towards your cervix. You can see in the reflection that each insect has a dark purple channel protruding from their last segments, fumbling their way into you.
They both find your cervix and press and nudge against it and each other as if fighting for the right of first penetration. Your muscles are so relaxed that there’s no resistance when the more rigid appendage finally breeches, but it still burns, stretches, hurts. But you can’t cry, fight or even squirm.
The smaller, softer appendage joins the other, and together they slip and rummage within you until they stop and gently caress a solid weight. One of your foals, the earlier older ones. A sound almost like a rattling purr sounds from the female and you feel something in her shift and exit her abdomen as it rests against your back.
Whatever left her body is round, long, squishy, and big. You know, because it stretches your entrance at least three inches wider and slides into you. It presses against your walls hitting every nerve as it surges through your cervix, preceded by a large hot blast of liquid from the male’s softer, smaller appendage. The force of it is enough to jostle the fetuses and cause them to shift.
Only after two more things moved from the female into you, along side the first, do you understand. These creatures are breeding in you! They’re using you as an incubator! And you can’t do anything about it!
It takes over an hour for the female to lay twenty-seven eggs in you along side your foals. You don’t know how much liquid the male pumped into you. The weight of the two creatures is significantly less than it was when they climbed on you, all of it now resting in your belly, making you feel close to bursting.
The female withdraws from you but stays on you until the male withdraws as well. His final parting gift to you is a thick, sticky liquid that fills your channel to the brim. You think it might overflow, but it’s so viscous that it simply bulges into a bubble.
They retreat to the ceiling again, and the techs move in to retrieve you. You can’t fight because you still can’t move. By the time the techs tuck you into your nest the substance in your hole has thickened into a gummy paste. When the paralytic wears off you try to remove it only to realize it’s stuck there until further notice.
You notice the eggs begin to harden over the next two weeks. They retain a certain give, like they’re covered in leather. The foals have moved about to accommodate the new occupants, curling their long legs around the masses.
You’re lying down, rubbing your belly one afternoon when you touch one of the eggs. You see, hear, and feel both inside and out as the egg cracks. You flinch in surprise. It’s enough pressure to cause the other eggs to crack and shift as well. The hatchling wiggle viciously inside you as they escape. Their movements cause the shells to shift downward towards and eventually through your cervix. The gummy gel in your channel hardens to wax loosens, and with a bit of help from your hand, can be wiggled out of you. You notice all the egg shells in it before you toss it away.
Later in the night you’re awoken by frantic lurching and jolting in your belly. You signal the evening techs and they quickly bring in an ultrasound. They seem unconcerned with what they find: the eggs hatched into large larvae with huge teeth. They’ve used the teeth to chew and bore their way into the three older foals. You panic, because you were so close to birthing them!
But now you can only whimper as you and the staff watch on the screen, pointing out where the larvae chewed cavities for themselves in the tender, plump bodies of the unborn foals.
You watch as one of the foals thrashes, kicking wildly against the intruders eating through its stomach and chest. It kicks its last as one of the larvae reaches its heart.
The staff leaves you alone again. You don’t sleep until the movement in you stops, the larvae well fed for now.
Eventually, you get used to the extra room in your belly. You press down on where your oldest foals had been, only to feel the area compress in the hollow area. You can feel the larvae wiggle when you disturb them when you do so.
It doesn’t take long for the emptiness to be filled with the larvae growing from their meal.
Two weeks pass by without incident. During the night somewhere in the second week, you feel the process start again. Something hard shifts and cracks in your belly. With your hand on the area, you can feel the larvae thrashing to break free of something. It can’t be eggs, you think, because they already hatched. You figure they must have molted. There’s something new with them this time. Something sharp and long. You feel it scrape against the inside of your womb when they move about your swollen abdomen.
Only hours later, the thrashing of hatching is replaced by the frantic sensation of kicking, bucking, struggling, writhing. They’ve found the oldest of the remaining foals and have begun tearing into the tender flesh. It doesn’t take but minutes this time for the feeding frenzy to die down. You fall back asleep to the feeling of the larvae latching on to your inner walls with what feel like tiny claws. By the time you wake up, their shells have grown and hardened and you can feel each individual one through the skin on your stomach stretched thin over the new sudden growths.
You’re masturbating idly the next time they hatch out of their old skins. The angle you’re resting at against the wall so you can reach around your belly to your crotch, allows you to watch as your stomach ripples with each hatching larvae. You count just under thirty, watching as they move about with their new limbs and bigger bodies. You don’t feel the foals struggle as they’re devoured. The larvae have grown too big for the kicking to reach you. All you feel is the fumbling and wrestling of the larvae as they feed around each other. You sigh in delight and orgasm four, five times before they settle in to grow another molt, your stomach stretching even further to accommodate the bigger shells growing inside.
A month later, you’re taken into the lab again and secured down onto a table. The doctors begin carefully and slowly spreading you open, stretching you past the point of painful. You bite down on a leather strap placed in your mouth as they work to open you as far as you think you possibly could be without splitting in two.
For s moment you’re distracted by two Clydesdale foals on the other side of the room. You hadn’t noticed them before. You’re not sure how old they are. They’re very young, young enough to still have an interest in the bottles being offered but old enough to nip at each other playfully until the techs administer a sedative to each one, and they give in to it. The foals are each wrapped in some slick membrane and a long plastic tube is inserted down their throats. They are then hoisted onto tables, doused in s thick, slippery fluid, and rolled over to the doctors.
You can’t see over your belly, so you don’t know what they’re doing. All of a sudden you feel a hard, wet pressure against your entrance. It has lips, hair, and flesh. Two doctors and four techs are working together to push something into you. You scream in shock and pain when the start pops into you, and you feel the large head off the foal enter you. Something cold and metallic is secured to your clitoris and turned on. The harsh vibrations send you crashing over the edge again and again. The resulting contractions and up-sucking force of the orgasm onslaught makes the process easier.
With one long hard shove, the foal’s head rushes through your cervix. The neck follows, then the shoulders, and eventually the hips and feet. All that remains is the long plastic tube leading out of you and connecting to an oxygen concentrator.
You hardly have time to catch your breath before they start pressing in the second foal. It’s a little easier this time, though they have to stop every few minutes and straighten out the two tubes to keep them from tangling. The added sensation brings more orgasms until you’re out of your own mind.
At the end, you’re left on the table, alone. The sedative wears off, and the foals in you panic and begin to react accordingly. Their movement triggers the molting of the larvae. Through your skin, you can hear gurgling, hissing, and growling. The kicking off these post-birth foals is enough to leave nearly instant hoof-shaped bruises on your belly. As before, though, all of it settles down. Several hours later, the two plastic tubes slide out of you and land with a wet slap on the floor.
You’re left on the table for the rest of the final week.
Your labor comes suddenly without warning. No techs or doctors are brave enough to enter the room with the creatures ready to crawl out of your womb, so you’re simply in there, alone, to push out what you’ve been incubating for months.
Luckily for you, it seems they do most of the work. Between your contractions, they crawl along with only their two knuckles exposed, dragging their shell through your entrance. The shells are compressed, making the creatures as small as possible, but as the first one reaches the end of your canal and slides out of the shell, you can tell they’re still nearly half your size each.
The shells are too fragile to last in the air outside of you, so it gets stuck. It seems this is part of the process. The newly born creature cleans itself off, then turns to you, carefully nibbling away at its shell. Every so often, it digs its claws deep into you to pull it forward until it’s devoured out of you. Immediately, the next one begins working its way to freedom. The first born seeks out your overly swollen breast and attaches itself to your leaking nipple until its younger sibling finishes its own shell, and seeks out a nipple for its turn to drink. The first abandons you and curls up to rest against the wall.
Each birth takes two or three hours. You catch naps between births, which you value greatly about the thirteenth hour of birthing.
Nearly three days later, you lie exhausted and depleted on the table, surrounded by your twenty seven offspring that look every bit like their parents. You smile proudly to yourself for having gotten through all that. You’re glad it’s over and done.
The creatures are soon lured into an adjacent room. When they’re all gone, the techs enter to fetch you.
“That went well,” one said, patting your stretched stomach fondly. “They’re pleased with your performance. Looks like you’ll be doing this again next year.”
You have to say, you’re not sure you can wait that long.