The first thing to return was the cold. It seeped through her thin clothes, a deep, penetrating chill that came from the black slab she was lying on. Elara’s eyes fluttered open. White. Everything was white. The walls were seamless, curving up to a ceiling that glowed with a soft, sterile light. There were no corners, no windows, no doors she could see. The air hummed with a low, constant thrum of unseen technology and smelled sharp, like ozone and antiseptic.
Panic, cold and sharp as the slab beneath her, clawed at her throat. She sat up, her heart hammering against her ribs. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was walking home, the city lights blurring in the evening rain. Then… nothing.
“Welcome, candidate.”
The voice was male, calm, and came from everywhere at once. It was a voice stripped of all emotion, as clean and sterile as the room itself. Elara scrambled off the slab, her bare feet hitting the equally cold floor. She spun around, searching for the speaker, for a face, for anyone. There was nothing. Just the smooth, endless white.
“Your selection for the program is a great honor,” the voice continued, unperturbed by her panic. “You are a candidate for the Impregnation Trials.”
Impregnation Trials? The words didn't make sense. It sounded like something from a nightmare, a story told to frighten children. “Who are you? Where am I?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
“I am the Proctor. You are in a secure facility. All you need to know will be explained in due time. Please remain still for initial processing.”
Before she could protest, slender metallic arms descended from hidden panels in the ceiling. They moved with a silent, fluid grace that was deeply unsettling. One arm, ending in a soft pad, gently pressed against her shoulder, holding her in place. Another moved to the hem of her shirt. With unnerving precision, it tugged the fabric up and over her head, leaving her standing in her jeans and bra. She gasped, crossing her arms over her chest in a useless gesture of modesty.
The arms were relentless. One unzipped her jeans while another eased them down her legs. Her panties and bra followed. Each movement was efficient, impersonal, and utterly violating. In seconds, she was naked, shivering in the cold, humming air. Her hands flew to cover herself, a pathetic defense against the unseen eyes she could feel all over her skin. Humiliation burned hot in her gut, a stark contrast to the chill on her skin.
“Subject is prepared for biological cataloging,” the Proctor announced.
A web of faint, red laser light emanated from the walls, washing over her body. It didn't hurt, but it felt invasive, like a thousand tiny fingers tracing every inch of her. She stood frozen as the light mapped her form, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.
To her right, a section of the white wall turned transparent, revealing a screen of glowing text. Her data. Her.
SUBJECT: ELARA-7 HEIGHT: 5’6” WEIGHT: 135 LBS HAIR: BROWN EYES: HAZEL
“Subject physical attributes are as follows,” the Proctor’s voice recited the information from the screen, his tone as detached as if he were reading a grocery list. “Height: five feet, six inches. Weight: one hundred thirty-five pounds.”
The laser grid intensified, focusing on her torso. The screen updated.
BREASTS: 36C, SYMMETRICAL WAIST: 27 INCHES HIPS: 40 INCHES
“Breasts, 36C, symmetrical,” the Proctor said. “Waist-to-hip ratio is within optimal parameters. Pelvic structure is wide. Ideal for gestation and parturition.”
Ideal for… Oh god. The name of the trials slammed back into her mind. Impregnation. They were measuring her like livestock. They were assessing her ability to carry a child. The humiliation curdled into a cold, hard knot of dread in her stomach. Her body wasn't hers anymore. It was a collection of data points, a vessel to be judged. She was no longer Elara. She was Subject Elara-7.
“Fertility markers are high,” the Proctor concluded as the lasers faded. “Subject is viable. The Induction will now proceed to Trial One: The Baseline Arousal Test.”
The floor beneath her feet pulsed with a soft light, tracing a path to the center of the room where a chair was rising from a seamless panel. It didn’t look like a chair, not really. It was more like a throne of gleaming, dark metal, contoured in a way that looked both ergonomic and menacing.
“Proceed to the device,” the Proctor commanded.
Elara didn’t move. Her feet felt welded to the floor. “No.” The word was a whisper.
“Compliance is not optional,” the Proctor said. The gentle pressure was gone. An invisible force, like a firm magnetic pull, tugged her forward. She stumbled, her feet moving against her will, one step after another, until she was standing before the chair. The force pushed her back, seating her firmly. The material was cool against her bare ass and back. It molded to her shape instantly, as if it were made for her. Smooth, cool bands rose from the sides, securing her wrists to the armrests and her legs to the base of the chair, leaving them spread slightly apart. They weren't tight, but they were unyielding. She was trapped.
Her heart hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs. She stared straight ahead, at the blank white wall, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. This couldn’t be real.
From the base of the chair, between her open thighs, a polished, silver object began to extend. It was shaped like a cock, thick and flawlessly smooth, with a gently rounded head. It hummed with a barely audible energy as it rose, stopping just inches from her. It positioned itself directly before her cunt, hovering in the air like a silver promise of violation.
“You will achieve orgasm,” the Proctor stated, his voice as flat and final as a death sentence. “Your physiological responses are being monitored. Your performance is being measured. Begin.”
“No,” she breathed, shaking her head. “I won’t. I can’t.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched every muscle in her body, trying to fight it, trying to make herself a fortress. She thought of anything else—her apartment, the rain, the taste of coffee. Anything but the cold room, the disembodied voice, and the silver cock hovering between her legs.
The device moved.
It glided forward, the cool, smooth head nudging against her. She flinched, a raw gasp torn from her throat. It didn't force its way in. It just rested there, against her folded flesh, a patient, metallic threat. Then, it began to vibrate.
It was a low, deep thrum that vibrated not just against her skin, but through her. The vibration traveled up from her cunt, through her pelvis, making her teeth buzz. It was a hum that spoke directly to her nerves, bypassing her mind entirely. She tried to pull away, but the restraints held her fast. The vibrations intensified, and the head of the device began to trace small, slow circles against her.
It knew exactly where to touch. It found her clit with an unerring, scientific precision that no human lover ever could. It pressed there, the vibrations focusing into a sharp, insistent point of pleasure that was so intense it was almost pain.
“No… please…” she whimpered, her resolve shattering.
Her body, the traitor, was already responding. A slick wetness began to bloom between her legs, making the device’s movements smoother, slicker. The smell of her own arousal filled the air, a musky, female scent that was a stark contrast to the sterile room. She hated it. She hated her body for betraying her, for wanting this.
The Proctor’s voice cut through the haze of sensation. “Subject’s lubrication levels are increasing. Heart rate is elevated. She is responding.”
The feedback, the cold analysis of her body’s surrender, was a new layer of humiliation. She was a specimen under a microscope, and her squirming was just another data point. The silver cock slid down, teasing the entrance to her pussy, the head nudging at her wet, swollen folds. Her hips gave an involuntary twitch, a small, desperate buck. She wanted it. God, she wanted it to stop, but she wanted it to fill her, to end the aching tension it was building deep inside her.
The device seemed to sense her surrender. It slid back up, pressing hard against her clit again, the vibrations increasing to a frantic, powerful pulse. It was too much. The feeling was overwhelming, a wave of pure, physical sensation that drowned out every thought, every ounce of fear and defiance. Her back arched off the chair, her head thrown back. The pleasure was a sharp, brilliant agony. It coiled tight in her belly, a knot of desperate need that was about to snap.
She was losing control. Her breath hitched, turning into a series of ragged moans. Her pussy clenched and unclenched around the promise of entry, slick with a desperate wetness. The machine was relentless. It gave her no quarter, no moment to pull back from the edge. It pushed her, and pushed her, and pushed her.
A raw cry was torn from her throat as the orgasm hit. It wasn’t a gentle release; it was a violent, shuddering cataclysm that ripped through her body. Her entire frame went rigid, her thighs trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of searing pleasure crashed through her. Her vision whited out, her mind dissolving into a storm of pure, blinding sensation. She screamed, a long, keening sound of surrender and release, of shame and ecstasy.
As the last tremor faded, she slumped in the chair, spent and gasping for air. Her body was slick with sweat, her muscles aching. The silver cock retracted back into the base of the chair with a soft whir, disappearing as if it had never been there. She was left panting in the silence, the sticky evidence of her climax cooling between her thighs.
On the screen to her right, a new line of text flashed in bright, clinical green.
AROUSAL PEAK: 98.7% TRIAL ONE: COMPLETE
A moment passed. Then, the Proctor’s voice returned, as devoid of emotion as ever.
“Baseline established. Subject is viable.”
A pause.
“Prepare for Trial Two.”
