Chapter 1: System Glitch - Emergency Manual Extraction Protocol
The clinic hummed. A low, persistent vibration from machinery buried in the walls, felt in the teeth more than heard. Blue light, cold and surgical, washed over everything, making the padded exam tables look like slabs of plasticine and casting long, distorted shadows from the ultrasound monitors. The air tasted of antiseptic, sharp and clean, undercut by something sweetly rotten, like a bowl of fruit left too long in a sunless room.
Oolong shifted on the crinkly paper of the exam table, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet. His hooves tapped a nervous rhythm against the stainless steel stirrups. He was in his preferred form: anthropomorphic pig, barrel-chested and covered in coarse, dark bristles, a pair of rumpled trousers his only clothing. He clutched a laminated menu of fertility tests to his chest like a shield.
The reinforced glass partition slid open with a whisper. Cabba stepped through, a data pad glowing in his hand. The young Saiyan doctor was all sharp, efficient angles—cropped violet hair, keen eyes, a white coat worn with sincere authority.
“Mr. Oolong. Your file says you’re here for a standard potency and motility analysis prior to a… cross-species gene-splicing consultation.” Cabba’s tone was professional, devoid of judgment. He tapped the pad. “Standard procedure is a manual donation into a sterile collection cup. The suite is prepared for privacy. Do you require any visual or tactile stimulation materials? We have a selection of approved periodicals.”
Oolong’s snout twitched. “Nah, doc. I think I can manage.” He puffed out his chest a little. “Got a pretty good imagination.”
“I’m sure. This way.” Cabba led him to a smaller, circular room adjacent to the main lab. It was dominated by a large, contoured chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office, if dentists dealt with different kinds of drills. A tray beside it held a single, ominously large plastic cup, a sealed packet of wipes, and a small remote.
“The collector is voice-activated. State ‘begin collection’ when you are ready. It will administer a mild, stimulating current and a vibro-tactile massage to ensure a complete sample. ‘End collection’ when you are finished. The panel is soundproofed. I will be monitoring the biochemical readouts from the main lab. Do you have any questions?”
“Stimulating current?” Oolong grunted, eyeing the chair with newfound interest. “Purely clinical. To ensure efficiency.” Cabba gave a curt nod and left, the partition sealing shut behind him, leaving Oolong in the blue-lit quiet.
Through the glass, Oolong could see Cabba’s back as he took a seat at a console, monitors flickering to life. Oolong shrugged, dropped his trousers, and heaved himself into the chair. It was cold against his bare backside. He found the remote, pressed a button. A harness of softly glowing plastic loops extended from the sides, gently securing him at the thighs and abdomen. Another mechanism, a smooth, nozzle-like attachment, telescoped from between his legs, positioning itself with a faint whir.
“Uh, begin collection,” Oolong said. A low thrum started in the chair. The nozzle adjusted itself with a slick, mechanical sound. Then the current hit. It wasn’t mild. It was a jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure that arced straight up his spine. His back arched off the chair, a grunt tearing from his throat. The vibration followed, a deep, insistent buzz that made his teeth rattle. The machinery was efficient, brutal, and utterly impersonal. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to conjure a mental image, anything, but all he could feel was the clinical, relentless manipulation of his nerves. It was shocking, it was intense, and it was completely, utterly stuck. The peak hovered, maddeningly out of reach, triggered but never released, a constant electrical tease.
“Fuck,” he hissed, sweat beading on his bristly skin. “End collection! End collection!” The partition hissed open. Cabba stood there, frowning at his datapad. “The readings are contradictory, Mr. Oolong. Biomechanical response was optimal, but the collection vessel is empty. The emission subroutine failed to engage. A mechanical fault.” Cabba stammered. “No shit,” Oolong growled, still trying and failing to cover the swollen, leaking length of his massive cock, between his thighs. “The diagnostic will take hours. I can reschedule you for next week.” Cabba explained. “Next week?” Oolong nearly whimpered. “Doc, I’m right here… I’m ready… Now”
Cabba continued, “The protocol—” A sultry feminine voice slithered through the lab, hot and sinful and cut him off. “Protocol can go suck itself.” Cabba turned and stopped breathing. Cabba's girlfriend, Kefla, stood in the doorway wearing the sluttiest parody of a nurse uniform imaginable: A tiny white crop-top that strained over her massive, round tits, a red cross barely clinging above the swell of her cleavage. A micro-skirt slit so high it might as well not exist. White stockings hugging strong thighs. Glossy cherry lipstick. And a little nurse cap perched on her green hair, completely mocking the idea of professionalism. She looked engineered to violate lab policy.
Her tongue slid slowly over her top lip as her gaze landed on Oolong’s needy cock. “Aww… look at the patient. He’s absolutely in distress. And you want to leave him like this? Cruel, Cabba. Just cruel.” Cabba stammered. “K-Kefla… what are you wearing?”
“Hospital-issue morale booster,” she purred. “Do you like it?” She gave herself a little bounce, breasts threatening to spill from the straining top. “Makes it easier to treat… hard cases.”
“That’s not appropriate attire.” Cabba proclaimed, “And this isn’t an appropriate situation.” She strolled in, hips swaying in obscene figure-eights. “He’s dripping, dear. Your machine edged him stupid and then gave up. Someone needs to finish the job.” She explained. “Kefla, the sample integrity” Cabba said, “I’ll keep it very sterile and fresh.” Kefla replied as she plucked gloves from the dispenser and snapped them on, the sound wet, promising, filthy. “Let me handle the donor.” Cabba hesitated… then lost to his girlfriend again. “…Fine. Quick. Clinical.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” But the moment her boyfriend's back turned, her smile twisted into something feral. Kefla pushed Oolong back into the chair, climbed between his legs, and grabbed his cock with one gloved hand, a brutal, perfect squeeze that made his whole body jerk. “Ohhhh fuck” Oolong moaned out. “Shh,” she crooned. “Nurse Kefla is here to pick up where my boyfriend's machine failed. And I am draining every last virile drop out of these big boys.” Her hand gently felt against his sweaty hair balls.
Her tongue traced slow circles over her lips again, eyes locked on his throbbing tip as pre-cum beaded and rolled down like nectar. “Mmm… you’re drooling for me,” she whispered. “Good. I want you messy.”
She leaned in, her breath hot against his sweaty cock. “You see him through the glass over there?” she murmured, nodding toward Cabba’s oblivious back through the glass. “My sweet, brilliant boyfriend. He thinks this is about medicine.” Her gloved thumb smeared the bead of pre-cum over Oolong's swollen cockhead, working it in with a rough, circular motion that made Oolong’s hips buck. “He has no idea what a filthy little pig I’m milking right under his nose.”
Her other hand went to the clasp of her micro-skirt. A flick, and it pooled at her feet. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Oolong’s breath hitched. She was shaved bare, pussy wet and glistening already. She kicked the skirt aside and swung a leg over the chair, straddling his hips. The glowing restraint harness bit into her thighs, but she didn’t seem to care. “Wait,” Oolong rasped, a final flicker of something like sanity sparking. “He’ll see…”
“He won’t see a thing,” she whispered, her voice a low, thrilling vibration. “He’s checking the scrambled data feed. He trusts his equipment. He trusts me.” She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips. “Now be a good donor and fill the collection vessel.” She never broke eye contact with Oolong as she positioned herself. With one hand, she gripped his thick, weeping cock, holding him steady. With the other, she reached between her own legs.
Oolong watched, mesmerized, as Kefla slowly used her fingers to spread her pussy, pulling the glistening lips apart to reveal the dark, hot pink within. She was dripping, her wetness coating her fingers and shining in the sterile blue light. She guided his fat cock to her entrance, the swollen head of his cock kissing her opened flesh. Then she sank down.
It wasn’t fast. It was a slow, inexorable, breathtaking descent. Oolong felt her incredible tightness stretching around his fat girth, a fiercely hot, velvety vise gripping him inch by torturous inch. A choked gasp ripped from his throat. She was so much tighter than Cabba's machine. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched instinctively around the invasion, massaging him deeply as she took him all the way to the hilt, until his coarse, bristly pelvis met her smooth, sweat-slicked skin.
She let out a shaky, controlled sigh, her head tipping back, the line of her throat pale and vulnerable for just a second before she looked down at him again, a wicked smile playing on her glossed lips. She was so full, stretched so perfectly, he could see the faint, delicious bulge low in her toned abdomen.
It started as a slow, rolling grind of her hips, a circular motion that made his cock stroke deep, internal places the machine could never hope to reach. Her inner muscles clenched in a slow, deliberate rhythm, a milking pressure that stole the breath from Oolong’s lungs.
Kefla gave off a soft moan, a genuine sound of pleasure swallowed by the room’s hum, as Oolong’s hands, clumsy and desperate, found the glorious, mountainous curves of her ass. He grabbed handfuls of firm Saiyan flesh, his blunt fingers digging in, helping to guide her rhythm.
“Fuck,” she breathed into his ear, her voice husky and raw. “You feel that? You’re splitting me open. So much bigger than my boyfriend.” The words were a hot, guilty whisper against his skin. “Cabba’s sweet, but he’s not a beast like you. He doesn’t fill me up like this. Nor does he reach that far.”
The confession, whispered in the shadow of her boyfriend’s back, was filthier than any touch. It drove Oolong wild. His hips pistoned upward, meeting her downward grind, creating a wet, slapping rhythm that was anything but clinical. The antiseptic air filled with the scent of sex, musky and animal, cutting through the sterile sweetness.
The antiseptic air filled with the scent of sex, musky and animal, cutting through the sterile sweetness. Kefla gave off a soft moan, a genuine, shuddering sound, as Oolong's hands found her mountainous ass. He gripped the firm, rounded flesh, his blunt fingers sinking in, using the leverage to slam her down onto him harder, faster. Each downward crash of her hips was met by a brutal upward thrust of his, the chair groaning under the stress.
"Right there," she hissed, her voice fraying at the edges. Her eyes were glazed, locked on his. "You feel that? You're so deep in me."
With every piston-drive upward plunge, the broad, swollen tip of Oolong's cock pressed relentlessly against a deep, kissing against her cervix. Kefla gasped, her internal muscles fluttering in a wild, involuntary spasm around his invading girth. She was feeling the tip of Oolong jamming against her cervix, a profound, shocking pressure that Cabba, with his more modest Saiyan build, had never come close to achieving. The comparison was a live wire in her brain.
"Oh fuck yeah. Big boy. He's never touched me here," she whispered, the words hot and ragged against Oolong's ear. Her rhythm became more frantic, a savage, bouncing ride. "Never. You're so much bigger than my boyfriend. You're splitting me fucking open."
Her hands, which had been braced on his sweaty shoulders, flew to the front of her ridiculous crop top. With a sharp, frustrated yank, she pulled the flimsy lace of her bra behind Oolong's head, the material snapping, forcing Oolong's head in between her tits, much bigger than his head, trapping Oolong's head in a sweaty, perfumed prison between her massive tits.
The world vanished, replaced by overwhelming heat, the salty taste of her skin, and the crushing softness of her cleavage. His face was buried, smothered, his snout filled with the scent of her. Her voice was muffled, vibrating through her chest directly into his skull.
"fuuuuck, yeah. That's it, big boy. Get them all in there," she grunted, her hips a relentless, pistoning machine. The wet, slapping sounds of their coupling were obscenely loud in the small room. "I want you to paint my ovaries white." Her inner walls clamped down on him in a series of brutal, rhythmic pulses, milking his shaft with a purposeful, greedy tension. Her whispers dropped to a dark, fervent chant against the top of his head. "Fill me up, pig daddy. Breed me. Get your fucking babies in me, make me the mother of your children."
A guttural roar, stifled by her breasts, erupted from Oolong. His whole body locked, his back arching violently against the restraints. He erupted inside her, a hot, seemingly endless flood, each powerful jet coinciding with a frantic, clenching squeeze of her pussy, as if she was actively draining him, pulling the essence straight from his balls. She rode him through it, her own body stiffening, a silent, shuddering climax shaking her frame, her internal muscles greedily massaging every single spurt from his twitching cum tanks.
She rode him through it. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the hum of the clinic. Kefla stayed there, impaled, feeling him still pulsing deep inside her. She felt his thick, porcine cock buried to the root inside her, throbbing with each heartbeat, the veins along its shaft swollen and prominent from inside against her stretched walls. His heavy, hairy balls throbbed as they pulled up tight against her ass, in loud, virile clenches right before they unleashed. And then the eruption. Not a trickle, but a flood. A volcano of hot sperm shooting straight through her cervix, past the barrier Cabba never touched. Her womb, a hollow meant for a Saiyan’s modest offering, suddenly overfilled, stretched taut and sloshing with Oolong’s copious ball batter. Thick sloshing waves of excessive baby batter poured out inside of her fallopian tubes as they sought out more space inside the saiyaness to claim in the thick white sludge. It would seep, aggressive and alive, seeking out her fertile eggs, swarming them, coating them in thick, glistening pig DNA until they were utterly contaminated, fertilized, claimed.
The fantasy was so vivid, so visceral, it triggered another low shudder deep in her cunt, a final, greedy suckle around his softening member. She could almost hear it, a grotesque, wet sloshing sound in the silent room of her mind, as his oversized nutsludge pushed beyond her cervix, a tidal wave of potency flooding her fallopian tubes and pushing out into her ovaries. It felt, thick and white and hot, painting the walls of her most sacred spaces, a claiming so complete it was violence. Every egg within her goddess of a body, were getting fertilized with sperm, not her boyfriend, ensuring her pregnancy. The certainty of it was a dark, thrilling stone in her gut.
The certainty of it was a dark, thrilling stone in her gut.
She finally released his head from between her tits, pulling back just enough to look down at him. His piggish face was flushed, splattered with her sweat, his eyes wide with post-climax shock and lingering lust. A slow, possessive smile spread across her glossy lips.
Without a word, she leaned in and captured his mouth with hers.
It wasn’t a thank you kiss. It was a claiming. Her tongue pushed past his lips, deep and searching, tasting herself on him, mingling with the faint, earthy taste of his own mouth. It was hot, wet, and brutally intimate. One of her hands cupped the back of his head, fingers tangling in the coarse bristles there, holding him in place. The other slid down between their still-joined bodies, pressing hard on her own lower belly, making him feel the faint, cramping ache of her overwhelmed womb.
She broke the kiss only when she needed air, her forehead resting against his, their breaths mixing in ragged, humid pants. Her whisper was a raw, triumphant vibration against his lips.
“You feel that ache? That’s your kids already digging in, pig. You flooded me so deeply. My ovaries are packed. Stuffed with your cum. Something my boyfriend never could accomplish.” She bit his lower lip, enough to make him gasp. “Every egg I’ll ever drop from now on is already swimming in you. They’re mine. They’re yours. Nothing’s ever getting that out of me.”
The words carved themselves into his brain. The clinical purpose of his visit—the sample, the test—evaporated, replaced by a primal, horrifying, exhilarating truth. He hadn’t just given a donation. He’d sown a field. He was staring into the eyes of the woman who now carried a part of him in a way that could never be scrubbed clean or logged in a file.