Chapter 1: Triage
The ambulance bay doors hissed open, bathing the sterile corridor in the garish neon wash of the city. Orderlies surged forward, their boots squeaking on the linoleum, guiding the gurney bearing Dominic Stone. He looked less like a man and more like a fallen statue, pale beneath the harsh ER lights, his athletic frame slack. The only sign of life – or something beyond life – was the low, unnatural thrum emanating from the center of his chest, a glow pulsing faintly crimson through the thin hospital gown.
"Move! Clear the way!"Dr. Nikki Benz’s voice cut through the controlled chaos, sharp as a scalpel. She matched the gurney’s pace, her hand pressed firmly to Dom’s wrist, her own impressive cleavage straining against the crisp white coat that couldn't quite contain it. Behind her, radiating an aura of frantic authority that parted the staff like the Red Sea, strode Catalina Cruz. Her designer heels clicked decisively, her expression a mask of intense focus beneath flawlessly applied makeup. The third boob job she’d treated herself to just months ago seemed almost defiantly prominent beneath her tailored suit jacket.
"Status, Dr. Benz?" Cruz demanded, her voice low but carrying.
"Critical but stable... ish," Benz replied, her eyes flicking between Dom’s face and the portable monitor. "Cardiac rhythm’s erratic but the singularity core... it seems to be holding him together. Like duct tape on a reactor core. GSW entry and exit wound are cauterized, bizarrely clean. His vitals are... well, they’re there. Barely." They burst into the designated isolation room. It smelled aggressively of antiseptic and ozone. Monitors whined to life as the orderlies transferred Dom to the central bed, wires snaking out to connect him to humming machines. A flickering TV screen showed a muted news helicopter circling a smoking city block.
Felina Barbie was already there, prepping syringes with unnerving efficiency. Her scrubs were tight, emphasizing curves that owed more to saline than nature. Her lips, plumped to cartoonish proportions with filler, glistened fuchsia under the fluorescents. "BP dropping, Doctor," she announced, her voice breathy. "Eighty over forty."
"Push the epi," Benz ordered, grabbing a penlight to check Dom’s pupils. They were fixed, dilated, the brilliant blue irises nearly swallowed by black. "Non-responsive. GCS three. He’s crashed deep."
Felina expertly slid the needle into the IV port, her long, unnaturally dexterous tongue poking slightly between her lips in concentration. She loved an audience, especially one this important. As the adrenaline surged through the line, Dom’s monitor stuttered, the heart line spiking erratically, the central thrum in his chest flaring brighter, casting jagged red shadows on the ceiling. He remained utterly still.
"Core temperature spiking," Felina reported, leaning unnecessarily close to Dom’s face. "One-oh-four point five. Neuro storm?"
"Possibly," Benz murmured, fascinated despite the crisis. She adjusted a sensor pad stuck to the glowing skin over Dom’s sternum. "The singularity is reacting to the trauma. It’s interacting with his nervous system in ways we don’t understand. Stabilizing him is like trying to land a jumbo jet on a trampoline."
Cruz stepped closer, her gaze fixed on Dom’s slack, handsome face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, matting dark, tousled hair. "Do whatever it takes, Doctor. This man is a national asset. My asset. He saved my life when that... thing... wearing my ex-husband tried to tear my head off." Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "I owe him everything."
Benz nodded, already calling out orders. "Barbie, ice packs, stat. Continuous saline drip. Keep monitoring core temp and CNS activity. I need a full metabolic panel and a quantum resonance scan on the singularity emitter." She glanced at Cruz. "We need to cool him down before his brain fries."
Felina moved with practiced speed, applying cold packs to Dom’s neck, groin, and armpits. As she leaned across him to adjust a pack near his shoulder, her gaze lingered not on his face, but lower, tracing the outline of his hospital gown where it tented significantly at the groin. Even comatose, wired to machines that sang a discordant symphony of distress, Dominic Stone’s body maintained a persistent, impressive erection. Felina’s plump lips curved into a small, private smile. Oh, the things that tongue could do, she thought.
The next hour blurred into a tense ballet of medical intervention. Gradually, the crimson glow beneath Dom’s skin stabilized into a steady, deep ruby pulse. His erratic heartbeat smoothed into a strong, slow rhythm. The fever broke, sweat drying on his skin. The monitors sang a calmer, steadier tune.
"He’s stable," Benz announced finally, peeling off her gloves. The tension in the room eased like a deflating balloon. "Deep coma. GCS still three. But the singularity is maintaining homeostasis. For now."
Cruz let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She approached the bed, looking down at Dom. He looked peaceful, almost serene, the lines of pain gone. Her hand hovered, then gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her gaze, however, drifted downwards, taking in the prominent bulge beneath the thin sheet. A thoughtful, almost appreciative expression crossed her face. "Remarkable," she murmured.
Felina hovered nearby, wiping Dom’s brow with a cool cloth. Her touch lingered. "His physical responses are... very present, Madam President," she offered, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "Autonomic functions seem robust."
Benz shot Felina a sharp look but said nothing, busy making notes on a tablet. She adjusted her glasses, her own augmented chest rising with a sigh. "The coma is a protective state. His body and that core need time to... recalibrate after the energy expenditure. But the biological manifestations..." She gestured vaguely towards Dom’s lap. "The singularity seems to be amplifying his sex drive for some reason. Rewiring him on a fundamental level. It’s unprecedented."
Catalina Cruz straightened, the softness in her gaze hardening back into decisive steel. She turned to Dr. Benz, her finger tapping a staccato rhythm on the bed rail. "Unprecedented requires understanding, Doctor. I need you to dissect this condition. Every twitch, every flux in that… singularity. I want daily reports. Hourly, if necessary. What’s happening to him biologically? Psychologically?" Her gaze flickered downwards again, then back to Benz’s face. "Especially physiologically. Dom Stone didn’t sacrifice his life just to become a medical curiosity. We owe him solutions."
Benz nodded, adjusting her glasses, her mind already cataloguing the anomalies. "Of course, Madam President. We’ll initiate a full battery of non-invasive scans first. Continuous neuromonitoring. Hormonal panels every six hours. Track the energy signature from the core."
"Good." Cruz swept her gaze around the room, finally landing on Felina, who was subtly adjusting the sheet over Dom’s lap, her touch lingering. "Nurse Barbie. Stay with him. Monitor vitals directly. Any change, any fluctuation, you alert Dr. Benz immediately. Understood?"
Felina beamed, her plump lips stretching into a wide, practiced smile. "Understood, Madam President! He’s in the best hands." She patted Dom’s inert shoulder possessively.
Cruz gave a curt nod, already heading for the door, Benz falling into step beside her, already murmuring about scan parameters. The heavy door hissed shut behind them, sealing Felina inside with the rhythmic beeping of machines and the low, pervasive thrum emanating from Dom’s chest.
Silence descended, thick and humming. Felina circled the bed slowly, her eyes roaming over Dom’s still form. Handsome face, slack. Strong jawline. Athletic build visible even beneath the sheet. Her gaze, inevitably, slid lower. The persistent tent in the fabric hadn’t subsided. If anything, it seemed more prominent now, outlined starkly by the sterile white cotton. The low thrum in the room seemed to vibrate up through the soles of her feet, a physical pulse that resonated deep in her own core.
"He really is something special, aren’t you, papi?" she murmured, her voice husky in the quiet. The machines beeped steadily. His chest rose and fell with the ventilator. That thrum… it felt like an invitation. A compulsion. A need she understood intimately.
She glanced at the door. Sealed. The observation window was currently shuttered. Utter privacy. Felina licked her glossy lips, the tip of her tongue dragging slowly over the inflated curve. Showing off was her art. And here was the ultimate audience – captive, unresponsive… yet undeniably responsive.
She moved to the side of the bed, her fingers trembling slightly, not with nerves, but with a predatory excitement. Gently, she peeled the sheet back from his hips. The loose hospital gown fabric was strained tight over his erection. She traced the outline with a fingertip, feeling the heat radiating through the thin cotton. A low moan escaped her, unbidden.
"Dios mío," she breathed. "Just look at you. All pent up."
With practiced ease, she untied the gown’s waistband and pushed the fabric aside. Dom lay exposed, his cock thick and rigid. The head was flushed deep red, almost purple, slick with pre-cum. Felina’s breath hitched. It was magnificent. More than that. It felt… charged. The air around it seemed to crackle faintly, a subtle energy prickling against her skin, amplifying the low thrumming from his chest. Her own pulse hammered in her ears, drowning out the machines.
"Don’t you worry, handsome," she murmured, her voice a low purr. "Dr. Benz doesn’t know everything about your therapy." Her tongue, impossibly long and strong, snaked out, wetting her lips until they shone. She leaned in, her breath warm against his skin. "Time for your oral physio. Gotta keep those reflexes sharp." She didn't hesitate. She lowered her head, her plump, fuchsia lips parting. Her tongue emerged fully, thick and muscular, and began tracing slow, deliberate, exaggerated circles around the head of his cock. Round and round she went, a practiced, obscene ritual performed under the indifferent gaze of the humming machines and the flickering, silent heroes on the walls. The only sounds were the beeping, the hum, and the soft, wet, rhythmic lapping.
Her tongue, long and unnervingly strong, swept out in a broad, flat stroke from base to tip. Slow. Deliberate. Savouring the smooth, hot skin, the faint electric tingle against her taste buds. She moaned around him, the vibration traveling down his length.
"Mmmh, sí…" She pulled back, her lips glistening. Then dove down again, taking the head fully into her mouth. Not just a quick suck. A performance. Her cheeks hollowed dramatically as she sucked, hard, before releasing with a soft pop. "Just relax, cielo," she cooed, though he couldn't hear. "Let Felina take care of you."
Her head began to bob, establishing a rhythm, but her real talent was in her tongue. It snaked and writhed inside her mouth as she moved. Not just up and down, but in wide, swirling circles around the head. Massaging the sensitive ridge. Flicking relentlessly at the frenulum. Coiling around the shaft on the upstroke, applying delicious pressure. Round and round in big, exaggerated, wet circles, showcasing every millimeter of her skill. She used her lips too, pursing them tightly on the downstroke, dragging them slowly back up, her plump flesh molding to his shape.
The machines beeped on, oblivious. Sweat beaded on Felina’s forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed in concentration, then snapped open, watching him, needing to see the effect of her work even if he couldn't react. His cock pulsed in her mouth, thick and unyielding. Pre-cum flooded her tongue, salty and metallic, mixed with that strange, almost ozone-like energy. She swallowed it down, humming her approval. The thrumming in the room seemed to intensify, a counterpoint to her rhythmic sucking. Her hand snaked down to cup his balls. Heavy. Hot. Tight. Like stones in a heated pouch. She massaged them gently, feeling the tension there.
"Got so much built up, handsome?" she mumbled around him, her words slurred. "Don’t worry. Felina’s got you. I’ll drain you nice and slow…" She increased the suction, her head bobbing faster, her tongue working overtime, swirling, flicking, relentless. She was putting on the show of her life, the ultimate demonstration for her comatose audience. The energy crackled against her lips. The low thrum felt like it was vibrating her bones. She lost herself in the rhythm, the texture, the heat, the sheer, overwhelming need to empty him, to conquer this magnificent, unresponsive cock.
The hiss of the door made Felina jump like a scalded cat. She yanked her head back, Dom’s cock slipping wetly from her mouth with an obscene pop. She scrambled to pull the hospital gown back over him, wiping her glistening lips frantically with the back of her hand, heart hammering against her ribs. All of her cock worship sessions ended this way, but the fear was ever present.
Dr. Benz strode in, frowning at a tablet, Catalina Cruz a step behind, radiating impatience. Felina plastered on her brightest, most professional smile, though her cheeks burned.
"Vitals stable, Doctor! No changes!" she chirped a little too loudly, straightening her scrubs.
Benz barely glanced at her, her attention fixed on the tablet and then on Dom. "Good. That’s… good." She moved to the bank of monitors, her brow furrowed. "Initial scan data is… perplexing, Madam President."
Cruz crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. "Explain."
Benz gestured towards Dom’s groin area, now decently covered. "The singularity's energy isn't just maintaining him. It’s actively rewriting his biology at a cellular level. Rewiring neural pathways. And it seems particularly… focused… on his reproductive system."
Felina busied herself checking an IV line, avoiding their eyes, her mouth still tingling.
"Weekly measurements show significant, accelerating growth in the… uh… external genitalia," Benz continued, her tone clinically detached despite the subject matter. "It's as if the singularity is hyper-stimulating the tissues, fueled by his amplified libido. There’s also a massive, unnatural accumulation of seminal fluid in the testes. They’re dangerously distended."
Cruz raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Dangerously?"
Benz nodded, tapping the tablet screen. "Yes. The pressure buildup is immense. If not relieved… regularly… there’s a significant risk of vascular damage, tissue necrosis, even retrograde ejaculation affecting the bladder or kidneys. The singularity might compensate, or it might not. It’s destabilizing the local bio-field." She looked pointedly at the covered bulge, then at Cruz. "We need to implement a regimen. A strict schedule. His condition requires… draining."
Dr. Benz shifted her weight, the crisp white coat pulling tight across her augmented chest. "Medically speaking, the most efficient, reliable method would be mechanical stimulation. A specialized pump device. Programmable, sterile, eliminates... variables." Her tone was clinical, detached, the solution obvious in her scientific mind. "We could regulate pressure, duration, frequency to precisely manage the fluid pressure and prevent tissue damage."
A beat of silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic thrum from Dom’s chest and the steady beep of monitors. Catalina Cruz’s perfectly sculpted face hardened. Her gaze swept from the doctor to Dom’s covered form, lingering briefly on the undeniable tent in the sheet. "A machine?" Her voice was low, dangerously smooth. "You propose to service the man who saved the free world... with a pump?"
Dr. Benz blinked, adjusting her glasses. "It's not about service, Madam President. It's about physiological necessity. Risk mitigation. A purely clinical procedure."
"Clinical? Pfft." Cruz dismissed the word with a sharp flick of her wrist. She stepped closer to the bed, her presence dominating the sterile space. "Look at him, Doctor. This isn't just some lab specimen. This is Dominic Stone. A hero. A man." Her finger tapped the bed rail for emphasis. "A man with very specific... appreciations." Her own enhanced silhouette seemed to emphasize the point. "Subjecting him to cold, mechanical intervention while he lies here helpless? It’s obscene. It’s an insult to his sacrifice."
Felina, pretending to meticulously adjust a saline drip near Dom's head, couldn't help but glance down. Her eyes traced the pronounced ridge beneath the sheet. A machine? What a waste. Her tongue practically tingled at the thought of the alternative. She subtly bit her plump lower lip, her gaze lingering a fraction too long on Dom’s groin.
President Cruz noticed. A flicker of something unreadable – calculation? Amusement? Annoyance? – passed through her eyes as she observed Felina’s blatant ogling. She didn’t comment. Instead, she turned her full attention back to Benz, her voice cutting through the hum. "He deserves more than wires and suction cups, Doctor. He deserves human touch. Stimulation he would choose. Attraction matters. Dignity matters, even comatose."
Dr. Benz opened her mouth, likely to argue efficiency or sterility protocols, but Cruz was already raising a commanding hand, silencing her. The President’s expression was resolute, the decision made. "We find people. People he desired. People who understand... his particular tastes." She pulled out a sleek, encrypted phone, her thumb flying across the screen with practiced speed.
"Jameson," she barked into the phone, her tone brooking no delay. "Dominic Stone. Priority Alpha. Pull every record, every whisper. I want a list of every woman he dated. Hooked up with. Seriously pursued. Anyone he expressed significant... appreciation for." She paused, her gaze drifting thoughtfully back to Dom, then flicking almost imperceptibly towards Felina, who quickly averted her eyes, suddenly fascinated by a monitor readout. "Especially," Cruz added, her voice dropping slightly, "I want to interview them."
She listened for a brief second, her lips a thin line. "Yes, interview them all. Discreetly. I will explain the situation. The national importance." Another pause. "Report back within 24 hours. Move." She ended the call, sliding the phone back into her pocket. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the room one final time, landing momentarily on Felina, who had lost focus and was now licking her lips looking at Dom's erection, and then on Benz. "Human solutions, Doctor. That's the directive. Make it work. In fact, let's discuss this privately."
Catalina Cruz’s gaze, sharp as a stiletto, swept past Dr. Benz and landed squarely on Felina Barbie. The Mexican nurse was ostensibly adjusting a monitor, but her posture was rigid, her eyes fixed with unnerving intensity on the prominent swell beneath Dominic Stone’s hospital sheet. It wasn't professional observation. It was pure, unadulterated worship. The tip of Felina’s unnaturally plump, glossy tongue darted out for a split second, tracing the curve of her lower lip.
Catalina understood that look. She’d seen it in mirrors, felt the pulse of power it represented. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched her own perfected lips. Perfect.
"Doctor Benz," Catalina said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur though Felina could clearly hear, "a word? Outside. Now." She didn’t wait for agreement, turning on her heel, the crisp click of her designer heels echoing in the suddenly stifling room.
Dr. Benz, startled, shot a confused glance at Felina, then at Dom, before hurrying after the Acting President. "Madam President? The vitals, the singularity readings... we should really—"
The heavy door hissed shut behind them, cutting off Benz’s protest. Silence, thick and electric, pressed in on Felina. Then, her gaze snapped back to Dom. To the urgent, impossible demand tenting the thin cotton. Her focus dissolved, burned away by a surge of pure, desperate need. The President’s aura, Dr. Benz’s protocols, the sterile rules of this room – they vanished.
"Fuck it," Felina breathed, the words a husky vow.
She was at the bedside in two strides. No pretense now. No slow reveal. Her fingers, trembling not with fear but with predatory hunger, yanked the sheet down and shoved the hospital gown aside. Dom’s cock sprang free, impossibly thick, flushed dark, veins standing out like cords beneath heated satin. Pre-cum glistened copiously at the tip. The air around it crackled, that strange energy setting Felina’s nerves alight.
She didn't hesitate. Plunging down, she engulfed him in one swift, hungry motion. Her fuchsia lips stretched obscenely wide around his girth. A guttural moan vibrated from her throat directly against his skin. Her tongue, that freakishly long, muscular weapon of pleasure, exploded into action. Not gentle circles now. This was frantic, possessive worship. She swirled it in broad, wet strokes, flattening against the underside of his shaft before whipping the tip relentlessly around the swollen head. Up and down, her head bobbed with piston-like efficiency, her throat working to take more, deeper.
Slurp. Suck. Pop.
The wet, rhythmic noises filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to the steady beep of the heart monitor. Felina’s eyes squeezed shut, lost in sensation – the heat, the salty-bitter taste mixed with ozone, the impossible hardness, the thrumming energy making her own core clench. Her free hand groped and squeezed his heavy balls, rolling them roughly. She was possessed, a woman servicing her god.
Thump.
Just outside the door, pressed against the reinforced glass of the observation port she’d silently slid open a sliver, Catalina Cruz watched. Her eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, not in shock, but in cold, calculating satisfaction. A faint flush crept up her neck, unseen beneath her impeccable foundation. She watched Felina’s head move, the obscene stretch of her lips, the frantic dance of that infamous tongue. She watched the sheer, animalistic devotion.
After five long, wet seconds, Catalina pulled back from the viewport, letting the small cover slide shut. She turned to Dr. Benz, who stood rigidly a few feet away, wringing her hands, her face pale.
"Doctor," Catalina said, her voice dangerously calm, cutting through Benz’s anxious fluttering. "Forget the protocols."
Catalina silenced her with a raised hand. Her gaze pinned Benz, stripping away the layers of scientific detachment. "Look at me, Nikki. Look closely." She took a step closer, invading the doctor’s personal space, the scent of expensive perfume mingling with hospital sterility. "That man in there," she jabbed a finger towards the door, "didn't just take a bullet. He contained a singularity in his chest to stop an alien god from turning the White House lawn into a charnel pit. He rewrote the laws of physics with his bare hands to save me. To save all of us."
She paused, letting the weight of it sink in. Benz shifted uncomfortably, adjusting her glasses, her own augmented chest rising with a shaky breath.
"And now," Catalina continued, her voice dropping to a low, intense murmur that vibrated with absolute conviction, "his own power is rewriting him. It demands. It requires. And we stand here arguing about pumps and interview protocols?" She scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Look at what’s happening in there!" Another gesture towards the sealed door. "Look at what he inspires."
Benz swallowed hard. "Nurse Barbie’s actions are… highly unprofessional. A breach of ethics. A contamination risk—"
"Ethics?" Catalina cut her off, her voice laced with icy venom. "He ate a dimension-ripping energy blast! His existence defies ethics! His need defies your little rulebook." She leaned in, her eyes blazing. "Forget the rules, Doctor Benz. Forget sterile procedures. Forget 'appropriate'. That man?" She pointed again, her finger unwavering. "He is not a patient. He is not an experiment."
Her voice dropped even lower, thrumming with a fervor that bordered on fanatical.
"He is a god. A new god, forged in fire and singularity. And we? We need to treat him like a god, figurative or otherwise. That's the level of care I demand. If that sexy little thing of a nurse wants to treat his cock like popsicle, let her unless we find out he's not into that kind of thing."
She straightened, the aura of absolute authority radiating from her like heat. "Starting now. If the singularity wants his dick wet, we give it to him."
Dr. Benz stared, her scientific mind reeling, her clinical detachment crumbling under the force of Catalina’s conviction and the undeniable, obscene truth vibrating through the door at her back. The beep of the monitors inside the room seemed to sync with the frantic, wet sucking sounds that were, impossibly, faintly audible even out here. Her mouth opened, then closed. No words came. Only the dawning, terrifying realization that the rules had just been incinerated.