Chapter 34: The Creampie Protocol
The studio felt like a different planet. After the warm, silent pod, the space was all sharp edges and reflective surfaces. Sunlight glared off the glass table, and the motivational posters on the walls—“DISRUPT THE PATRIARCHY,” “YOUR ORGASM IS POLITICAL”—seemed to watch him with a mocking, typographic glare. The air smelled of citrus cleaner and something faintly coppery, like old pennies.
Aidan stood awkwardly near the head of the padded bench, still feeling the ghost of Catriona’s kiss on his lips. He was dressed in the standard-issue grey cotton shorts, feeling exposed and absurd.
Priya entered without looking at him. She carried a tablet and a small, sterile-looking kit. She was all business in a crisp linen shirt and wide-leg trousers, her dark hair a severe knot at the nape of her neck.
“Lena sent the metrics from your shower,” she said, placing the kit on the table with a click. “Heart rate elevated thirteen percent above baseline at water-contact. We’ll note that as residual somatic arousal from the overnight entanglements. Could confound the data.” She finally glanced up. Her eyes were calm, professional. “We’ll need to establish a new baseline. Strip, please.”
Her tone was so matter-of-fact it bypassed his awkwardness. He shucked the shorts. The room was cool. He watched as Priya, with efficient motions, unbuttoned her shirt, folded it neatly over a chair, then removed her trousers and underwear. She didn’t hurry. She didn’t linger. It was a procedure.
“Today’s focus is logistics,” she said, walking to the bench. Her body was lean, strong. “Reader questions center on efficacy and experience. Primarily, the effect of positioning on internal retention and subsequent leakage.” She positioned herself on her knees, forearms resting on the padded leather, her back arched. “From behind. It’s the most commonly cited position for the intended outcome. We’ll record depth, angle, and duration of deposition.”
Aidan moved to position himself. The clinical air was suffocating. “Priya, are you…”
“I’m ready,” she cut him off, her voice steady. “Use the gel from the kit. I’ve self-lubricated adequately, but the added volume is necessary for the measurements we’re taking regarding thrust facilitation.”
He did as he was told. The gel was cold. He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her. She inhaled sharply, a short, clipped sound.
“Begin with shallow insertions,” she instructed, her head down. “I’ll call for incremental increases. We’re mapping the internal space.”
He pushed in slowly. She was tight, and hot, and the sheer contrast between her technical language and the physical reality of her made his head spin. He slid deeper.
“Stop,” she said. Her voice had tightened a fraction. “That’s five inches. Note the sensation of fullness.” She paused, breathing deliberately. “Proceed to seven.”
He pushed further. A small, shuddering gasp escaped her before she clamped it down. “Good. Full… full penetration now. To the hilt. Please.”
He sheathed himself completely. Her body clenched around him, a violent, involuntary pulse. She was silent for a count of three.
“Acknowledged,” she breathed out, the word strained. “The cervical contact is… pronounced. This is relevant for the question about depth and cramping. You may… you may begin rhythmic motion. Focus on a consistent, moderate pace. I will time it.”
He started to move. The slick, wet sound of their joining was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Priya kept her head down, her knuckles white where they gripped the bench.
“Angle is optimal,” she reported, her voice starting to fray at the edges. “Minimal slippage. Sensation of… of profound displacement. Noted.” She fell silent as he settled into the pace, her own hips beginning to make tiny, reflexive pushes back against him. Her professionalism was a thin veneer now, cracking with every thrust.
“Priya,” he murmured, unable to help himself.
“Don’t,” she whispered harshly. “Don’t talk. Just… maintain. The data…”
But the data was becoming a mess. Her breathing lost its rhythm, coming in sharp hitches. Her instructions dissolved. When her orgasm hit, it was silent but for a choked, guttural sound she swallowed too late. Her whole body tensed, then went pliant, dropping onto her forearms. She shook beneath him.
It triggered his own release. He drove deep and held there as he came, a long, washing surge of heat. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the feel of their sweat-slick skin, the profound, unspeakable intimacy of the act.
The spell shattered.
“Do not withdraw,” she said, her voice a raw whisper. She fumbled for the tablet on the floor beside the bench, her hand trembling. “Internal retention clock starts… now. We hold for three minutes. Standard recommendation.”
They were locked together, joined in the most vulnerable way, while a digital timer ticked on her screen. He could feel the slow, subtle pulses of her body around him, the warm spill of his own release. Her back, pressed against his chest, was trembling.
The three minutes felt like an hour.
The timer buzzed softly. “Extraction,” she said. Her voice was hollow.
He pulled out slowly. A gush of fluid followed, pooling onto the sterile, absorbent pad she’d positioned beneath them. She immediately shifted, turning to sit on the bench, legs apart, allowing the rest to flow out into the collection tray. She avoided his eyes, her face a mask of intense concentration and something like shame.
She picked up a small graduated cylinder from the kit. With a disturbingly practiced hand, she used a flexible spatula to gather the pooled semen, transferring it to the cylinder. She held it up to the light, noting the volume marker.
“Seventeen milliliters,” she stated, her clinical tone back, but brittle now. “Above average ejaculate volume correlates with the reported… fullness.” She set the cylinder down. Her hand was shaking. She looked at the mess between her legs, then finally, her gaze travelled up to meet his.
Her composure, that carefully constructed wall of professionalism, crumbled. Her eyes were wide, dark, flooded with a confusion that looked like fear. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen.
“That was…” she began, then stopped. She swallowed. When she spoke again, it was a whisper meant only for him, a confession that had nothing to do with the column. “That was thorough.”
Before he could respond, before he could even process the staggering weight of that word, the studio door hissed open.
Lena stood there, tablet in hand. Her eyes darted from the graduated cylinder, to the used collection tray, to their naked, glistening bodies. “Excellent,” she said, her voice bright with analytic zeal. “The volumetric data is prime. Priya, your physiological readouts spiked into an overlap pattern with Aidan’s at the six-minute mark. We’ll need to discuss the subjective experience of that synchronization.” She stepped fully into the room, her heels clicking on the polished concrete. “Now, for the movement and leakage portion. Catriona is here to assist with the cleanup simulations. She’s just outside.”
Lena’s smile was a blade.
“Let’s get you two cleaned up and reset. We have four more logistical scenarios to model before lunch.”