Chapter 1: Brain Scan and Submission
The scanner hummed, a low and constant thrum that vibrated in Claire’s teeth. She lay on the padded table, the cold leather sticking to the back of her thighs. Her rounded belly rose like a pale moon under the sterile lights, a map of blue veins visible beneath the skin. A single bead of milk, creamy and rich, gathered at her nipple and dripped onto the sheet below.
“Excellent lactation,” Dr. Alice Hardy noted, her voice crisp in the humming silence. She made a mark on her tablet. “The prolactin levels are ideal. How are you feeling, Claire?”
Claire’s green eyes, glazed and soft, drifted towards the doctor. A sweet, vacant smile touched her lips. “Full,” she said simply. Her hand drifted to her stomach, patting it gently. “Heavy. Sleepy.”
“Good. That’s perfectly normal. The pregnancy is accelerating everything just as we hoped.” Dr. Hardy didn’t look up from her tablet. “John, help her onto the platform, please.”
An orderly, a man with a blank face and strong arms, stepped forward. He guided Claire from the table. She moved with a slow, waddling grace, one hand supporting the small of her back. She didn’t hesitate as he led her to the center of the room, to the featureless column of polished steel known as the stimulator. It was sleek, anonymous, wet with sanitizing gel.
“You know the procedure, Claire,” Dr. Hardy said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Assume the position.”
Claire nodded, her shorter blonde hair brushing her cheeks. She turned, leaned forward, and braced her hands on the supportive grips that extended from the machine’s base. She presented herself without a flicker of shame, her body a testament to the program’s success: swollen breasts, widened hips, the ripe curve of her pregnancy. John fastened the soft restraints around her wrists and ankles, not tight, but firm. A harness settled around her belly, supporting the weight.
“Beginning neural baseline scan.” Dr. Hardy’s fingers danced over a console. On a wall monitor, a grainy, monochrome image of Claire’s brain flickered to life, lit up with soft blue and green pulses. “Cognitive function is registering at Level 4. A significant drop from her pre-conception baseline. The Femidol is integrating beautifully with the gestational hormones.”
A low, mechanical click echoed in the room. The stimulator adjusted, extending a slick, phallic probe. Claire let out a soft sigh as it made contact, then began a slow, insistent rhythm. Her breath hitched.
“Increased cardiac response. Endorphin release is climbing.” Dr. Hardy watched the monitors, not Claire. “Observe the prefrontal cortex, John. The area associated with complex thought and executive function. Watch as we proceed.”
The machine’s rhythm deepened, became more urgent. A soft, wet sound punctuated the hum. Claire’s head drooped between her shoulders. A low moan escaped her lips.
“Verbal capacity is diminishing,” Dr. Hardy narrated, a hint of pride in her clinical voice. “Sentence structure has collapsed. The mind is prioritizing somatic pleasure and reproductive function. Perfect.”
Claire’s moans became ragged gasps. Her eyes, once glazed, now stared at nothing. Her mouth fell open, slack and wet. Her hips pushed back against the machine’s relentless pace, a purely instinctive movement.
“Here it comes,” Dr. Hardy whispered.
Claire’s body tensed. A shudder ran through her, from her shoulders down to her ankles. Her back arched as much as the harness would allow. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and a throaty, broken sound was torn from her—not a word, just a raw expulsion of air. On the monitor, the vibrant activity in her higher brain regions dimmed, faded to a dull grey, while the deep, primal sections of her limbic system flashed with brilliant, blinding yellow.
The machine slowed, then retracted. Claire slumped in the restraints, her body quivering, a line of drool connecting her lower lip to the platform. She panted, her gaze utterly empty, fixed on some point far beyond the room.
“Post-orgasmic scan confirms it,” Dr. Hardy said, finality in her tone. “Cognitive function now at Level 5. A full-stage regression triggered by peak sexual response. She is perfectly primed for motherhood. Release her, John. Send her to the lactation lounge. Her milk will let down any moment.”
John unfastened the restraints. Claire stood unsteadily, a fresh trickle of milk running in a slow line down her stomach. She smiled dopily at the orderly as he handed her a robe. “That was… nice,” she mumbled, her words thick and slow. She allowed herself to be led away, one hand still absently cradling her belly.
The door hissed shut behind her.
“Next subject is Allie,” Dr. Hardy said, calling up a new file. The image of a young woman with long blonde hair and wide blue eyes appeared. “She’s six months behind Claire, but her fertility metrics are off the charts. A remarkable responder to the Femidol regimen.”
Allie entered when summoned. She moved with a placid, fluid slowness, a slight shuffle in her step. The drug had sculpted her dramatically over two years; her once-slender frame now boasted a heavy, ripe bust and generous hips that swayed gently. Her blue eyes were clear but deeply vacant, like sun-bleached sky.
“Hello, Dr. Hardy,” Allie said, her voice a soft, melodic monotone.“Allie. You’ve had your physical. Your ovarian reserve is exceptional. Your uterine lining is ideal. Today we assess the neurological integration. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Dr. Hardy.” Allie’s fingers went to the buttons of her simple smock. She undid them without hesitation, let the fabric fall away. She stood naked under the lights, her body a younger echo of Claire’s—full, fertile, and utterly compliant. There was no shyness, no awareness of being observed as a body separate from a function.
“Mount the platform.”
Allie obeyed. She positioned herself with the same practiced ease, leaning forward, gripping the handles. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back. John secured her.
“Baseline scan.” The brain image appeared. “Higher cognitive function is present, but attenuated. Level 3. Notice the increased activity in the parietal lobe—sensory processing is heightened. She is becoming more body than mind. Excellent.”
The machine clicked, whirred, and engaged.
Allie gasped, a sharp, surprised little sound. Then she sighed, her body relaxing into the rhythm. She was quieter than Claire, her responses more internalized. Her eyes stayed open, but they lost focus, gazing at the frosted glass wall as if watching something beautiful.
“The descent is faster,” Dr. Hardy observed, her eyes flicking between Allie’s body and the shimmering scans. “The Femidol has done its work thoroughly. Intelligence is a series of firing synapses. We are simply… rewiring the circuit board. Prioritizing the essential functions.”
Allie’s breath began to hitch. A faint pink blush spread across her chest and throat. Her breasts swayed with the machine’s motion. She began to murmur, soft, meaningless syllables. “Oh… yeah… that’s… mmm…”
“Listen to her speech pattern,” Dr. Hardy said to John, who watched impassively. “It’s breaking down.Syntax is dissolving. She’s losing the capacity for complex articulation.”
The rhythm intensified. Allie’s murmurs choked off into sharp, rhythmic cries. Her knuckles were white on the grips. Her back began to arch, a beautiful, desperate curve.
“Watch the monitor. The drop is imminent.”
Allie’s head jerked back. A high, thin whine escaped her throat. Her wide blue eyes blanked out, sheer sensation obliterating all thought. Her mouth formed a perfect, silent ‘O’. On the screen, the vibrant colors of active cognition drained away, snuffed out like a candle, leaving only the deep, persistent glow of the brainstem and pleasure centers.
The machine stilled. Allie collapsed against it, held up only by the restraints. She trembled violently, her skin sheened with sweat. A slow, blissful smile spread over her face, utterly vacant, utterly peaceful.Dr. Hardy studied the final scan. A cold, professional smile touched her lips. “Level 5. A two-stage drop in a single session. Remarkable. She’s catching up to Claire quite nicely.” She made a final notation. “A prime candidate for immediate impregnation. Schedule her for insemination tomorrow.”
John unfastened the straps. Allie slumped into his arms, boneless and giggling softly. He guided her into a robe.
“Did I do good, Doctor?” Allie asked, her words slurring together like melting candy.
“You did perfectly, Allie,” Dr. Hardy said, closing the file. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”
As Allie was led away, drifting on a cloud of endorphins and diminished capacity, Dr. Hardy turned back to her console. She pulled up the program’s master roster, hundreds of names and photos, a cascade of young women in various states of transformation. She clicked on a new file, a girl with brunette hair and intelligent, wary eyes—a new admission, fresh and unaltered.
“Schedule Lydia for her first Femidol injection tomorrow,” she said to the empty, humming room. “We begin again.”