Chapter 2: The Next Assessment
The polished vinyl floor of the scanning suite felt cold underfoot after the plush carpet of the waiting area. Two weeks had passed, but the room was unchanged—a monument to sterile efficiency. The humming was louder here, a persistent electronic thrum that vibrated in the teeth.
"Right on schedule," Dr. Hardy said, her smile crisp as she swiped her tablet awake. She wore a white lab coat over her clothes today, the fabric stark against the grey machinery. "John. Girls. We'll begin with the morphometric tracking. Allie, you're first."
Allie nodded, her blonde hair swaying. She was already pulling her simple sundress over her head before the instruction fully landed, letting it pool on the floor. She stood naked in the center of the room, bathed in the flat, bright LEDs from overhead. Her body was a testament to two years of careful chemical sculpting—the pronounced swell of her hips, the deep curve of her waist, breasts that were full and tipped with pink.
"Step onto the platform, please," Dr. Hardy gestured to a circular disc set into the floor. A slender pillar with a complex array of cameras and sensors rose from its center.
Allie complied. The platform gave a soft whir and began a slow, steady rotation. Red laser lines fanned out, painting her skin with geometric grids. A 3D image began rendering in real-time on a large wall-mounted screen—a ghostly, rotating blue model of Allie's form. Numbers flickered along the contours: hip circumference, waist-to-hip ratio, breast volume.
"Notice the continued gluteal development," Dr. Hardy said to John, who stood with his arms crossed, watching the screen. "The Femidol directs fat storage preferentially to the pelvis and thighs. It's not just weight gain. It's strategic… upholstery. For pregnancy and for presentation." The laser scanned the generous curve of Allie's backside, the measurements ticking upward. "Her body is actively building the ideal architecture for breeding. Perfect."
Allie smiled vaguely at the wall, enjoying the gentle movement and the warm light on her skin. "Feels tingly," she murmured.
"That's the lasers, sweetheart," Dr. Hardy said, not unkindly. "Alright, step down. Leah, your turn."
Leah moved more slowly, her balance different. She shimmied out of her maternity dress, her belly a taut, proud dome. Her breasts were heavier, veins like rivers on a map. The platform whirred again. The lasers traced her form, and the on-screen model bloomed, a staggering contrast to Allie's.
"Exemplary," Dr. Hardy breathed, leaning closer to the data. "Look at this, John. The abdominal expansion is perfectly symmetrical. Breast volume has increased twenty-two percent since her last scan. The colostrum production we observed has solidified into full preparatory lactation. This is the program’s success made flesh." The digital readout flashed green across the board. "Physically, she is optimal."
Leah placed her hands under her belly as she rotated, a serene, vacant pride on her face.
"Now for the cognitive baselines," Dr. Hardy said, powering down the scanner. The humming shifted to a different machine in the corner—a sleek, silver chair with a high back, armrests, and a prominent, phallic-shaped protrusion rising from the seat. A complex helmet of wires and sensors hung above it, suspended from a robotic arm. "Leah, we'll start with you. You remember the procedure."
Leah nodded, licking her lips. She waddled to the chair, turned, and slowly lowered herself onto it, guiding the mechanical shaft inside herself with a practiced, unthinking ease. She gasped softly as she settled fully, her body accepting it. Dr. Hardy stepped forward, lowering the helmet onto Leah's head, adjusting sensors at her temples.
"This records real-time neural activity during peak stimulation," Dr. Hardy explained, her fingers flying over a separate console. A graph appeared on a monitor, lines spiking and flattening. "We're measuring the dissolution of higher-order thinking. The Femidol creates pathways where pleasure and orgasm directly suppress cortical function. Pregnancy acts as a force multiplier."
She turned a dial. The machine beneath Leah emitted a deeper, rhythmic pulse. Leah's back arched slightly against the chair.
"Beginning baseline." The graph showed chaotic, active patterns. "Leah, count backwards from twenty for me."
Leah's eyes, already glazing, tried to focus. "Twenty. Nineteen. Um… eighteen. Sev-seventeen…" She hit a wall at sixteen. Her brow furrowed. "Fif… teen? No… four…teen?" The numbers tangled. The machine's rhythm intensified.
"The access is already compromised," Dr. Hardy noted. "Now, initiating programmed stimulation. Observe."
She pushed a lever forward. The machine's movements became more assertive, a precise, piston-like motion. Leah's mouth fell open. A low moan escaped. On the graph, the chaotic lines began to simplify, large areas of the brain map fading from bright yellow to a dull, inactive grey.
"Frontal lobe activity is dropping rapidly. The executive function is shutting down. Broca's area—speech—is disengaging." Dr. Hardy's voice was calm, analytical. Leah's hands gripped the armrests. Her moans became broken, rhythmic hiccups. "The limbic system is lighting up like a supernova. All neurological energy is being rerouted. This is the synergy in action. The drug, the pregnancy hormones, the mechanical orgasm… they're working in concert to rewire her."
Leah's head tossed against the headrest. A string of saliva connected her lip to her chin. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites.
"Cognitive capacity is now approximately equivalent to an IQ of 78," Dr. Hardy read from the screen. "A three-point drop in two weeks. The decline is accelerating as predicted."
The machine reached its peak cycle. Leah’s body seized, a silent, taut scream shaking her. Her back lifted entirely off the chair, held only by the helmet and the machine inside her. The graph flatlined into a solid, pulsating bar of white light in the pleasure centers, while the rest of the brain went dark blue, dormant.
She collapsed, breathing in ragged, wet gulps. Dr. Hardy powered the machine down and retracted the shaft. Leah jerked at the emptiness. The helmet was lifted. She stared at the ceiling, utterly blank, a slow drip of drool sliding from her chin onto her swollen breast.
"Allie. You're next," Dr. Hardy said.
Allie, who had been watching with heavy-lidded eyes, her own hand idly between her thighs, jumped at her name. She took Leah's place, her movements eager. She mounted the machine without hesitation, sighing as it entered her. The helmet descended.
Her scan told a similar, if slightly less drastic, story. As the machine worked, Allie’s speech dissolved into giggles and monosyllables. "Good… so… big… feels… mmm… dumb…" she slurred, her smile goofy and unanchored. When her orgasm hit, it was less a seismic event than Leah's, but the brain map showed the same pattern—the brilliant, all-consuming flash in the midbrain, the dimming of everything else.
"Allie's baseline has stabilized at 85," Dr. Hardy announced as Allie whimpered through the aftershocks. "A two-point decline. The frequent sexual activity is maintaining the depressive trend beautifully."
She printed two reports, the paper warm and smelling of ink. She handed them to John. Crisp graphs charted the steady, descending lines of cognitive function over time. Leah’s line was steeper.
"Both are progressing exactly as required. The pregnancy has given Leah a significant lead in neural re-prioritization. Allie will likely see a similar acceleration once conception occurs."
John took the papers, his eyes scanning the cold numbers. He looked at his stepdaughters. Allie was trying to stand, her legs wobbly, a blissful smile on her face. Leah was still in the chair, softly crying and smiling at the same time, one hand kneading her breast absentmindedly.
"They look peaceful," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"That's the point," Dr. Hardy replied, wiping down the machine's interface with a disinfectant cloth. "A peaceful body is a receptive body. A quiet mind is a happy mind. They’re achieving their purpose."
John tucked the reports into his inside jacket pocket. He walked over, helping Allie steady herself, then lifted Leah from the chair with surprising ease. She nestled into his chest, making a contented, burrowing sound.
"Let's go home," he said. And they did, the two young women moving in a dazed, happy fog, supported by his steady hands, the hum of the machine lingering in their bones like a new instinct.