Chapter 3: The Lab's Late Shift
Alban’s face drained of all color, his post-orgasmic haze shattering as if doused with ice water. His eyes dropped to Ryan’s mouth, smeared with his own cum, then flew to the hand still clutching his half-open trousers.He saw the ring. A simple, thick band of gold on his left hand, now glaringly obvious in the fluorescent light. He hadn’t even taken it off.
“Jesus,” he whispered, the word thick with disgust—at himself, at the situation, at the stunning blonde creature before him. He fumbled his soft cock back into his pants, zipped up with clumsy, frantic hands, and turned away, refusing to look at Ryan again. He slammed out of the bathroom door, leaving Ryan alone, sticky and exposed.
Ryan stood on trembling legs, his small breasts glistening, his bald pussy pulsing and utterly bare. He pulled the damp fabric of his panties back into place, a pointless gesture.The black dress was a mess. He swiped a trembling hand over his chin, staring at the milky streak it left on his skin. He didn’t feel like a conquering seductress.He felt like a crime scene.
Pushing back into the wall of sound, he scanned the throbbing crowd. Near the edge of the dance floor, he saw Alban rejoin a group. A woman with a tired, pleasant face touched his arm, saying something.His wife. Alban nodded, not meeting her eyes, and let himself be led onto the dance floor for a stiff, pathetic shuffle. His gaze lifted, sweeping the room, and for one fractured second, locked with Ryan’s.There was no lust there now. Only a hollow, panicked shame.Ryan turned away first.He found their table. Mia was on the dance floor, sandwiched between Chloe and some guy Ryan didn’t recognize, her arms in the air, head thrown back in laughter.The table was a graveyard of empty glasses. Ryan sank into the plush booth, the leather cold against his thighs. A fresh drink—something pink and swirling—appeared before him, delivered by a server with a blank smile. A guy slid in next to him, his thigh pressing against Ryan’s. He was handsome in a generic way, smelling of cheap cologne and sweat.“Having a good night?” he shouted over the music.
Ryan just nodded, bringing the sweet, electric drink to his lips.It went down easy. The world softened further, the edges blurring into a manageable haze.He was so fucking drunk. The guy’s arm rested along the back of the booth, his hand dangling near Ryan’s shoulder. Then, with casual presumption, that hand slid down, coming to rest on Ryan’s bare upper thigh. Ryan was too numb, too exhausted to react. The hand sat there, heavy and warm, for a full minute.Then, fingers began to trace idle patterns on his skin.Higher. The touch slipped under the ruinously short hem of his dress, past the soaked lace of his panties.
Ryan gasped, a weak, shuddering intake of breath.The man’s fingers didn’t probe or penetrate. They simply found his swollen, hyper-sensitive clit and began to circle it, slowly, deliberately, through the slick fabric.It wasn’t intimate.It was a transaction. The guy kept talking to his friend across the table, not even looking at Ryan, his face composed. The stimulation was direct, relentless, and with his nerves already scraped raw from the adrenaline and the vodka, Ryan’s body betrayed him instantly.A low, helpless moan escaped his lips as his hips jerked forward. The orgasm was less a wave than a sharp, electrical snap, zipping through him so fast it left him dizzy. His back arched off the booth seat, his hands gripping the edge of the table.As the last tremor faded, the guy’s hand withdrew. He patted Ryan’s thigh once, like patting a dog, slid out of the booth, and melted into the crowd without another word.Ryan sat there, panting, staring at nothing.Three times. In less than an hour.He felt hollowed out, a vessel used and emptied. By the time Mia and Chloe stumbled back, sweaty and gleeful, he was just a silent, beautiful statue.
“Emma? You okay?” Mia’s smile faltered as she took in his glazed eyes, the unnatural stillness.“Just… really drunk,” Ryan managed, his voice sounding far away.
The taxi ride was a blur of streetlights. In the apartment, Ryan didn’t even bother removing the ruined dress. He just collapsed face-down on the bed, the world spinning in a nauseating carousel.He heard Mia moving around, the click of the bathroom light, the rustle of clothes. He kept his eyes closed, feigning the deep, dead sleep of the utterly spent.
He felt the dip of the mattress as Mia climbed in beside him.He breathed slowly, evenly. After a few minutes, he heard a familiar, faint sound.The soft, rhythmic slickness. The choked, stifled breaths.He cracked one eye open the merest slit.
Mia was on her back beside him, one hand under the sheets. The pale blue light of her phone screen illuminated her face, tense with concentration.She was looking at a picture.Ryan’s stomach twisted. It was a photo of his cock.His old cock. A close-up, stark and undeniable, he’d sent her once last year after she’d begged for it during a late-night text session. Her thumb swiped, and another photo appeared—a full-body mirror shot from the shoulders down, him grinning, proudly erect.Her hips began a subtle, frantic pump against her own hand.
Ryan felt a strange, cold clarity pierce the alcoholic fog. He saw the hunger on her face, a hunger for what was gone.He watched her, this girl he loved, getting off to the ghost of him. Her breath hitched.She was close.
He let his own hand slide down his body, over the flat plane of his stomach, under the elastic of his panties. His fingers, knowing this new territory too well now, found his own wetness. He began to touch himself, the sound unmistakable in the quiet room.Mia froze.Her head snapped toward him. In the phone’s glow, her eyes were wide with shock and a flicker of guilt. “Ryan…?”
“How often do you do that?” Ryan asked, his voice rough. He didn’t stop moving his fingers, a slow, steady circling over his own clit.Mia swallowed. “Every night.Usually… after you go to sleep. Unless we had sex before.” She didn’t look away.Ryan didn’t reply. Instead, he shifted down the bed, pushing the covers aside.He moved his face between her thighs, pushing her legs apart with his shoulders. He pressed his mouth to her, and his tongue dove deep into her wet, hot pussy.
Mia cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that melted into a long, trembling moan. “Oh, fuck…” Her hands flew to his blonde hair, tangling in the short strands, holding him there. Ryan ate her with a focused intensity, licking and sucking, his nose buried against her, while his own fingers kept working between his own legs.The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy, desperate. Mia’s thighs clamped around his head. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m gonna… Ryan, I’m gonna squirt…”
He drove his tongue deeper, flicking it rapidly.Mia’s body bowed off the mattress. A guttural scream was torn from her throat as she came, a hot rush of fluid soaking Ryan’s face, his chin, the sheets beneath them.She trembled violently through it, her grip on his hair tightening painfully.
Ryan sat up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. They lay side by side in the dark, the only sound their ragged breathing.
“It’s different,” Mia whispered after a long while.“What is?”
“Coming.With you now.It’s… deeper. Not better or worse.Just different.”
Ryan stared at the ceiling. “Do you miss it?” he asked, the question hanging in the dark like a blade.“Fucking a cock. My cock.”
Mia was silent for so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. “Yes,” she finally said, the word simple and devastating.“I do.Sometimes. A lot, actually.” She turned to face him, her expression earnest in the gloom.“But I love this too. You’re beautiful.And it’s… it’s still you in there. There are things I want to do.With you, like this. Before you change back.”
Before you change back.The phrase lingered, a promise with a time limit. Ryan closed his eyes, the hollow feeling inside him expanding.He was a temporary novelty, a stopgap. A experiment for the doctor, a curious new toy for his girlfriend.He had gotten the money.His body worked. But he was nowhere, and he belonged to no one, not even himself.They slept. The morning light was unforgiving.Ryan woke with a pounding headache and a dryness in his soul. Mia was already making coffee, wearing his old hoodie again.“Last night…” Ryan began, voice gravelly.
“Was intense,” Mia finished, handing him a mug. “We were both fucked up.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.“So. The lab tonight, right?”
Ryan nodded, sipping the bitter coffee. He’d told her he’d left his phone charger there, a flimsy excuse to return after hours.The memory of Dr. Otto’s clinical gaze, the tremble in her hidden hand, was the only thing that felt solid, a perverse anchor.She saw him, all of him, as data.There was a terrible honesty in that.
As Mia chattered about her day, Ryan replayed her words from the night. Things I want to do.Before you change back. He looked at her, so familiar, so beautiful, so utterly detached from the person he used to be.He wondered what those things were. And a cold, new part of him, born in that sterile lab and fed in the club bathroom, decided he would find out.
The hollow feeling solidified into a cold, clean purpose as he watched Mia leave for her shift at the library. She’d kissed him on the cheek, a dry peck that felt like a receipt.Things I want to do. Before you change back.The words looped, souring in the morning light. He thought of Lindsay Otto’s hungry eyes, the tremble in her hand. He thought of Alban’s panicked shame, the nameless guy’s detached fingering. Power was a currency he’d never held, not like this.It was terrifying.It was intoxicating. And the clock was ticking.
He didn’t want to admit it, but he too wanted to try some things in this form before it was too late. He had noticed how easily everyone and everything had bent to his new form.Mia, Lindsay, the guy in the alley, Alban, men in general. Was it this easy to have sex whenever he wanted? The question wasn’t just about pleasure; it was a weapon test.He needed to know its parameters, its weight in his hand.
Mia dressed and headed out, and Ryan got ready for the lab visit. He chose simple clothes—jeans, a thin t-shirt, no bra.A blank canvas for the doctor’s observations.
The evening air in the lab corridor was chilled silence.Dr. Lindsay Otto answered the door herself, her sharp features illuminated by the screen-light of a tablet she held. She wore a crisp white blouse and a knee-length black skirt.“Ryan.I was finalizing the week’s datasets. Your forgotten item must have been very important.”
“It was,” he lied, stepping inside the humming sterile space.She led him to the main lab, not the alcove. “The preliminary reports from your last motor function session showed elevated synaptic responsiveness in the pleasure pathways. Anomalously high.” She set the tablet down, turning to face him.Her green eyes were analytic, probing. “Have you experienced any further… exploration?Outside the parameters.”
He held her gaze.He omitted anything Mia related. But he did mention the bathroom situation and how easily his mind had let him do it. He described the club, the dance floor, the anonymous, effortless climax.
“Interesting,” Lindsay stated, her head tilting slightly.“And how he let the guy at the club finger him.The surrender of agency. The cognitive dissonance between will and biological imperative.”
“Curious,” said Lindsay, her voice dropping a fraction.A faint pink hue touched her neck.“The somatic template is integrating faster than projected. The hormonal cascade is rewriting behavioral instincts.” She moved toward the alcove door. “We should proceed with tonight’s baseline.Given the anomalies, I want to be sure nothing is wrong. I’ll be in the room for a more… nuanced observation.”
The familiar alcove felt different with her standing inside it, leaning against the steel counter, data pad in hand. The dildo sat on the tray, gleaming under the low light. “Proceed,” she said, her tone clinical, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the pad.Ryan undressed. He did it slowly, letting the t-shirt drag up over the small mounds of his breasts, shimmying the jeans down his hips. He heard Lindsay moan quietly, a soft, involuntary sound she covered with a cough. He stood naked before her, and he saw the rigid control in her jaw, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the blouse.This time, Ryan grabbed the dildo himself. He coated it thickly with the cool gel, never breaking eye contact with her. He turned his back, bent at the waist, and guided the silicone tip to his slick opening. He pushed it inside himself in one slow, deliberate stroke, hissing at the familiar stretch. He began to fuck himself on it, his hand a piston at the base, the wet sounds obscenely loud.
He changed to doggy style on the chair, arching his back, presenting himself. From this angle, he noticed the doctor had worn a skirt with nothing under it. As Lindsay watched, her hand moved frantically back and forth beneath the black fabric, her fingers working at her own clit. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her scientific detachment utterly incinerated.
Ryan stopped moving the dildo.He pulled it out with a slick pop and stood. He walked toward her, his pussy glistening.She didn’t stop. Her hand moved faster, her breath coming in sharp gasps.Ryan sank to his knees on the cool floor and pushed her skirt up around her waist. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue finding her wet, swollen cunt.
Lindsay cried out, a sharp, ragged sound of pure release. Her hand clamped on the back of his head, grinding his mouth against her. “Oh god, yes, fuck, lick me right there,” she panted, her clinical vocabulary obliterated. After a minute of his tongue driving into her, she pulled him up.“Bed.Now.”
She led him to a narrow medical cot against the wall. Lindsay moved to a 69 position, pushing him down so his pussy hovered over her mouth. She didn’t hesitate. Her tongue speared into him while she guided his mouth back onto her. They ate each other with a brutal, hungry silence broken only by wet slaps and choked moans.Ryan’s orgasm built fast, a coil of heat whipping tight in his belly. Lindsay’s tongue was relentless, flicking his clit, then plunging deep. He came hard, screaming into her soaked folds, his thighs shaking around her head. The vibration of his scream triggered hers. She bucked beneath him, her own climax milking his tongue, her juices flooding his mouth.They collapsed, a tangled heap of sweat and spent desire.
Lindsay dressed first, her movements efficient once more.She smoothed her skirt, tucked in her blouse. “The results were… interesting today,” she said, her voice regaining its flat professionalism, though her lips were still swollen.“See you next Monday.” She left without another look.
Ryan dressed and left, his body humming, his mind eerily clear.He remembered he had to get something from the store. The 24-hour supermarket was a fluorescent-bright tomb at this hour. He wandered the empty aisles, the confrontation with Alban and the raw coupling with Lindsay replaying in a sterile loop. His new body felt like a finely-tuned engine, idling hot, waiting for a destination.
In the produce section, the cold mist from the vegetable sprays felt good on his skin. He picked up a firm, glossy eggplant.The deep purple skin was smooth and cool against his palm. He couldn’t help but think about a porn video where a girl had fucked vegetables at the market. The memory was crude, ridiculous.He was going to try it.He found a deserted aisle near the cleaning supplies. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the store’s bland muzak.He unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them and his panties down to his thighs. The air was cold on his exposed skin. He spat into his hand, wet the broad tip of the eggplant, and guided it to his entrance.It was unwieldy, ridiculous. And then it wasn’t. The blunt, cool pressure gave way, and the thick vegetable slid into him, a deep, full stretch that made his eyes roll back. He braced one hand against a shelf of bleach bottles, the other working the eggplant in and out of his slippery cunt. The sensation was absurdly intense—unshapely, overwhelming, profoundly degrading. He fucked himself faster, the vegetable making wet, squelching sounds. His climax approached, not as a wave but as a sudden, violent puncture. He came, biting down on his own arm to silence a scream, his body convulsing around the invading length of produce.He pulled the eggplant out. It was slick with his juices.He stared at it, his breath fogging in the cold air of the aisle. Then, calmly, he placed it in a plastic bag, tied it shut, and dropped it into a trash can.He pulled his clothes up, straightened his shirt. His knees felt weak, but his mind was a void of perfect, static clarity. He walked to the checkout, bought a pack of gum, and stepped back out into the night.The experiment was a success.The weapon worked. He was hungry to use it again.
He was hungry to use it again. The detached power he’d felt in the lab and the sterile, shameful thrill of the supermarket aisle were a potent, ugly combination. He walked across the parking lot, the asphalt still warm from the day, his body humming with a restless energy the eggplant had only aggravated, not satisfied.
As he reached the car, he froze. He’d come for yogurt, a stupid errand Mia had texted him about hours ago, and had forgotten it completely in his feverish distraction. He stood for a moment, key in hand, debating. The hollow feeling in his gut wasn’t just arousal; it was a need for confirmation, for a witness. He turned and walked back toward the supermarket’s automatic doors.
This time, as he entered the fluorescent glow, he caught the eye of a young man restocking citrus. The produce boy, maybe nineteen, with floppy brown hair and a smattering of acne across his cheeks, blushed violently and looked away. He had clearly seen Ryan earlier. Ryan recognized the pale green apron, the name tag that read ‘Evan’. He knew.
Ryan approached him quickly, the carton of yogurt forgotten. The store was otherwise dead. “Did you watch?” Ryan asked, his voice low and direct, not bothering with preamble.
Evan’s eyes went wide. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He gave a single, jerky nod. “Yeah,” he whispered, the word cracking.
“Do you want to help?” Ryan asked, taking a step closer, invading the boy’s personal space. He could smell soap and the faint, bitter scent of orange peel on his skin.
Evan nodded again, mute, his gaze fixed on Ryan’s mouth. Ryan grabbed a thick, cool cucumber from the display and took Evan’s limp hand. He pulled him, unresisting, past the empty registers and into the dim, narrow hallway that led to the stockroom. The air smelled of cardboard and floor cleaner.
Ryan pushed Evan against the cinderblock wall beside a pallet of paper towels. His fingers fumbled with the button of the boy’s jeans, then the zipper. He shoved them down along with his boxers. Evan’s cock, already half-hard, sprung free. Ryan didn’t give him time to think. He dropped to his knees on the concrete floor and took him into his mouth.
Evan gasped, a sharp, shocked inhale. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides before tangling in Ryan’s short blonde hair. Ryan sucked him deep, using his tongue, hollowing his cheeks, the techniques he’d used on Alban and the man in the alley now applied with cold, focused intent. With his other hand, he hiked up his own shirt and pushed his jeans and panties down to his mid-thighs. He spat onto his fingers, wet the blunt end of the cucumber, and without looking, guided it to his own opening.
He pushed it inside himself in one firm, unyielding stroke as he took Evan all the way to the back of his throat. The dual sensation was brutal: the cold, ridged vegetable stretching him open while the hot, living flesh filled his mouth. He began to fuck himself on the cucumber, a hard, rhythmic punching motion, while bobbing his head on Evan’s cock. The sounds were filthy: wet sucking, the slick squelch of the cucumber plunging in and out of his soaked cunt, Evan’s broken, pleading whimpers.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come,” Evan choked out, his hips stuttering. Ryan grabbed the boy’s ass, pulling him deeper, urging him on. Evan cried out, his body tensing, and hot bursts of cum flooded Ryan’s throat. Ryan swallowed every drop, greedily, his own orgasm detonating at the same moment. It ripped through him, a silent, convulsive clenching around the invading vegetable, a soft, shuddering moan vibrating around Evan’s softening cock.
He pulled off, catching his breath. He slowly withdrew the cucumber, glistening and streaked. He held it up between them, then brought it to his mouth and took a crisp, loud bite. He chewed, swallowed, and offered it to Evan. The boy, dazed and panting, stared for a second before leaning forward and taking a quick, obedient bite from the opposite end.
Ryan stood, pulling his clothes up. Evan fumbled with his own jeans, his face a mask of awe and confusion. Ryan left him there, walking back out to the produce section. He grabbed the yogurt and, after a moment’s consideration, selected another, identical cucumber. He paid at a self-checkout, his hands steady, and drove home.
The apartment was quiet, lit by the blue glow of the television. Mia was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching something mindless. She looked up as he entered, her eyes searching his face. “You were gone a while.”
“Needed to clear my head,” Ryan said, placing the groceries on the counter. He leaned against the kitchen island, watching her. The memory of her face illuminated by the phone, of her whispered ‘yes’ in the dark, was a live wire in his chest. “That threesome. In the alley with that guy. Did you like it?”
Mia’s eyes flickered with surprise, then a guarded wariness. She muted the TV. “What kind of question is that? We were both blackout.”
“It’s a simple question. Did you like it? The idea of it?” Ryan pressed, his voice calm. “I was thinking. We could try it again. Sober. If you wanted.”
She was shocked. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked down at her hands, picking at a thread on the blanket. She didn’t know how to answer. The truth was a tangled knot of shame, curiosity, and a deep, persistent hunger that the past few weeks had only sharpened. She secretly did want to. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her face burning with shame. “Yes,” she whispered.
Ryan walked over to the couch. He pulled the new cucumber from the plastic bag and held it up. It was long, straight, and dark green under the lamplight. “I know you miss my cock,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, devoid of sentiment. “So I picked out a temporary replacement.”
Mia stared at the vegetable, then at him, a disbelieving laugh hiccupping in her throat. But her eyes were dark, intent. Ryan pushed the blanket off her. She was wearing only one of his old t-shirts. He pushed the hem up to her waist. He didn’t kiss her. He spat into his palm, slicked the cucumber, and pressed the cool, blunt tip against her entrance.
She was already wet. She gasped as he pushed it into her, a slow, firm invasion. “Oh, god, Ryan,” she moaned, her head falling back. He fucked her with it, a steady, deep rhythm, watching her face contort. After a minute, he pulled it out, dripping. He shoved his own jeans down again, positioned himself over her, and guided the same slick end back into his own waiting, hungry cunt.
He lowered himself, sheathing the vegetable inside himself, until their bodies were nearly touching, the cucumber buried to the hilt in both of them. They were connected by it, a crude, intimate bridge. Mia understood. She braced her feet on the couch, meeting his downward strokes with upward thrusts of her hips.
They rode it like a double-ended dildo, a silent, focused synchronization. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh, and the faint, obscene squelch of the shared vegetable moving inside them. There was no tenderness, only a feral, collaborative need. Mia came first, a sharp, silent scream tearing from her as her body clamped down. The violent clenching of her internal muscles around the cucumber sent shockwaves through its length into Ryan, triggering his own climax. He came with a guttural roar, his vision whiting out as he emptied himself around the vegetable, their combined juices making a slick mess between them.
They collapsed together, a sweaty, breathless tangle on the couch, the cucumber slipping out and rolling onto the floor with a soft thud. The blue television light played over their exhausted bodies. Mia turned her face into his neck. “What are we doing?” she mumbled, her voice thick with spent emotion and confusion.
Ryan stared at the ceiling, feeling the cool air dry the sweat on his skin. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a solid, terrifying weight. “I don’t know,” he said, and for the first time, it was the complete truth.