Chapter 5: The Female Specimen Awakens
The wet pop still echoed in Bethesda's ears, a strangely intimate counterpoint to the sterile hum of the lab. She stood tall, bare chested and defiant, the cold air raising fresh goosebumps on her flushed skin. Celeste’s challenge – Question your sexuality? – hung in the antiseptic-scented air like a dare. Bethesda met those cool green eyes, her own flashing with decades of accumulated romantic carnage and a sudden, fierce possessiveness over her own chaotic truth.
"Darling," Bethesda purred, the word thick with lingering sensation and pure, unadulterated sass, "You don't know the half of my sexuality." She deliberately didn’t cover herself. The chill felt oddly grounding after the overwhelming warmth of the synthetic mouth. Her gaze slid past Celeste, past the still-searching lips of the male specimen – its head tilting blindly, making soft, wet smacking sounds – and landed on the other gurney. The draped female form.
A slow, wry smile spread across Bethesda’s face, chasing away the last tremor in her hands. She turned fully towards the second gurney, her hips swaying slightly with regained confidence. "Alright, Celeste. Jasper." She gestured grandly, encompassing the room, her nakedness somehow transforming into a kind of armour under the harsh lights. "You two better throw in dinner and drinks once I make 'her' sing." She winked. "Top shelf. None of that budget synth-whiskey Jasper tried to pawn off as 'vintage'."
Jasper, leaning against the console, snorted. "Hey, that was a limited edition nano-filtered bourbon! It cost—"
"Less than my dry cleaning after Harold’s poodle got 'playful', I’ll bet," Bethesda shot back airily, already moving towards the draped figure. The memory of the male specimen’s unexpected… enthusiasm… sent a fresh, traitorous thrum low in her belly, but she pushed it aside. Focus. This was a job. A very weird, very well-paid job. And she was Bethesda Schumer-Baker. She knew pleasure. She knew bodies. Synthetic or not.
She reached the gurney. The sheet was a stark white shroud. Up close, the outline beneath was unnervingly… specific. The curve of a hip. The dip of a waist. The swell of breasts. It didn’t look like a generic mannequin. It looked sculpted. Alive, even in stillness. A faint, clean scent, similar to the male’s soapy smell but subtly different – maybe floral? – drifted up.
"Right then," Bethesda murmured, more to herself. She braced her hands on the cool metal frame, leaning over the draped form. Her own breath hitched slightly. This felt different. More… personal. She took the edge of the sheet near the head.
"Just peel it back," Celeste instructed, her voice clinical again, though Bethesda caught the faintest flicker of anticipation in her eyes as she monitored the console. "Start with tactile exploration. We need sensory feedback across all major dermal zones."
Bethesda took a deep breath. Professional. Top shelf drinks. She pulled the sheet down, revealing the head and shoulders.
Identical smooth, beige synthetic skin. Hooded again, thank God. No demanding mouth waiting. Just the same featureless fabric covering the face and head. The neck was elegantly sculpted, leading down to defined collarbones. Bethesda let out a small breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Okay. Manageable.
The smooth synthetic skin felt cool beneath Bethesda's fingertips as she traced the curve of the shoulder. Manageable. Definitely manageable after the… enthusiastic welcome from its counterpart. She shifted her grip on the sheet, the crisp cotton whispering against itself. "Alright, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice low and surprisingly steady despite the lingering buzz from the first encounter. "Let's see what you're made of." Her knuckles brushed the sculpted collarbone as she gathered more of the sheet.
She pulled the fabric down in one smooth motion, revealing the upper torso. The breasts were perfectly formed, a generous, natural-looking swell that caught the harsh fluorescent light. The waist dipped in dramatically, creating an exaggerated hourglass figure beneath the stark white cloth still covering the hips and legs. Bethesda's own breath hitched, not with desire this time, but with a sudden, jarring sense of recognition. She leaned closer, her brow furrowing. That silhouette… the pronounced curve from ribcage to hip…
"Something the matter, Mrs. Schumer-Baker?" Celeste’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and observant from her console perch. Jasper glanced up, his easy smile faltering slightly at the intensity on Bethesda’s face.
Bethesda ignored them. Her gaze was locked on the synthetic body. It was perfect. Sculpted. Utterly idealized. Everything a woman could want. But the proportions… the specific, almost aggressive hourglass shape… A cold prickle started at the base of her neck, spreading down her spine despite the room's chill. She saw it in the mirror every damn morning. She saw it in Brenda’s selfies, the ones she posted flaunting her latest conquest before the inevitable messy divorce. That silhouette wasn't just similar.
Her fingers trembled as the sheet slipped past the defined hips, revealing long, slender synthetic legs. The exact line of the thigh, the dip above the knee… It was like staring at a flawless, plasticine version of her own body, or worse, Brenda’s. "My god," she breathed, the words barely audible over the hum of machinery. The air suddenly felt thick, suffocating.
Jasper cleared his throat, shifting his weight. "Remarkable craftsmanship, isn't it? Based on extensive biometric averages for maximum appeal." He sounded like a salesman reading a brochure. "State-of-the-art polymer blend."
Jasper's voice sounded hollow against the sudden roaring in Bethesda's ears. That silhouette, the aggressive curve of hip and thigh – it screamed Brenda. Or herself, twenty years ago, before gravity got chatty. The cold air bit her exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat flooding her face.
"Biometric averages?" Bethesda choked out, her voice tight. She traced the synthetic hipbone, the angle unnervingly precise. "Did your 'averages' happen to include my daughter's Instagram? Or maybe her divorce settlement measurements?" She glared at Jasper, her usual flamboyance replaced by raw, maternal unease.
Jasper held up his hands, the picture of smooth innocence slightly frayed. "Completely anonymous data aggregation, Mrs. Schumer-Baker. Striking similarity? Coincidence. Pure synchronicity." Celeste remained silent, fingers dancing over her console, her green eyes watchful, absorbing Bethesda's reaction like data points. A low hum pulsed from the machinery near the female form.
Bethesda shook her head, trying to dislodge the image of Brenda. This was absurd. Paranoid. She forced a brittle laugh. "Right. Synchronicity. Like Brenda marrying that Venezuelan polo player exactly when I was dating his groom." She took a shaky breath, refocusing on the task. Top shelf drinks. Weird, well-paid job. "Forget it. Let's get this over with. Where do you want me to start, Celeste? Same as Mr. Enthusiastic over there?"
"Similar protocol," Celeste confirmed, her voice cool. "Full tactile engagement. We need to map responsiveness across erogenous zones. Start wherever feels... natural." Her gaze lingered on Bethesda’s hand still resting on the synthetic hip. "Observe texture, temperature variance, any discernible reaction to stimulus."
Bethesda nodded absently. Something still didn't feel right, but the body was too... beautiful. Too impossibly perfect in its replication of a very specific, very familiar ideal. She looked down at the smooth, flawless breasts, the nipples small, neat circles of slightly darker polymer. Professional. Just a toy. She reached out, her fingers hovering for a second before descending. She pinched the nipples until they responded. Firm beneath her touch, the synthetic skin yielding slightly, then hardening perceptibly, just like the male's had.
A faint, almost subsonic vibration thrummed from the gurney, more felt through the metal frame than heard. Celeste leaned forward, a satisfied glint in her eyes. "Excellent response latency. Proceed, Mrs. Schumer-Baker. Explore the topography. Note any inconsistencies." Jasper watched, his earlier ease replaced by a focused intensity.
Bethesda moved her hands over the cool, smooth planes of the abdomen, tracing the defined musculature. It felt simultaneously alien and disturbingly familiar, like touching a frozen echo of her own past flesh. Her thumbs brushed the pronounced hip bones again, that jarringly specific angle. "So," she said, her voice deliberately light, trying to recapture some control, "is this model programmed to cheat too? Or just look like it could?" She glanced sharply at Jasper.
He flashed his disarming smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "Our units are programmed for singular devotion, Mrs. Schumer-Baker. Fidelity algorithms are... robust." Celeste made a soft, noncommittal sound, her gaze fixed on the readouts. The female form lay utterly still beneath Bethesda's touch, a beautiful, silent mannequin radiating unsettling familiarity. Bethesda’s fingers drifted lower, over the smooth mound, the synthetic skin cool and unyielding. The hum in the room seemed to deepen, waiting.
"Interesting connections your mind makes, Bethesda," Celeste murmured, her green eyes lifting from the console to meet Bethesda’s. "Perhaps that's exactly the quality we needed to test." She didn’t elaborate, just watched, those green eyes unnervingly sharp. The sterile light glinted off the console screens reflecting distorted versions of the scene back at Bethesda.
Bethesda stared down at the synthetic body. The uncanny resemblance to Brenda was a physical ache, a cold knot tightening low in her gut. Just a job. Top shelf drinks. Her own pep talk felt flimsy against the weirdness. She needed to wrestle back control, inject some of her usual audacity into this clinical nightmare. Her gaze fixed on the smooth, featureless hood where a face should be.
"Alright, honey," Bethesda announced, her voice regaining a fraction of its characteristic bravado, though it sounded brittle in the quiet room. She lowered her right hand towards the synthetic mound, her movements deliberate, almost defiant. "Let's hear your pretty voice." Three of her fingers descended, not tentatively, but with a practiced certainty learned over decades. They began a slow, circular massage on the prominent outer labia. The polymer felt impossibly smooth and cool against her skin. Her middle finger, slick already from the male specimen, sank deliberately beneath the wetting folds with a soft, obscene sound.
The synthetic flesh yielded surprisingly easily, parting for her intrusion. It felt… pliant. Designed. A faint, rhythmic pulsing started deep within, vibrating against her probing finger. The cold air bit her exposed skin, making her nipples pebble again, a stark contrast to the unnatural warmth she was exploring. Celeste leaned forward, utterly focused on her screens. Jasper had stopped pretending to relax; his knuckles were white where he gripped the console edge.
Bethesda pressed deeper, the middle finger sliding further into the synthetic canal. It was slicker inside, unnervingly so, mimicking natural lubrication with chilling accuracy. She curled her finger slightly, seeking… something. A reaction beyond the mechanical hum. The other two fingers maintained their pressure on the outer lips, spreading them wider. The hooded head remained perfectly still. Silent.
"Come on, sweetheart," Bethesda murmured, a mix of challenge and morbid curiosity tightening her throat. She increased the pace of her massage, the circular motion becoming firmer, more insistent against the yielding polymer. The internal pulse grew stronger, a counter-rhythm to her own hammering heart. Her fingertip brushed against a distinct ridge deep inside. She pressed.
A sharp, synthesized gasp crackled from hidden speakers near the gurney. It wasn't human. Too clean. Too perfectly pitched. But undeniably vocal. Bethesda froze, her fingers still buried deep. The gasp echoed off the sterile tiles. Celeste’s lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. Jasper let out a slow breath.
The synthesized gasp hung in the antiseptic air, sharp and artificial. Bethesda stared down at her own hand, fingers still deep within the unnervingly warm, slick canal. Her own breath hitched, a ragged counterpoint. That gasp. It sounded like… no. Impossible. Just clever programming. Top shelf drinks. Focus.
"Excellent," Celeste murmured, her voice clipped, professional, yet her fingers flew across the console. "Physiological mimicry is within optimal parameters. Proceed to oral stimulus protocol, Mrs. Schumer-Baker. Direct clitoral contact." Her green eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto Bethesda. "Full spectrum sensory mapping requires it."
Jasper shifted, the faint scrape of his shoe on the tile loud in the sudden quiet. He didn't meet her eyes. Bethesda swallowed hard. The synthetic flesh pulsed around her finger, a rhythmic, biological thrum that felt grotesquely alive. That silhouette… Brenda lounging by the pool in that tiny white bikini last summer, the exact same exaggerated curve from hip to waist. The memory was a physical blow.
If mere massage did that... Bethesda posited, her mind scrambling over the horrifying familiarity. Then this… Logic warred with revulsion, warred with the sheer, bizarre challenge of it. And the money. Always the damn money. Her jaw tightened. Withdrawing her fingers slick with synthetic fluid, she braced her hands on the cold gurney rail. The hooded head remained impassive. Silent. Waiting. Bethesda leaned down, her blonde hair brushing the smooth, cool polymer skin of the abdomen. The scent of artificial flowers and ozone filled her nostrils.
She lowered her tongue onto the now visible clit.
It was a small, firm nub beneath the hood, surprisingly textured, not just smooth plastic. Cool at first touch, then rapidly warming. She applied pressure, a slow, deliberate circle. The taste was faintly metallic, clean, utterly alien yet designed to feel… correct. Beneath her, the synthetic body jerked, a sharp, involuntary spasm rocking the entire gurney with a metallic groan. A low, guttural moan vibrated from the speakers, layered with static, deeper and more resonant than the gasp, raw in a way that felt disturbingly involuntary, almost pained.
Bethesda flinched back slightly, her tongue tingling. "Jesus!" Jasper exclaimed, stepping forward, his smooth facade finally cracking wide open. "Celeste, the feedback loop—"
"Stabilizing," Celeste snapped, her eyes glued to the flickering screens, a fierce concentration on her face. "Don't stop, Bethesda. Record the resonance decay." Her voice held an edge Bethesda hadn't heard before. Not just observation. Hunger.
Bethesda stared at the small, wet nub glistening under the harsh lights. Her tongue felt numb. That moan… it hadn't sounded synthetic. It sounded choked. Frightened. Like Brenda the night she found that lipstick on her second husband's collar, the night before the inevitable blowout. The resemblance wasn't just physical. It was in the reaction. The programming was too specific. Too personal. A cold dread, colder than the lab air, seeped into Bethesda's bones. This wasn't coincidence. It wasn't anonymous data.
She leaned down again, not out of professionalism now, but driven by a cold, furious need to know. She flicked her tongue sharply against the nub, a quick, punishing strike. The body arched violently off the gurney, tendons standing out in rigid cords on the synthetic neck. The speakers emitted a short, sharp scream – pure, unfiltered distress – cutting off abruptly into digital silence. The silence that followed was thick, heavy. Even the hum of the machines seemed muted. Sparks flickered from a panel near Celeste’s console.
"Fascinating," Celeste breathed, her voice barely a whisper, filled with a terrible kind of awe. She finally looked up from the console, her piercing green eyes meeting Bethesda's. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips, devoid of warmth.
Ignoring their responses, Bethesda had a smirk on her face. Bethesda 1, female specimen 0.
"So, when do I get to do that to your big boy's... big boy?" She asked.