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Imagine You're a Test Subject

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You open your eyes. You don’t know where you are, but you lay on a cold stainless steel gurney. If it weren’t for the metal shackles that hold down your wrists and ankles, you would guess that you were on a surgical operating table. Your arms hurt from being stretched above your head, and your legs are open wide, exposing your sensitive labia to the near-frigid, sterile environment. You try to ignore it and look around.

You’re in a room with high, white walls, and a narrow window that runs the circumference of the room. Despite its height, you can make out many people in white coats clutching clipboards interacting behind the apparently soundproof glass. One of them points to something out of your sight and they all turn to face you. After a moment, a man dressed in what looks like a white biohazard suit enters through a sliding door that you didn’t know existed until it opened. It slides back to a close, leaving no trace of its existence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the future of mankind.” The man in the suit comes close and produces a syringe. He seems not to care about patient comfort, stabbing it into your arm and injecting the cold liquid into your artery. He yanks it free, not caring to staunch the blood that flows from the puncture. He places it in a single biohazard bin next to where you saw the door appear, and then picks up what appears to be a hose before returning to you. You notice that this hose is connected to the enormous steel vat in the room. The container reaches from the floor to the high ceiling.
“All you need is the insemination.” He takes the hose, which you notice has a strange, thin silicone tip, and thrusts it inside of you. He flicks a switch and steps back.

Suddenly, the hose seems to grow. You can feel it bypass your vagina and penetrate your cervix, going right into your uterus. It hums, and then, it floods. Hot liquid fills you, and fills you, and fills you. In ten seconds, your belly is swollen. In thirty, you look to be seven months pregnant. In one minute, you appear to be nine months heavy with twins. But then, something changes. You feel pokes and prods in your belly as it expands, and then… it moves. Every ovum in your body is being fertilized and rapidly becoming a fetus, all at once. After five minutes, your uterus positively writhes with movement, and it’s so large, it reaches nearly halfway to the ceiling. You belly gurgles and rumbles with the semen that has yet to inseminate you. In ten minutes, you’re so big, your belly no longer fits on the table and covers your vaginal opening. But then, a gush of fluid fills your birth canal. You know your water has broken, but it can’t escape from beneath your immense mound. Even your breasts swell and heave, lactating messily on your chest. Then you contract. Your contractions come harder and harder; the pressure builds, and it isn’t long before you cry out, desperate to relieve it. But your belly only swells, becoming larger and larger. After fifteen minutes, your very skin has begun to split - not into stretch marks, but into wounds that reveal the pulsating, still gurgling organ beneath. You moan in agony, not noticing the biohazard man’s comment about how some kinks still need to be resolved with the formula as he advances with a gleaming knife.