The ad was simple.
Healthy males, 21-30, needed for medical study. Compensation: 50,000 credits per session. Discretion guaranteed.
I'm twenty-four, broke as hell, and my genome is apparently pristine—no markers, no mutations, no corporate tampering. In Neo-Geneva, where half the population is modded beyond recognition, being pure is worth money.
A lot of money.
The address leads to a private clinic in the old district, all white marble and frosted glass. No signage. No reception desk. Just a door that opens when I approach and a corridor that leads down.
At the end of it, she's waiting.
Dr. Vivienne Marlowe is not what I expected.
Fifty-three years old, according to the diplomas I glimpse on her wall. Built like something from a renaissance painting—thick everywhere, curves straining against a white lab coat that does nothing to hide them. Her skin is pale cream, her hair a silver-blonde wave, her face aristocratic and knowing and utterly in control.
She's easily two-fifty. Maybe more. And she looks at me like I'm a specimen under glass.
"Mr. Vasquez." Her voice is cool. Clinical. Accented with something European I can't place. "Please. Sit."
I sit. The examination room is sterile, dominated by equipment I don't recognize and a table that looks more like a bed than anything medical.
She reviews a tablet, scrolling through what I assume is my genetic profile.
"Impressive." She doesn't look up. "No modifications. No hereditary conditions. Fertility markers in the ninety-ninth percentile." She sets down the tablet. "Do you know what we do here, Mr. Vasquez?"
"Medical research."
"Of a kind." She moves closer, and I catch her scent—something clinical masked by something warmer. Jasmine, maybe. "My clients are wealthy women who want children. Natural children. The old-fashioned way, conceived with human genetic material rather than tank-grown replicas."
"You're a fertility clinic."
"I'm a breeder." The word lands between us. "And you, Mr. Vasquez, are exactly what my clients are looking for. Young. Healthy. Genetically pristine." Her eyes drop to my body, cataloguing. "Attractive."
"So what do you need from me?"
"Samples. Regular donations. Perhaps—" She pauses. "—live contributions, depending on the client's preferences."
"Live contributions?"
"Some women prefer the natural method." Her smile is thin. "They pay extra for the experience."
I should leave.
Everything about this screams illegal—black market genetics, wealthy women paying for unlicensed breeding, a doctor who looks at me like I'm livestock. This is the kind of operation that gets people disappeared.
But fifty thousand credits a session.
And the way she's looking at me—not just clinical anymore. Something hungrier beneath the professional mask.
"Before we proceed," she says, "I'll need to verify the quality of your... product. Personally."
"Personally?"
"I don't sell merchandise I haven't tested." She removes her lab coat, drapes it over a chair. Beneath it, she's wearing a silk blouse and a skirt that hugs every curve—hips wide as doorways, belly soft and round, breasts straining against the fabric like they're trying to escape. "Consider this your audition, Mr. Vasquez."
"You want to—"
"I want to sample you." She moves toward me, each step making her body sway in ways I can't stop watching. "If you're as impressive as your genetics suggest, you'll become a very valuable asset. If not—" She shrugs. "—we'll part ways. No harm done."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you leave with nothing." She stops in front of my chair, close enough that her thighs brush my knees. "But you won't refuse. I can see it in your eyes. The way you've been staring at my body since you walked in. The way you're already hard."
I am. Straining against my pants, obvious and embarrassing.
"Don't be ashamed." She reaches down, cups my erection through the fabric. "This is exactly what I'm paying for."
She strips like she's conducting an experiment.
Methodical. Deliberate. Each piece of clothing removed and folded precisely, revealing more of that impossible body. The blouse goes first, showing a lace bra that barely contains breasts heavy enough to make my mouth water. Then the skirt, sliding down thighs thick as pillars, pooling at her feet.
She's wearing nothing beneath. No underwear. Just pale, soft flesh, silver hair between her legs, and a body that defies everything I've been told to want.
She's magnificent.
"On the table," she commands.
I strip and lie back on the examination table. It's surprisingly comfortable—padded, warm, designed for longer sessions than a standard exam. She moves to stand beside me, her eyes traveling down my body, lingering on my erection.
"Impressive." She wraps her hand around me, squeezes. I gasp. "Length, girth, responsiveness—all excellent. My clients will be very pleased."
"Is this—fuck—is this how you test all your donors?"
"Only the ones I find personally interesting." She begins to stroke, slow and deliberate. "I'm fifty-three years old, Mr. Vasquez. I've spent thirty years building this clinic, catering to wealthy women's desires. Somewhere along the way, I forgot about my own."
"And now?"
"Now I have a beautiful young man on my table, hard and eager and mine for the duration of our contract." Her strokes speed up. "I intend to enjoy every moment of it."
She climbs onto the table.
Straddles me, all that weight settling onto my thighs, pinning me down. Her breasts hang heavy above me, nipples hardening in the clinical air. Her belly presses against my stomach, soft and warm and real.
"I'm going to ride you," she says. "And you're going to give me exactly what you'll give my clients. A thorough demonstration."
She positions herself over me. Sinks down slowly.
The heat of her is incredible. Wet and tight and hungry, pulling me in like she's been waiting decades for this. I groan, grip her hips, feel my fingers sink into soft flesh.
"That's it." She begins to move—slow, circular motions that grind her clit against my pelvis. "Show me what fifty thousand credits buys."
I show her.
I thrust up into her while she grinds down, finding a rhythm that makes her gasp. Her breasts bounce with every movement, and I reach up to grab them—filling my hands with more flesh than I can hold, squeezing, making her cry out.
"Harder—"
I give her harder. Sit up so I can wrap my arms around her, pull her massive body against mine, feel every soft inch of her while I pound up into her depths. She's moaning now, scientific detachment completely gone, replaced by something raw and desperate.
"You're—god—you're perfect—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fill me." Her voice is ragged. "I want to feel you come inside me. I want—fuck—I want to test the product properly—"
I flip us over.
Pin her beneath me on the examination table, her thick thighs spreading wide to accommodate me. She gasps in surprise—then moans as I drive into her, deep and hard, again and again.
"Is this what your clients get?" I growl into her ear. "Is this the experience they pay extra for?"
"Yes—exactly this—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I fuck her like she's paying me to—because she is—and somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is insane, unprofessional, everything I should walk away from.
But I can't.
Because she's coming. Clenching around me, screaming, her whole body shaking beneath mine. And the feel of her, the sound of her, tips me over the edge.
I bury myself to the hilt and explode.
We lie on the examination table, both breathing hard.
Her body is sprawled beneath me, soft and flushed and thoroughly used. I'm still inside her, softening slowly, feeling our combined fluids leak around me.
"Well." Her voice is hoarse. Satisfied. "You're hired."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." She traces a finger down my spine. "You're exactly what my clients need. And—" She pauses. "—exactly what I need, as it turns out."
"Is this going to be a regular thing? The... sampling?"
"Consider it quality control." Her smile is lazy. Predatory. "Before every client session, you'll report to me. I'll verify that the product meets standards. Personally."
"And if I have objections?"
"Do you?"
I look at her—this impossible woman, fifty-three and silver-haired and built like every fantasy I never knew I had. She's powerful. Wealthy. Completely in control of a situation that should terrify me.
"No," I admit. "No objections."
"Good boy." She pulls me down for a kiss. "Now. Let's discuss your contract."
Months pass.
I become the clinic's most requested donor. Wealthy women from across the territories pay obscene amounts for my "contributions"—some want samples, some want the live experience, all of them leave satisfied.
But Dr. Marlowe always gets me first.
Before every session, without exception, I report to her private examination room. She verifies me—riding me on her table, pinned beneath me on her desk, bent over her equipment while I take her from behind. Quality control, she calls it.
I call it something else.
"I'm in love with you," I tell her one night.
We're in her penthouse above the clinic, tangled in sheets that cost more than my yearly salary used to be. Her body is soft against mine, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
"That's inadvisable." Her voice is mild. "I'm twenty-nine years older than you. I purchased your genetic material. This entire arrangement is ethically catastrophic."
"Do you care?"
She's quiet for a moment.
"No." She lifts her head, looks at me with those cool grey eyes. "I stopped caring about ethics when I realized how good you feel inside me."
"Then marry me."
"You're insane."
"You're magnificent. And I'm not leaving. Not ever." I pull her closer, feel her weight settle onto me like a blanket. "Marry me, Vivienne. Let me be yours. Officially. Permanently."
She stares at me for a long moment.
Then she laughs—a real laugh, surprised and delighted and utterly unlike her clinical persona.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
"My clients will be furious. Losing their favorite donor to the proprietor."
"Let them be furious. They can find someone else." I cup her face. "I only want you."
She kisses me. Slow and deep and tasting like forever.
"Yes," she says against my mouth. "God help us both, yes."
The clinic still operates.
But now I'm not just a donor. I'm Dr. Marlowe's husband—the trophy spouse half the city whispers about, the young man who married the infamous fertility doctor for reasons no one can quite fathom.
We let them whisper.
In our penthouse, in our bed, in the examination room where we still verify each other regularly—we know the truth.
I found her when I was broke and desperate and selling the only thing I had.
She found me when she'd forgotten she was allowed to want.
And together, in a black-market clinic in Neo-Geneva, we built something that shouldn't exist—shouldn't work—but does.
The donor. The doctor. Forever.