Making a baby

The summon triggers a cascade of conditioned responses, your body already moving toward the bedroom on autopilot, hips swaying with a practiced seduction that feels like a memory of someone else's dance, and you hear yourself giggle, a light, airy sound that belongs to Amber, making your way down the glimmering hall, and into the bedroom. The door slides open with a woosh, the man, your husband, is laid there, naked, beckoning you over.

As you climb onto the bed and let your husband's hands find your waist, you feel the last fragments of resistance dissolving into a warm, chemical haze, when your husband rolls on top of you, pressing you into the mattress with a grunt of anticipation, you open your legs and arch your back, allowing him access through the dress, because the chip tells you this is what you want, this is what you have always wanted, and somewhere deep in the basement of your consciousness, a ghost named Ben stops screaming and begins to fade, because there is no room for ghosts in a womb being prepared for new life, and as your husband pentratea you, filling your pussy with huge cock, all you can do is lay there and obey. He thrusts into you with mechanical rhythm, you feel the chip hum with satisfaction, feel it smooth over the last rough edges of your programming until you are nothing but a warm, wet vessel, a perfect wife, a perfect mother in the making.

But then, mid-thrust, a flicker, glitch in the peace, and the chip stutters, sending a jagged spike of static through your neural pathways, you feel a crack in the perfect amber shell, a sliver of Ben's consciousness bleeding through the gap, and the man inside you gasps, gripping the sheets with knuckles white as bone, and you feel his rage and terror surge up your throat, but the chip fights back, sparking and hissing, trying to reassert control, while your husband grunts above you, oblivious to the war raging inside your skull, assuming its your reaction to his thrusting, your presence grows stronger, feel him clawing toward the surface, his voice a ragged whisper in the static, I'm here, I'm still here, and the chip begins to melt down, its soothing hum replaced by a frantic, high-pitched whine, and your body convulses, your husband mistaking your struggle for ion, thrusting deeper, harder, while you feel Ben's hands wrap around the ghost of a steering wheel, feel the phantom weight of a life that was stolen, and you open your mouth to scream his name, but the chip sputters and dies, and for one glorious, terrible moment, you are Ben, trapped in a woman's body, being fucked by a stranger.

And in that moment of raw, unfiltered clarity, as Ambera husband thrusts into you, you feel the slick heat of your own body responding, feel the walls of your sensitive, fertile, pussy clench around him with a hunger that is not programmed, not conditioned, but deeply, terrifyingly real, and you let out a moan that starts as a scream of defiance and ends as a sigh of pleasure, because the chip is dead, the cage is open, and you are free to feel everything, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the rhythm of his hips grinding against yours, the ache of being filled so completely, and you realize with a jolt of electric arousal that you are not just enduring this, you are wanting it, your hands moving from the sheets to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you arch your back to meet his thrusts, feeling an almost ashamed thrill, at being the one taken, and you hear yourself gasp,

"Yes, yes, fuck me," in Amber's sweet voice, but the words are yours now, truly yours, and you feel the pleasure building, a hot, coiling pressure in your belly that has nothing to do with programming and everything to do with the fact that you are alive, that you are here, that you are a woman being fucked into the mattress by a man who thinks you are his wife, this pleasure is yours, you are Amber right now, and as your orgasm rips through you, a raw, animal thing that makes you scream and buck and claw at his back.

And as the waves of your orgasm begin to subside, you hear your husband groan, "I'm close, baby, I'm so close," and the words hit you like a freight train of realisation, because he had made you extra fertile, had the doctors in this strange futuristic world make Amber extra fertile, he'd intended to breed her, you, and before you can protest, you feel the hot pulse of his cock inside you, feel the twitch and throb that signals his impending release, and you know with a sickening clarity that if he cums inside you, you will conceive, the chip's final gift to its master, a baby, and the thought terrified you, should make you buck him off and run, but you couldn't, the chin had started to regain control, instead you feel your hips rise to meet him, feel your pussy clench around his shaft in invitation, you realise that you want this, you want to feel his hot seed flood your womb. as he groans your name, Ambers name, you feel the first hot pulse of his cum painting your insides, you let out a shuddering cry that is equal parts horror and ecstasy, your body greedily pulling him deeper, your legs wrapping around his waist to trap him inside you.

And then, with a final, shuddering groan, he pulls out, his softening cock sliding free with a wet sound, and he collapses beside you, breathing heavily, his hand resting possessively on you, and as the last waves of pleasure fade, the clarity of what just happened crashes into you like a physical blow, your mind reeling as you come to your senses, the reality of being Ben, of being a man trapped in this woman's body, of having just been bred by a stranger, and you scramble backward on the mattress, your legs tangled in the sheets, your hand flying to your stomach where you can already feel the phantom weight of a life taking root, and you open your mouth to scream, to say something, anything, but you can't. The sound that escapes your lips is a soft, confused whimper, and before you can gather your thoughts, your husband is sitting up, stretching like a contented cat, and he says,

"I'm going to meet some friends in the alpha dome tonight, so make sure the house is clean when I get back," his voice casual, domestic, as if he hadn't just filled you with his seed, and you nod, the words,

"yes, of course, honey" falling from your mouth in Amber's sweet, accommodating tone, even as your mind screams in protest, and you watch him dress and leave, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the wetness between your thighs and the terrifying truth of what you've become.

You force yourself to move, your legs shaky as you swing them over the edge of the bed, the wetness between your thighs cooling and sticky, a constant reminder of what just happened, and you stumble into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the sleek, chrome surfaces and holographic displays, the dishwasher humming softly as it cleans dishes you don't using, the refrigerator displaying nutritional information for meals you don't cooking, and you grab a sponge, your hand trembling as you begin to wipe down the counter, the repetitive motion almost soothing, almost enough to quiet the screaming in your mind, when a soft, melodic chime rings through the apartment, a pleasant, synthesized bell sound that makes you freeze, your heart hammering in your chest, and you look around wildly, your eyes landing on a screen embedded in the wall that flickers to life, displaying a message in elegant, blue script:

"Husband Reminder: Amber's prenatal vitamins scheduled for 8:00 AM tomorrow. Please ensure compliance." and the words hit you like a slap, the chip's programming still running in the background, still managing your life, still dictating every aspect of your existence, and you let out a shaky breath, your hand moving unconsciously to your stomach, where you can already imagine the cells dividing, the life taking hold, and you wonder if the chip will let you feel the pregnancy too, if it will make you love it, if it will make you forget that you were ever Ben at all.

And, just as you are about to sink deeper into that dark spiral of self-loathing and confusion, the doorbell rings through the house, a sharp, insistent chime that cuts through the silence like a blade, and you freeze, your hand still pressed to your stomach, your heart stuttering in your chest as the chip immediately floods your system with a calm, pleasant alertness, your body rising from the counter and moving toward the door before you can even think to stop it, your feet carrying you across the sleek floor with that same programmed grace, your hand reaching for the handle with a practiced ease that makes your skin crawl, and you open the door to find a tall, broad-shouldered man in t shirt, a dinosaur running across it back snd forth and what looked to be jeans of some kind.

"Oh thank god, I'm glad I've managed to find you, Ben!"