THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM
The medical chair had been swapped for a more elaborate setup in the rear compartment: padded restraints, monitors tracking vital signs and hormone levels, and a sleek chrome device connected to his groin that milked him with rhythmic, mechanical precision while his mother straddled him, riding slowly, deliberately.
“You’re peaking beautifully,” she murmured, hips rolling in time with the machine. Her hands pressed down on his chest, nails digging into the skin above his heart. “Genetic markers are off the charts. The enhancements are taking. Our child will be perfect, stronger, more submissive, more dominant when needed. A true heir to the syndicate.”