AN EROTIC STORY HOSTED BY IMPREGNORIUM.NET

detroitmechworks@hotmail.com

Authors note:  This is a science fiction story, which assumes that microbiologist will soon be able to actually modify cells and tissues beyond minor changes.  Hope that some of the technical stuff doesn’t turn everyone off.

            I didn’t set out to change the world.  I just wanted to make it a better place.  I guess it really doesn’t matter now, considering the end result.  But if I’m going to tell this story, I at least think I deserve a disclaimer.

            My name is Terrence.  Terry is fine, but I prefer Terrence.  Terrence Woods.  I’ve worked for the past eighteen years as a professor of cellular biology at the University of California, Los Angeles.  Considering that I’m only Forty-three, it’s a hell of an achievement, even if I do say so myself.

            You ever see Doogie Howser?  Well, lose the medical doctor, change it to a PHD in cellular biology, and you’ve got the general idea of my teen years.  Now lose the friends and every other aspect of social life.  Got it?  Well, that was me at sixteen.  A PHD, working on my second, this time in organic chemistry.  Zero dating, and two “extremely” proud parents/agents/business managers who sent me to work at fifteen.
           
            You see, I was their “miracle baby.”  Mom supposedly couldn’t have kids, and Dad had an abysmally low sperm count.  So when they were looking at my arrival, they were convinced it was a “Sign”.

            I wasn’t spoiled, geez that would have been nice.  No, I was the subject of every “get your child started early” program that existed at the time.  When most kids were learning A, B, C, I was learning about the commutative property of equations.  When other kids got blocks, I got a “little chemist” kit, complete with parental supervision for appropriate periods.

            My folks were convinced that I’d solve the problems that had almost resulted in my non-birth.  When I tested as a genius on four different IQ tests, they just took it as a confirmation of my destiny.  As soon as I could comprehend it, cellular biology with an emphasis on reproduction became my new obsession.  At least according to my mom.

            To be honest, I could have cared less.  What does a nine-year old understand about sperm, eggs, vaginal secretion viscosity, etc.  Heck, by the time I was twelve and actually became interested in girls, I knew more about their bodies than most of them ever would.  And so, totally versed in the mechanics, but knowing nothing of the social process, I proceeded to embark on the journey of adolescence.

            To say I was a failure would be an understatement.  If you think I’m exaggerating, try imagining the average nineteen year old woman’s response to a pimply thirteen year old attempting to ask for a date.  Now imagine that thirteen year old is in the same class as her, and is doing better without even trying hard.  In other words, I did a lot of homework for girls who were willing to “think about it, maybe.”

            It only took me a year of humiliation to figure out that no woman would touch me, even for the answers to the finals.  I just wasn’t mature enough for them, and who could blame them.

            So, I threw myself into my schooling.  Yup, Terrence Woods, PHD, and only fifteen fucking years old.  So what did I get to do?  Yup, you guessed it.  Work.

            Of course it was my “side projects” that took up most of my time.  I mean, you can only get so excited about genetic food additives.  So I ended up half-assing my “Real” work and spent my free time doing what interested me.

            At fifteen, that was sex.

            Now at fifteen, you’d assume I would know very little, but thanks to my parents, I knew almost everything about women, at least from a biological point of view.  Unlimited net access took care of the rest.  Of course, a live girl was a bit out of my experience, but in theory, I though I knew what they wanted sexually.

            So what did I do?  Well, I tried to figure out a non-surgical method of increasing the length and girth of my penis.  Yeah, what fifteen year old DIDN’T worry about the size of his dick?  But I had a PHD, and was studying organic chemistry in my “spare” time.  It wasn’t easy, considering how many false starts I had, and the vast amounts of snake-oil propaganda out there.  Eventually, over a year of ideas came and went, with attempts at using targeted human growth hormone, as well as looking into the various existing solutions.

            The main problem was increasing the amount of actual erectile tissue, without running into rejection issues.  Essentially, the male growth potential is set early, and anything even resembling real change requires “resetting” the growth pattern to that of a very early age.  Fortunately, at fifteen, that was less of a leap than if I had tried it when I was older.

            It took months to solve the problem, and I can’t tell you how many times I almost got caught by my mom with my pants around my ankles and my dick out.  Fortunately, I could pass off most of my growth research that I left lying around by claiming that I was working on a fertility treatment, which always brought joyous tears to my mom’s eyes.

            The growth was slow, and the targeted injections were not very pleasant, especially considering where I had to make them.  However, on my seventeenth birthday, I was able to know that I had a very large cock.  Eleven inches in length when erect, and a whopping two inches and change in diameter.  A cock a porn star would chug Viagra smoothies for.  And one that at seventeen had been inside a woman exactly ONCE.  Before I was born.

            It was about this time that my mom found my porn stash.  I admit that under my mattress wasn’t the most original place, but at least it was better than my sock drawer.  Intelligence does not automatically confer skill in deception.

            Suffice to say she threw a fit.  She was convinced that I was abnormal and needed counseling, which I got.  This of course led to a discussion about my responsibility to use my intelligence and knowledge to better women’s lives, not to treat them as objects for pleasure.
           
            Seeing as how women treated me as an object for getting higher grades, I think I can be forgiven for not giving a fuck about what my family though about my masturbation fantasies.  I admit that most of my fantasies revolved around fucking women bareback and getting them pregnant, but hell that was what I was studying!

            So, I quit my job at the biochemical firm, and applied for a position with a fertility research program.  It was the second PHD that convinced them, and soon I was immersed in the world of drug treatments, desperate wanna-bee parents, and general malaise.

            I finally understood my parent’s obsession, when I saw the sad faces of these morose people.  I just knew I had to help them.
           
            Of course, I was the low man, even with my degrees, I was still considered a kid.  I lived with my folks, couldn’t drink, and generally was excluded from the lab’s social scene.
            So work and go home.  No friends, just net time, game time, and sack time.  Oh, and mandatory exercise, mandated by my folks.  “Remember, being in bad shape ruins your sperm count!”

            Thanks mom and dad.  What they didn’t know, and I didn’t tell them was that my sperm count was naturally low.  I ran a test on my own sample, just to see, and it turns out that my old man’s problem got passed on to me.  So the odds of me knocking up anyone were pretty low to start, and even if I did slide into a wet and fertile pussy someday, it’d be like firing five hundred blanks and one bullet. 

            Not that I was officially working on that.  We were engaged mostly in the female side of things.  The next generation of fertility drugs, which, I swear I am not making this up, was a different color than the last gen.  We were trying to determine if there was a placebo effect from other color schemes.  As a biologist and a chemist, I felt just a tad underutilized.

            So once again I was off on my side projects.  Since everybody else was convinced the answer lay with women, I decided to go with the exact opposite tactic.  How to make it so that every male could impregnate a woman who was capable, without having to rely on external fertilization and invasive surgery.

            Ethically, you’re not supposed to use humans until all animal testing is complete.  However, thanks to Marie Curie and Louis Pasteur, there is a precedent for self experimentation, and to add more incentive, I was the perfect specimen.  After one long night of typing up another negative report, I dragged out one of my own sperm samples and got to work.

            Problem one:  My rate of meiosis was too low.  I didn’t create enough sperm.  Upping that wasn’t an option, since it would mean tampering with my “biological clock” and there would probably be nasty side effects if that spread.

            Problem two:  About half the sperm I created were crap.  Either they were malformed, or lacking in certain parts.  I just made bad sperm.  Even if through some miracle I did spooge in a nice tight cunt, the stuff would never last longe enough to fertilize an egg.

            And Problem three:  Thanks to my screwing around with my hormones earlier in my stupid teenage years, I ejaculated much harder than the average man.  I always covered my lap with a towel before whacking off, since I knew from experience that I could easily plaster the opposite wall.  Sperm aren’t designed to survive that kind of force.

            So, as I filed my reports, I ran my own experiments on lab equipment.  The first thing I tried was modifying meiosis to produce only one sperm cell.  The way I figured it, if I could chemically change the process to produce larger and sturdier sperm, it would solve the problem.  Well, it didn’t work, since the larger sperm merely used more energy.   This resulted in a sperm cell that died much sooner, since it used up all it’s energy merely moving.  The plus side was that the additional mass was more likely to survive my ejaculation process. So one of three.  Not bad.

            The next thing I tried was increasing the rate of speed for my healthy sperm.  The thought was, by increasing the rate of energy use, it improve the chance of the sperm making it to the egg.  No dice there either, since there isn’t enough energy in the sperm cell to maintain high speed for any length of time.  Increasing the energy merely increased the size and added all of the attendant problems I had already seen.

            It was then that I had an epiphany.  It wasn’t a problem with my sperm, merely the method of the sperm getting there!  I mean, you don’t force a guy to run a marathon and then expect him to fuck for an hour at the end of it, but that’s exactly what we expect of our sperm cells.  To ensure fertilization, directly introducing fresh sperm next to the egg would greatly increase the chances.

            A picture of the Saturn V popped into my head, and I knew I had the solution.  A booster cell.  A cell to propel a sperm right next to an egg, leaving it fresh and ready to get down to business.

            Of course, it’s one thing to think of a solution, and quite another to implement it.  An individual booster for every sperm is pointless and a waste of energy.  Considering how large the average sperm is, compared to the average egg cell, it was definitely in my interest to fit as many sperm as I could in each booster.  Basing the cell off a testicular cell, I managed to fit five sperm cells in stasis inside an experimental cell.  When the cell chemically recognized an egg, it would activate the sperm, similar to the effect of an orgasm.  The five sperm cells would then easily rupture the membrane, creating a small spritz of sperm, more than enough to successfully knock up a bitch.

            Well, it worked in theory.  In practice, the cell couldn’t MOVE.  So, back to the drawing board.  Adding a flagellum didn’t work, because the mass was so great that I ran into the same problems as larger sperm.  Amoebic locomotion didn’t work, even after three months of trying, because the cell wouldn’t react to the right signals, and damaged the sperm inside.  I was about to just give up when I hit upon cilia, similar to the lining of a fallopian tube, but smaller.  That worked, a little slower than an average sperm cell, but energy efficient enough to travel a long distance.

            Had I improved on nature?  Nope.  You forgot that the vagina is practically one of the most hostile environments to cells imaginable.  A testicular based cell was dead the instant I introduced it to a simulation of the environment.  I needed to somehow protect the cell long enough for it to get to its destination.

            By now I was looking at two years worth of work.  I was seventeen, a senior research assistant, and finally in my own apartment.  Which allowed me to set up a secondary lab in my free time.  It also allowed me to stop worrying about my parents catching me flogging the bishop, but even with them gone, I still jerked off in the shower.  Some habits just don’t change I guess…

            But back to my side project, which really is how trouble got started.  At this point I tried numerous methods to increase the resilience of the exterior cell membrane.  It was only when I thought of a cell wall that anything resembling real progress occurred.

            You see, animals don’t make a cell wall.  Plants do.  The idea of sticking a plant cell structure into an animal cell may sound ludicrous, but it can be done.  It’s not easy, and half of what I ended up doing was “guess and test”, but in the end I had a strong cellular wall, which protected the sperm, yet allowed for locomotion.

            Problem solved, right?  Almost.  Blood killed it.  White blood cells in particular went after this thing like a splinter from hell.  Fortunately, by treating the outer layer, I could give the cell the same chemical signal as a used white blood cell.  Now, the problems were solved.

            Of course, creating the booster cell in a lab is much easier than creating it in a living creature.  There’s no organ in the human body capable of creating cell walls. So I figured, if I can’t create the structure, I’ll just steal it.

            At some point, humans lost the ability to break down cell walls, relegating the organ that contained symbiotic bacteria to the evolutionary dust bin.  However, I didn’t want to destroy cell walls, just hollow them out for use by reproductive organs.  To that end I “borrowed” some culture bacteria and a few appendixes.  (Hell it wasn’t much of a challenge, people throw them away!)

            The appendix is basically a sack, and the bacteria that I cultivated did a good job of hollowing out plant cells, leaving them ready for use.  I tested a few, creating some sample boosters from the resulting cell walls and was very pleased.  (There was one side effect, that being the fact that chlorophyll remained in the cell.  It had no real side effect in the tests, and actually seemed to stabilize the cells, so I let it go.)

            So, I had the materials.  Now, to create something that would take sperm and properly prepare it.  Through a selectively permeable membrane, I was able to select the best sperm, which I selected according to size, and separate them.  Using the previous experiments, I was able to create a simple process where the sperm would swim to a designated spot, then become dormant.  Other cells would then take over, encasing the dormant sperm in a harvested cell wall, and then allowing a booster cell to grow over it.

            The resultant organ was small, only about an inch long and half an inch wide.  Properly fed a steady diet of nutrients via a simulated bloodstream, and provided with enough raw material, this organ could prepare roughly two percent of the output of a testicle.  It wasn’t efficient, but it worked.

            Now the hard part.  Integrating the necessary organs into a body.  As of this point, I knew that I would need a connection to the digestive system, a steady flow of blood, as well as direct contact with the testicles.

            The testicles were easy.  The production organ could easily be placed behind the testicle, resulting in a slightly larger appearance.  It would create a “bull balls” look on any test subject, but the organs were hardy, and easy to access.

            The digestive system, fortunately already had a place for an appendix, and as a bonus, it was fairly close to the end of the digestive tract.  Simply replacing it with my own harvester organ would result in the same amount of “roughage” but ensured that a good portion would be scrubbed and ready for use.  This could be passed directly from the harvester to the testicles via a small duct system, based off the vas deferens.

            At twenty three, I had my solution to male infertility.  I tested the organs thoroughly, on rats and pigs.  I couldn’t afford a chimp, even with my promotion to project leader.  And if one had gone missing from the lab, well, it wouldn’t have been pretty.

            Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have added the membrane which added a milk chocolate taste to the semen.  It was an impulse, and it took an extra six months of work to cull a tissue capable of assembling the correct flavor from protein chains.  But hey, I figured a flavor organ was something men needed.  (I probably shouldn’t mention that I cribbed from the odor producing organs of a skunk…)

            So I took my time, and created a set of organs designed for me personally.  All ready, floating in their support systems.  The only problem was I wasn’t a skilled micro surgeon. I’d never really had time to pick it up, and while I might feel okay going by the book on an animal, the thought of attempting self-surgery was both idiotic and impossible.

            About this time, at the lab, I was assigned to a new “fertility treatment.”  This one was ridiculous, and attempt to modify a woman’s system so that she could only become pregnant by her husband.  I wish I was making this up, but the brass wanted it, and we down below agreed to do it.  I was sick of it, however, and since my side project was pretty much done, spent my free time getting a teaching credential.

            It was about this point that I lost my virginity to Dr. Carrol.  She worked across the all from me, and had constantly come by, talking about this, that and whatever.  Looking back, it was obvious that she trying to seduce me, but my twenty-three year old virginal brain didn’t see a forty year old woman as a sex partner.  SO as it was, it came as a total shock when she showed up at my apartment and practically threw herself at me. 

            I can still remember the grin on her face when she got my shorts off, her silvery-blonde hair falling over her face as her lips closed over my cock.  I couldn’t believe how much better it was than my hand, and I couldn’t hold off.  I was even more amazed when she swallowed, stripped, and demanded that I fuck her.

            And fuck her I did.  Once my cock had it’s first taste of bare pussy, I was hooked.    We fucked in my apartment, the office, pretty much everywhere for that matter.  It did get a little weird, especially when she asked me to call her “Mom” in bed.  I knew she had kids, and I guess I was her way of fulfilling every fantasy that she had about her son in a safe way.  I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, considering she called me “Seth” every time I came.

            If anything, my first taste of sex increased my libido.  I found myself fantasizing about knocking up Dr. Carrol, as well as the other women in my office.  I knew that if I ever wanted to make those dreams a reality, I would have to try my solution.  It was time to take the chance.
           
            It’s a known fact that if you have enough money, you can get almost any surgical procedure done.  A quick flight to Rio de Janeiro, a few bundles of bills, and a scar or two later, I was in possession of the first working set of my fertility cure.  I had provided detailed instructions, and observed the ultrasound photos after words, and was convinced that everything had worked to plan.

            One month later, it was a bit of a shock to see my first ejaculation come out green.  Not bright green, but a definite greenish tinge that reminded me of mint crème.  I hadn’t thought of the effect of chlorophyll structures.  However, there was no harm in the tests, so I shrugged, and washed it down the drain, and thought no more of it.

            It was then that I received an offer of employment from UCLA.  Eager to be free of pregnancy preventing “Fertility” treatments, I eagerly accepted. 

            Being a college professor at age twenty-three is far too much fun.  Every day beautiful girls hung on your every word, and every night I’d spray my jizz into the bathroom drain, thinking of little hotties.  And anybody who pissed me off got flunked.

            And then there were the perks.  Nearly every week, some babe would come to me with the same problem.  She’d flunked a test, and would I please give her an “A” in exchange for a blowjob?

            I’m proud to say that I held firm on my principles.  I only gave a “C” for a blowjob, and they HAD to swallow.  If they wanted a “B” they had to let me slide my cock into their spicy little pussies.  As far as an “A” went, they had to go bareback.

            Of course, most of the girls who came to me went home with a “C” then I assume celebrated by fucking their boyfriends.  I mean, talk about stupid, most of the little sluts got themselves knocked up within months of “doing their duty.”

            As far as the “B” girls went, they had to get large condoms.  I had enough condom failures that most of them figured out that doing a “B” was pretty much the same as an “A” only for less benefit.  For the girls that relied on rubbers, it was either take your “C” or take your chances.  Almost all took the “C”, not that it did them any good, since most of them ended up pregnant anyway.  There sure were a lot of horny bastards at my school, since the unplanned pregnancy rate went through the roof my first year.

            And then we had a virgin conception.  Not kidding.  Some girl was completely intact, and swore she had never been with a man.  Yet, there she was, with a womb stuffed full of baby.  The papers were all over it, until a second case showed up.  Then a third.

            Next thing you know, virgins were showing up with swelled stomachs all over the world, but mostly in large cities.  To the horror of the religious right, an entire LA class of “True Love Waits” students ended up in the maternity ward, all claiming that they never touched a man in their lives.

            And so on.  What was even scarier was that when the babies were brought to term, the all looked like they had the same father.  Black girls gave birth to light skinned babies, while Asian women had children that looked half-Occidental.  It was clear to some that we must be dealing with a serial rapist, but at the hundredth birth, that Idea went out the window.  It was an interesting side note that every one of these pregnancies was to a little girl.

            Then a pattern was tracked. There was a correlation with a large bottled water company’s distribution.  The company used only one aquifer for its operations.  The Los Angeles water supply.

            And I jerked off a lot in the shower.

            Booster cells last a long time.  Not only that, but if they’re ingested, they were passed directly to the bladder.   I don’t care how well a woman wipes, she can’t prevent some urine from remaining.  So whether through a bath, a swallowing, or in a couple of my student’s cases, directly being spermed, there was no protection.  Contraceptive jelly didn’t stop it, and neither did a condom, since the microcilia tore right through latex.  The only way to stop them was to prevent them from finding an egg to fertilize.

            I mean, an autoclave, or boiling water killed the boosters, but it only took one to do the job.  After a year, women were faced with a choice.  Iud, pill, Depo, or have a little girl.

            They stopped bottling my aquifer, but those booster cells are still out there.  It’s been almost twenty years now, and I’ve got probably thousands of daughters.  It’s funny, I picked bigger sperm, expecting it to survive.  I hadn’t thought about the fact that it was the sperm that would be carrying an X chromosome.

            I destroyed my notes, and I’ve never recreated my side project.  But I still jerk off, every where I go.

            I know I’ve probably committed genetic incest quite a few times, so to leave you all with one final thought.  Young men, be nice to my daughters, since you’ll probably be dating one, and to the young women:  TAKE YOUR PILLS, AND BOIL YOUR WATER!