“Your results are here, Mr. Marshal, come on back.”
My husband stood, squeezed my hand, and put on a brave face to head back to the fertility clinic’s exam room area. I understood he wanted to get the news himself first, but I’d be there for him when he came out. I spent a few minutes reading a three-year old parenting magazine before I noticed how quiet it was in the waiting room. Even the receptionist had disappeared. I stood to ring the bell and ask if anything was happening, when what I’d thought was a closet door flew open and men rushed out to grab me.
Dark fabric was slipped over my eyes, and a firm hand clamped over my mouth as all was chaos for a some minutes as I was manhandled, pushed, pulled, grabbed and carried. I heard and felt my clothing ripped as I struggled frantically. Hands held me firm as rope looped around me and a a gag forced in my mouth.
Finally the hands departed and the blindfold was removed. I blinked in the harsh light of a spartan white exam room, to find myself bound and obscenely spread on a narrow bed. I faced the clean, white floor as my head stuck out over one side, my shoulders and arms parallel to the mattress edge, with my bound wrists secured to the head and foot corners on that side. My knees were tucked up under me, the loops of rope around them that pulled them wide apart were tied to the same corners as my wrists. My ankles, also pulled wide apart were secured to the other two corners. A wide belt of some kind wrapped from just under my shoulder blades around my legs pressing me down. forcing my back into downward bow that raised my ass and exposed my privates to whoever might stand behind me.
I could crane my neck look around, but do little else. Three men I didn’t recognize, dressed in scrubs, stood around me on the side of the bed where my head was, and a woman – the clinic doctor, thank God – was walking through the door.
She looked at her clipboard while talking to me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Marshal. I have bad news and good news to report. The bad news is your husband’s sperm count is abysmally low, and motility non-existent.”
She shone a light into my eyes.
“It appears to be a congenital condition.”
She reached her stethoscope under me to place it against my chest, then around to my back.
“I’m sad to say, he almost certainly can’t give you children. Even those invasive IVF techniques don’t hold much promise. But I did say almost.”
She took out a thermometer – a rectal thermometer, placed a dollop of jelly on it, reached over me, and slid it unceremoniously into my upturned ass. I couldn’t avoid it, and the shock of cold made me gasp as much as the violation. She then slipped a thin, tampon applicator-like shaft between the lips of my pussy and turned it back and forth before removing it, feeling the texture of the wetness that clung to it with her fingers, nodding. She pulled the thermometer out, looked at the number and wrote in the chart.
“Excellent. Peak ovulation right on schedule. You see, the good news is that your reproductive system couldn’t be healthier or more receptive.”
She pulled a needle-less 50 mL syringe from one lab-coat pocket, and a tube of gel lubricant from another, she continued while squeezing out a large blob from the tube onto the round tip of the syringe.
“This is the best of the best we could get from your husband over the last two weeks.”
The doctor leaned in over the table, over me, placed one hand on the small of my back, and slid the syringe into my pussy. As she pushed the plunger, a cold liquid feeling spread inside and made me shiver and squeal into my gag.
“Sorry for the temperature, we needed to refrigerate the sample to preserve and concentrate it. Sad to say it’s not much, but he deserves the best chance possible.”
She withdrew the syringe, but then: .
“I really didn’t need that lubricant – your natural secretions are quite ample at the moment. As soon as you were positioned this way, your body knew what to expect and began getting ready. It’s one of those instinctive things.”
She was still leaning over me. Her hand now rested on my upturned ass, and a finger was slowly sliding up and down my slackened slit. making me squirm, shiver, and whine into my gag.
“The further good news, though, is that you signed up for the full guarantee from the clinic. It’s quite possible, even likely given your remarkable fecundity, you’ll be pregnant by the end of the day. These gentlemen,” She indicated the three men who were now pulling off their scrub pants, “are trained professionals, compatible with your profile, and certified highly potent.”
I could only stare and shake my head at the display. Each one of their rapidly hardening cocks was thicker, or longer, or both, than my husband’s. The blue-eyed one’s cock was a monster. I didn’t even want to think of it trying to fit in me. I shivered and pulled my bonds.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Marshal. As I said, we only employ fully trained professionals here. Stress and anxiety are well known barriers to conception, and pleasure and desire are the necessary opposite. Our staff will do everything in their power to ensure a fulfilling, even joyous conception experience – and I do think you’ll take today.”
Two fingers slid between my folds and deep into me, and I couldn’t not keep from gasping and moaning a the sensation. I also couldn’t stop my inner muscles from clamping down hard on those fingers, or ignore the pleasure of the resulting sensation. She continued.
“Your workups and exams prove you’re about as fertile as any young woman can ever hope to be, and your body is clearly ready. Eaager, even. Neither Wayne nor Raul here have ever needed a client come back twice. You just relax, they’ll take care of everything. I’ll be back in a little while.”
With that the doctor left, and the men closed around me. the one named Wayne moved behind, out of my line of vision, but knowing where he was going made my adrenaline spike. Two firm hands taking hold of my hips made me jump, and the hot, quivering insistence of a long tongue sliding between my labia made me scream into the gag.
When I was helped back to the waiting room later that afternoon, leaning on Blue-eyed Raul’s shoulder and walking gingerly in my hospital gown, my husband was there for me, smiling lovingly, with a change of clothes he’d brought from home.
Two weeks later, I missed my period.
Two weeks after that, the test showed positive. My deliriously happy husband treated me like a princess. Like a Queen.
A congratulatory note from the clinic arrived in the mail soon after. I never went back.