AUTHOR’S NOTES: This fic contains such horrors as quasi-embryonic cocksucking (among a host of others). If you are easily offended, this is not the fic for you. Don’t come crying. And don’t come bombing my clinic (™ velvetglove).

Inspired by a lovely manip by Tigress35 (see story cover art): Airbrushed down to baby soft, lip glossed, pre-pubescent things, the boys looked like nothing so much as – well, exactly what I’ve made them. It went rather out of control from there.

DISCLAIMER: It’s mine, ALL MINE!! Well, except for the men with cell phones.

Frail bodies strained frantically against each other, clutching fingers pressing white pad-prints into new, pristine flesh. Blush, baby-soft lips locked tight on a raw-looking nipple, sucking so vociferously that the obscene sound could be heard by the men on the other side of the glass.

“Is it hungry?”

The scientist shifted from foot to foot with a hip-shimmy that the man assumed was meant to be inconspicuous. “No,” he said. “It’s doing what it was bred to do.”

“At this age? They couldn’t be more than…what? Thirteen? Fourteen?” He turned his attention back to the stark room, finding the pair housed therein hypnotically compelling.

“Two weeks, actually,” the scientist crowed. “You saw the new hatchlings.”

The man shuddered, remembering the scene inside an enormous incubator in another wing of the facility. There’d been over a dozen embryonic hatchlings when he’d arrived an hour ago, and one less when he’d been ushered out, his mind boggling at the orgy of incest and cannibalism.

Slightly bigger than its…mate? Brother? The one with dark hair and brows – implants the scientist had explained – was pinning the other, still completely hairless, hatchling to the cement floor. The hairless one’s struggles were unconvincing, half-hearted at best.

“Can they speak?”

As if to punctuate his inquiry, the hairless thing climaxed with a shrill cry, shuddering its release into the lush mouth of its…mate.

“They can be taught to. It’s not always necessary, you understand…”

Shaking his head, the man hurried to explain, “That’s…I don’t want them for that.”

“It’s not The Institute’s policy to ask.”

The man opened his mouth to object to the scientist’s insinuation then snapped it quickly closed. He couldn’t afford to cause offense. The man had searched fruitlessly for so long, and this pair…His eyes drifted back to the room, where the hatchlings were now wrapped almost lovingly in each other’s slender, girlish arms.

Cooing sounds issued from the larger one, the thick, glossy hair on top of its pretty head strangely incongruent with the immature body and organ its sated mate absently stroked. After a moment more it pushed the pink-skinned head down, forcing it to take the stiff cock between curvaceous lips.

Having obviously warmed up to the idea of a nap, the bald one fought briefly but energetically before it then began to suckle with genuine enthusiasm. The bigger one thrust rapidly into its mouth and, grunting incoherently, came quickly.

The man seen enough to know stamina wasn’t the hatchlings’ strong suit, but they made up admirably in their recuperative facility.

“How fast will they mature?” He asked, watching the bigger one, vibrant green eyes heavy lidded and skin charmingly flushed, push the smaller hatchling rudely away, curling towards the cinder-block wall for a restorative nap of its own.

“I shouldn’t think you’d want them to mature too quickly,” the scientist offered his opinion uninvited, but of course he was right. “They’ll be fully grown in another week, and we can add as much body hair as you like.”

The hairless one sat, dejected, gazing at the other’s firm buttocks while it fingered itself lewdly. The man wanted to look away, but when it threw its head back, long throat exposed and the curve of its fragile skull catching the light, he caught his breath at its strange beauty.

The sound of a bolt being released echoed through the room, bringing the big, pretty one to full attention. It scuttled across the floor to inspect the dinner trays left by a large, muscle-bound man whose brawny good looks seemed somehow familiar.

“Don’t I know him…?” he wondered aloud before catching himself.

The scientist chuckled knowingly. “Rod is one of our early successes and was very popular. He’s too old now to do the job he was bred for, but continues to be a productive member of The Institute.”

Rod flashed him a bright-white smile as he passed through the room.

“Can they be made to forget their experiences here?” he quickly asked, eager to change the subject. “Made to behave normally?”

The scientist looked at him as if he’d grown two heads and was in need of a thorough dissecting. Beyond him, the pearly-skinned hatchling was cautiously approaching its mate from behind. Engrossed in feeding, the other seemed oblivious to its presence.

“But why would you want that?” he asked, agitated. “They’re perfect as they are – the finest specimens The Institute’s ever produced!”

A clatter sounded from the observation room as the bald one pounced, wrapping deceptively wispy arms tightly around a golden torso and humping vigorously between the round globes of its ass. It came in splatters across the thrashing back with a piercing, wordless cry that echoed off the walls.

The man tore his eyes away, smiling at the oblivious scientist soothingly. “Of course they are, and I’ll pay what you ask and more if you can teach them to pass in normal society. Teach them to talk, and-” he waved towards the pair, where the bigger one’s forearm was now pumping, hidden, under its prone body as its back was licked clean by the other’s pink, mobile tongue, “to refrain from doing…that.”

Suddenly, a brilliant thought occurred to the man. “Can you make them straight?!”

“No!” It was an unequivocal exclamation.

The man leveled a silent and challenging stare until the scientist squirmed.

“It hasn’t ever been tried,” he finally conceded, looking somewhat more interested. “I can’t guarantee the reconditioning would hold.”

The man nodded. Provided The Institute could subvert enough of the hatchlings in-bred inclinations, their purchase (would leasing be an option?) was a forgone conclusion. They’d been searching too long for boys like these to let the opportunity pass.

“I need photos before I decide for sure. To show my partner.” The request was really only a smart bargaining ploy.

The scientist smirked. “That’s Marketing’s department. I’m sure they have video they could provide. Video’s much better for the ‘money shots’,” he added knowledgably.

The man shook his head emphatically. “Really, all I need are a couple of headshots. Can we get shirts on them? And showers?”

The men regarded the pair in the next room silently. Limp and apparently (finally!) sated, they were a twisted mass of arms and legs, their food and come-coated skin glowing with sweat and youthful vigor. As they watched, the raven-haired hatchling tilted his head up, requesting and receiving a chaste kiss from its mate. It was unexpectedly tender and this time the man was compelled to look away.

“Hmm. That’s very unusual,” the scientist observed, clearly intrigued. “Typically they have to be taught to kiss; it’s not an innate behavior. That’s why they often seem so unnatural when they do.”

The man looked at the scientist with narrowed eyes, but remained silent.

They’d have to be kept apart as much as possible, to prevent backsliding. A wife, perhaps? Was it possible? He wondered…

This had to work.

Sliding into his car, the man cranked up the air conditioning against a blistering Tijuana sun, letting the car idle as he examined the still-tacky photos The Institute had developed on-site for him.

A pair of criminally pretty boys stared back at him with bright, bird-like eyes, their softly sheened mouths lushly pornographic in innocent repose. It had taken their handlers half an hour (and a rainbow of glittered confetti) to distract them from each other’s bodies for long enough to capture the single shot, but it was perfect.

They were perfect. Girls, aged 12 to infinity, would eat them up.

He tossed the photos on the passenger seat and maneuvered out of the parking lot, the building’s discreet signage growing smaller in his mirrors:


He fumbled in haste to dial his cell, humming a bass-heavy thread he suspected had been dredged from his memory by his recent Rod Rockhard sighting while he waited impatiently for his partner to pick up.

“Miles here.”

“Miles, it’s Al. I’ve found our stars.”

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