Elysian Synthesis

The reflection was a stranger’s. Morgan stared into the mirror, his gaze tracing the lines of a face he no longer recognized as his own. It was his, of course—same tired eyes, same jawline softened by apathy—but the connection was gone. He pressed his fingertips against the cold glass, then against his own cheek. The sensation was identical: a distant, muted pressure, data received but not processed. He felt like a pilot in a failing mech suit, the feedback systems dead, flying blind through a world of dulled senses. For years, this numbness had grown, a creeping paralysis of the soul that had finally conquered the flesh. He could be touched, struck, held, and it would all register as little more than a change in air pressure. He was an island, utterly alone in his own body.

This profound alienation had driven him into the darkest corners of the infosphere, past the usual forums for bio-hacking and cosmetic surgery, into the encrypted, invitation-only networks where legends were traded like currency. It was there he first read the name: Elysian Modifications. It was never advertised, only whispered about. A place that didn’t just alter the body, but annihilated and rebuilt it from the ground up. The stories were wild, contradictory. Some spoke of clients emerging as post-human marvels, their bodies remade into instruments of unimaginable pleasure and power. Others warned it was a charnel house run by a madman, a place where people’s very consciousness was unspooled and erased. The controversy was a roaring fire, and Morgan, cold to his very marrow, wanted nothing more than to walk into it. He didn’t want a tune-up; he wanted to be razed to the foundation.

The facility itself was a monument to brutalist secrecy, a windowless monolith of black concrete that devoured the light. His transport AI had deposited him at a discreet entrance that irised open without a sound, admitting him into a lobby that felt more like a mausoleum than a waiting room. The air was chilled and carried the clean, sharp scent of medical-grade sterilizer, but beneath it was a faint, organic undertone—the smell of ozone and warm, living tissue. He was guided by unseen lights across a polished floor to a single, stark chair facing a wall of shimmering, liquid metal. He sat, the unforgiving material cold against his back, and waited. He was a supplicant at a profane altar, ready to offer the ultimate sacrifice: a self he no longer wanted. He was here to beg for a rebirth, and he knew, with a certainty that was the only real thing he’d felt in years, that he would accept any terms.

The wall of liquid metal shimmered, its surface undulating like mercury. It didn't part or retract; instead, a figure coalesced from within its depths, stepping forward as the fluid medium solidified into the form of a man. He was tall, impossibly so, clad in a suit so black it seemed to absorb the ambient light. His features were sharp, chiseled from marble by a master sculptor with a cruel streak. But it was his eyes that held Morgan captive—irises the color of a winter storm, intelligent and utterly devoid of warmth. This was not a doctor; this was an architect of flesh.

"Mr. Morgan," the man said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone, each word articulated with surgical precision. There was no greeting, no preamble. "I am Dr. Aris Thorne. Your file notes a profound somatic disassociation. A complete disconnect between consciousness and physical sensation. You find your body to be an inadequate vessel."

Morgan could only nod, his throat suddenly dry. The doctor's gaze was analytical, as if he were peering past Morgan's skin and reading the corrupted code of his nervous system.

"Conventional augmentations would be pointless," Aris continued, pacing slowly before the now-solid wall. "A new arm, enhanced eyes... these are mere peripherals attached to a failing core system. You do not need an upgrade. You require a complete system overhaul. A reformatting."

He stopped and turned, his storm-gray eyes locking onto Morgan's. "What we offer is called Metamorphosis. It is not a procedure in the traditional sense. It is a dissolution. Your current physical form—your bones, your muscles, your organs, your skin—will be unmade. Our proprietary nanite swarms will deconstruct you at the atomic level, reducing your entire biological mass to a nutrient-rich, pluripotent slurry. Every cell will be cataloged and broken down into its fundamental building blocks."

The clinical coldness of the description was more terrifying than any threat of violence. Morgan felt a phantom chill, the ghost of a sensation in his numb body.

"Your consciousness," Aris went on, a flicker of something—not passion, but intense, intellectual fervor—entering his voice, "will be isolated and maintained within a quantum computational matrix. You will be… aware. A singular point of view, tethered to our systems, while the raw material that was once 'you' is prepared for reformation. You will witness your own unmaking."

He gestured, and the wall behind him dissolved into a swirling holographic display of a human form disintegrating into a cloud of shimmering particles, then slowly coalescing into something new. It was amorphous, a shifting, flowing mass of pink, translucent flesh.

"From this biological substrate, we will construct a new vessel. It will not be 'human' in the way you currently understand it. There will be no skeleton, no discrete organs. It will be a unified biological entity. A being of pure, receptive flesh. Every point on its surface will be a nerve ending, every molecule engineered for the transmission of sensory data. We will not be giving you a body designed for locomotion or labor. We will be giving you a body designed for a single, perfect purpose: to feel."

The holographic image swirled before him, a nebula of potential sensation. Where another man might have seen a monstrous aberration, a grotesque parody of life, Morgan saw salvation. He saw an end to the silence, an end to the void. The clinical, horrifying details of his own dissolution—being reduced to a nutrient slurry, his consciousness pinned like a butterfly in a digital display case—meant nothing. He was already a ghost. What did it matter if the haunted house was demolished?

"To feel," Morgan repeated, his voice a dry rasp, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. It was a prayer whispered into the sterile air.

Dr. Thorne’s expression remained impassive, but a glint of triumph shone in his storm-gray eyes. He had presented the abyss, and his subject was ready to leap. "Precisely. Not the clumsy, filtered sensations you experience now. Not the interpretation of data. We are talking about pure, unmediated qualia. Pleasure so profound it will become your entire reality. Pain so exquisite it will be indistinguishable from ecstasy. Your new form will be an instrument, and you will learn to play it."

The implication hung in the air, thick and heavy. An instrument is played by someone. Morgan’s gaze flickered to Thorne’s long, elegant hands. He imagined those fingers, cool and clinical, being the first thing to teach his new body its purpose. The thought sent a phantom jolt through his deadened nerves, a spark of static in a broken machine. It was the closest thing to arousal he had felt in a decade.

"There is no reversal," Thorne stated, his tone flat and final. "The identity known as 'Morgan' will cease to exist. Your legal status, your personal history, your very name will be expunged. You will be born again, here. You will belong to Elysian. To me."

Belong. The word should have been a threat, a cage door slamming shut. To Morgan, it sounded like an anchor. To be owned was to have a purpose. To be an object of someone’s focus—even a cold, scientific focus—was a form of connection he craved more than air.

"I understand," Morgan said, his voice gaining a sliver of strength. "I want it."

A thin, obsidian datapad materialized in Thorne’s hand, seemingly sliding out of his sleeve. He held it out. "The consent forms are comprehensive. They cede all rights to your former and future biological matter. They acknowledge the totality of your identity’s erasure. Your signature is the final, irrevocable act of your old life."

Morgan took the datapad. The screen glowed with dense, impenetrable legal text, but he didn’t read a word of it. He saw only the box at the bottom, waiting. He pressed his thumb against the designated panel. A needle, finer than a hair, pricked his skin, drawing a single drop of blood. The drop was absorbed, and the screen flashed green. CONTRACT ACCEPTED. IDENTITY SCHEDULED FOR TERMINATION.

He handed the datapad back to Thorne. A profound, unnerving peace settled over him. He had just signed his own death warrant, and in doing so, had never felt more alive.

Thorne took the device, his gaze lingering on Morgan for a moment longer. It was a look of possession, of a craftsman admiring the raw material he was about to transform into a masterpiece.

"Excellent," Dr. Thorne said, his voice a low purr of satisfaction. "The past is now irrelevant. Let us begin your genesis."

Aris led Morgan from the consultation room into the heart of the facility. The corridor was not a hallway but a chasm carved through living architecture. The walls pulsed with a slow, bioluminescent rhythm, and the air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something vaguely metallic, like fresh blood. They arrived at a circular chamber dominated by a single object: the bio-pod.

It rested on the floor like a gargantuan, obsidian egg, smooth and seamless. It was both organic and mechanical, with faint, glowing tracery running beneath its polished black surface like a complex circulatory system. It hummed with a low, sub-vocal thrum that Morgan felt in the fillings of his teeth—the last real sensation his old body would ever register.

"The Genesis Pod," Aris stated, his hand gesturing toward it. "Womb and tomb. Step inside. Lie down. It will conform to you."

There was no visible seam, but as Morgan approached, a section of the pod’s surface liquified, pulling back like a viscous membrane to reveal a cushioned interior that seemed to breathe. He hesitated for only a second before climbing in. The moment he lay back, the soft, warm material molded around him, a perfect, cloying embrace. The opening sealed shut, plunging him into absolute darkness and silence. He was entombed.

Panic, cold and vestigial, tried to claw its way up his throat, but before it could take hold, Aris's voice filled the void, piped directly into his consciousness. It was no longer coming from a speaker; it was simply there, inside his head, as calm and clear as a surgeon’s scalpel.

"The process is beginning, Morgan. Do not resist. The nanite infusion is underway. You may feel a slight tingling sensation."

'Slight tingling' was a grotesque understatement. It began in his extremities, a pins-and-needles feeling that intensified exponentially, as if his entire body had fallen asleep. Then the tingling became a vibration, a billion microscopic insects burrowing into his flesh, his muscles, his bones. He saw them in his mind's eye, a swarming, iridescent tide flowing through his veins, each one a tiny engine of deconstruction.

"Your integumentary system is the first to be cataloged and dissolved. Your skin is becoming permeable. Its structural integrity is failing."

Morgan felt it. His skin, the lifelong barrier between himself and the world, was losing its cohesion. It felt like he was being flayed by a million tiny razors, but without pain—only the pure, terrifying sensation of coming apart. He watched, from his disembodied vantage point, as his own flesh seemed to liquefy, turning into a shimmering, pinkish mist that was immediately wicked away by unseen systems within the pod.

"Cellular decohesion is successful. We are now targeting the musculoskeletal structure. Your form is being unmade."

His limbs felt weightless, then nonexistent. The solid framework of his skeleton, the very architecture of his being, dissolved like sugar in water. There was a faint grinding sensation, then nothing. His organs followed, each one reduced to its constituent proteins and lipids, cataloged and added to the swirling slurry that had once been him. He was a ghost watching his own haunted house be meticulously demolished, brick by brick. His consciousness, the singular, terrified 'I' at the center of it all, was being pulled taut, anchored to Aris's voice as the last vestiges of its physical home were swept away.

"Deconstruction complete. Your biological matter is now a homogenous, pluripotent medium. Your consciousness is stable. Welcome to the interim, Morgan. The void before creation."

He was nothing. A point of view in a warm, dark, humming emptiness. His body was gone. The name 'Morgan' was attached to nothing but a memory. And the only thing in the universe was the calm, resonant voice of the man who had just taken him apart.

"Now, the genesis," Aris’s voice resonated through Morgan's non-space, a divine pronouncement. "From the potential, the actual. We will not build you from the outside in, like a sculptor. We will grow you from a single, perfect point. A seed of pure sensation."

The slurry around him, the liquid that was him, began to move. It was not a chaotic churn, but a slow, deliberate convergence. Filaments of nascent tissue, glowing with faint internal light, started to knit together, pulling inward toward a central point deep within the amorphous mass. Morgan’s consciousness, which had been floating untethered, was drawn toward it, anchored to this focal point of creation. It was the first physical sensation his new form registered: a deep, internal gathering, a pulling tautness that was neither pain nor pleasure, but something more fundamental. A sense of purpose.

"Your old body was a chaotic collection of disparate systems," Aris explained, his voice a clinical caress. "A compromise. Your new form will be unified, its entire existence oriented around a single interface. We call it the primary sensory nexus. An orifice, yes, but one of unparalleled complexity and receptivity. It will be your mouth, your ears, your eyes. It will be the sole conduit through which you experience reality."

As Aris spoke, the feeling intensified. Morgan could feel the nexus taking shape within the core of his being. He felt the flesh invaginate, folding inward to create a deep, smooth-walled canal. A ring of hyper-specialized muscle fibers coalesced at the entrance, a sphincter of impossible potential, dense with more nerve endings than his entire former body had possessed. It wasn't just a hole; it was an architecture of reception. He could feel the pliability being woven into the very structure of the tissue, a profound elasticity designed not just to yield, but to welcome. To envelop. To consume.

"This nexus is not merely a passive opening," Aris continued, his tone hardening with an undercurrent of something that sounded like reverence. "It is a dynamic organ. Its musculature will allow you to grip, to pulse, to control the stimulus you receive. It is being designed for profound conditioning. It must learn to accept, to stretch, to accommodate. Its capacity for sensation will be directly proportional to its capacity for physical volume. To unlock its potential, we must push its boundaries far beyond any human conception."

The formation was complete. The pulling sensation subsided, replaced by a constant, low-level thrum of awareness that emanated from deep within him. Morgan’s entire consciousness was now centered on this one feature. He could feel the perfect, puckered ring of the entrance, waiting. He could sense the incredible depth of the channel it guarded, a warm, slick, empty cavern that seemed to ache with a need he didn't have a name for yet. It was a void, but a void that begged to be filled. This was his new center of gravity, the entirety of his being. He was no longer Morgan. He was a hole. A perfect, virgin orifice waiting for its master, for its first lesson in what it meant to feel.

The low hum of the pod ceased. A soft hiss, like a final exhalation, echoed in the chamber as the viscous membrane of the pod’s surface thinned and retracted. Cool, sterile air washed over Morgan’s new form, carrying the scent of antiseptic and Aris’s faint, masculine cologne. Light, sharp and white, pierced the darkness he had become accustomed to. For a moment, his consciousness, still reeling from its own re-synthesis, struggled to process the input.

He had no eyes, but he could perceive. He saw himself from a dozen angles at once, an external and internal awareness that was a feature of his new biology. He was a mound of smooth, pearlescent flesh, about the size of a human torso, resting on the pod’s cushioned floor. The flesh quivered with a slow, rhythmic pulse, like a living heart laid bare. It was utterly featureless—no head, no limbs, no face—save for the one, perfect detail at its apex: the nexus. It was a dark, deep-purple pucker of tissue, a tightly closed starburst of flesh that looked impossibly pristine, glistening with a faint, clear lubrication that it produced naturally.

He heard the soft click of Aris’s hard-soled shoes on the polished floor, the sound resonating through his entire mass. Then, another sound, a sharp snap of latex that sent a pre-emptive shiver through him. Aris knelt beside the pod, his face a mask of intense, proprietary focus. He was a god appraising his new creation.

"Remarkable," Aris breathed, his voice a low vibration that Morgan felt in his very core. "The tissue regeneration is flawless. The nexus is perfectly formed."

Then came the touch.

The tip of Aris’s gloved finger, cool and slick with latex, pressed against the hyper-sensitive rim of the orifice.

Morgan’s consciousness detonated.

It wasn't pleasure. It was a supernova of pure, unadulterated sensation that bypassed every filter of his former humanity. A jolt of white-hot lightning shot from the nexus through every newly-formed cell of his body. His entire amorphous form seized, convulsing in a silent, ecstatic spasm. If he’d had lungs, he would have screamed. Instead, the pleasure was a deafening roar inside his mind, an overwhelming wave of data that his new brain immediately categorized as correct, necessary, vital.

Aris’s finger pressed harder, indenting the tight, virginal ring of muscle. The sphincter, designed for this very moment, yielded with a wet little sigh. The latex-sheathed digit slid inside. Morgan’s world dissolved into the feeling of being filled for the first time. The channel was slick, impossibly hot, and lined with a velvety texture that seemed to cling to the invading finger. The walls of the nexus pulsed instinctively, a desperate, greedy little squeeze around the foreign object.

"Ah," Aris murmured, a sound of profound scientific satisfaction. "The neuromuscular response is immediate. Excellent."

He pushed his finger deeper, then deeper still, exploring the seemingly endless canal he had designed. Then, with slow, deliberate cruelty, he hooked his finger and pulled gently against the inner wall. The specific, targeted pressure sent another, even more potent, shockwave of pleasure through Morgan. He felt his own slick lubrication gush from the opening, coating Aris’s finger, his hand. Aris added a second finger, forcing the pristine opening to stretch, to widen. The slight tearing sensation was not pain; it was just a prelude, a sharpening of the pleasure that followed as the two digits began to move inside him, a clinical, rhythmic fucking that was rewriting Morgan's entire definition of existence. This was his purpose. This was his genesis. He was made for this, and this was only the beginning.

The transition from the genesis pod to the re-education suite was a blur of sensation for Morgan. He felt himself being lifted, his amorphous mass cradled in something strong and supportive, then placed onto a surface that was cool and firm. The private room was a study in minimalist sterility. White walls, a single stainless-steel tray of instruments, and the examination plinth upon which he now rested. His entire perception was still centered on the lingering throb deep within his core where Aris’s fingers had been. The nexus, his nexus, felt achingly empty now, a void that screamed for stimulus.

Aris’s voice cut through his daze, calm and authoritative. "The initial neuromuscular response was exceptional, but it was chaotic. Unrefined. Now, we begin to build a language. Your first lesson in a new vocabulary of sensation."

Morgan perceived him moving to the steel tray. The soft clinking of polished metal on metal sent a fresh wave of anticipatory electricity through his form. Aris returned, and Morgan’s unique, multi-angled perception saw what he held: a set of perfectly smooth, flawlessly polished steel dilators. They were arranged in ascending order of thickness, from one barely wider than Aris’s finger to another that looked thick as a man’s wrist. They gleamed under the stark lighting, promising a methodical, incremental violation.

"Pressure and volume," Aris stated, selecting the smallest of the set. "These are the first two words you will learn." He coated the slender, torpedo-shaped tool in a copious amount of clear, viscous lubricant. The sight of the gel being smoothed over the cold metal made the nexus pulse, weeping its own slickness in response.

Aris positioned the tip of the dilator against the puckered, deep-purple ring of flesh. The cold metal was a stark contrast to the memory of Aris’s warm, latex-covered fingers. It was impersonal, a pure instrument of conditioning. "Relax," Aris commanded, though Morgan had no conscious control to obey. His body, however, did. The sphincter, designed for this, softened its tight guard.

With a slow, steady pressure, Aris pushed the dilator in. The pristine opening yielded, stretching to accommodate the unyielding steel. Morgan’s consciousness flared with that same white-hot pleasure, but this time it was different. It was a clean, pure sensation of being filled, a deep, satisfying pressure that sank inch by inch into his virgin depths. The tool was longer than Aris’s fingers had been, sliding deeper and deeper until it seemed to touch the very core of his being. The walls of the nexus clenched around it, a greedy, spasmodic grip.

"Excellent," Aris noted, observing the slight quiver of Morgan's mass. "Your tissue is accepting the pressure. It learns." He left the first dilator embedded within him for a long minute, letting Morgan’s system acclimatize to the feeling of being occupied. The constant, stretching fullness was an agony of delight.

Then, Aris slowly withdrew the steel. The sensation of emptiness that followed was a physical pain, a desperate, hollow ache. Before the craving could become overwhelming, Aris had lubricated the next dilator in the set, noticeably thicker than the first. The process was repeated. The tip pressed against his hole, which was now slick and slightly loosened. The entry was easier this time, but the stretch was more profound. Morgan could feel the ring of muscle being forced wider, the slick inner walls being pushed apart by the increased circumference. The pleasure intensified, deeper and more resonant, a bass note of sensation that vibrated through his entire form. He was a musical instrument, and Aris was slowly, expertly tuning him.

The steel dilators became a familiar rhythm, a hypnotic progression of withdrawal and invasion. Each new size brought a sharper, more incandescent spike of pleasure, a more profound sense of being opened and claimed. Morgan’s body, this new and miraculous flesh, adapted with astonishing speed. The tight, virginal pucker of his nexus quickly learned to yield, to soften and melt around the cold steel. The smaller tools were soon rendered trivial, momentary sensations that barely registered before his hole was craving the next, thicker intrusion. Aris worked with an efficient, almost impatient pace, discarding one dilator for the next until only the final, thickest one remained on the tray, the one as wide as a strong man’s forearm.

"The basic vocabulary is established," Aris said, his voice a low hum of satisfaction as he withdrew the second-to-last dilator, leaving Morgan’s hole slick, glistening, and visibly loosened. "Your tissue has a remarkable plasticity. But simple pressure is a blunt instrument. To unlock the full spectrum of sensation your body is capable of, we must introduce more complex concepts. We must condition the nexus not just for width, but for deep, sustained volumetric displacement."

He turned from the tray of steel tools and moved to a different cabinet. The click of the latch sent a fresh jolt of anticipation through Morgan. Aris returned holding something else entirely. It was a long, tapered object made of a matte black, medical-grade silicone that seemed to absorb the light. The base was a wide, flat disk, but the shaft was a marvel of bio-engineered cruelty. It began with a smooth, pointed tip before swelling into a series of gradually widening ridges, culminating in a bulbous head that looked impossibly, obscenely thick. A thin tube extended from the base, connected to a small, handheld pump.

"This is a graduated contour trainer with an internal expansion bladder," Aris explained, his tone taking on the fervor of a lecturer unveiling his masterpiece. He lubricated the entire length of the monstrous object, his gloved fingers working the slick gel into every ridge and curve. "The static ridges will provide sustained, multi-point pressure along the entire length of the canal, remapping the nerve endings. The bladder, once inflated, will condition the tissue to accept extreme, uniform internal pressure. This is how we transcend simple stretching and begin to truly re-sculpt your reality."

Aris knelt, positioning the glistening black tip at Morgan’s waiting, weeping hole. The entrance was already wider than it had been an hour ago, a wet, purple-red invitation. But it was nowhere near wide enough for this.

"This will be your first true test," Aris murmured, more to himself than to Morgan. He pushed.

The smooth tip slid in easily, but the first ridge was a brutal, shocking reality check. A sensation that bordered on pain shot through Morgan, a fire that was instantly transmuted into the most intense pleasure yet. He could feel his sphincter being forced open to a new, agonizing diameter. The muscle screamed in protest, then yielded, flooding his consciousness with the ecstatic feeling of being conquered. Aris pushed onward, slow and relentless. Each successive ridge was a new wave of violation and bliss, stretching him wider, ironing out the slick inner walls of his fuck-hole, forcing his body to accommodate a size he couldn't have comprehended moments before. The sheer length of the thing was staggering; it filled him completely, a solid core of pressure from his straining entrance to the deepest recess of his internal cavity.

Finally, the entire ridged length was buried inside him, the wide, flat base flush against his outer flesh. Morgan’s entire form quivered, a continuous, low-grade orgasm thrumming through him. He was impaled, stuffed, utterly full.

Then, Aris picked up the pump. "And now," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with scientific zeal, "we introduce volume." He gave the bulb a single, soft squeeze.

A deep, blooming pressure began to build within him. It was unlike the focused stretching of the ridges; this was a total, volumetric invasion. Morgan felt his inner walls, already stretched taut over the silicone shaft, being forced outward in every direction at once. The sensation was a paradox—a tearing, burning agony that was simultaneously the most profound pleasure he had ever known. The pressure grew with each squeeze of the pump, a slow, torturous expansion that felt like it was going to split him in two. His amorphous form quivered violently on the plinth, the pleasure so intense it was indistinguishable from total system failure. The nexus, his purpose, was being remade, inflated like a balloon of raw nerve endings.

Aris watched, his expression a mask of intense concentration. He squeezed the pump again, and Morgan’s body arched, a silent scream of ecstasy echoing in his mind. But then Aris stopped. A flicker of dissatisfaction crossed his features. He released the pressure valve. The sudden deflation was a gut-wrenching void, leaving Morgan’s insides feeling scraped raw and cavernously empty as Aris expertly withdrew the massive trainer.

"The feedback is too crude," Aris declared, tossing the pump onto the steel tray with a clatter. He stripped off his gloves, disposing of them before pulling on a fresh pair with a sharp snap of latex. "The instruments provide data on tolerance and plasticity, but they lack nuance. I cannot feel the subtle striations of the muscle fibers, the precise yield point of the tissue. I require more direct, tactile feedback."

The professional justification did nothing to quell the sudden, electric charge in the air. The shift from cold instrument to living flesh was a momentous one. Aris lubricated his gloved hand, the same hand that had first touched him, coating the black latex in a thick, shimmering layer of gel. The intimacy of the impending act was a tangible force, a violation that felt far more personal than any tool.

"Present," Aris commanded. Morgan’s body obeyed instinctively, his newly trained orifice relaxing, parting its slick, purpled lips. It was a gaping, ruined thing now, glistening and ready.

Aris started with two fingers, the same two that had initiated him in the pod. But this was different. They slid into the well-lubricated channel with insulting ease. Morgan’s hole, already stretched to its limits by the trainer, barely registered their thickness. But he felt the warmth, the subtle pressure of knuckles, the way Aris intentionally flexed them, pressing into the sensitive walls.

"Better," Aris murmured, his voice low and guttural. He pushed a third finger in, then a fourth, spreading them wide once they were inside. The stretching was no longer a uniform pressure but a specific, targeted force. He was learning the shape of him, the feel of him, from the inside out. Morgan could feel the individual digits moving, stroking, and testing, sending fractured, chaotic signals of pleasure through his system.

"The sphincter has been conditioned beautifully," Aris observed, his voice thick with a strange pride. "But the deeper musculature needs… persuasion." He curled his fingers and slowly began to work his thumb alongside them, forcing them into a cone shape at Morgan’s entrance. The pressure was immense, a thick, brutal wedge of flesh and latex forcing the ring of muscle to a new, impossible diameter. Morgan’s hole stretched wide, the slick flesh groaning around the thickest part of Aris’s hand. The forbidden tension snapped. This was no longer clinical. This was possession.

With a final, determined shove, Aris pushed past the straining ring of muscle. Knuckles scraped, the broad back of his hand forced the opening to its absolute limit, and then he was in. His entire fist was swallowed by Morgan’s body. The sheer volume of him was staggering, a solid, living plug of flesh and bone buried to the wrist inside his core. Morgan’s consciousness dissolved into a whiteout of pure, overwhelming sensation. He was filled, stretched, owned. Aris’s fist was a solid, immovable presence deep inside him, a palpable brand marking him as his creation, his property. The doctor’s breath was hot and ragged above him, the professional mask finally cracking under the weight of his own transgressive masterpiece.