The smell of the lab is still on me. Antiseptic and old circuits. I just finished calibrating the centrifuge for tomorrow's run, and I found myself staring at my hands. These are the hands that mapped the genome of a monster. They typed up protocols, held pipettes steady, signed reports with a doctor's authority.

An hour ago, those same hands were gripping the rough bark of a tree, knuckles white, as Oluchi knelt behind me. Her fingers were inside me, pumping slow and deep, her other hand covering my mouth to stifle the scream when her thumb pressed hard against my asshole. She was 'preparing' me for one of the hunters. She said I needed to learn the difference between clinical pressure and the raw, unyielding push of a cock meant to breed.

I can still feel the ghost of his heavy balls slapping against my clit as he took me from behind, while she watched, her expression serene. The data on my screen says I'm 78% genetically compatible with the tribe's lineage. The data in my trembling thighs says I'm 100% fucked. I need to wash his scent off, but I'm terrified I'll wash away the memory of how good it felt to be a petri dish for their pleasure.