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Dr. Depravine’s throat is dry as he grips his pen hard enough for the ink to splatter his clipboard. He does not turn away from beyond the glass—the barrier that separates him with cameras and data—past his reflection to see *them*. His experiment, nothing before seen in his years of research. The model specimen to test his theories, take on even the strongest of concoctions pumped in their veins until they became exemplary. This horrid state of the art. *The epitome of perfection*.
Dark ink runs down his clipboard in sticky beads, smearing his scrambling notes and scratches reading as nothing but ‘***perfectperfectperfectperfectperfect*****’ in several fanatical rows. *Compose yourself*, is what he tells himself as he sets yet another ruined clipboard down. There, stands a metal door acting as a portal between him and nonhuman. His usual mask of feigned propriety and warmth returns, all to keep some semblance of professionalism at bay.
Blinding, white sterile lights lit up the blank room as he entered. The creak of the door swinging closed echoes in the hollow room along with the thud of his steps. And there they were, his perfection, lying on their bed. The sight of them defenseless and so unaware of what he is *really* here for, is… *enthralling*.
Truthfully, Dr. Depravine had certain… *frustrations*. His pale, pink eyes peer over his glasses, illuminating with a foreign desire he had never allowed to slip past their cracks before. Recently, he has had an abundance of cracks too deep to fill, and the seams holding his carefully constructed mask tore apart at rapid rates. How could he help it?
*Just look at them*—so naive and vulnerable. His gaze flickered down to that metal shock collar clasped around their neck, reminding him of the remote in the pocket of his lab coat lest they disobey, how helpless they are rendered under him. He can scarcely contain the excitement coursing through his veins, the adrenaline lighting his nerves and making his tendons itch to itch, *itch*, *****itch*****.
He itches to dig into that form, to feel sinew, and clasp the bloody, beating, pulp of their heart in his palms. He yearns to explore the mingling of malformations cut and glued back together in a tempting display of atrocities. Atrocities that make him salivate to bury himself in, to peel and study each and every layer that hides forbidden treasures—pleasures beyond the parameters of morality and what other scientists deem logical.
“Good evening,” he greets, “Have you been well?”
The way his cock already stirred in his pants was egregious. Dr. Depravine struggles to hold his composure as the overwhelming depravity to fuck himself against his subject spirals in his mind with images flashing flesh intertwined, him kissing, licking, sucking, *devouring* them until heady essence was savored. All of his vile fantasies.
*Subtlety, Doctor*. Because here they lay, to his debauched, perverted mercy.
“We will proceed with our usual agenda.” This was merely another session; that is what he needs for them to believe as he fills the barrel of his syringe with its transformative formula. He bites back the lewd curl of his lips, and he carefully brings his syringe to their arm. His gloved hands tremble in barely contained lust.
“Hold still.”
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