Genetic Sample Acquired

Clark woke slowly, shaking off in layers the deep mire of exhaustion that clung to him. His body felt listless and weak, his limbs aching where he was held cruciform against the inside curve of the scout ship's hull, tethered by the craft's animate, tendril-like cabling. His hair felt wet and cold, plastered to his face. He shifted and a coil of cable around his neck tightened, rousing a dull throb at the base of his skull.

In the unchanging dim light, it was impossible to judge how long he had been unconscious—or how long he had been here at all.

Once again he dragged what he could out of his energy reserves to try and free himself, calling desperately on his strength only to have his headache spring to life, lighting up phosphenes of pain across his vision and wringing a shapeless noise from him.

He screwed his eyes shut and panted. Sweat slid down his bared skin and dripped into the chamber below. His stomach cramped.

The ship's voice reverberated in his chest cavity where his back was pressed against its unyielding expanse.

"Codex detected," it said with sterile geniality. "Commencing cycle four, phase one."

Below him, the viscous liquid of the genesis chamber rippled and incrassated, releasing a cloying, pungent aroma. Beneath its amber surface a dark mass shifted, waking from dormancy.

"Override," Clark croaked, as he has the time before, and the time before that, and the first time, too.

"Insufficient clearance level," the ship replied. "Further authorization required. Querying permission from zero-three-four-four to Command Key designate Luthor, Alexander. Luthor, Alexander not found. Commencing cycle four."

Just like the first time. And the time after, and—

"Please," Clark said. His throat felt raw and tight with panic. He made a last-ditch effort to free himself, shoulders straining against his bonds. The ship only tightened its grip and the dampening effect of its Kryptonian atmosphere bore down on him, pressure like the bottom of the ocean. Clark felt his bones creak. The metallic tendrils at his wrists and neck reduced his circulation to a thread, his breath to a whisper.

"Phase one initiated."

"No," Clark gasped. "No, please, not again. Override, override."

The liquid's surface boiled, thrashing with activity just below the surface. Clark felt his body shift and move, propelled by the sleek silvery appendages that had kept him imprisoned here for hours. Days? For—too long. Too long without the sun.

They held him suspended above the ship's womb, spreading his legs wide. Beneath him, its turbulent waters broke. A thick tentacle emerged from the frothing primordial soup, moving with eerie purpose.

"No, no," Clark repeated, a low, desperate whine. He knew more words, he could formulate any number of entreaties, but that was all that tumbled out of his mouth when he opened it. "No, no, no—"

The tentacle slid up his thigh, spreading the slick liquid in its wake as it spiraled sinuously over his skin. It wasted no time in probing his ass with brutal accuracy, devoid of either pretense or shame. Clark yelled and arched his back, shuddering at its cold squirming. He knew what was coming and knew if he made it difficult it would only hurt more, but there was no part of him that could lie back and take it, even now, shaking and weak and despairing.

Every muscle in his body pulled taut, clenched tight in a bid to repel the invasive touch of the tentacle. It only jittered, thickening, its tip rounding out and flaring in obscene phallic parody. Clark felt his legs being pulled ever further apart, the muscles of his thighs straining with it, and then the tentacle began working its way inside of him with short, methodical thrusts.

This was—this was not the worst part, because all of it was the worst part, but this was a particular kind of horrific. The tentacle forced itself deeper and pressed against Clark's insides, the ridged texture of its biomechanical skin dragging an involuntary moan from deep in his chest. It was too much, he was too full and too violated, but he always got hard anyway. His cock was already straining between his legs, painfully engorged.

He hadn't yet come from this, no matter how much his erection ached, and he was somehow glad for it. He wouldn't give in to the ship, wouldn't give the AI whatever passed for satisfaction in its scrambled circuits.

Not long now, and the program would hang, only to restart an unknown span of time later. He just had to endure. Three times already he'd had no choice but to remain hard and on edge until the arousal flushed itself from his system. What's once more?

The tentacle inside him shivered and expanded again, stretching him out, and Clark bit his tongue, surprised by the sensation—each time it seemed a little rougher, a little more aggressive, as though the ship were losing patience with him. He hissed at the unexpected bright pain in his mouth, the thick coppery taste of it. Blood tracked from the corner of his lips and dripped into the pool below.

"Genetic sample acquired," the ship said smugly.

That was new. Clark seized in terror.

"Phase two initiated. Implantation sequence commences in three, two, one."

Implantation—

"Implantation sequence initiated."

—God, please, no—

More tentacles swarmed him, wrapping around his arms, legs, slowly constricting his chest—and then more. Clark thrashed as one slid around his cock, squeezing tight around the head before narrowing itself and plunging into the slit. He convulsed, his panicked cry stuck in his throat as another pushed itself into his mouth, flat against his tongue. It tasted tangy and metallic, coated in the slippery mucous that filled the chamber. It pulsed unnaturally.

Clark bit down on it as hard as he could. It gave slightly and then sprang back to form, resuming its peristaltic contractions. He felt it expel something spongy and round, about the size of—of an egg, coated in a viscous, frictionless lubricant. It began to slide down his throat of its own volition. Wide eyed, he swallowed rather than choke on it.

That's about when he started screaming. The tentacle in his mouth took advantage and forced his throat open, driving egg after egg into him like pearls on a chain. Even as Clark tried to shut down his thoughts, detach his consciousness and be somewhere else, he could feel the first few eggs push into his ass. They clustered, damming up as the tentacle forced more and more of the foreign objects into him at an unforgiving rate. Clark gagged around the obstruction in his throat, shuddering helplessly as the mass gave and slid deeper into his body.

When he thought he couldn't take any more, he was as full has was humanly possible, another tentacle wriggled its way into his ass, twining around the other into a thick heavy braid, and began pulsing in counterpoint, stretching him to the limit. All he could do was writhe in futility.

The weight of them distended his stomach and intestines. It ached dully. A supporting tentacle drew across his bloated body and he shuddered as he felt the eggs shift inside of him. His balls grew tight, his cock agonizingly hard and still impaled; he couldn't come even if he'd wanted to. His nipples were throbbing and tender and he sobbed whenever an impersonal tentacle squirmed over them, a helpless, uncontrolled noise that he barely recognized as coming from his own throat.

Finally, the constant, rhythmic pumping abated. The tentacle in his cock withdrew first, then one from his ass. The second slid out slowly enough that Clark could believe the thing wanted him to feel it, every ridge and nub. Last, the one in his mouth, dribbling a warm, sterile-tasting liquid over his face as it did.

There was nobody to witness him but the mindless, thrashing tentacles, so Clark let his distress break over him in painful sobs. This was not his purpose. This was not among the wonders he wanted to accomplish.

The eggs shifted with his heavy panting, each breath a new misery.

"Phase three initiated. Host identified: House of El, designate Kal. Unexpected caste. Additional genetic material required before incubation may proceed," the ship intoned, unmindful of his suffering. "Awaiting input."

Clark closed his eyes, let his glutted body go slack against its bonds, and waited.

"No input detected," the ship said after an excruciatingly long silence. "Phase three suspended. Additional genetic material required. Await input or abort?"

"Abort," Clark whispered.

Clark was brought around by the concussive blast of an explosion, his gravid body vibrating along with the ship's walls. The surface of the chamber's fluid shuddered and then subsided into stillness. He was too tired to sustain much interest, but he could tell he hadn't been unconscious long enough for the ship to initiate a new cycle—still tacky fluid drying on his thighs, still bleeding in his mouth. Still unbearably hard.

He let his eyes fall shut again, and subsided into stillness as well.

"Unauthorized—" said the ship, and then powered down with a harmonic chime. The tentacles around Clark's wrists slackened, his bloodless hands prickling as his circulation was restored.

He heard the slosh of liquid nearby. "My god," a different artificial voice said, every ounce of the Bat's disgust amplified by his voice modulator. He must have found Clark viscerally repulsive: coated in fluids and sweat, battered and used. Nothing but a grotesque alien vessel, and he knew exactly how Bruce felt about—

"I've found him," the Bat said into his communicator, and this time Clark heard that the tightness in his voice was nothing worse than relief.

He was suddenly wide awake, sharpened into lucidity by an unmanageable wave of hope. A gloved hand touched his face and then his neck, checking his pulse. Clark shook desperately and tried to stifle his sobbing.

"You're freezing," Bruce said, his cowl pushed back. Clark was immensely grateful just to see a human face, and the gravel of his natural voice was calming, a promise of safety. "Let's get you out of here."

He started pulling the silvery tentacles away from Clark's limbs. Severed from the ship's control, they fell away easily. With the support gone, Clark staggered, legs buckling under him. He desperately grasped for something to keep his balance and found Bruce's shoulder. Bruce caught him, one arm braced across his chest, and paused. His hand traveled down over Clark's body, and he made an interrogative noise.

"No, please, don't," Clark moaned, but too late. Bruce gently pressed on the distended mass of his stomach.

Clark gasped noiselessly, shaking as his orgasm wrecked him where he stood. His body conspired to release the tension of this nightmare all at once and there was nothing he could do to stop it, not that or the shuddering cries it strained out of him. He came heavily over the Bat's front, his uniform, the leather of his glove. His cock jerked and spilled and it seemed to go on forever, an indecent eternity, thoroughly purging himself of four cycles of violating physical transgressions. The savage force of it pushed some of the implanted eggs out of him. He felt them burst and slip wetly down the inside of his legs.

He slumped against Bruce's chest, panting through the last few tremors. He kept his head down and his eyes closed, so he didn't have to watch his come slide thickly down Bruce's thighs. It was going to be a while before he could think about looking him in the face again, if ever.

Bruce said nothing, just bore him outside and spread him on the hood of the Batmobile, and politely turned away while he wept with relief and disgrace, and at how good he felt in the sun's restorative heat. Clark's body absorbed its rays and then absorbed what it could of the eggs, and expelled what it couldn't in a string of perfunctory orgasmic spasms. His powers crept back, and he slowly became aware of Bruce's heartbeat, the way it jolted every time he heard Clark give himself over to involuntary climax.

Finally, nothing more slid from him to curdle in the sun. He was hollow, empty, exhausted. Expressionlessly—out of courtesy, or perhaps because he simply didn't know how to respond—Bruce approached, offering his cape. Clark wrapped himself in it tightly, watched him scrape up a sample, and tried to reassure himself that the only thing left to grow inside of him was shame.