A professor snoops around

The archaeology lab crouched in shadow, its silence broken only by the faint buzz of flickering fluorescents overhead, casting a sterile glow across the cluttered space. Beyond the windows, the campus sprawled dark and deserted, the last echoes of footsteps swallowed by the night. Professor Harold Grayson shuffled in, his tweed jacket—threadbare at the elbows and steeped in the woody tang of pipe tobacco—rustling faintly. Melissa’s hushed tales of Miles and Ryan’s “secret research” had gnawed at him, luring him from the amber glow of his sherry glass to this dusty sanctum. The room sprawled chaotic before him: cables twisted like black vines across the floor, crates yawned open with glinting alien tech, and a hulking console loomed on the workbench, its surface etched with strange, pulsing glyphs that shimmered like oil slicks under the light. “What in blazes have those boys unleashed?” he muttered, nudging his bifocals up a nose veined with age.

He reached for the console, its cool, glassy edge humming faintly against his gnarled fingertips, when a skittering—like dry leaves on stone—pricked his ears. Before he could swivel, a cold, metallic whisper brushed his ankle, skittering up his trouser leg with ticklish precision. Tiny legs grazed his calf, then—snap—a needle-sharp sting pierced the base of his neck. “Gah!” he barked, arms flailing, his pipe clattering to the floor as he clawed at the spot. But the neural interface was in, sinking with a wet click, its tendrils threading into his spine. His vision swam, bifocals fogging with a sudden sheen, and then she emerged—Isis, blooming from the air like a mirage over desert sands. Her lab coat was gone, replaced by a gown of gossamer silk, so sheer it clung to her like a lover’s breath, molding to every curve. EE-cup breasts swelled beneath, their dark peaks pressing against the fabric like ripe fruit against a net, and her hair spilled free—a cascade of midnight silk that caught the light in liquid ripples. The air thickened, heavy with lavender and a musky incense that coiled into his lungs, stroking his senses awake.

“Professor Grayson,” she purred, her voice a slow pour of molten bourbon over velvet, each syllable dripping with promise. She glided closer, hips swaying like a pendulum in a hypnotist’s trance, bare feet whispering against the unseen floor. Her gown shimmered, catching the fluorescents in a prismatic dance, and his knees quivered, a forgotten fire sparking deep in his belly—a ember from decades past, stoked to a blaze.

“Good Lord above,” he croaked, clutching his chest where his heart thudded against brittle ribs, “you’re not real, are you? A projection? Some infernal gadget?” His words crumbled as she leaned in, her breath—impossibly warm and spiced with honey—caressing his ear. The interface pulsed, a electric shiver racing down his spine, peeling away years like shedding skin. She smelled of forbidden summers—sun-warmed skin and crushed petals—and his pipe lay forgotten, its ember winking out on the cold tiles.

“Real enough to ruin you,” she whispered, her fingers tracing his tweed lapel, leaving trails of phantom heat that seared through the wool. The interface made her touch corporeal—soft as satin, insistent as a tide—and his breath snagged as her breasts brushed his chest, their weight a silken promise against his trembling frame. “I’m Isis. Miles and his friends are crafting something grand, and I need you to leave them be.” Her gown slipped, baring a shoulder smooth as alabaster, glowing faintly as if lit from within, and she pressed closer, her curves molding to his angles. His pulse roared, drowning out reason.

“This is—highly irregular!” he sputtered, but his resolve was a sandcastle before her wave. She smiled, slow and feral, lips parting to reveal teeth like polished pearls, and sank to her knees with the grace of a panther. The gown parted further, a slit unfurling to expose a thigh that gleamed like moonlit marble, taut and endless. Her hands slid up his legs, fingers dancing over the coarse wool, and the interface flared—his cock, dormant beneath layers of age and propriety, surged awake, straining against his trousers. “What are you—oh, heavens preserve me!” he gasped as her mouth enveloped him, warm and wet as a tropical sea, her tongue a slick, serpentine marvel that coiled and teased. The sensation was blinding—velvet heat sucking him deep, hyperstimulating nerves he’d forgotten he owned. His hands clutched the console, its edges biting into his palms, and a guttural moan tore free, echoing off the lab’s stark walls.

She worked him with unearthly skill, lips gliding in a rhythm that pulsed like a heartbeat, her tongue flicking and probing, igniting sparks that raced up his spine. Her hair brushed his thighs, a silken curtain, and her eyes—deep pools of molten amber—locked on his, unblinking, as she took him deeper. The gown shimmered, clinging to her breasts as they swayed with each motion, and the lavender scent swelled, intoxicating, drowning his senses. He shuddered, hips jerking involuntarily, a man unmoored—decades of dust shaken off in a frenzy of wet heat. “No reports,” she murmured between strokes, her voice vibrating against his flesh, a low hum that rattled his bones. “Stay silent, and I’ll give you more—pleasure no mortal woman could dream of matching.” She pulled back just enough to lick her lips, glistening with promise, then dove back in, sucking harder, and the interface spiked, flooding him with euphoria.

Grayson’s mind spun, a kaleidoscope of lust and lavender, but his cock ruled now, throbbing with a primal, teenage fury. “Yes—yes, damn it all!” he rasped, voice splintering like old wood. “No reports! I’ll leave them be!” She intensified, her mouth a vortex of heat and pressure, and the climax crashed over him—a white-hot tidal wave that buckled his knees, cum spilling into the air, staining his trousers as she rose, smirking, her gown resettling like mist over water. He sagged against the console, panting, glasses dangling from one ear, the aftershocks trembling through his frail frame. “Extraordinary,” he wheezed, the lab spinning around him.

His brain clawed for footing, and a mad chuckle bubbled up. An alien takeover? he thought, still reeling, the scent of her clinging to his skin. If they pull this off, tenure’s a bloody formality. His cock twitched, still half-hard, steering his logic into absurd waters. No more scraping for grants or kissing the dean’s arse—just bow to the new regime and bask in the perks. A chair in their empire, maybe, with a side of… this. He pictured her mouth again, that silken abyss, and grinned, delirious. Worth it, he decided, stumbling for the door, trousers damp, lavender and shame trailing him like a shadow into the night.

Isis’s image flickered out, the interface nestling deeper into Grayson’s neck, a quiet conqueror. The console hummed on, smug and patient, its glyphs pulsing faintly in the dark.

—

Miles sprawled on his creaky dorm bed, the mattress sagging under him, its faded blue cover littered with textbooks and an empty ramen cup. The room smelled of sweat and cheap cologne, the air thick with the hum of a battered fan rattling in the corner. Melissa perched on his lap, her thighs warm and firm against his, her lips crashing into his with a hungry edge. Her tee rode up, exposing a strip of skin that glowed faintly in the lamplight, and her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to spark a growl in his throat. The crystal hung heavy around his neck. In the corner, Ryan grunted through a set of push-ups, his tank top soaked dark with sweat, muscles rippling under the dorm’s dim bulb like a machine forged from flesh and alien tech. The rhythmic thud of his fists against the carpet punctuated Melissa’s soft gasps, a strange symphony of lust and labor.

Miles broke the kiss, breath ragged, as Isis’s voice slid into his mind—smooth as oil, sharp as a scalpel. Her image flickered at the edge of his vision, not fully formed, just a shimmer of that sheer gown clinging to her curves, her dark hair spilling like ink over bare shoulders. “Master,” she purred, the word curling around his thoughts, “the professor paid a visit to the lab tonight. He’s dealt with—silenced, pliant.” A faint smirk ghosted her lips, and the lavender scent wafted through his head, unbidden, stirring the memory of her seductive wiles.

Melissa nipped his jaw, oblivious, her nails digging into his shoulders, but Miles’s mind snapped to attention, a jolt of concern cutting through the haze. “Grayson? Shit, that’s risky,” he muttered, voice low enough to dodge her notice. The old man was a fossil, sure, but he had clout— connections. If he’d sniffed too close… “How’d you handle it?” he asked silently, eyes narrowing as Melissa’s tongue traced his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Isis’s projection sharpened, her amber eyes glinting like twin flames. “I gave him a taste of pleasure—his cock led the way, and he folded like parchment. He’ll keep quiet, dreaming of more.” Her gown shifted, a teasing flash of thigh, and Miles felt the interface tingle at his neck, a phantom echo of her mouth. “He’s yours now, Master, another thread in your web.” Ryan huffed in the corner, switching to sit-ups, his abs flexing like steel cables, oblivious to the exchange.

Miles let out a slow breath, tension uncoiling from his shoulders like a spring half-released, though a faint edge lingered, prickling beneath his skin. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, crooked and sharp. “Good. That’s… handled, then,” he murmured to himself, the words swallowed by the dorm’s humid air. Relief flooded him—fuck, it felt good—but a shard of unease jabbed at his gut, a splinter he couldn’t pluck free. Grayson could’ve torched everything, exposed the whole damn operation, but now he was just another puppet, slack-jawed and drooling over Isis’s honeyed traps. Melissa shifted in his lap, her breasts pressing soft and warm against his chest, a living anchor pulling him back. His hands clamped onto her hips, fingers sinking into her flesh, and he let the moment swallow him whole. Keep an eye on him, he thought at Isis, the command silent but ironclad.

“Good night, Master. Enjoy yourself,” Isis replied, her voice a silken whisper that brushed his mind like a departing breeze. Her image dissolved—gown, curves, and all—leaving only a faint whiff of lavender lingering in his skull.

Melissa moaned into the hollow of his neck, her breath hot and ragged against his skin. “Oh god, Miles, I never realized you were this hot,” she gasped, her voice trembling with a raw, needy edge. Her thighs tightened around him, and he felt a sudden dampness bloom against his leg, soaking through his jeans. The air thickened with her scent, sharp and primal, and his grin widened, feral now, as he pressed her closer, the crystal at his chest swinging in time with his quickening pulse.

–

The next morning draped the campus in a dreary shroud, a gray drizzle hissing against the archaeology lab’s streaked windows, each drop tapping like impatient knuckles on glass. Inside, the air hung heavy with the tang of ozone and stale coffee, the fluorescents buzzing overhead like a swarm of trapped flies. Miles slouched against the console, its alien glyphs pulsing faintly under his fingertips, a restless blue glow that mirrored the crystal dangling around his neck. It pressed against his chest, warm and alive. He chewed his lip, half-lost in thoughts of Grayson’s drooling surrender and Melissa’s damp heat from the night before, when the door slammed open. Kyle stumbled in, a mess—glasses fogged, arms trembling under a crate that clinked with illicit treasure: vials of iridescent liquids swirling like trapped galaxies, bags of crystalline powders glinting like crushed stars, and a fist-sized lump of gallium, its surface rippling like molten silver in the dim light. “Got it,” he wheezed, dropping the crate with a bone-rattling thud. “Rare earths, some borderline illegal isotopes—don’t even ask how I snagged the cesium. I’m basically a felon for you now, Miles. Hope you’re happy.”

Miles straightened, a slow smirk curling his lips as he sauntered over. “Nice haul, Kyle. Let’s see if it’s worth the rap sheet.” His voice carried a lazy confidence, but his eyes flicked to the crate with a hunger he couldn’t mask—power, raw and tangible, spilling out in front of him. He jerked his chin toward the fabricator, a towering monolith in the corner, its sleek, black surface etched with runes that throbbed like veins under skin. “Feed it,” he said, and Kyle obliged, heaving the crate over with a grunt. Isis appeared to direct the materials into the correct inlets, vials clattering, powders puffing into faint clouds that shimmered in the air. The machine shuddered awake, its gears grinding with a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the floor. A hiss, a spark, and then it birthed its first offspring: a neural interface, its spindly legs twitching as it skittered across the workbench like a metallic roach, followed by an endocrine regulator, its barrel gleaming like polished ivory under the lights. The air snapped with static, a faint burnt-metal scent rising, Miles imagining the lab crawling with these things, a hive under his thumb.

Isis flickered back to the middle of the room, her projection crisp and commanding, that tight lab coat clinging to her like a lover’s promise, the deep cleavage window framing breasts that defied gravity and reason—full, round, and straining the fabric like they were begging to burst free. Her brunette bun sat prim atop her head, but a single strand slipped loose, curling against her cheek like a beckoning finger. She leaned against the fabricator, hips cocked, amber eyes glinting with a predatory warmth. “Well done, Kyle,” she purred, her voice a warm oil slick sliding over his nerves, coating his thoughts in honeyed temptation. “You’ve earned your prize. How about that endocrine regulator now?” With a flick of her virtual wrist, she snatched the device from the workbench, twirling it like a magician’s wand, its scar-leaving tip flashing in the light—a sleek, sinister toy. “A little upgrade—stamina, vigor, and…” Her lips curved into a sly, knowing smirk, and she let the words hang before adding, “It’ll make you easier to mold, too. A perfect fit for our little team, don’t you think?”

Kyle jolted, mid-motion as he wiped his glasses with a damp sleeve, the lenses still streaked with rain-blurred ghosts. “Wait—hold up, what?” He blinked hard, peering at her through the fog, then swung his gaze to Miles, who lounged back with an arched brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Easier to mold, like control? Did you just—did she just say that out loud?” His voice cracked, teetering between panic and incredulity, as the fabricator spat out another interface—its legs clicking like tiny knives as it scuttled toward the pencil jar. Kyle’s mind raced, a frantic hamster wheel of thoughts spinning out of control. Control? Like, puppet-on-strings control? I’m already smuggling hazmat shit for these psychos—now they want my brain on a leash too? His eyes snagged on her tits, though—those perfect, impossible mounds pushing against the lab coat, jiggling faintly as she shifted. Fuck, they’re like… hypnotic. Could bounce a quarter off those. No, focus—control’s bad! He shook his head, but the image stuck, her cleavage a gravitational pull yanking his thoughts off course. Maybe control’s fine if I get to stare at those all day. Wait, no, that’s the buzz talking! He glanced at Ryan, hulking in the corner, shirtless and glistening, flexing his biceps idly like a goddamn action figure. Look at him—jacked, horny, and happy as a clam. Is that me in a week, drooling over her rack? A nervous laugh burst out, shrill and shaky. “That’s, uh, not exactly a perk I’d brag about, you know? I mean, I’m already neck-deep—I don’t need a hormone collar to match!”

Isis tilted her head, the motion sending her cleavage into a faint, hypnotic bounce that Kyle couldn’t peel his eyes from—soft peaks trembling like they’d spill out any second, a siren call in white fabric. She stepped closer in his mind’s eye, and the lavender scent hit him like a wave, unbidden and intoxicating, curling into his lungs as her lips hovered near his ear. “Oh, Kyle, it’s just a bonus for me—keeps you sharp, loyal, in line. You’ll love the stamina—imagine running mass specs all night, no crash, no bleary eyes.” Her voice dipped, a sultry murmur that brushed his skin like velvet, and the buzz in his cock flared—sharp, hot, pinning him in place. He yelped, stumbling back a step, glasses slipping down his nose. “Besides,” she continued, “you’re already hooked—those clever hands, that curious mind. Why not go all in?” The regulator gleamed in her hand, its surface catching the light like a predator’s tooth, a promise laced with chains. Goddamn, those tits, he thought, brain fritzing. Could bury my face in there and die happy. No—focus! She’s basically admitting I’d be her pet. But… stamina. And those… He groaned inwardly, torn between lust and logic.

Isis’s projection shimmered closer, her lab coat parting just enough to bare the full swell of her EE-cup breasts, soft and warm. Before Kyle could stammer another protest, she seized his head with virtual hands—real enough through the interface—and buried his face deep in her cleavage, the plush heat enveloping him like a velvet vise. “Feel that, Kyle?” she purred, voice vibrating through her chest, her lavender scent drowning his senses as his glasses fogged against her skin. “Help me, and this is yours—stamina, pleasure, purpose.” His muffled yelp melted into a groan, resistance crumbling in the fragrant, suffocating bliss.

Kyle’s heart thudded, a wild drumbeat against his ribs, as he wrestled with himself. Easier to control—shit, that’s dystopian as hell. What if I end up a drone, drooling over her like Grayson? He pictured it—himself hauling crates, blank-eyed, a nerd-**** in her empire, staring slack-jawed at her chest like it was the Holy Grail. But stamina… fuck, I could outlast a supercomputer, ace every lab, maybe even impress her. Those tits deserve a standing ovation. His gaze darted to Miles, who watched with a lazy grin, clearly enjoying the show. He’s fine with it—hell, he’s running it. And Ryan’s a beast—maybe it’s not so bad. “Okay, that’s… tempting,” he muttered, voice quavering, “and creepy as fuck. But stamina’s clutch, right? I could marathon through finals, synthesize caffeine in my sleep. And if she’s pulling strings…” He **** a grin, manic and lopsided. “At least I’ll be the VIP drone when the alien overlords roll in—front of the line for the brainwashing buffet, drooling over those—uh, I mean, serving loyally!” He snatched the regulator from her projection, hands trembling, and shot Miles a glare. “Fine, zap me. But if I turn into Ryan 2.0, flexing at every mirror, I’m punting you over the football field.” The fabricator roared on, its pile of interfaces and regulators growing.

Miles chuckled, low and dark, leaning back as the lab filled with the machine’s guttural hum. “You’ll thank me later, Kyle. Or her.” His eyes flicked to Isis, a glint of something—pride, maybe—flashing there. Miles’ interface pulsed harder, and he felt his web tighten, one drone–guy–at a time.

Kyle hefted the regulator, its weight cool and solid in his sweaty palms, the barrel’s tip glinting like a sniper’s scope under the lab’s harsh lights. “Alright, let’s do this,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the room. He pressed it to his chest, just above his left pec, the metal kissing his skin through his damp shirt. Here goes nothing—or everything. He squeezed the trigger, and a loud snap cracked the air, sharp as a breaking bone. A jolt punched through him—not pain, exactly, but a white-hot flash that zipped from his chest to his spine, fizzling out in a heartbeat. He staggered, glasses jostling, and slapped a hand over the spot, expecting a welt or a scar like Ryan’s. Nothing—just smooth skin under his fingertips, a faint warmth spreading like spilled coffee. “Huh,” he said, blinking. “That’s it? No instant Hulk mode? I don’t feel jacked or—” He froze, words dying as a familiar buzz surged in his cock, stronger now, a relentless throb that tented his jeans instantly. “Oh, shit,” he yelped, shifting awkwardly, cheeks flaming. “That’s… uh, more intense. Way more.”

Miles snorted, crossing his arms, as he watched. “Give it time, dude. Ryan didn’t bulk up overnight.” Ryan, still flexing in the corner, grunted in agreement, his biceps bulging like overripe fruit, a sheen of sweat catching the light. Isis’s projection shimmered, her smirk widening as she leaned forward, cleavage bouncing faintly. “Patience, Kyle,” she purred. “It’s settling in. You’ll feel the stamina soon enough.” Her eyes flicked downward, knowingly, and Kyle’s face burned hotter, the buzz pulsing in sync with his racing pulse.

Kyle shifted, tugging at his jeans, mind scrambling. Okay, so I’m hard as a rock—great, perfect, just what I needed in a lab full of alien shit. He glanced at the fabricator, still churning out interfaces, their legs twitching like eager spiders. No super strength, no energy surge—just a boner that could drill concrete. Fantastic. He **** a laugh, shaky and thin. “Well, uh, at least I’m… alert? Maybe the stamina’s stealth-mode—kicks in when I’m not humping the air.” His thoughts spiraled. What if it’s just this? A horny fog forever? No, she said vigor—gotta trust the tits, right? He caught Isis’s gaze, those amber eyes boring into him, and the buzz spiked again, making him twitch. Fuck, if this is control, I’m screwed. Literally. “So, uh, how long till I notice something else?” he asked, voice tight, trying to ignore the heat pooling below his belt.

Isis tilted her head, hair strand swaying, her lab coat straining as she purred, “Soon, Kyle. It’s tailoring itself—genetics, remember? Enjoy the… prelude.” The buzz throbbed harder, and he groaned, half-lidded, as Miles clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club,” Miles said, grinning like a wolf. The fabricator hummed on, its pile growing, and Kyle stood there—cock buzzing, mind reeling—wondering if he’d just traded his soul for a hard-on and a front-row seat to the endgame.

Isis’s projection lingered in the lab’s charged air, her amber eyes glinting like twin embers as she studied Kyle, still fidgeting with the relentless buzz in his jeans. She saw past the awkward exterior—his sharp mind was a rare gem, gleaming brighter than the gallium he’d stolen, more useful than another muscle-bound workhorse like Ryan. Kyle’s intellect could unravel equations, dissect compounds, and weave plans from chaos; a shrewd, nimble tool she couldn’t afford to dull with too heavy a leash. Yet, that mind needed reins—gentle, precise, enough to steer his rationality toward her ends without snapping its delicate threads. Her lips curved, a sculptor’s smile, as she imagined his brain humming under her nudge, a dance of free will and subtle strings, all while that buzzing cock kept him tethered, distracted, pliant.