You sincerely try.

"Wait, what- don't!" You stumble to get the words out to her, even as she's tipping the cup back and drinking from it. Your words die in your throat, trapped there by the mixture of arousal and worry from watching her imbibe your cockmilk like it would save her beautiful life. You weren't even halfway across the tiny distance between you by the time she was gulping it down, so you slow your approach, mouth agape, as she finishes most of the cup's contents. She places it back on the table with barely a teaspoon left, the remainder that she perhaps wasn't satisfied enough by to wait for it to dribble down the cup's sides.

She looks at you with a dreamy-eyed, distant gaze... and a sultry, alien smile that you've never seen on her.

This lasts for all of five seconds before hers becomes a mask of horror. Her lips seal as she struggles to swallow something stuck at the back of her throat. "You..." You don't finish your sentence. But that was no "taste". She chugged it like a proud NYU graduate would chug just about anything. The microwave beeps. Your chimichangas are ready.

So is Devi's panic. She puts her hands flat against the coffee table and makes gagging noises. "Oh my God!" She's shaking visibly. "Why?! Why did I do that?!"

You panic with her. "I don't know!"

"I drank the specimen!"

"You did!"

"There was so much!"

"There was!"

"I was just near it, and I smelled it and... and I took another taste, because... and then..."

"You needed to taste the whole fucking thing?"

"No!"

"So why?"

She looks up at you with those terrified eyes and deep frown as she struggles with the truth. "I don't know!"

The microwave beeps again, a useful function for when the operator has forgotten that their cooked dish is ready. She swallows again, now with a shiver, but her composure slowly returns. "The psychedelic effects."

You blink. "What?"

"It must be the psychedelic effects... perhaps when I tasted it earlier, purely for scientific purposes, and nothing else." Again, she was oddly specific. "Perhaps it influences my judgment when it comes to your... specimens."

You look back to your microwave, wondering if you ought to let it keep complaining. "Psychedelic... like, are you seeing crazy shit?"

You resolve to get your second brunch out of the microwave while she talks. "No, but... it could be that I was hallucinating a particular urge or need to drink your semen. Or perhaps any semen? In either scenario it is completely out of the realm of possibility for my normal behavior, and so outside factors must be to blame," she half-heartedly concludes. "The only real unaccounted factor is the effects of the non-reproductive, quasi-hormonal chemicals that imperfectly register as being similar to the traditional structures and makeup of a methylated derivative of LSD... But if tasting just a bit a few minutes ago led to... this..." She glares at the mostly-empty specimen cup. She had multiplied her intake by nearly a magnitude.

She looks up from it, hoping to see something reassuring... but instead finds you halfway through the second chimichanga. The inside of your mouth hurts a bit with burns from the sauce, but you could barely feel them compared to the endless hole in your stomach. You nod to her, to assure her that you're listening. She recoils a bit as she asks, "Aren't you... full?" Are you, my spunk-filled friend? You don't dare ask that aloud, of course, and shake your head vigorously before taking another heaping bite. She exhales slowly, and begins fanning herself off more. "Maybe I... should go..."

"Wrrhryf?" Talking with your mouth full is rude, but you do it anyways.

"Because I'm... Because I'm compromised, Derek." She looks down at the sample cups with dejection. "I screwed up... and I should get this data to work tomorrow to let someone impartial handle this. I should also find a way to purge or detox before something... regrettable happens." She holds her stomach with obvious fear, and a wave of discomfort washes over you.