Dr. Alistair Bond stood in the glass-walled laboratory on the top floor of the private research wing at the Brisbane Fertility Institute, looking out over the winding Brisbane River and the city skyline. The Queensland sun was brutal even through the tinted glass. On the examination table behind him lay his latest subject, a pale, nervous accountant named Trevor who had come in complaining of low volume and “performance anxiety.” Trevor’s cock was soft and unimpressive—maybe three inches at best, the kind of tiny cock that made Natasha, Dr. Bond’s wife and chief research assistant, raise one perfectly arched eyebrow in quiet disdain.
Natasha wore a structured black bustier under her open lab coat, the cups pushing her full breasts high. The bustier was new; she had insisted on a private bra fitting the day before at a discreet lingerie boutique in the Valley. The fitter, a coolly professional woman named Isolde, had measured Natasha while Dr. Bond watched from a chair in the corner, already hard. Isolde’s hands had been clinical and thorough, adjusting the underwire, testing the lift, sliding a finger along the edge of the cup to check for gaping. Natasha had submitted to every adjustment without protest, eyes locked on her husband’s. That night she had worn the bustier to bed and given him a slow, deliberate handjob while describing how Isolde’s fingers had felt.
Now Natasha stood beside the exam table, latex gloves snapping into place. “Patient is ready, Doctor.”
Dr. Bond turned. “Administer the first dose of EJAX-472. Exjax variant, batch seven. Record everything.”
Natasha filled the syringe with the clear fluid that had already made three previous subjects ejaculate until they passed out. She cleaned a spot on Trevor’s inner thigh, high up, close to the base of that tiny cock, and injected. Trevor hissed. Within ninety seconds his cock twitched, thickened, and began to swell past anything it had ever managed before. Veins rose. The head darkened. By the two-minute mark it stood at a thick seven inches and still growing, the skin stretched tight and shiny.
“Observe,” Dr. Bond said, voice calm for the cameras mounted in every corner. “Primary response: rapid engorgement. Secondary: increased testicular volume. Tertiary: loss of voluntary control over the ejaculatory reflex.”
Natasha’s gloved hand wrapped around the now-impressive shaft and gave three slow strokes. Trevor’s hips jerked. A thick rope of semen shot out, arcing high and landing across his own stomach. Then another. Then another. The contractions kept coming—long, powerful pulses that emptied his balls in a continuous series of spurts. Natasha kept stroking, clinical and steady, while the volume became absurd. Cum pooled on Trevor’s belly, ran down his sides, dripped onto the paper sheet. He moaned, eyes wide, unable to stop.
“Seventeen distinct jets so far,” Natasha noted, still working him. “Patient is still hard. Continuing stimulation.”
Trevor came again, harder, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Natasha finally released him when the spurts weakened to a thick dribble. She wiped her gloves on a towel, then casually adjusted the lace edge of her bustier where it had ridden up. Trevor stared at the cleavage and came one last weak time without being touched.
Dr. Bond smiled. “Excellent baseline. Prep him for the public demonstration this afternoon. Full CFNM protocol. Invite the donors’ wives and the volunteer observers.”
By three o’clock the observation suite had been converted into a makeshift theatre. Twenty-three women sat in chairs arranged in a semicircle. All were clothed—summer dresses, tailored blouses, one in a tight red bustier that made Natasha’s eyes linger. The men—six patients including Trevor—stood naked in the centre of the room on a raised platform. Their cocks ranged from the originally tiny to the newly enhanced. Every one of them was already half-hard from the residual effects of the morning’s dose.
Dr. Bond addressed the room. “Ladies, what you are about to witness is the controlled application of EJAX-472, also known in internal documentation as Exjax. The compound dramatically increases both the volume and the frequency of male orgasm while temporarily removing inhibitory control. The subjects will remain naked. You will remain clothed. Touch is permitted only by designated handlers.”
Natasha stepped forward in her lab coat and bustier, holding a tray of small ampoules. She moved down the line of naked men, injecting each in the thigh. Within two minutes the platform was a forest of thick, bobbing cocks. Trevor’s was now a solid eight inches and leaking steadily.
A tall, elegant woman named Seraphina—wife of one of the donors—raised a manicured hand. “May I?”
Dr. Bond nodded. Seraphina rose, walked to her husband, and wrapped her cool fingers around his shaft. She began a slow, expert handjob while the other women watched. Within thirty seconds he erupted, thick ropes shooting past her wrist and landing on the polished floor. She did not stop. The contractions continued—ten, twelve, fifteen—until his legs shook and cum ran in rivulets down her forearm. Only then did she release him, examine the mess on her skin with mild interest, and return to her seat.
Natasha took the next man. Her handjob was firmer, more clinical. She stroked him to a massive first orgasm, then kept going through the refractory period that the drug had almost erased. He came a second time, then a third, the volume so high that the floor became slick. One of the observers, a quiet woman named Lysandra who worked in hospital administration, stood and approached without asking. She dropped to her knees in her pencil skirt and opened her mouth. Natasha directed the next jet straight onto Lysandra’s tongue. Lysandra swallowed, eyes watering, and stayed there for the next four pulses.
The room filled with the wet sounds of hands on cocks and the heavy breathing of men who could no longer stop. Dr. Bond walked among them, noting pulse rates and testicular swelling. “Observe the breeding potential,” he said to the cameras. “Sperm counts in previous trials exceeded three hundred million per millilitre after the third orgasm. The drug does not merely increase volume—it multiplies viable sperm production in real time.”
One of the smaller men—originally the tiniest cock in the group—was now a thick seven inches and still growing under the influence. His wife, a soft-spoken woman named Evangeline, approached with a large silicone dildo she had brought from home. She lubed it slowly while her husband watched, then pressed the tip against his hole. “Bend,” she said quietly. He did. She worked the dildo into him while Natasha stroked his cock from the front. The dual stimulation pushed him over immediately. He came in long, forceful spurts that painted Evangeline’s blouse. She kept the dildo moving, kept Natasha’s hand working, and he came again, then again, until his knees gave out and he collapsed onto the platform still spurting weakly.
Natasha looked at her husband. “Permission to escalate?”
Dr. Bond nodded.
Natasha removed her lab coat. The black bustier framed her breasts perfectly. She walked to Trevor, who was still hard and leaking, and guided his cock between the soft, lace-covered mounds. She pressed her breasts together and stroked him with them while the room watched. Trevor lasted less than a minute before he exploded across her cleavage and the upper cups of the bustier. Natasha did not flinch. She continued the breastjob through two more orgasms until the fabric was soaked and shiny. Then she stood, adjusted the straps, and returned to Dr. Bond’s side as if nothing had happened.
“Wife submits to protocol,” she said for the record. “Subject response maximal.”
That evening the Institute’s rooftop terrace was opened for a private donor event. Brisbane’s humid night air carried the scent of frangipani and river water. The six subjects, still under residual drug influence, were instructed to streak the perimeter of the terrace naked while the clothed women watched from lounge chairs. Their cocks bounced as they ran, still half-hard, still occasionally spurting small aftershocks onto the concrete. One man stopped mid-lap, grabbed the railing, and came openly over the edge into the darkness below while Seraphina timed him with her phone.
Dr. Bond and Natasha stood at the centre of the gathering. Natasha had changed into a different bustier—deep emerald, cups lower, the underwire pushing her breasts into a dramatic shelf. A local lingerie specialist named Calliope had fitted it that afternoon in a private room while Dr. Bond observed. Calliope’s hands had been thorough: measuring, adjusting, sliding a finger beneath the band, testing the bounce. Natasha had submitted to every touch, then later given Dr. Bond a long, slow handjob in the fitting room while Calliope watched from the doorway, one hand idly adjusting her own bra strap.
Now on the rooftop Natasha took a fresh ampoule of EJAX-472, drew a small amount into a syringe, and injected her husband in the thigh without warning. Dr. Bond’s eyes widened. Within a minute his cock—already substantial—swelled further, the head darkening, the shaft thickening until the fabric of his trousers strained. Natasha unzipped him, freed the heavy length, and began a deliberate public handjob while the donors and their wives watched.
“Record this,” she said calmly. “Primary investigator under the influence of Exjax variant. Response is… significant.”
Dr. Bond came hard, the first jet clearing Natasha’s shoulder and landing on the terrace tiles. She kept stroking. He came again. And again. The volume was shocking even by the standards of the earlier trials. Natasha directed the spurts carefully—some onto the tiles, some into a waiting specimen cup held by Lysandra, some deliberately across her own bustier so that the emerald satin darkened and shone. When the contractions finally slowed she released him, wiped her hand on a cloth, and adjusted her clothing as if she had merely finished taking notes.
“Breeding sample secured,” she announced. “High motility expected.”
The night continued. Men were made to stand still while women took turns giving handjobs, comparing volume and distance. One subject was bent over a lounge chair and fucked with a large dildo while two women stroked him from the front; he came six times in succession, the final orgasm little more than a thick, continuous dribble that coated both women’s wrists. Another was made to streak the length of the terrace again, this time with a vibrating cock ring, stopping every ten metres to ejaculate on command.
Natasha moved among them like a conductor, occasionally offering her own hand, occasionally pressing a man’s face into her lace-covered cleavage until he came against the fabric. Dr. Bond, still hard and occasionally leaking, observed and documented. When the last subject finally collapsed, spent and trembling, Natasha turned to the assembled women.
“The Brisbane Protocol is a success,” she said. “EJAX-472 produces reliable, extreme, multi-orgasmic response. Exhibitionist and voyeur conditions amplify the effect. CFNM structure maintains clear power dynamic. Further trials will explore extended breeding applications and public demonstration formats.”
She looked at her husband, whose cock was still thick and wet against his open trousers.
“And the primary investigator,” she added softly, “will require further private study.”
Later, alone in their apartment overlooking the river, Natasha made Dr. Bond lie on the bed while she fitted a new bustier in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps with slow precision. Then she straddled his face, lowered herself until her lace-covered sex rested against his mouth, and reached behind to stroke his still-sensitive cock. He came almost immediately, the jet landing high on his own chest. She continued stroking through the aftershocks, watching him in the mirror, until the final weak pulses left him empty.
“Wife submits,” she whispered, echoing the earlier record. “And the doctor learns what his own drug can do.”
Outside, Brisbane slept under a humid sky. Inside, the next dose of EJAX-472 waited in the refrigerator, and the list of new volunteer subjects for the following week already ran two pages long.
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