You would be a lovely experiment, I'd say. Spreading your cervix open with a speculum, implanting golf ball sized alien eggs into you one by one, each vibrating and thrumming in an odd way... certainly you'd be able to take plenty of those eggs. Most breeders would be overwhelmed by the amount in the brood, or the overwhelming sensation, but luckily you've been trained for this. Your body would be examined every second, and you'd be perfect to fill with more once this clutch hatches.
Mmm, this sounds so nice <3
I'd love to be subject to experiments like this, trained to take such hefty clutches by way of unique toys and tools. It should probably start by opening up my pussy wide enough to get to my cervix, of course, but you can't just proceed directly deeper from there - procedure is to keep my cunt stretched until I'm more than used to it. Only then can you start fiddling with my cervix directly, torturing me with vibrators and fake eggs, spreading me wide over and over again until I stop screaming every time something touches the top of my womb. The sensation takes a long time to stop being so overpowering, especially when vibration rates are considered a legitimate variable, but I get there eventually.
That's when I'm considered ready for the true experiments to start.
Opening me up is trivial, at this point, and so is inserting the eggs one by one. I'm so used to similar sensations that I'm not surprised by how the eggs feel, but there is something pleasantly different about them; maybe it's how they vibrate, or their texture, or...something. I can't put a finger on it. Whatever the case, they hum and shudder inside of me as they're slowly piled in, my womb stretching easily thanks to my training, and my midsection swells to accommodate. I'm strapped to the examination table to prevent me from squirming too much, my legs held up and out of the way, but they're not necessary; I lay back and easily comply with the procedure. I chew on my lower lip to stop myself from moaning as my womb is packed more and more full.
By the time the last egg of the clutch is slipped easily past my cervix, my breathing has sped up noticeably and my toes are curling. I've taken on similar cargo before, in preparation for this very scenario, but there's still just something about being wrapped around a load of alien eggs - real ones - that lights up my brain. The speculum prying open my cervix is closed and removed, and I inhale sharply as my cervix pulls shut over my impressive clutch. The following examination doesn't help, gloved hands prying open my pussy and palpating my abdomen to feel out my womb's position. I'm so tempted to gasp and moan as the eggs shift inside me, rubbing delightfully against each other and against my walls.
As part of my payment for agreeing to be trained for this sort of experiment, I'm given room and board in this facility, of course. Luckily, that just makes it very easy for me to retreat to my private quarters right after the procedure so that I can pleasure myself. In fact, it becomes a habit of mine, masturbating furiously as I rub one hand across my lumpy midsection. It doesn't help that the eggs grow day by day, closer and closer to hatching, and that just makes me cum harder. I just hope that the scientists don't notice how wet I am during every single one of their examinations to make sure that the eggs and I are both in good health. Though, I will admit, sometimes I do fantasize about being taunted and teased for enjoying this a little bit too much, maybe taken advantage of by some researcher or another who wants to help me "practice" for when the clutch hatches...self-indulgent thoughts that pop up every time I touch myself.
The ever-increasing size of the eggs also increases their shivering hum inside of me, which of course is remarkably distracting. If I hadn't gotten the requisite training, I get the feeling that I'd probably be on my knees and howling at this point, but as it is, I just stagger around, trying to support my enormous middle. I get plenty of researchers putting their hands on me at all times, some of them just so they can help me down a hallway and others so that they can show off their newest "project" to an associate. I politely answer questions when asked, deferring to the scientists when I don't have an answer, but the entire time I'm soaking through my underwear.
One day, something inside of me lurches.
I pause in the middle of what I'm doing and gasp, putting a hand do my midsection. I wait for the movement to repeat - and it does, twice more in rapid succession. I know exactly what this means, and I hurry off - well, as much as I can hurry in my current state - to find one of the researchers who works on me. As soon as I alert them to the fact that the clutch is emerging, I'm whisked away to my usual examination room and spread out on the table I'm so used to at that point.
Heat is rising in my lower abdomen, so I inform the researchers that the stimulation is causing arousal, making sure to omit the fact that I've enjoyed this from the very beginning. I just don't want anyone to be surprised when I climax on the examination table. To my surprise, they encourage arousal as a reaction, noting that such a response to a clutch as large as this one is a good indicator that further incubations will settle in positively. In fact, they urge me to embrace it, explaining that a positive association with the feeling of being a host will mean fewer problems in the future.
I'm all too glad to follow their recommendations, moaning and gasping as my midsection sways and jolts with each hatch of an egg, each shift of the alien young. I can't help but notice that most of the researchers quickly sport impressive hard-ons in response, not even bothering to disguise them as they attend me. Some of them even rub themselves over their lab technician scrubs, and one of them goes so far as to press their bulge conspicuously against my face, disguised as leaning over the table to adjust a piece of equipment. Almost without meaning to, I mouth at it, so turned on that I'm willing to serve whoever needs it. That garners a fond chuckle from a handful of attendants, and some of them write something on a clipboard or notepad.
Finally, the time for the young to emerge comes.
One of them presses up against my cervix, and I gasp, my toes curling. I moan as it wriggles and writhes inside, doing its best to dilate me for its escape - and it succeeds with a spurt of slimy fluid, slithering out of me and into the waiting basin positioned beneath my table. I swear loudly, tapering off into another moan as a second follows the first. Then another, and another, and more and more until they're cascading out of me in slimy bursts, gushes of fluid spattering the table and my inner thighs.
I can't help myself and I cum loudly, arching my back, my cries of pleasure echoing from the walls, and the attendants all encourage me, more of them fully hard now. Some of them are just outright jacking off as they crowd around to watch me give birth. A good handful are still making sure that the young and I are both in good condition, of course, but most seem too distracted to bother with the pretense of an examination at this point. Honestly, that just turns me on more, and the sounds coming out of my mouth grow more obscene. It's not even intentional - it just feels like instinct to put on a good show.
My middle shrinks, deflating as my cargo makes its escape. My orgasms decline in intensity as my womb empties, and I yearn deeply for the weight, the mass deep inside, the fullness that comes with being a host. The researchers seem to pick up on this, and the first to notice reassures me that I'll be full again soon. I whimper, asking them to promise, and a few of the researchers laugh.
Just as the last of my young slip from my body, the door to the research room opens. Two new researchers walk in, one wheeling in a cart - and the other holding a speculum.
