If our unelected global AI Emperor had any sympathy for husband-kind, in its massive industrial-scale human breeding program, it might limit “delimited insemination clinic” appointments to one stud instead of running mandated hunk-specimen trains on our wives. My wife had the distinguishing honor of having been selected, based on her exceptionally feminine, matronly biometrics. To avoid institutional pressure, ostensibly, and not jeopardize her state-issued teaching license, she (we?) decided she’d comply and attend her scheduled… obligation.

Now I had just helplessly watched through a one-way mirror viewport as she got fucked like a doll by her first paramour in line, and so she lay in the fake-hotel-room bed, in the local Ministry of Women’s Health & Reproduction HQ, with a white gob of sperm seeping out of her pussy from the professional motherfucker who’d just strutted his satisfied self out the door. But two more horny men remained: a tall, broad-shouldered, swimmer-looking man and a skinny, long-haired man. They were playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who was gonna hump on my wife next. I was pissed. I told the nurse that was bullshit.

“That’s offensive. There should be a rule against that! They treat it like it’s a fucking game!”

The nurse reminded me, speaking softly, “I can tell them to stop. You have two more interventions, having used one.”

I looked at her like she was trying to trick me. “No, I’m not wasting them. Who knows what the fuck else they’ll do in there to her.”

It occurred to me, actually, she’s the nurse, and she had just expressed her joy at witnessing countless DIC appointments. “Wait. You know what they’re going to do. Right?”

The nurse nodded. “I know they’re going to release their emission into her vaginal canal. Each of them. That will satisfy the requirements of completing the appointment.”

“Yeah. But that’s not all. You know the positions they like, the foreplay, you know their specialties. You know those fuckers in there.” I grimaced with accusation.

The nurse said it so pretty, innocently, “I do, but sometimes they surprise me.”

“I don’t want to be surprised,” I begged.

She smiled, a big white-toothed smile. “I see. I can’t tell you their names because it’s illegal. So, what should we call them?”

I pointed. “That’s Swimmer, I guess. And call him Long-hair, then.”

She cocked her head at the nicknames. “Interesting. OK then. Swimmer likes cowgirl, fingering, and giving a hickey. Long-hair likes… making it hurt just a little.”

“Hurt a little? What does that mean?” I wanted to protect my wife. “You’re the government. You can’t inflict pain on a law-abiding citizen. Is that what he’s going to do? Not happening!”

She shook her head. “Then you can make sure he doesn’t. We have a deal: you stay and watch, you get two interventions. But you’re not keeping your end of the deal.”

“I’m not?” I became defensive. I worried she’d rescind my intervention option.

She pointed over my shoulder to the one-way mirror oval observation port. “Watch your wife, sir.”

I turned to see my wife with Swimmer’s dick in her grip. She was holding it against her chin, and I thought she was flex-bending it. But when she let go and he ran it down her neck, I realized he was cuuurved! His glans looked like it had been bent upward, and his shaft had that banana-esque look to it. I was dismayed at that. At least Gymnast, for all his brawn, had an average dick. Swimmer had dick dimensions that fit a man of his height and mass, tall and moderately robust. He slid it between my wife’s tits. He must’ve wanted to do that since Gymnast first exposed her greatest feature: no implants, pure home-grown mammaries passed down to her by successive generations of busty moms. As lengthy as his cock was, he could bury it between her cleavage, and she lay back as he mash-pressed her mountains together in his expansive hands to sandwich his cock.

I kept watching and became envious of Swimmer. Humiliation crushing me, I had to speak to hear myself talk, to prove that I was still capable of talking about what I was seeing, that it hadn’t already mashed me into a mute mush. “What a lucky piece of shit he is. Born with the right stuff, so he gets to plough through the most beautiful women week after week and not even put in the footwork. Pay for a date, bills, a house, a life… forget all that. He gets paid for this! Unbelievable. Must be nice, huh? Why him, though? Is that all it takes to be a ministry-drafted stud? A nice body and a hook penis. Ha!” I scoffed.

The nurse spoke softly. “He… Swimmer, that is… has a 148 IQ and photographic memory. He has dozens of prized genes correlated with longevity, and he has outstanding psych evals. And…”

I slumped my shoulders. “Enough. I get it. He’ll remember the sight of my wife’s hooters until he croaks at 110. Great.”

Swimmer took my wife by her shoulders and guided her to turn around. In the bed on her hands and knees, he had her ass facing him, and he stood, gyrating his cockhead into her from behind. I watched without flinching as he worked his way into my wife, adjusting his angle, backing up and then dipping in deeper. And then his thrusts got longer and faster. He was clapping her ass cheeks. They rippled so beautifully with each impact as he pounded into her. And her heavy tits swung beneath her, only partially obstructed in their sway by the bed beneath. For whatever reason, I was able to watch that stone-faced. What’s another creampie, right? It didn’t even bother me that she was writhing this way and that, her mouth forming O’s and biting her lip, her hair flipping over her face and shoulders until it was a complete mess. I was somehow fine with it. I didn’t even wish for him to finish sooner. That was until he started slapping her ass.

Slap! It woke me out of my hypnotic daze.

Slap-slap!

He was spanking her ass cheeks as he rode.

“She’s not an animal, and he has no right to hit her!” I turned to the nurse. I’d use my one intervention I had before he was finished and it was lost anyway. “Tell him to stop hitting her. No slapping, no smacking, none of that. And spare me the word games this time, got it?”

The nurse spoke into her touchpad. “Discontinue striking actions.”

And Swimmer stayed his hand mid-strike, instead grabbing her around her waist and pulling her into his thrusts. He obeyed as well as Gymnast had.

I almost told the nurse thanks, but caught myself. Screw her.

“No hickey, no cowgirl, no fingering. Are you sure you know how this guy likes to fuck?” It was the best insult I could toss at her, as if she didn’t really work there. Lame on me. And she made me pay for it immediately.

She spoke into her touchpad. “Enjoy yourself, Active Paramour. You’re taking your annual break tomorrow, after all.” She smiled at me.

“I didn’t mean to ask him to do anything. Let him finish and get it over with!” I objected, hands on my head.

Nurse bent, hands on her knees, and let out a big open-mouthed, eye-squinting, thigh-slapping laugh. “Ha!” It flew spinning into my chest like an auditory tomahawk. Ouch.

I turned to see Swimmer withdraw, go down on one knee, and slide his middle and ring fingers together into my wife’s sopping pussy. He began fingering her hole with force and speed, too much force!

“Hey, is he nuts? What is that?” I pressed my face to the viewport glass.

“Should I tell him to stop and have his fun another way?” she offered.

I almost said yes, but I bit my tongue… I wasn’t using two interventions on Swimmer and having none left for Long-hair. “No. No.”

I watched him finger my wife. He put elbow grease into it. What the fuck was his deal! It’s a delicate, tight vagina, not a drain pipe in need of plunging out. But she was taking it. And then her belly rose. She arched her back up, then she arched it down, then back up. She craned her neck, then she hung her head low into the pillow, then she craned her neck again… and Swimmer pulled his hand from her like he was pulling the rip cord on a pull-start engine.

And I was floored by what I saw. She burst with Skene’s juice. It sprayed droplets over Swimmer’s feet and legs, and she moaned and moaned. No, she screamed.

And just as she finished that scream, he drove his bent cock back into her and returned to pounding. Pounding and pounding, squeezing pink handprints into her ass cheeks and then reaching under her armpits to squeeze her tits. He lay over her back with his big frame, his long limbs, his cock no doubt poking her A-spot. And he sucked a hickey on her shoulder. He was cumming as he left a purple spot there where a short sleeve might conceal it. He pulled out, and a string of white bridged the tip of his dick to her gaping pussy. I didn’t know sperm could be so sticky and thick in consistency as to form a fucking drooping mozzarella line.

And then he turned like his work was done. He said something to Long-hair, who had sat watching all of that, and he exited in the same manner Gymnast had: creamed cock dangly-bobbing as he walked.

The nurse commented, “We’re almost done. That’s the good news.”

“Yeah? And the bad?” I watched my wife ball up on the bed, rubbing her legs together like a cricket and running her fingers through her hair in delight. Smiling. My wife was smiling.

“Bad news? There is none. Only better news. Our final paramour has a high fertilization rate! I’m excited for you.” The nurse clapped her hands, little rapid wrist-to-wrist hand claps. “But I’m so, so thrilled for your wife.”