Chapter 2
It felt like an eternity before the doctor returned to administer the second dose of the follicle-stimulating hormone. During that time, Peter was forced to endure several ridiculous videos about the TVA VBP. Some were about maintaining a proper diet and exercise routine once impregnated. Others were more science based, explaining Omega and Alpha physiology and how pheromones worked to attract mates.
Some were about infant care and, despite the sickening horror Peter felt about his situation…he found himself enjoying those videos. They spoke softly to a part of him that he felt he could never share with his friends.
Peter wanted to be a mother; very, very badly. But the trappings of a normal life seemed to hold little interest to MJ and Ned. They were junior scientist, after all, just like him. How could they explore the universe and all its infinite wonders with a baby on their hip and a milk pump on their chest?
Peter just leaned back into the flat hospital grade pillow that had been provided and allowed himself to drift into the fantasy being played out on the screen. There was little else he could do; he was still bound, still gagged.
Still had a hose up his urethra.
“Fifty-one point nine milliliters,” the nurse said when she emptied Peter’s cath-bag for the second time. He was not shocked at the amount. The hospital, or whatever the hell this place was, had had him hooked up to a steady IV of saline since he arrived at the room.
“All right, go ahead and bring the bed pan over,” said the doctor, “let’s see if we can have him produce a bowel movement.”
Peter had been experiencing a minor weight in his lower colon for some time. As uncomfortable as it was, he dreaded at the idea of having to void his bowels for an audience. But as the straps around his chest and stomach were undone, Peter had to concede that the moment had arrived.
The right cuff around his wrist was removed and Peter was turned, with the aid of three guards, over to the left side of the bed so the pan could be slipped behind him. The cold touch of it to his backside made his skin tighten with gooseflesh.
Peter’s face though was stinging hot with humiliation. Five people were all just waiting for him to use the pan. He wanted to push, he wanted to get the whole ordeal over with, but he found he want unable to do so. The thought of having to do…that…in front of anyone had effectively given him stage fright.
The doctor was not interested in waiting.
“Nurse, prepare a sorbitol suppository so we can collect a sample.”
Peter made a panicked noise against the gag.
“You had your chance,” the doctor told him flatly, “and I don’t have time to waste on your modesty.”
The right leg cuff was undone next and one of the guards both lifted and bent the leg so the doctor could access his patient’s rectum. The position was an uncomfortable one; Peter’s arm was pinned over his head and his right leg was laid over the left, the knee pressed into his stomach. Peter put up a small but futile fight when he heard gloves snapping and the gross squelch of the lubricant bottle.
The first finger went inside, coating his rectum with the cold gel. Peter whimpered, his breath came hard and ragged through his nose.
“Calm down,” the doctor said as the finger slid out, “this isn’t going to hurt.” Peter tensed as two fingers now pushed their way in, along with what felt size and shape wise like a grape. The deeper it went, the tighter Peter’s muscles clenched around the foreign object.
“Get the pan back under him,” the doctor said after an agonizing wait. The moment he withdrew his fingers, Peter felt the first sharp cramp from the suppository. He understood of the chemistry of sorbitol sugar. In a matter of seconds, his bowels were going to fully evacuate; audience or not, nerves or not, this was going to happen.
Peter was lifted back up in a daze onto the bed pan and held firmly in place. The only movement allowed was the doubling over of his torso as the cramps became more frequent and severe.
Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he felt the sudden release from his body. His head was throbbing now and in addition to the cramps he was hit with pangs of nausea. Somewhere outside of the pounding in his ears, Peter could hear the doctor praising him in a cloying sweet tone. Like Peter was a child who needed encouragement to properly toilet.
Bit by bit, whether by design or as a byproduct of the process, Peter was losing his dignity. He had suffered small humiliations in life; mostly around being a geek, being short, being a bit of a spaz. But he never knew what it meant to having a part of yourself forcefully removed and replaced with a dark hole of shame. Even if Mr. Stark somehow found him and was able to rescue Peter from this nightmare…he would never be the same. Never.
“Clean him up.”
Peter laid like a rag doll as the nurse came over to wipe up his backside. Before rolling him over, she laid down a padded sheet, no doubt in case there were any…residual effects of the suppository. He was then secured back in the cuffs and given a blissfully high dose of a sedative. Peter did not even dream.
Over the next few wake cycles, Peter remained mostly docile. He stopped being antagonistic with the guards or the doctor. That never got him anywhere. He had to tell himself over and over that he was not giving up on escape. He was not giving up on escape. But brains, not brawn, seemed to be the only way he was going to get out of this situation.
One “day”, Peter woke to see a plastic chair beside his bed. The interior was made soft with vinyl pads and there were nylon straps coming off the shoulders, the arm rest and from the center of the seat. It was not until Peter saw the wheels on it did his fuzzy mind put two and two together. This was some sort of transport chair; he was being moved again.
“Ready to meet your brothers?”
Peter looked up the see the doctor approaching him with a few of the bodyguards. A million questions were exploding in his mind, anxious for answers. But of course, Peter was still gagged.
“Today, you will be participating in an exhibition of arachnid-human-hybrid variants; isn’t that exciting?”
Peter furrowed his brow at the insincerity of the man’s saccharine sweet tone.
“I thought you would be happy,” the doctor said with a sigh, “no matter. Nurse?” A slim woman approached the bed. “Prepare the patient; we need the catheter removed and for him to be placed in penile restriction cage.”
“Yes, doctor.”
The nurse began the process by emptying the cath-bag and detaching it from the tube. Peter’s breathing began to pick up its pace as she moved aside the bedding and lifted his gown.
“Removal hurts less than insertion,” she assured him…which did not help much. If the catheter was being removed, then certainly at some point it was going to be put back in.
The feeling of the tube being slid from his urethra was more odd than painful. From there, a small amount of lubricant was used to ease his tender penis into a leucite cage and lock it into place.
Peter was slightly concerned with atrophy, something he had never once considered since he gained his powers. Tensing against the rough hands of the guards, Peter still felt stronger than human, but not as strong as Spiderman.
He was held down in the chair until all the straps could be looped and buckled in place. From there, Peter was wheeled through white halls of his sterile prison.
Everything burned; the bright lights and the smell of antiseptic. Inexplicable buzzes were going off and voices called across the intercom, but no one seemed to move with urgency. All the white clad guards and nurses carried an air of languidness that did not match the terror Peter had been feeling since he arrived.
The worst was the doors – each he was rolled past had a placard on the door, indicating that there was a “patient” inside. Someone just like him, trapped in this nightmare world. A heavy sadness came over Peter when he realized that the placards did not even have names- just numbers.
Peter’s eyes glanced down to the band on his own wrist -E:60034 A/H/O Specimen-1
No, you’re Peter Parker Peter mentally told himself you’re Peter Benjamin Parker and you are going to get out of here!
The guards pushed Peter into the somewhat familiar auditorium. Peter was uncertain if it was the same one from before, but it did have the same smell of bleach faintly covering human fluids.
The same haunting echoes reverberating off the walls.
In the center was three tables, each arranged with the arms and legs bent in curious positions. Peter felt his stomach sink when he recognized the two on the ends as gynecological tables, complete with stirrups.
“Get him up there and make sure he’s secured,” the doctor said. Peter almost forgotten the man was following them.
Peter decided not to waste energy on fighting his way out of the auditorium. Partly because he felt he was not in a strong position. He knew nothing about the compound; where it was, how well it was guarded, what possible escape routes existed, etc. But another part of Peter was curious about the ‘brothers’.
Like before, he was stripped naked and strapped down to the table. Arms and wrist, legs and ankles. The stirrups were positioned up and outward, exposing Peter’s most private areas to the open air.
“Where are the others?” The doctor asked a bored looking nurse.
“Three is on his way, and Two…you know…uh…”
“Shit,” the doctor seemed to understand the reason for the nurses’ hemming.
“I have been told he might not be joining us.”
“You’d think Three would be giving us the most trouble,” said the doctor, “he’s the one who gave birth to triplets a month ago.”
Triplets Peter mind began to race through all the videos he was forced to endure. One to four pups were promised. Could a version of himself have…?
“Three is also still fairly combative,” the nurse then said. The doctor groaned.
“He’ll be fine; we set up the milking table for him. Once he’s being pumped, he’ll calm down. They’re always so emotional the first few months after birth.”
“Of course,” the nurse commiserated.
It was then the swinging doors on the opposite side of the auditorium flew open, and another set of nurses rolled a chair. This had to be Three…and combative was an understatement. Peter’s head was secure to the table, so he could only watch from his peripherals. What he could see though was a brown-haired man whipping his body against the chair’s restraints. He was screaming words against the gag in his mouth. Demands to be released, demands for this torture to end.
“Now Three,” the doctor tsked as he approached, “when has this sort of behavior ever benefitted you? Come now, be a good boy and meet your brother.”
This word seemed to calm him. Peter wondered if this ‘Three’ was as curious as he was. If he was indeed another Peter Parker, the idea of a brother of any kind would pique his interest.
Peter could hear the chair being rolled over and the straps being undone. The nurses then helped lift Three from the seat.
“Three, meet One. One…this is Three.”
Peter was certain the look on his face matched Three’s; an incredulous you don’t look like me! Brown hair and brown eyes is where the similarities ended. Three had a tall forehead and almost comically expressive eyebrows. He was tall; well, taller than Peter anyway. And gangly too.
Once the shock subsided, Three began to pull at the nurses in what was certain to be yet another pointless attempt for escape. He managed to get one arm free before the guards came in and pulled him away from Peter’s bedside.
“You need to behave yourself!” The doctor barked at him. “Or else it’s going to be a nice shot of Rohypnol is your thigh and a long sleepy-time in solitary. You don’t want to leave those sweet babies of yours alone too long, do you?”
At the mention of babies, Three became slack once more.
“That’s what I thought.”
The doctor then lifted the bottom of Three’s gown, revealing some sort of padded underwear.
“Is he still experiencing lochia?” He asked the nurse.
“Only a small amount,” said the nurse, “the most recent examinations have shown that his lochia contains minimal blood and is mostly just mucus and leukocytes.”
“Still; a month after birth?”
“Remember; Three had a Dichorionic pregnancy. With two of the babies being twins, that means there were two placentas.” The nurse looked at Three with sympathetic eyes, “That makes for a lot of postpartum discharge."
“Will we be able to remove it for the presentation?”
“Um…should be fine.” The nurse walked over to Three and began pulling down the underwear. “Almost no discharge,” he said, observing the inner lining. “We still need to get this to the lab; can I get a sample container, please?” A low-level medical tech came over with a plastic bag. “Thank you.”
“Go ahead and have Three put onto the milking table,” the doctor said as he snapped on some gloves, “and get the pumps on him.”