Diagnostics: Manual Stimulation The Remote of Transformation chapter 6 by ThePanswapticon

Bench time. He swabbed the tip of his EEG headband, looped sensors behind his ears, clipped pulse oximeter to a delicate finger. He taped a spare piezo vibration sensor just above his pubic bone to see if contractions showed. Improvised science porn.

He wrote down, “Subject: Ethan Quinn, Form Variant Lila. Trial one. Manual stimulation, unlubed—okay technically self‑lubed.”

He braced one heel on the rolling chair, one on the bed frame, free hand on the desk. Fingers dipped. Wet heat sucked him deeper fast. His body started doing things—rhythmic pulls, inner grip working against his hand. He bit his lip to keep from yelling. The monitor beeped faster. He circled the clit. Light circles. Lighter. Too much zing if he pressed.

Pressure stacked. Muscles along his belly tightened; breasts lifted with each breath. Sweat slid between them. His thighs shook. He chased it harder, rubbing heel of palm over the mound while fingers curled inside searching—found a spongy ridge toward the front. He tapped it.

Fire.

He came. Not one blast. A cascade. Pulses rolled from inside out. Walls clenched around his fingers in ripples; piezo spiked; his hips hammered air. Wet surged. Actual fluid pushed past his knuckles and soaked his wrist, then the towel, then dripped off the chair edge. He laughed through gritted teeth and kept moving because the peak didn’t dump him—another wave stacked and broke and rode him until he flopped sideways panting.

He blinked at the monitor readouts. Heart 178. EEG noise useless. Piezo beautiful.

He rolled over and scrawled in barely legible handwriting: “Female refractory period: barely there. Fucking cheat mode.”

He twitched. A smaller aftershock rolled through. He hissed and laughed again.