Commander Hastings maneuvered his wings carefully into the pod, spreading them wide before sinking his hips into the pliant, heated rubber of the couch. He retrieved the syringe from its compartment and drove the needle into his thigh with practiced efficiency. The hormone cocktail hit quickly, leaving his head pleasantly muzzy and his nipples taut against his suit. Somewhere in Mission Control, a panel of experts monitored the blood flow and engorgement of his nipples via thermal imaging camera feed.

The ISS Yggdrasil was now a year out from Earth, and the boys back home were starting to panic that their designated breeder was not up to his role as a receptive, docile female. The relationship between Hastings and his co-pilot had grown tense. Not in the 'will-they-won't-they' way the mission planners had hoped, but in cold silences and the Commander barricading the door to his quarters every night, for fear of his roving, lustful crewmate.

Every transmission to the ship was carefully vetted for appropriate language before being beamed. Even still, Hastings could hear the anxiety in the voices; could sense the massive meetings in smoke-filled rooms behind the scenes; contingency plans being dusted off; the thousands of manhours committed to compelling him to breed. Even more shameful than the daily 'Psychosexual Acclimatization Meetings' was the feeling that he was failing in his mission.

Artificial insemination had been ruled out, for fear that such an immaculate conception could have long-term ramifications on the culturo-sexual development of all subsequent generations. There were now genuine discussions about "Plan B", releasing the biological failsafes from their holding pens, the various males rigged to breed with Lucien.

The console pinged. Cape Canaveral.

"Good afternoon, Commander," the therapist chirped. "May I say you are looking very beautiful today. That new suit suits you, and your wings are positively glowing. Have you been doing the exercises we prescribed?"

"Yes," Hastings replied tersely.

The delay from Earth was growing longer. After nearly a minute, the therapist smiled and replied. "That is excellent. Always remember, every vessel requires proper maintenance. And you are Earth's most important vessel. Always remember, your womb is your most important asset. Nurture it always."

Commander Hastings gritted his teeth, as the therapist continued to coo hippy-dippy platitudes designed to feminize his mindset. Before NASA, like many astronauts, he'd served in the military, and had been trained to harden his mind against such nonsense. While the therapist waffled on about "universal, interstellar sisterhood", the rubber couch inflated to encase his lower body, while an internal nub slid up to press up against his womanhood. Speakers began to blare soothing forest sounds and trickling streams, while the three monitors switched to three different feeds of soft-core erotica.

Hastings groaned. Look away, and the exercise would reset.

"We're going to start you off at Stimulation Level Three, this time," said the therapist, as the vibrator began to hum against his womanhood. "We'll go for an hour, or three orgasms, if you can manage that. Whichever comes first."