Fertile

Bethany wants a baby so bad she can taste it. Every test comes back with another hard no and her husband Nathan keeps phoning it in, leaving her pissed and raw. One night a sketchy flyer lands on their windshield—some clinic promising “guaranteed fertilization.” Nathan calls it a scam and they blow up, voices echoing through the house until Bethany storms out. She shows up at the clinic solo, legs shaking. Dr. Angeles is drop-dead gorgeous and stacked, and she’s got Bethany on the table before the door even shuts. The doc promises the latest synthetic load will do the trick. Bethany’s nerves crackle, but the need to be a mom overrides everything. She strips, spreads, takes whatever the doctor lines up next. She never guesses that behind the white coat sits a crew of cocky studs—tall and dark, thick and ready—waiting to turn the whole experiment filthy. White coats hit the floor. Blonde hair tangles with brunette. Natural curves bounce. Every thrust pumps hotter promises straight into Bethany while the lights blaze and the cameras roll.