Second sister's research

My second sister's lab was destroyed in the fire.
Luckily, she suddenly had a lapse in judgment and remembered she needed to go home to get something. She'd just driven onto the highway when her workplace called urgently, informing her of the disaster.
We all said she was incredibly lucky. She looked at me and said she wanted to thank me, her "little husband," for saving her.
I asked her why, and she explained that since she'd started dating me, she often forgot things in the mornings before work. Before, these were insignificant, but today she'd forgotten her thermal underwear and had been working in the lab naked from the waist down for a long time. She only realized something was wrong when she rushed to the bathroom because of a stomachache, so she quickly drove home and "escaped" unharmed.
I then understood that my second sister had been working too hard lately, and her health had been a bit poor, especially her lower body, which was very sensitive to cold. At home, she had excellent insulation, so it wasn't a problem, but the air conditioning at her workplace was unpredictable.
Although my second sister is now a technical expert at her workplace, her working conditions weren't great; in fact, they seemed rather basic to me.
After I became a wealthy man, I built a special research space for my beloved second sister at home. When she saw it, she was stunned, saying my "laboratory" was probably comparable to those in America.
However, if she really did research at home, she'd feel lonely doing it alone. I'm not a medical student, so I couldn't accompany her on those tedious data studies. Asking people from her workplace to come over wouldn't be convenient either, so she only uses the home lab when she's on holiday.
According to her description, the serious fire was accidentally caused by the dog owned by one of her lab colleagues. The specific cause is still under investigation.
But the responsible party—no, the responsible dog—has been preliminarily identified; of course, that responsible dog is probably burned beyond recognition.
As far as I know, their labs are equipped with fire protection systems. The windows use high-grade flame-retardant glass, and the walls are made of high-temperature heat-insulating and flame-retardant materials similar to asbestos. Yet, this
time, the fire in my second sister's lab burned through the concrete walls of her room. People in the next room said it looked like she was thrown into a steelmaking furnace; if she hadn't run fast enough, she probably would have ended up like that dog. My second sister sighed softly, saying that if she had been there, that dog might not have had the chance to cause such a terrible incident.
I thought to myself, who knows? Anyway, in my eyes, the most important thing is that my second sister is standing safely in front of me. I don't care about anything else. Call me selfish, I'll accept it. After having such physical relationships with four women, I now consider the women in my family a part of my life; I wouldn't be happy if even a hair on their head was missing.
Actually, my second sister's main sorrow was losing a good friend, the dog's owner, a female classmate of hers, who was pregnant at the time.
Just like that, gone. My second sister lay on the table, crying and muttering.
My mother and younger sister, listening nearby, had red eyes. Seeing this couldn't continue, I told them to go back to their rooms and rest. Just then, my eldest sister came downstairs, and I decided to handle the aftermath with her.
After hearing my explanation, she was also very distressed, hugging my second sister and comforting her with me.
After the accident, I insisted that my second sister return home to continue her research; at least here, everything was under my control, and such a major blunder wouldn't occur.
My second sister agreed. She didn't want to go back to her workplace and be reminded of the trauma.
Although she would still mention that colleague occasionally for a long time afterward, she had at least recovered.
A month later, her workplace sent the accident investigation report. After reading it, my second sister was completely relieved. She bore no responsibility for the accident; it was all because of her colleague. She had probably taken on a side job and violated regulations by bringing some strictly prohibited flammable chemicals into the lab. Coincidentally, her pet dog had started a fire, burning the room down almost instantly.
My second sister's INA research data was also lost. Fortunately, my second sister had some backups at home, and the INA preparation was something she had made before the accident, so it wouldn't have a big impact. As long as my second sister isn't completely out of her mind, none of this is a problem.
INA is indeed a very magical thing. After the women in the family used it, even my eldest mother's skin was almost like a baby's. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say it was flawless, but its smoothness was definitely comparable
to that of a teenage girl. I was secretly used as a guinea pig by my second sister a long time ago. Through injections and ingestion, I'm now clearly the protagonist of those fantasy novels. At thirty years old, I don't look my age at all; I'm excessively young. The few wrinkles that appeared from the struggles of life in previous years have quickly disappeared. My younger sister says I'm even better looking than my cool little cousin from my uncle's family. My eldest sister is even more outrageous, lewdly touching me from head to toe like I'm a pet, saying my fur is shiny and smooth, and feels wonderful to touch. The only result of such "unreasonable" praise is that I slap my eldest sister's buttocks hard a few times in anger.
My younger sister's claim about penis regeneration is true; I'm not so bored as to experiment on myself. The conclusion was reached by my second sister.
The stimulating effect of this preparation on our body's cells far exceeded my second sister's previous expectations. Several times, when my mother and the others cut themselves while cooking, the wounds disappeared in the blink of an eye.
This might be related to our strange bloodline.
My second sister is now starting the next stage of research at home: how to commercialize this preparation, but it can't be too shocking, because commercialization might involve incest, which is still universally condemned. It's enough to give my second sister a headache. But she's not discouraged; she says that with the development of genetic engineering, one day incest will be accepted like homosexuality.
The thing that most satisfied the four women and me about INIA was that after using it, their pubic hair disappeared. Having four women surrounding me in my sex life was like a huge windfall for me.
And my plump, increasingly thick "bald chicken" is also irresistible to the four women.
My mother and her friends even got into a fight over who would be my bedpan. If I hadn't stopped them in time, all of them might have been disfigured. That's not really dangerous now, since their facial injuries heal automatically. What I'm worried about is that they've damaged their relationships.
Sometimes I shamelessly think it's kind of pointless; after taking INA, we can't even get hurt. Maybe those women will actually create some kind of Earth superpowered army out of boredom.
Speaking of bedpans, the first person with such a strange hobby was probably the legendary Ximen Qing.
I'm currently enjoying the service of Ximen Qing, but what's even greater than Ximen Qing is that I'm being served by my own mother, eldest sister, second sister, and youngest sister.
After taking that preparation, I, who rarely urinated at night before, have recently been getting up once or even more times every night. At first, my mother thought I had kidney deficiency, but my second sister explained that it was a normal "side effect" of taking INA. Fortunately, getting up at night hasn't affected my sleep.
Although my second sister believes that not sleeping every night won't harm my health, it's best to maintain human habits. Otherwise, if I'm constantly awake, am I still human?
This leads to a problem: all four women are used to the feeling of a penis inside them, whether it's their mouth or their vagina, it can't leave their bodies, but I can't stop urinating.
So, Mom became my first "beautiful chamber pot." To be honest, Mom has always enjoyed drinking my urine. Throughout my childhood memories, she sucked a lot of my urine into my mouth.
Now that she had such a good opportunity, she certainly wouldn't let it pass.
Mom, being a mother, quickly figured out my routine, knowing exactly when I would urinate every night.
Besides, she was pregnant now, so she held a special place in my heart. I had to listen to her in everything, even though I was worried about triggering her pregnancy symptoms. Mom still insisted that I use her mouth as a chamber pot, and that my penis must never leave her mouth after sex.
Specifically, our sleeping positions had to be changed, and every night we would fall asleep in a position close to a six-nine split.
I gradually got used to pouring warm, sometimes yellowish, sometimes clear urine into my own mother's belly. Besides the swallowing sounds in Mom's throat, sometimes because Mom's movements weren't synchronized, or because my urine flow was too strong, Mom would cough violently.
At this time, I would diligently pat my mother's back to help her breathe more easily. Once she calmed down, I would begin the next round of urine irrigation into her mouth.
Drinking a bellyful of her son's fresh urine every day had become an important part of her life; in my opinion, she was obsessed.
Now, before every meal, my heavily pregnant mother would struggle to sit on a small stool prepared for her, with my help, and suck on my already erect penis, gulping down this special biological drink.
If the other three women were interested, they would respectfully line up behind her to receive their men's urine baptism.
Seeing my heavily pregnant mother struggling so much, I suggested that I urinate into a bowl myself, and she could drink it. But my mother simply refused!
My eldest sister sided with her, saying that urine that wasn't personally sucked out tasted different. And as for
my second sister and youngest sister's two little urinals, that goes without saying.
Everything has two sides. The result of having four urinals is that I need to drink a lot of water every day. But as a decadent rich man, with INA protecting me, I'm immune to all diseases and evil spirits, and I'm getting lazier and lazier.
What to do? My little sister came up with a very lewd and vulgar idea.
I agreed to it, and the four women were very happy because from then on, they also had a human urinal—me!
My mother, as the elder, with her increasingly large belly, lay in bed, and under the gaze of her daughters and sons, she was the first to awkwardly urinate into my mouth. After carefully distinguishing them, I noticed that my mother's urine and her vaginal fluid tasted slightly different.
My mother's vaginal fluid, after being affected by INA, had a slightly sour and astringent taste in addition to the characteristic pungent smell of a mature woman, somewhat like rice vinegar used as a condiment, but much less acidic and much more fragrant. However, Mom's urine tastes similar to a certain carbonated beverage I drank as a child—very irritating to the tongue, and it makes me burp a few times afterward. Looks like I'll have another after-meal drink coming up.
If I had to describe my younger sister's vaginal discharge, I'd say it has a slightly milky smell and a floral aroma. Her urine is usually pale, rarely yellow, and tastes milder than Mom's, but with slightly more foam. My second sister says it's because my younger sister's body isn't properly regulated. It seems the INA works a bit slower on her. But it tastes similar to draft beer—quite strong, not bad.
My eldest sister, being a strong woman, has vaginal discharge that seems like a bottle of fine wine unearthed after decades—spicy and the strongest. But I think my eldest sister's urine tastes the best; it's perfectly sweet and sour.
A miracle happened with my second sister: her vaginal discharge and urine taste the same, reminding me of a type of mushroom that often appears in the forest after rain. So, my second sister's urine made me incredibly hungry. To make things easier, I'd deliberately make her drink a whole bucket of water, then slowly "squeeze" cups of colorless, transparent urine from her vagina.
Any leftovers were stored in a special refrigerator in my second sister's "laboratory," a refrigerator that preserved the biological activity and nutrients perfectly for this purpose.
My second sister joked that she'd truly become the housewife, not only cooking for us all but also personally producing our own appetizers.
I wouldn't show favoritism; I squeezed cup after cup of the other three women's unique urine. When my second sister's refrigerator couldn't hold it all, I'd stuff it into the kitchen's regular refrigerator. Sometimes this resulted in a mess—you drank mine, I drank yours, and we all tasted each other's urine. Eventually, my second sister started labeling
the cups.
Unfortunately, by then we were all so used to it that her labels didn't serve their purpose.
My younger sister once said, "With the family relationships in such a mess, what's the point of distinguishing between yours and mine?" The more chaotic things are, the better; we all feel the same way.
The chamber pot incident was quickly forgotten, because drinking urine has now become a complete habit for me and the women in my family.
[The End]

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