Crow's Feet

Hi all, long-time lurker here. I've been wanting to write a story with real, visceral, spewy, gooey futa madness + mind control for awhile, but I want it to be decently presented and prosed. So here's the first chapter, no futa yet but will engorge itself shortly, all criticism welcome!

Elizabeth used a fresh scalpel blade to remove the remaining reddened, subcutaneous layer of skin. The replaced razor had slipped off the edge of the operating surface and rebounded softly on the lower legs of her BH scrubs, resting on the sterilized floor of the operating chamber.

“Doctor Lourdelais, I’m picking up the dropped razor now”, Carey said a bit nervously.

Elizabeth’s narrowed eyes widened slightly as her final incision severed the xenanthropos’ left seminal vesicle from its (apparent) apulla wall. Fluid flowed from the precision, filet-like cut. Tiny, threadlike strands of lipofuscin and spermatozoa oozed from the cut into her sleep-deprived vision. She shook her head slightly. “How long have I been at this damned unearthly autopsy”, she asked herself. “Thirty-one hours? Thirty-anything?”

“Carey, han me an esseff please”, she slurred tonelessly. Carey Donover palmed the sterilized specimen flask gently into her boss’ hand, her glance worried.

“Go to cot, Liz. I’ll clean up hon. “

Elizabeth nodded, finished carefully scraping into the flask what she had perceived as liquid from the cut. “Thanks luv”, she halfheartedly winked at her nurse and stumbled away from the operating table. Ordering the shift changeover to Dr. Easley, she dismissed her underlings for the day and padded quietly to the Institute’s showers.

In this half-conscious state Dr. Elizabeth Kay Lourdelais, Shift Medical Lead of Section Seven and United States Marines equivalent of colonel, passed the decorative mirrored underhang in hallway 9-12C, noting for the twelfth time of two hundred and four passings of the mirror her face. Elizabeth had rarely looked at herself casually in mirrors, normally only noting her own home bathroom to apply minimal “work makeup” but this mirror always saw her at her afterwork, exhausted worst. Bagged eyes, deflated face in general. “Meh, screw Loreal and their marketeers,” she thought. “These other dumb broads are hung up on their crow’s feet, and I kinda like ‘em.”

She paused only slightly straightening her back, then with a final glance at the mirror continued somnambulantly toward the showers and a cot. After a slight brush with wet, she fell heavily into one of the three physician’s shift bunks, dead asleep two centimeters before hitting the cozy fabric.

She dreamed. Of strong ligaments. Of severed connective tissues. Of mummified, palsied flesh. Fluid had come from the incision. Fluid, not water or condensation or fucking dripping from her sweat from her fucking forehea…

Elizabeth woke with a start. She slowly pulled hers