It was muzzled, leather straps wrapped around its face preventing it from getting that face around anything but that which was specifically pushed through the slats. Caged, too, its little dick flaccid. It drooled from both bindings, for more or less the same reason - a general oblivion towards the concept of keeping fluid on the inside of anything.

Speakers, redundant for safety, embedded behind steel grilles throughout the padded room (carefully padded, even the grilles padded, no hard surfaces presented anywhere inside it) spoke, almost in sync, in a soft, calming monotone, recorded in the professor's voice:

"You are a girl. You have a body, a single body, and it is your own. You take up a certain amount of space, which remains mostly the same over time. The inside of your body is separate from the outside. You have positive feelings towards your body and the sensations it brings you..."

On the other side of pointlessly bulletproof glass from it, padded with inflated clear-plastic pillows, the professor was justifying his budget. The professor frowned.
He didn't, exactly, begrudge the skepticism of the bureaucrat. He was sweet, and, well, was adapting his worldview to the bizarre circumstance as best as anyone could be expected. He didn't ask to smoke in his facility, that earned her a lot of points right off the bat.

Nevertheless, he was struck by the thought that if the higher-ups ever sent the same person twice, he would have to explain a lot less.
"...So, to be clear," the bureaucrat asked, running down the questions provided to him. "You are confident that you are implementing all commonly-accepted best practices for keeping the phenomenon contained and under control?"

"No, I'm - I'm really sorry, you have to use the exact same language I do. Anything else would be wrong. I know you have a form. I understand you have the form. But all I can say - all you can say - is I am using the currently successful methods for keeping the phenomenon dominated."

The bureaucrat's soft hands twitched. He looked up through tousled hair with an are you serious smile. "As in..."

"Yes, except her safeword is forgetting that she isn't a forty-mile across wind tunnel made up entirely of her teeth. So, thank you, we're getting on great, please tell them that when I request a 400-unit box of Honeysmile brand watermelon-flavored suckers I will have absolutely, absolutely no substitutions."

That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the interaction and soon enough the professor was alone in the facility, but for the few steely-nerved technicians that monitored the situation through (mostly for their own sensibilities) a very dry, privacy-maintaining diagnostic panel.

He cleaned and sanitized his chapped hands and headed in to spend a little time with her. After all, she has been a girl, and deserves a treat.

At the noise of the door opening - the pantyhose swish of its cushionings shifting against the walls' - it alerted, jerking up from its entranced kneel and rushing to greet the professor. It made five long rhythmless steps forward, sputtering as it tried to get words out, thoughts running faster than brain or body. The last step it made missed the floor, and the professor strode forward, catching her as she fell forward.

Her voice, she managed it, was a drunken purr. "Ohh-hh, you're warm, hello hello-o-o-o." The professor smiled, refit his grasp around her, and moved as if to steady her back on her feet, which she absolutely refused to do, instead pressing her head up into his chest and gazing up with bleary bloodshot adoring eyes.

He sighed, letting tension out and warmth in. She had always been cute - and in fact, he always felt there was some hapless charm to her even when she wasn't convinced into human form - but he was struck by that cuteness now. Just a little bit shorter than him, skin and stomach and rear ever so soft, her figure almost bell-shaped. He ran his hands down her sides, squeezing the folds on her hips. "You've been listening to what you've been told, I trust? I don't need to count your fingers?"

"You should count them anyways," she said, pushing her head forward for the feeling of rubbing her forehead into his shoulder. "I like it when you say words."

He sat down on one of the seats in the room - the more currently sanitary of the two - and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his hand around hers. She had never decided to mimick his wrinkles. He counted along. Her nails were recovering, too. The new muzzle had helped, the last one had too much of a gap.

She knew exactly what was going to happen, and her lips mouthed along, noiselessly, saying each word before the professor said them.

"One, two, three, four, and exactly one thumb. And - one, two, three, four, and exactly one thumb. Good, good. Well done."

She wiggled, and snuggled in. her grip on the professor's hands extended a little too far, she was a little too hungry to feel so much of him.
"Though," said the professor. "Look at me?"

It complied, looking into his tired grey eyes.

"Fingers usually have three bones in them. Your fingers have three bones in them. Even your index finger has three bones. The shape of fingers are decided by their bones."

She nodded, mumbling along, as she was conditioned to. Her voice went soft, unfocused. She liked the sound the words made in her ears, how they felt in her. "...Three bones... in them. Even... even your - my index finger."

"The bones are on the inside. Bones are straight, and so your finger bends only between the bones where they meet..."

As it relaxed - as its body relaxed, and murmured along, the professor gently stroked her chin, behind her ear, letting her feel fingers and how they bend and touch her. Slowly, gently, she relented, drifting and succumbing, and she accepted the shape she was supposed to be, and her fingers retracted.
The professor preferred not to look at her, when she did this. It seemed polite. He could feel, though, the faint tide of her fingers pulling back along his palm without any movement of muscle.

"Wake up." he said, and she did, with a smile.

"Oh, you - you did the thing where - where you talk to me different again, didn't you?"

"I did," said the professor. She tried to sit up in his lap, almost falling over, and she pressed her muzzle up against his ear, and slurred:

"That's hot, you're hot, we should, we should, I should, I should, I should--"

The professor acted quickly, grabbing her chest, a handful of her breast, teasing, tugging, interrupting. She moaned, her body arching, her hips rolling, and the professor asked - "Should do this?"

"Hnnn - yes, yes, you should - do that. Rough please, please rough."

"I will be a little bit rough," said the professor, in the same tone he used in the recordings, level and confident. "But not enough to harm. All your blood will stay on the inside. Your skin will not be ripped."

She nodded, willing to compromise. "Little bit rough, but rough. Please. Please."

The professor grabbed her by the hair and held her, close and warm against himself. He ran his fingers close over her scalp, a little massage with the rough of his nails, and toyed more with her breast, grabbing greedily at her as she huffed hotter, more, her leg jerking and thrashing.

And then the professor felt a trickle - a single bead of warmth running over his fingers as they squeezed and played with her nipple, cutting his skin open like the edge of an envelope as it flowed. He kept his teeth set to snuff out a cuss.

"You - you stopped, what happened, did I do something --" She asked.

The professor shook his hand off. It didn't seem to have seared any deeper into him. The droplet was shiny and creamy and it sat, seething itself to nothing, on the ground where it fell. "...Milk?" The professor asked, stupefied.

"Yes, like, cow, like - moo-oooo-"

"You are a girl," said the professor.

"I'm the kind of girl that makes milk. Like - a dairy girl," she said, in a tone that suggested she wouldn't budge on this point.

"Milk is soft and smooth," says the professor. "It's not sharp and not an acid. Repeat after me..."

"No, it's - it's - isn't it acid? Isn't it --"

"...Just a little, little tiny bit," said the professor.

"Oh," she said, sheepishly, her eyes getting a little soft - not quite teary, but the quaver in her voice suggested the possibility, which would really only complicate things.

"Oh, oh no, I made another mistake... I knew that, I knew what milk was..."

"Shh, it's okay. Come here, darling." The professor pressed the hurt hand against his shirt, keeping the bleeding out of the way. Best to ignore it for now. "Milk is soft and smooth and doesn't burn. Your milk is soft and smooth and doesn't burn..."

"...My milk is soft and smooth and doesn't burn. Milk is soft and smooth and doesn't burn..." She always found the words comforting, and was comforted now.

Fuck, he was in a lot of pain. He repeated it, though, because he had to. You can't budge on these things. Consistency is vital. Eventually: "Wake up."

And she smiled, softly. "That was... that was nice." A soft little giggle. "Can we - can we next - I want you to use my butt -"

"That sounds lovely, darling," said the professor. "But it'll have to wait. I actually - need to bandage up my hand, a little. Some of my blood is getting out."

Her lips lifted, and there was a glint of tooth surfaces past her lips inside the muzzle. "Ohh," she said. "...You have trouble with that too, sometimes?"

"I do, my darling." Said the professor. He helped her out of his lap, unwrapped a watermelon sucker for her, just the right shape to fit through her muzzle.

"...Wow, we really are alike... ooh, please--" She wrapped her hands around the sucker, flashed pleading eyes to the professor - he gave it to her - and she managed to get it up to her mouth through the muzzle-cage, and the professor, politely, looked away from exactly what happened to it.

He patted her on the head, kissed her brow softly, said his farewells and took hers - she said goodbye a lot, and insisted on having all of them be heard out and reciprocated - and only when the professor was on the other side of the secure door did he slump down and let out the stream of fucks and shits and god fucking dammits which his injury demanded of him. It seethed so hot he felt his nerves crawling up the back of his throat.

Elsewhere, later, the bureaucrat presented his report. There was one statistic which the professor insisted on being included. Everyone knew it was coming. It was a formality. But nevertheless, but the oversight board, well, they still wanted their reports.
It fit on a single slide:
FATALITIES (2008): 20,194
FATALITIES (2009-Present): 0

But still. Everyone really wanted to go back to running a high energy research facility, not employing what was, in effect, the most expensive sex worker in the world.