u/Harmonia232

Might sound fake but bear with me. Mentioned elsewhere that I successfully impregnated on the first try awhile back. After that, I started to ejaculate more.

Not comically so, but my cum became noticeably thicker, and I was able to have fuller loads more often in a given day.

I’m in my early 30s now and shooting slightly but noticeably more than I was in my late 20s.

TBF, girls sometimes told me that I came more than average, but it’s definitely whiter and more substantial now.

I’ve seen it said that exposure to fertile women can cause this (not sure if that’s true either) but in my case it started when she was still carrying my child.

Wondering if anyone has seen this in their partners etc.

As a slightly younger man (now early 30s) I liked teasing girls about having my babies and they flirted and played along.

There was even a serious offer from an older woman to do it for real. That never panned out (my fault), but funnily enough there’s a good chance I was “the other man” in her relationship while she was telling me she wanted her children to have my face. Makes it hotter in retrospect.

For whatever reason, though, I never saw the appeal of getting a hotwife pregnant. Felt weird for my kid not to know their father and their heritage. In any case I have a beautiful child of my own now, conceived on the first try.

Today, though, I think something clicked. On the train after a long workday, thinking about a woman who had thanked a man for giving her the “gift of a son” while her husband was infertile. Had read about it and couldn’t it out of my head. I thought of others who talked about giving birth to her bull’s child.

The pieces came together. Maybe I should have done it six years ago. Maybe not. Who knows where any of this goes. But I get it.

Something is turning over in my brain.

Inspired by u/gahidus here.

Don’t get me wrong, Mina wanted kids. She had the usual all-American fantasies of a white picket fence and 2.1 children per mother, their births appropriately spaced. Sometimes when she saw Tom from her history tutorial she wondered how he’d be as a dad. Then she wondered why she thought that.

It wasn’t her only question. The unease began in a wet New England December, when the fun of orientation belonged to a forgotten past. Something strange was unfolding in historic Cabot Hall.

Mina found Kaitlyn in the bathroom on a snowy morning. She was leaning forward to apply her lipstick, fingers working with surgical precision.

“I love your top!” Mina exclaimed by way of greeting. It was a tasteful black button-down that sat loosely on her frame. Kaitlyn pressed her thin lips together and put her things away.

“Oh wow thank you! I think it really emphasizes my-“

Here she turned to Mina and put her hands above and below a modest but undeniable bump that had been hidden seconds before.

That was the first. Mina was surprised, even happy for her, but thought little of it. She remembered her own experience with A. late in frosh week - an awkward clash of inexperienced lovers. He hadn’t been very careful. She’d felt very warm and full.

It made a mess. These things could happen.

There was Rachel from New York. By mid-January her room in Cabot still sat empty. Then one day, Instagram brought the story of her maternity shoot.

“So blessed to be your momma 🤰🏻🩵🤱🏻🥺”

Rachel’s wavy black hair spared them anything pornographic. Grayscale. All very risqué for 18.

Mina figured it was just a fluke. Two nickels and all that. She’d slept with Rachel’s boyfriend J. before they’d gotten together. He wasn’t very impressive, but he didn’t like condoms either. Her mouth had done the rest.

Then, in February, came news from the corner room at the end of the hall. Zara, a second year from the west coast, was seated on her bed. Her college sweater (go Storks!) was pulled up to expose a tummy that beamed with life. Vera and Olivia were rubbing it as they joked about baby names and the colour of its eyes.

Thereafter, things descended into the absurd. In the room beside her own, Mina heard Paige’s frantic screams of “get me fucking pregnant!” as her bed thudded against the wall. Chelsea was putting ultrasound photos - twins! - on her corkboard next to photos of her Scottie dog . Mina even had to stand in on improv night because Shelby’s “morning” sickness was bad.

The campus clinic seconded an OB. Dr Zirelli. He was OK.

Mina’s thoughts returned to Tom, the intelligent young man with a pleasing face. In the stress of finals they took refuge in each other. His naked body was sensually thin, in a way a man can only really be at 19 or 20.

Tom had incredible endurance. It had been a long night of “study”, the sky turning a navy blue as the sun prepared for its rise.

Tom sensed his looming climax, having already seen to hers. She looked at him with a pleading face.

“Do you think I’d look hot pregnant?”

His eyes shut tightly as fingers dug into Mina’s wide hips. Light broke over the horizon.

In the end, she did.

I think like most men, I had exes who told me they wanted my kids in time. We’d talk about baby names and all the rest. Girls from dating apps often liked it as talk: a spectrum that went from “we’d make cute babies” to “I’m gonna get you pregnant”, but it was strictly teasing so far as I could tell.

One time, though, it wasn’t. She isn’t an ex - we never really dated - but the second day we hooked up, lying naked between the first and second round, we got talking about what we liked. I was 25 and she just shy of 30.

I said with unusual bluntness that I like pregnant women. It was a sort of intimate, vulnerable moment overall and seemed perfectly natural.

She said she wanted a baby too.

Totally seriously, by the way: she talked about how her parents wanted grandkids and had money to raise it. She sent photos of herself in lingerie, puffing out her belly to look pregnant. She mused about the features she hoped I’d pass on. There was a general plan for giving birth. She asked me point-blank when I was going to.

When we made love she said things that haunt me to this day. Too intimate to repeat, even anonymously.

For better or worse, I punted. We lost contact when I moved abroad and I eventually met someone serious. I hope she has a child by how.

I became a father recently, without much difficulty, and have immensely enjoyed it. But you wonder what might have been.

Continued story of breeding in a future society. First installment. Let me know what you think.

Chapter Five

Isabelle liked her men young. There was something she adored about their eager sexuality and their simple willingness to go along. It was rumoured she had never had a man under 40: untrue, obviously, but it was a rumour she liked to fan.

She had set M. up with his beloved Cordelia. None would say he didn’t repay in full.

The heavy breasts of which Isabelle was so proud had been reddened by his domineering hands; flashes of pink flailing as they jolted on her chest. He greedily helped himself to thick fistfulls of her hair, pulling her blonde locks in any direction he saw fit.

M. was, admittedly, a little disoriented. He wasn't sure what he felt, actually. Isabelle's second was supposed to have been the Deputy Minister from lunch at the Rosettis’ the other day. But as his robe was removed, he caught a familiar smell; an arousing perfume that had enticed him somewhere in recent days. He racked his brain.

Events intervened. A sensual, dark body emerged beside Isabelle's naked frame. A smile came from beneath poised brows.

"I'm glad to see you so soon, M." Constanza teased. "I'm sorry but my friend wasn't able to make it. A sudden crisis at the Central Office. Not that you'll tell anyone."

His heart fluttered. A rush of excitement filled his chest and shot up the sides of his neck. In male circles, Constanza was the stuff of legend. Totally untouchable: mother to nine by a single, mysterious man. To have her as a second was the closest one could hope for to the real thing.

Now Constanza looked with satisfaction as M. brutalized her older friend. She derived a certain pleasure from seeing this firebrand of a woman reduced to a whimpering mess of reddened flesh. She watched as he buried himself inside her longing, desperate body. She admired his manhood's elegant shape and the strong ridge that ran from deep in his loins. She gazed with her dark eyes at how it stood on his torso: a thick, clear droplet sometimes forming on its tip.

Constanza wanted to taste it.

It was not lovemaking, what he did to Isabelle. It was something of the violent, almost vengeful kind, as if he was really punishing her for making him do this for Cordelia.

He spat on Isabelle's blushing face. At least now they knew he wasn't thinking of his beloved. The older blonde grunted a guttural "yes". She was loving every minute. He did too.

A good second always has something to say. As it happened, on this occasion, that may have been the entire point. Constanza gave Isabelle one last kiss on a flushed forehead and ran her hand down her cheek. She caught a few droplets of his saliva.

With her other hand, she shielded his ear.

"If you didn't get Edwina pregnant, you'll need to visit again."

He nodded, probably imperceptibly as his body swayed back and forth. Constanza realized he was too focused on this unfortunate girlfriend of hers.

"If you do, I’ll have you too."

He turned his head. His eyes locked with Constanza's as she lifted her other hand to her mouth. She licked his spit off her thumb.

“She yields!” Constanza shouted with authority. M. took a moment to understand. It was a custom so rarely invoked that he had nearly heard it as another primal yelp among many. He put some space between himself and the bed. Isabelle propped herself upwards as he withdrew, her lower lips glowing pink. She breathed heavily still.

Constanza knelt in the spot he had created. He saw her thick, fulsome lips embrace him. He felt the rough wetness of her tongue beneath. Dark eyes crowned by pleading lashes looked up into his own.

Cupping her hands between his thighs, Constanza slowly brought the release that Isabelle's body could not. He placed his own palm atop her black hair, gripping it tightly as climaxed.

She swallowed a few times then drew her head back. A single white droplet emerged from his shapely tip. She kissed it clean.

M. sat on the bed, shoving Isabelle's calves aside. The entire time he had been too scatterbrained and overwhelmed to notice who had been watching. Only now did he see round-bellied Andrea lying in total bliss, her left hand bringing her to another of the evening's innumerable ecstasies.

He remembered what she'd said that afternoon. He smiled.

Chapter Six

Claudia Hansen Villiers had longed to see him for some time. She’d last had M. three years ago, when he was just 19, and wondered what sort of man he was becoming. She loved the idea of watching his body and mind mature with experience. She wanted to benefit from it herself.

In a hotel, perhaps the hotel, on the Lunar surface, he dug his full lips into the corner of her neck. Inches away her hairs were standing on end. With finely-manicured nails she scratched lightly across his shoulder blades. His lithe, fit body had so often posed in her mind’s eye. Her hand had played his part.

On the Moon, everything was more relaxed, especially in such a setting as this. They were alone in their quiet, comfortable room. They kissed, she felt his nose nuzzle against hers.

“I missed you, Claudia” he breathed against smiling lips.

Whether or not he meant it did not seem to matter. For the next hour, he loved her as if he had.

When it ended, he planted a little kiss on the soft, hairless mound between her legs. She lay there, once again alone, his warm gift was settling within. In Claudia’s mind, it seemed to radiate his presence outward into every crevice of her body. She brought herself to climax.

In his own room, M. reviewed correspondence forwarded from Earth. For weeks he had been haunted by Constanza’s offer, even more than by Andrea’s words. The thought of another visit to the Rosettis bored into his mind like a parasite. It had been more order than request.

He had been with two women from the same family before, successively of course. Any man had. That was usually the way the impoverished grand houses did it. So too the parvenu middle classes who, among other things, required the rite for their advancement. These visits he often found offputting: the rituals of the day, meant to carry him along as if by a familiar melody, fumbled awkwardly towards unclear ends.

But M. was gracious. He was the soul of honour, and his struggling hostesses were never the wiser. He flirted with them as teasingly and deflowered them as passionately as he would the daughter of a senator.

And, to tell the truth, many of them he liked. He loved it especially if they were on the older side, having gone 40 or so years without experiencing the touch of a man. Their bodies had a sort of musk of deep longing; he could sense it before their lips even met. Like good scotch, barrel-aged, awaiting the moment. He drank in slow, considerate sips to savour the taste.

A favourite daughter had been born to such a woman. He corresponded with them often.

Edwina Paulsen Rosetti, naturally, knew nothing of her mother’s scheme. Constanza figured it was better that way. She had written to M. as he’d suggested but without real hope of a response.

What arrived at her College was something not imagined in her boldest fantasies. Her pupils widened as she gripped the white letter paper, HOTEL APOLLO stamped in raised ink at the top:

Dearest Edwina,

Your letter gave me such joy to read. I’m sorry it took so long to reach me here “sur la Lune”. My sister, bless her, had forgotten to forward it.

I think fondly of our time together last month. When I see the sky here I think of your dark eyes. I think of your little breaths on my chest.

I want your body tightly in my arms again. Would that you could be here now. It’s very private, without the fuss of back home.

You will know soon if you are pregnant. Write me as soon as you do. I know you won’t believe me - maybe you shouldn’t - but I badly hope you will bear my child. I know you’ll be a wonderful parent.

On that note, give your darling mother a kiss for me.

Wholly yours,
M.

She had read it with one hand under a thin screen of lace.

Edwina could not think of when she’d been so happy.

Chapter Six

Andrea gave birth at Isabella’s house about as soon as M. had left. It was her second child. The first had been the daughter of the much older, experienced, and greatly sought after J., who had made her a woman at eighteen. Then, in the cold weeks of the last New Year holidays, she had arranged her own meeting with the charming N., whose star was quickly rising.

From drawing room to drawing room and on the first-class decks of Lunar liners, word had spread of this eloquent, funny, fecund young man. They said he’d been top of his class and taken the poetry and the history prizes. At 20 he became one of a just handful of men to have his work critiqued in The Review, which noted that he wrote “almost as well as any woman”. It was astoundingly high praise.

Andrea first met him when he was hosted by Leonora Ericson Breughel, whose aunt had a charming neoclassical villa overlooking the wine-dark sea. His tan suit made him look totally at ease as he chatted with his hostesses. He touched them delicately on their backs to excite them.

In Andrea’s bed months later, he’d been masterful. N. was not rough, but nonetheless imposed himself with firmness on her tan frame. She had lost herself in his captivating blue eyes and the softness of his lips. He had sought her pleasure before his own. Andrea begged N. to fuck her. Then she prayed she would conceive.

When the news broke that he had fathered 300 children the previous year, Andrea was not surprised. She had felt the force and warmth of his gift being emptied into her. Probably there was nobody else like him.

He didn’t write much. At all, actually. There was a rumour he’d gone to Mars to compete with the small cadre of rough menfolk there. She doubted he’d have much luck. Slowly his fine face faded from her memory.

She enjoyed seconding in her friends’ bedrooms and closely observed the habits of their men. Many were totally mechanical or inconsiderate, others had technical skill but formed no connection with their lovers. It was said there weren’t 10,000 on this side of the Asteroid Belt. They could afford to be careless.

Andrea’s mother had arranged to host W. for her roughly halfway through the pregnancy. By then, she was proud of her full, feminine form, and had loved watching as new curves glowed on her body. But to this, W. seemed totally indifferent. The older man had his mind on other things. She was grateful for the relief he gave her and left it at that.

When Edwina invited her to watch with her chosen favourite, she was prepared to be underwhelmed. But the sight of any man was better than none at all.

As she sat there high in the Rosettis’ palatial residence, she was struck by his almost violent passion. He was a man who always seemed like he was holding himself back from going totally mad with lust.

When she seconded for Cordelia, she saw him as if emerging from a cocoon of inhibition. Andrea jumped a little when he smacked the redhead’s wide bottom. When she saw the pink markings she oozed with lust.

“I know you’re mad I’m having N.’s baby,” she whispered to M. “You can’t deny it, I see it on your face.”

Cordelia’s moaning grew louder as he continued apace.

“But honestly, I like you better. Come see me in a few months. We’ll make a baby of our own. Ok?”

He lost his last modicum of control and released all that his body held.

That was a good sign.

Chapter Seven

Bridge was a game revered for its sheer antiquity. It was said to date back to before the Sorting, and there was hardly a lady worth the name who didn’t enjoy it now and then. Black’s, naturally, was no exception: the favoured preserve of the Capital’s worldly doyennes.

Teresa Carlson de Montespan glanced at her cards. An Empress of Clubs and Jill of Hearts looked back. She smiled politely to her friend the Deputy Minister.

“By the way, Miranda, I had forgotten to ask: what news from the provinces? You were supposed to second for that M. fellow, were you not? I’m told he’s quite an up and comer.”

“Or just a cummer” smirked Annie from the far corner, a drink in one hand and her cards in the other. They were probably good cards too.

Natalia Williamson Montagu, by then a senator of middling seniority, sat gracefully between them. She feigned indignity.

“God, Annie…”

Constanza and her half-sister Annabel Edwinson Neumann had been sired by the same Edwin Pryce about fifteen years apart. They knew comparatively little of each other but shared his lively and expressive brows.

“Don’t get all fussy with me, Nattie. You know damn well it’s true. I know he deflowered your Patricia and Fran’s having a baby by him too. Two babies?”

It was true. M. had saved Francesca Isaacson Montagu from an awkward spot by leaving her with child. 28 with no pregnancies was a bad look for an aspiring civil servant, even one with her pedigree. Apparently after the Act they discussed the census. Nattie figured their children would be brilliant.

It was, of course, the Deputy Minister who had been asked this question in the first place. But, as always, like the experienced bureaucrat she was, she waited for the ideal moment. Cards again were being played

“In any event I always enjoy spending time with the Rosettis, your sister especially. But I’m afraid, Senator, that your little mascot has found himself in a bit of trouble as regards Annie’s niece.”

“Who? Victoria?”

“Edwina.”

Annie leaned forward, slightly puzzled, as if accusing the Deputy Minister of a having made grave mistake. All three women put their cards on the table and gazed intently.

Miranda (that is, the Deputy Minister) lowered her own hand and began explaining in her thorough, structured, matter-of-fact way all that she had gathered from the events of the past weeks.

As she relayed it, the inexperienced Edwina had fallen for M. - the only man she had ever known - who in turn barely disguised his favouritism toward Edwina’s friend Cordelia, a plain but honest provincial girl. This had been readily perceived by the rapacious Isabelle Peterson de Brogue, who arranged for the two to sleep together in exchange for sleeping with M. herself.

While seconding for Cordelia, a young firebrand named Andrea seemed to have told M. that she wished she was pregnant with his offspring. That would have been unimportant except that she was then pregnant by M.'s old friend N., who had 300 children born the previous year. In any event she’d said words to that effect later on.

Finally, Constanza had used Miranda’s absence to second Isabelle while she was having M., and in so doing had somehow enticed him to ensure he'd impregnate Edwina.

Miranda outlined all of this as if she was presenting a report to the cabinet.

Shock gave way to frantic interjections. A long and lively discussion ensued that continued for several hours. Each of the women had some idea how this situation, to which they were all somehow connected, could be untangled.

One said they had an older man, currently a favourite of Capital ladies, who would turn Edwina into a quivering wreck and leave perfidious M. quite out of the picture. Another thought she could arrange a meeting to reconcile N. (whom they all adored) and the self-willed Andrea. A third thought they might assist Constanza in her efforts.

The first went on to say it’d be cleaner if they kept all men in cages. There was general agreement.

By midnight it was a bridge table in name only. A revolving door of waitresses took emptied glasses and brought new ones. The cards were removed by inconspicuous staff at half past.

This was how the world ran. Their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers had sat around rooms like this one - probably, some of them, at this very table - sending men to this house and to that girl as they saw fit. Untold thousands of children who now worked in respectable offices and entertained on great estates had been conceived as a result of such conspiracies.

At around 1 AM the Deputy Minister, the least drunk and least talkative of the bunch, bid the party farewell. With work in the morning she returned to her own bed and an older man with deep, knowing eyes. A little perk of the Central Office.

Story begins here. Lord N.’s strong forearm lounged around Athénaïs’ neck and across her shoulders. Down the slope of her nose she saw the scar from when Army surgeons had installed the metal plate.

His bone had been broken by shrapnel late in the War, already after he’d rescued her; after he had brought her into womanhood’s full bloom.

As the English sun warmed her cottage, she thought of how awful those days had been, without word of his health or whereabouts. The 19-year-old farm girl feared she had at once gained and lost the hero of her life.

Now in the dull, peaceful postwar, they lay together in her bed; the white sheets as warm and welcoming as her body was to his. On her bedside table was a picture of her lover at something closer to her own age: a dashing young subaltern, ramrod straight, with the colour of his regiment by his side.

Lady N. had never liked the photo and did not note its absence.

That morning, like most Sundays, they had spent making love: a single, slow-burning act of mutual indulgence that began in their waking moment.

The pink marks hen’d imposed on her curves were turning into bruises to mark her as his own. A little breeze ticked the soft hair between her hips, delicate nipples hardened on her sensitive, swollen breasts. On the inside of her thigh she felt the unhanded caress of his rich essence, its whiteness invisible on pale skin.

She looked up at him. He had not ceased gazing at the oak outside their window.

“Daddy”

She breathed heavily after she said it. Athénaïs was a shy young woman and it took courage for her to speak her mind.

He turned around and smiled considerately.

“What is it my darling?”

He sensed an unusual anxiety in her huge, captivating eyes. Athénaïs shifted her legs a little for comfort; a wetness spreading itself over the opposite thigh as warm flesh squeezed.

She drew a breath. The doctors had confirmed everything at any rate. She was young and healthy and she’d surely be alright.

Athénaïs felt his hand lift her chin. Lost in her cares, she hadn’t even realized her head had turned from his.

She saw her lover’s face: older, manly, but having not wholly lost the young subaltern’s elegance. The same brooding, almost sad eyes viewed her now.

“I-I’m going to give you a gift” she said, flashing an involuntary, nervous smile.

“A gift?”

“Yes, a gift.” Athénaïs disengaged from his body and moved opposite him on the bed, crossing her feet and gathering her knees in her arms. Now her smile was intentional and genuine.

He sat fully upright with quizzical look.

“Yes, a special one. In seven months. But you have to take good care of me until then.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, veeeeeeery good care. You need to keep me very warm and well-fed and happy.”

“And happy?”

He had wandered to her on hands and knees and took in her blushing cheeks. Her accent came out more and more distinctly, as it always did when she was excited about something.

Now she only smiled, giggling to herself from behind her kneecaps. He grabbed her by the shoulder and brought her down roughly on the pillow.

“I’m going to make you a daddy again, darling.” She said, her hands finding her way to her warm belly. “So you have to treat me very well.”

He did.

Inspired by this prompt by u/dazzlingsaraa

Dear Y/N - I know it’s exciting to be a single woman in the city. But as a longtime resident of the building, I must ask you to show greater respect to your neighbours.

I am glad you have a rich and fulfilling personal life, but how you feel about your lover(s) is not our concern. We do not need to know the speed at which they should be moving, or where, or why, or anything of your sudden plans to start a family.

In fact, we would prefer no screaming of any kind, especially more than once in a single day.

In case you find it helpful, I might suggest putting a pillow between your headboard and your bedroom wall. It’s an old sorority trick, and a would be a welcome change as my dining room is on the other side. I’m sorry to say but you’ve made it awkward for a few of our guests.

You should also know that I found security at your door the other day. They were concerned by the apparent sound of an altercation and your shouting that an unknown man - possibly your father - was “beating you up”. I was able to diffuse the situation but please be aware for future.

Yours,

Julia

PS The next time my husband is over, kindly remind him to keep quiet when he comes back to bed. I’m sensitive to noise as you can see.

Not sure exactly how to tag this since it’s third person fiction. Let me know what you folks think - maybe I’ll continue the series on this sub.

CHAPTER ONE

Edwina’s heavy breasts danced on her lithe frame before M. Her thin, tan, nineteen-year-old body had been warmed in that summer’s sun. It was almost time to return to her studies, but her mother had made one last arrangement. The little white hairs on Edwina’s forearms were standing on end. This was the second time she'd been with a man in a year. Her friends would be red with envy.

One of them, Cordelia, was standing beside her now: green eyes smiling beneath her long mops of red hair. She fondled her thin fingers between his legs and nibbled here and there on his shoulder.

M. liked her better, actually. She was carrying his child; a small but undeniable bump forming on her soft white stomach. He wanted to make love to her instead, right at this moment, right on Edwina's wide bed in Edwina’s room, but it would be bad form. It would cause a scandal.

Edwina’s mother Constanza was a woman of considerable influence. She lunched with senators and entertained the governors of Lunar Colonies on her palatial estate: a gift from the Commission to her own late mother for services rendered. It was Constanza who had arranged for M. to take her daughter’s virginity the previous year. That was the way respectable families did it.

It mattered, too. Being an "Endee" - that is, "Naturally Deflowered" - brought access to social circles to which many were excluded. Most, in fact. Through M.'s "kind consideration" late in the previous summer, Edwina was eligible to join the Cestus Society in her first year, which was just about the only way to become Steward before graduation. (A title Constanza, naturally, had held decades before.)

This deep divide ran though every aspect of life. Indeed by ancient custom a virgin, or - worse yet - a “Nonendee”, could not even watch as a man made love to one of her friends.

Three were such friends in Edwina’s room now: the black-haired Andrea, her dark eyes filled with sexual greed, and the two Adelinas (Davidson Fyfe and Johnson de Brogue). The room filled with the sound of longing wet flesh as they pleasured themselves to the sight. Andrea had a large, brown belly, in which was the offspring of one of M.'s boarding school friends, the incomparable N.

N. had gained quite a reputation in male circles after he fathered 300 children last year (and a son to boot). Andrea had arranged the liaison herself, almost unheard of for lady of 21. M. was jealous of that number, himself having only reached 50 last year and 61 the year before.

N. had few sets of twins, M. reassured himself. It was sort of like cheating. Besides, they had been in the same house at school. They exchanged cards on the appropriate holidays.

Cordelia was whispering sweet nothings into M.'s ear. Outside, all work in the residence had ground to a halt. Even the robotic cleaners sat idle, charging in their slots. The maids and footwomen stopped in their corridors, bent over on in almost religious submission, their foreheads bolted to the floor.

They were of another class altogether: watching their Commission-approved erotica and fingering each other in modest apartments late at night. With any luck and a good letter of reference, the Central Office would inject the appropriately chosen sperm cell into one of her eggs and produce another complacent, effective worker.

When the Act was occurring, a ritual silence reigned.

Constanza herself lounged in her sitting room, her secretary prostrate beside the divan. A figure appeared in the room: Michelle, the head chef.

Twenty years ago, Michelle had lost her virginity in a moment of raw, unthinking lust by a tall thin man with blonde hair. She could thus be at leisure while the Act was occurring. It fell to her, therefore, to alert the lady of the house.

“They’ve finished, ma’am.”

Constanza sat up slowly, graciously helping her secretary from her prostrate pose. She wondered if this time Edwina would conceive. It had been about ninety minutes.

“We shall need more time to prepare lunch, ma’am. We had kept the first course warm but I don’t think it would be much to anyone’s liking.”

“Very good, thank you. I’ll be down in half an hour.”

Constanza haunted M.’s memory ever since he met her at the house of Isabelle Peterson de Brogue, aunt of the second Adelina. She was thirty-five then, her supple caramel breasts exposed in her flowing dark dress (a hand-me-down from a former Third Commissioner). The ‘Minoan style’ was coming back into fashion then. Her long black hair was done up tightly around her head. Her brows hinted at an uncommon sensuality.

It was said that, in her prime, Constanza made love no less than once a week. That she’d selected him for her daughter was to M.’s great credit, even if he was behind N. on the scoreboard. His name appeared in society columns.

Constanza was sometimes asked by friends in government about the news that, of naturally-conceived children, the ratio had recently fallen from 1,000 girls to every boychild to just 998. Many of her intelligent friends, with their jobs in government departments, saw no problem with this. 999, at least, was acceptable.

For the archconservative Constanza that would not do. It should be 2,000 for all she cared. But if there were men, she would have them.

CHAPTER TWO

Edwina buried her face into M.'s chest. His scent seemed warm and comfortable to her; his musk casting her mind back to their first encounter nearly a year ago. No woman she knew smelled like that.

M. kissed her on the forehead.

"Can I come see you for the New Year?" She tilted her head up, smiling slightly.

He evaded answering with a long, slow congress of their lips. She loved them as she loved the sharp hinge of his jaw and his strong arms. Constanza had picked him for her daughter because she knew he was a considerate and cultured man. She had it on good authority.

Many in M.'s place would have already been on their way. There was a clang of rustic metals as Edwina's friends prepared the ritual bath that, for generations, had followed the Act in any respectable house. Andrea supervised carefully, rubbing her full belly with one hand and indicating with the other.

For generations, women like Constanza had controlled these strange male creatures with an offer of new, or less-frequented, women every night. On the whole they gladly accepted their "prison of flesh": sentenced to be toys in the bedrooms of the great and the good.

Something in their biology liked that. One wonders how we ever functioned half-male.

The two lovers rose and took their gowns. Edwina's friends, arranged by Andrea into a neat line, bowed in the customary manner. He nodded his head in return. Cordelia's lively green eyes met his. He swallowed a smile.

Walking awkwardly and with hints of pain, Edwina took him to his room. Even in those delicate post-coital moments, leaving a man with another woman was a terrible risk. The maids wouldn't be able to contain themselves.

"Write me, okay?" he said.

His hooded eyes, so often cunning, now seemed sincere.

"I will."

He would not see her again for many months. The rest of the day was strictly for her recovery.

M.'s corner room had a view of the magnificent walled garden. An unseen maid had already pressed his clothes.

Edwina at last relaxed a little as Adelina Johnson de Brogue poured warm rose water down her back. Andrea, having put on a brave face during her friend's long-awaited hour, was exhausted by the weight of her pregnant body and sat on the windowsill. (Sitting on the bed was, obviously, a faux pas after the Act).

Even at 21, Andrea was a demanding, forceful woman. But she looked out for her girls.

"Did you like it?" she asked. "I hope you will have a baby. I know you mother wants it so badly. And our kids would be friends. Only, what, six months apart?"

Edwina gripped the edge of the bath tub. Imperceptibly amid the splashes of water, a small tear welled in her eye.

For weeks she had looked forward to what had just occurred. The to-ing and fro-ing of the servants, her friends' considerate advice for "the second time": an excruciating mix of anticipation and dread had gnawed at her without end. Now it was all over; he was in the next room - probably forgetting all about it.

She had liked it all too much.

M., a paragon of virtue and honourable conduct, likewise realized it wasn't right for men to be escorted by servants. By any count that was a disaster waiting to happen.

After all, his old school friend N. - he whose child Andrea had so eagerly sought to bear - had not actually been the most fecund man of their graduating class in the previous year. Not even at 300 births. Because somewhere in a seaside industrial town - far from the dining rooms of respectable houses and the breasts of respectable ladies - lived R.

R. was an incorrigible and ferocious lover of the everyday women, practically grabbing them off the street as his blackened heart desired: seven, eight, sometimes nine at a time.

For the billions of females starved from birth of the masculine form - subjected to the authorized erotica and pleasured with subsidized toys - the chance to be with an actual, breathing man could not be turned down in a thousand lifetimes.

They called him a whore. It was true. There was no point denying. But the measures taken against him did not always work.

He had been arrested two years ago for causing a public disturbance. He was making love on a picturesque beachfront to two women in the middle of the day. The junior constables, so curious to see what the Act actually looked like, could not even bring themselves to apprehend him.

When he was jailed, by law, he had to be given five women a week. Anything else was cruelty to men and looked on unfavourably. The Prisons Bureau received seventeen million applications. It was easier to let him go.

327 - that was the official count from the previous year. And, scandal of scandals, it included a son, born to a mother conceived by Central Office sperm. The Deputy Minister had to get involved.

The table had been laid and the guests seated. At one end, beside Constanza, the same Deputy Minister sat. She was pushing fifty, with little streaks of white in her brown hair.

"I am most glad," she said, carefully cutting a small piece of Lunar salmon, "that the entire year was not so corrupt as he. This fellow seems nice."

Constanza half-nodded and half-smiled at the recognition of her good taste. The Deputy Minister, by the way, was a woman of insatiable appetites. She was known to have both a second and a third in her bedroom - roles Constanza had played more than once - and to bring as many as four of her friends to watch. In fact, inviting Beatrice Henderson Triviso to join her whenever Q. visited was probably the reason she became Deputy Minister in the first place.

Their hostess continued: "I think Edwina likes him a great deal. She wanted noone else this time. I doubt we've seen the last of him."

This much-admired young man sat far on the other end of the table. By protocol, his lover's second from the previous encounter was to his left. Happily for him, that meant Cordelia. He touched her thigh here and there under the table, pretending to adjust his napkin. She squeezed her toes with excitement.

To his right was Adelina Davidson Fyfe, who he was to be with that evening. He figured he'd make the best of it. She had blue eyes - partially heterochromatic like his - and a little button nose. Their gazes met intently. She too admired the contours of his mouth.

Even still M.’s mind wandered. He thought about Cordelia's hands on his body earlier that day. He longed to run his own fingers through her rich red hair. Damn it all, he would go to the Capital and lobby a Commissioner for the right to marry. Nobody had done that in half a decade, granted, but it was still on the books.

Constanza's dark, knowing eyes flashed at him from across the table. His hand jerked back from Cordelia's knee.

He would be good, for her.

Perhaps he'd get something in return.

CHAPTER THREE

The evening light flamed over her soft skin. Edwina had always loved these final gasps of summer. There was something bittersweet to them that seemed to match her present mood.

The town her mother owned was not far off and could be seen from the height of her window. A small community, about fifty thousand in all, she thought of the women who lived and worked there: long lives of joy and sorrow spent without ever seeing a man. People like her mother Constanza saw to that. Among the naturally conceived they were one in 1,000 - and that, in turn, was a minority of the species. The state did all in its power to erase the memory of men's existence from the minds of common women. A vanishingly small number would ever make love to one.

At nineteen, now, that had happened twice. The day-long convalescence afforded after the Act gave her chance to reflect and replay the events of that morning. They flashed eratically in her mind’s eye: his brooding eyes, the pain and pressure in her body, red-haired Cordelia holding her hand, a few intimate touches with his full lips, the warmth of the ritual bath.

A servant brought a champagne glass: the final ritual of an overly-busy day. She sat up in bed and drew a deep sip, placing it on her nightstand. As she took her hand from the stem, it felt as if her life belonged to her again, and no longer to custom.

In the drawing rooms of grand houses they complained of “Beauflation”. The cost of male visits, the rites and entertainments that attended to them, were simply becoming too high. In the Capital, the Sixth Commissioner was thought to have spent the entirety of her paid salary hosting lovers for herself and her daughters.

Time was an issue too. Edwina wondered how her mother had gotten anything done if she lost a day each week to the rituals of the Act. Well, if the rumours were true, of course, and she did used to have a man twice a fortnight. And so what if they were? Was it a bad thing for a woman to have a lot of sex in that kind of a world?

It was a sort of prejudice from before the Sorting, when men were nearly half the population. No, if her mother had a lot of sex as a younger woman that was *her* business. Edwina was the oldest of nine, after all, and probably more were on the way.

Her father was a rough man of whom she knew comparatively little. Already much older than her mother, Paul had long before sought the last true adventure on one of the Martian outposts. Most of the children conceived there - *naturally* conceived there - were her half siblings. She had been a curious child and sometimes looked up to see the Red Planet. Her grandmother would point it out to her in the night sky.

Sleep beckoned. Edwina pictured M., the sharp angle of his jaw as she'd seen it beside her this morning. Slowly she dozed off, confident they would meet again in her dreams: an imagined life together in a small, cozy house, as men and women used to have before the Sorting.

She hoped the champagne would be her last. She hoped he had left her with child.

CHAPTER FOUR

It shot through her body like lightning. An involuntary growl escaped Cordelia past tightly-gritted teeth. M.’s palm had come down heavily on her wide right cheek - one that shook already to the steady rhythm of his thrusts.

A pink mark stood out on her round pale flesh. His fingers traipsed downward to the back of her thigh, shaving off a little of her sweat. Just her scent was usually enough to arouse him. The wavy red hair he so admired radiated outwards from Cordelia’s pillow, its roots shifting back and forwards as her head absorbed her body’s shocks.

She spread her arms to the side and grabbed desperate handfuls of sheets. Cordelia as was totally lost in him as he was in her. Within Cordelia he felt the delicacy of her most intimate textures. He felt flashes of her tightest embrace.

Outside, down grand hallways and service corridors, maids and footwomen bent in awesome reverence of an Act they were forbidden to witness. Their heads were bolted to the floor. Their ears heard the rhythmic collisions of youthful flesh.

Cordelia and M. were, in a word, lovers. And of the truest kind. They wrote letters to each other that would be burned upon reading. They haunted each other’s dreams. They had little cute words that only the two of them used.

But too much favouritism to a particular girl was frowned upon in this man-starved world. There was always the fear they might would want to “settle down”, as was done before the Sorting. And if you let men abandon their natural role not only would there too be few to go round, but they would next start to seek employment. And that truly would not do.

Isabelle Peterson de Brogue was never one to mince words. For that she was either loved or hated: it had certainly cost her the prominence afforded to friends like Constanza Edwinson Rosetti. But it endeared her to her own little circle.

“The idea is absurd,” she had said, a little drunk, at a recent reception. “Men don’t know the first thing about running a department or an office job. No, the should remain in our homes and look handsome, shouldn’t they, N.?”

She squeezed him a little under his dinner jacket. It wasn’t strictly appropriate, especially before others, but a worldly woman was known to do it now and then. N. smiled graciously, raising his glass

“Only if I can be in your home from time to time, dear Isabelle”.

Polite laughter followed. As always, he had defused the situation. The conversation moved to news of the latest Martian outpost.

Isabelle now sat watching passion blossom between the two young paramours. Beside her, pleasuring themselves with deep and furious yearning, were two women also nearing forty. One had not had a man in over three years. Isabelle thought she’d throw her a bone.

Isabelle loved observing the male form at work. She loved M.’s elegant, thin body that bespoke his blooming youth. She loved seeing his face contort in pleasure. She loved how his hair flopped over a sweaty brow.

Did she approve of his playing favourites? Of course not, not officially anyway. But she liked a good show when she could get it, and she knew these two would be impeccable. It was the next best thing to having a man herself.

Within the hearts and between the thighs of the women who ruled humanity’s vast imperium, many desires festered to which none could ever admit. Most had thought, at least once, about living with a favoured lover in the time before the Sorting. They read old books by Bronte and Austen where a single man and single woman fell deeply and exclusively in love. Some had ten or twelve children by one sole father, but there was always a surface-level excuse.

The caramel-skinned Andrea was acting as Cordelia’s second, uttering words of reassurance to her friend. With one hand she rubbed the redhead’s shoulder while the other nudged M. back and forward, her palm resting gently on his buttocks. Between them a was suspended sublimely full belly. She’d had the doctors delay labour to attend the event.

Then, she whispered something in M’s ear. His eyes lit up, his mouth opened. He buckled, sinking his hands into Cordelia’s hips. His knees bent a little.

Isabelle smiled at the sight of it. Her friends repaid her richly for inviting them. In a few days, half of society seemed to know what Andrea had said.

Story begins here. His broad desk felt cold on her naked skin. Gooseflesh was stiffening on Athénaïs soft, pale frame. She supported herself, half upright, clinging to Lord N.’s neck. Out a tall window, she could see a broad swath of the City of Westminster; its stately facades passed indifferently by cabbies and passengers both.

She had never been in his office. That morning, she’d received a call at her Islington flat from Mrs. Thenwick. She said Lord N. had a free space in his schedule and wanted to take his French lesson promptly at 1.

Something in that encounter reflected the pace of urban life.

In the country Lord N. was slow, confident: considerate if rough and dominating.

Here, as in his work life, he was simply in command.

Athénaïs clothes lay in a confused pile some feet from his desk. He had practically ripped them off her mere seconds before and she walked, nude and barefoot, to where her flesh would meet his.

Her body opened to him in all its splendour as he pushed her wide thighs back. Athénaïs sturdy calves bent in the air to either side.

Neither needed further enticements. Yearning for his own satiation, he brought himself to the petals of her flower. It was a torturous moment. She felt him move oh-so-slightly further, placing himself temptingly in the threshold of her deep, yearning expanse.

Athénaïs used the only weapon at remaining at her disposal and looked up with her massive doe eyes.

“I’m ready for the lesson, my lord,” she pleaded. “Except this time, you have to teach me.”

With a single, knowing thrust he forced himself inside her. She swallowed a shout and it came out as a low growl. She worried about Mrs. Thenwick hearing.

Athénaïs felt him move powerfully within her. She felt the sharp angle from which he thrust. She liked him there, just there, at a secret spot on the ceiling of her inner refuge. Lord N. enjoyed finding it with his fingers when he explored his lover’s body on a summer’s day. It was like a button that commanded her to whimper.

Now, he thrust against it with his full, masculine strength. The pleasure seemed to flow upwards from that spot and emerge from her mouth as unscrupulous moans. He took a hand off her right thigh and covered her lips.

It broke her. She crashed down, painfully; her lower back hitting the broad, sturdy desk top as the contractions within her seized. Her head hung upside down past the other edge, red cheeks flushing, as she gazed at the door. Her hands alone now kept her from falling over.

Her breasts had been tender for a few days. It was painful as they threw their hefty weight around on her chest. He noticed they were also swollen, probably the largest he had ever seen. With immense hunger grabbed them, at first roughly, then with a nipple between his two big fingers as he supported her flesh with his palm.

Her head being on the other side, Lord N. could no longer silence her. Athénaïs’ misfiring brain could hardly generate a word of English, and let out a stream of disjointed French. Hopefully that would answer his secretary’s doubts.

One thought, however, was strong enough to present itself: should she tell him now?

No.

Let him think he still has to try.

Inspired by this prompt by u/QuirkForCurves. A car door slammed in the parking lot. On the rough sheets of a motel bed, Bella was too immersed to care. A pair of soft, experienced lips were making their way up the inside of her thigh. In the warm space between her legs, a little stubble stood on end: an intimate reminder of the suddenness with which they’d met. Her limbs had the colour of creamy morning coffee in a frigid house.

Cole lived with a suicide bomber, of sorts anyhow. He was a military engineer in a past life and knew something of explosives. But nothing could prepare him for the stress of unlocking his own apartment door. At least at work, HR told you not to throw things.

She greedily drank his lips into hers. It had been so long. Bella began rubbing her caramel belly that glowed with feminine softness.

She had been so happy at first. But within weeks of the news her husband had lost interest completely. Night after night he rebuffed her advances. There was not a stretch mark on her body, and she’d gained unusually little weight. Not that those would be any excuse. But Bella's husband was simply indifferent.

Whatever happened tonight, he deserved it.

Cole’s hand joined hers at the bottom of her round stomach. He followed its graceful curve.

“I know you’ll be a great mom”

Her thin, dark eyes smiled a little. She curved her black bangs back as she kissed him deeper still.

His hands changed direction, descending the maternal slope of her belly to the point his mouth had left off.

She grabbed Cole’s wrist.

“I know you want me,” Bella said, thumbing the line of his arched eyebrow. “It's been too long for both of us. Let's just do it now.”

The lovers readjusted: awkwardly, but in a sincere, intimate way. They were already comfortable with eachother.

Deep within her, Bella felt a presence in places abandoned too long. With gentle, careful thrusts, he unfolded the aching recesses of her body. He moved slowly, one inch at a time, to avoid discomfort. She was delicate in this moment.

In a minute, he had filled her completely. Bella bit her lower lip as her eyelids sealed shut.

"If you miss this," she whispered, as if in her own bedroom "you can come see me any time. I'll be yours whenever you need."

"Whenever?"

She ran her finger down his chest. That was a "yes".

Note: This is the third part of a story that begins here

She moaned slowly, almost humming. Athénaïs glanced down. Lord N.’s head swayed gently over her heavy right breast; the other he caressed with a free hand. He had a full head of hair still: lost neither to age nor the War nor the cares of public life. She loved it, messy and un-styled, on slow mornings like these.

She felt his tongue move in leisurely circles, both its soft bottom and rough top. She loved the warm feeling of her breast being pulled into his passionate mouth. She loved that he loved her.

For half an hour they had lain like this. Between her legs, Athénaïs was in agony. An excruciating lack of satiation, a river of sexual yearning. But he wouldn’t touch her there. Not yet. Sometimes his fingers joined hers, sometimes they explored the soft, feminine curves of her waiting body, sometimes they grasped her throat as if to choke her.

At last he teased the hair that crowned the bottom of her torso. Her white toes wiggled, her fingers seized.

She loved how he adored her breasts, how he kissed them, how for thirty minutes he had consumed them as his morning meal. She loved how he hung them in his study in that scandalous portrait. She wondered if Lady N. knew.

Athénaïs was in love with this moment, but her longing for his body only grew. She lifted his chin with a delicate finger.

“Won’t you make love to me, darling? Like you did last time?”

His grave eyes fired with determination. He knew what “last time” meant. He knew the Rubicon had been crossed.

He unfolded her, returning to claim the place of his desires.

Athénaïs body received him as its long-awaited hero. She opened the deepest parts of her sanctuary for his pleasure. She always did.

Athénaïs lost herself in the feeling of fullness and of pressure, the jiggle of her breasts and pale thighs. She loved how his hips slowly met her skin, their flesh joining in a perfect, practiced rhythm. She grabbed the small of his back as if to welcome him into her more deeply, twisting her torso to fondle between his sturdy legs.

Then again the flush of her red cheeks, a mutual panting, the buckling of her stomach and an intimate quiver. He exhaled deeply. She felt within her as he showered her with gifts. It was only the second time.

Lord N. withdrew, exhausted, almost vulnerable. He placed his head on her soft stomach. She ran her languid fingers through his hair.

Athénaïs looked around the cottage he had bought for her - furnished at great cost with his immaculate taste. It was as cosy as any house she had ever seen, private and intimate. Downstairs the kitchen looked out on an English garden, well-tended by the previous tenants. She imagined raising his child here, the little lord running beneath the sturdy oak in which Athénaïs saw an image of her lover.

That would be a life worth living.

The evening light flamed over her soft skin. Edwina had always loved these final gasps of summer. There was something bittersweet to them that seemed to match her present mood.

The town her mother owned was not far off and could be seen from the height of her window. A small community, about fifty thousand in all, she thought of the women who lived and worked there: long lives of joy and sorrow spent without ever seeing a man. People like her mother Constanza saw to that. Among the naturally conceived they were one in 1,000 - and that, in turn, was a minority of the species. The state did all in its power to erase the memory of men's existence from the minds of common women. A vanishingly small number would ever make love to one.

At nineteen, now, that had happened twice. The day-long convalescence afforded after the Act gave her chance to reflect and replay the events of that morning. They flashed eratically in her mind’s eye: his brooding eyes, the pain and pressure in her body, red-haired Cordelia holding her hand, a few intimate touches with his full lips, the warmth of the ritual bath.

A servant brought a champagne glass: the final ritual of an overly-busy day. She sat up in bed and drew a deep sip, placing it on her nightstand. As she took her hand from the stem, it felt as if her life belonged to her again, and no longer to custom.

In the drawing rooms of grand houses they complained of “Beauflation”. The cost of male visits, the rites and entertainments that attended to them, were simply becoming too high. In the Capital, the Sixth Commissioner was thought to have spent the entirety of her paid salary hosting lovers for herself and her daughters.

Time was an issue too. Edwina wondered how her mother had gotten anything done if she lost a day each week to the rituals of the Act. Well, if the rumours were true, of course, and she did used to have a man twice a fortnight. And so what if they were? Was it a bad thing for a woman to have a lot of sex in that kind of a world?

It was a sort of prejudice from before the Sorting, when men were nearly half the population. No, if her mother had a lot of sex as a younger woman that was *her* business. Edwina was the oldest of nine, after all, and probably more were on the way.

Her father was a rough man of whom she knew comparatively little. Already much older than her mother, Paul had long before sought the last true adventure on one of the Martian outposts. Most of the children conceived there - *naturally* conceived there - were her half siblings. She had been a curious child and sometimes looked up to see the Red Planet. Her grandmother would point it out to her in the night sky.

Sleep beckoned. Edwina pictured M., the sharp angle of his jaw as she'd seen it beside her this morning. Slowly she dozed off, confident they would meet again in her dreams: an imagined life together in a small, cozy house, as men and women used to have before the Sorting.

She hoped the champagne would be her last. She hoped he had left her with child.

Note: the story begins here, inspired by the prompt: “World peace was surprisingly easy to achieve once gene manipulation all but eliminated the occurrence of male babies. The few that did occur were kept too busy as breeding stock to cause much trouble.”

Edit: a continuation of this story, inspired by u/JaeWritesDirtyThings’ prompt. The last one went over well. Please let me know what you think.

Edwina buried her face into M.'s chest. His scent seemed warm and comfortable to her; his musk casting her mind back to their first encounter nearly a year ago. No woman she knew smelled like that.

M. kissed her on the forehead.

"Can I come see you for the New Year?" She tilted her head up, smiling slightly.

He evaded answering with a long, slow congress of their lips. She loved them as she loved the sharp hinge of his jaw and his strong arms. Constanza had picked him for her daughter because she knew he was a considerate and cultured man. She had it on good authority.

Many in M.'s place would have already been on their way. There was a clang of rustic metals as Edwina's friends prepared the ritual bath that, for generations, had followed the Act in any respectable house. Andrea supervised carefully, rubbing her full belly with one hand and indicating with the other.

For generations, women like Constanza had controlled these strange male creatures with an offer of new, or less-frequented, women every night. On the whole they gladly accepted their "prison of flesh": sentenced to be toys in the bedrooms of the great and the good.

Something in their biology liked that. One wonders how we ever functioned half-male.

The two lovers rose and took their gowns. Edwina's friends, arranged by Andrea into a neat line, bowed in the customary manner. He nodded his head in return. Cordelia's lively green eyes met his. He swallowed a smile.

Walking awkwardly and with hints of pain, Edwina took him to his room. Even in those delicate post-coital moments, leaving a man with another woman was a terrible risk. The maids wouldn't be able to contain themselves.

"Write me, okay?" he said.

His hooded eyes, so often cunning, now seemed sincere.

"I will."

He would not see her again for many months. The rest of the day was strictly for her recovery.

M.'s corner room had a view of the magnificent walled garden. An unseen maid had already pressed his clothes.

Edwina at last relaxed a little as Adelina Johnson de Brogue poured warm rose water down her back. Andrea, having put on a brave face during her friend's long-awaited hour, was exhausted by the weight of her pregnant body and sat on the windowsill. (Sitting on the bed was, obviously, a faux pas after the Act).

Even at 21, Andrea was a demanding, forceful woman. But she looked out for her girls.

"Did you like it?" she asked. "I hope you will have a baby. I know you mother wants it so badly. And our kids would be friends. Only, what, six months apart?"

Edwina gripped the edge of the bath tub. Imperceptibly amid the splashes of water, a small tear welled in her eye.

For weeks she had looked forward to what had just occurred. The to-ing and fro-ing of the servants, her friends' considerate advice for "the second time": an excruciating mix of anticipation and dread had gnawed at her without end. Now it was all over; he was in the next room - probably forgetting all about it.

She had liked it all too much.

M., a paragon of virtue and honourable conduct, likewise realized it wasn't right for men to be escorted by servants. By any count that was a disaster waiting to happen.

After all, his old school friend N. - he whose child Andrea had so eagerly sought to bear - had not actually been the most fecund man of their graduating class in the previous year. Not even at 300 births. Because somewhere on a seaside industrial town - far from the dining rooms of respectable houses and the breasts of respectable ladies - lived R.

R. was an incorrigible and ferocious lover of the everyday women, practically grabbing them off the street as his blackened heart desired: seven, eight, sometimes nine at a time.

For the billions of females starved from birth of the masculine form - subjected to the authorized erotica and pleasured with subsidized toys - the chance to be with an actual, breathing man could not be turned down in a thousand lifetimes.

They called him a whore. It was true. There was no point denying. But the measures taken against him did not always work.

He had been arrested two years ago for causing a public disturbance. He was making love on a picturesque beachfront to two women in the middle of the day. The junior constables, so curious to see what the Act actually looked like, could not even bring themselves to apprehend him.

When he was jailed, by law, he had to be given five women a week. Anything else was cruelty to men and looked on unfavourably. The Prisons Bureau received seventeen million applications. It was easier to let him go.

327 - that was the official count from the previous year. And, scandal of scandals, it included a son, born to a mother conceived by Central Office sperm. The Deputy Minister had to get involved.

The table had been laid and the guests seated. At one end, beside Constanza, the same Deputy Minister sat. She was pushing fifty, with little streaks of white in her brown hair.

"I am most glad," she said, carefully cutting a small piece of Lunar salmon, "that the entire year was not so corrupt as he. This fellow seems nice."

Constanza half-nodded and half-smiled at the recognition of her good taste. The Deputy Minister, by the way, was a woman of insatiable appetites. She was known to have both a second and a third in her bedroom - roles Constanza had played more than once - and to bring as many as four of her friends to watch. In fact, inviting Beatrice Henderson Triviso to join her whenever Q. visited was probably the reason she became Deputy Minister in the first place.

Their hostess continued: "I think Edwina likes him a great deal. She wanted noone else this time. I doubt we've seen the last of him."

This much-admired young man sat far on the other end of the table. By protocol, his lover's second from the previous encounter was to his left. Happily for him, that meant Cordelia. He touched her thigh here and there under the table, pretending to adjust his napkin. She squeezed her toes with excitement.

To his right was Adelina Davidson Fyfe, who he was to be with that evening. He figured he'd make the best of it. She had blue eyes - partially heterochromatic like his - and a little button nose. Their gazes met intently. She too admired the contours of his mouth.

Even still M's mind wandered. He thought about Cordelia's hands on his body earlier that day. He longed to run his own fingers through her rich red hair. Damn it all, he would go to the Capital and lobby a Commissioner for the right to marry. Nobody had done that in half a decade, granted, but it was still on the books.

Constanza's dark, knowing eyes flashed at him from across the table. His hand jerked back from Cordelia's knee.

He would be good, for her.

Perhaps he'd get something in return.

Inspired by this post by u/JaeWritesDirtyThings. I welcome any comments or feedback.

Edwina’s heavy breasts danced on her lithe frame before M. Her thin, tan, nineteen-year-old body had been warmed in that summer’s sun. It was almost time to return to her studies, but her mother had made one last arrangement. The little white hairs on Edwina’s forearms were standing on end. This was the second time she'd been with a man in a year. Her friends would be red with envy.

One of them, Cordelia, was standing beside her now: green eyes smiling beneath her long mops of red hair. She fondled her thin fingers between his legs and nibbled here and there on his shoulder.

M. liked her better, actually. She was carrying his child; a small but undeniable bump forming on her soft white stomach. He wanted to make love to her instead, right at this moment, right on Edwina's wide bed in Edwina’s room, but it would be bad form. It would cause a scandal.

Edwina’s mother Constanza was a woman of considerable influence. She lunched with senators and entertained the governors of Lunar Colonies on her palatial estate: a gift from the Commission to her own late mother for services rendered. It was Constanza who had arranged for M. to take her daughter’s virginity the previous year. That was the way respectable families did it.

It mattered, too. Being an "Endee" - that is, "Naturally Deflowered" - brought access to social circles to which many were excluded. Most, in fact. Through M.'s "kind consideration" late in the previous summer, Edwina was eligible to join the Cestus Society in her first year, which was just about the only way to become Steward before graduation. (A title Constanza, naturally, had held decades before.)

This deep divide ran though every aspect of life. Indeed by ancient custom a virgin, or - worse yet - a “Nonendee”, could not even watch as a man made love to one of her friends.

Three were such friends in Edwina’s room now: the black-haired Andrea, her dark eyes filled with sexual greed, and the two Adelinas (Davidson Fyfe and Johnson de Brogue). The room filled with the sound of longing wet flesh as they pleasured themselves to the sight. Andrea had a large, brown belly, in which was the offspring of one of M.'s boarding school friends, the incomparable N.

N. had gained quite a reputation in male circles after he fathered 300 children last year (and a son to boot). Andrea had arranged the liaison herself, almost unheard of for lady of 21. M. was jealous of that number, himself having only reached 50 last year and 61 the year before.

N. had few sets of twins, M. reassured himself. It was sort of like cheating. Besides, they had been in the same house at school. They exchanged cards on the appropriate holidays.

Cordelia was whispering sweet nothings into M.'s ear. Outside, all work in the residence had ground to a halt. Even the robotic cleaners sat idle, charging in their slots. The maids and footwomen stopped in their corridors, bent over on in almost religious submission, their foreheads bolted to the floor.

They were of another class altogether: watching their Commission-approved erotica and fingering each other in modest apartments late at night. With any luck and a good letter of reference, the Central Office would inject the appropriately chosen sperm cell into one of her eggs and produce another complacent, effective worker.

When the Act was occurring, a ritual silence reigned.

Constanza herself lounged in her sitting room, her secretary prostrate beside the divan. A figure appeared in the room: Michelle, the head chef.

Twenty years ago, Michelle had lost her virginity in a moment of raw, unthinking lust by a tall thin man with blonde hair. She could thus be at leisure while the Act was occurring. It fell to her, therefore, to alert the lady of the house.

“They’ve finished, ma’am.”

Constanza sat up slowly, graciously helping her secretary from her prostrate pose. She wondered if this time Edwina would conceive. It had been about ninety minutes.

“We shall need more time to prepare lunch, ma’am. We had kept the first course warm but I don’t think it would be much to anyone’s liking.”

“Very good, thank you. I’ll be down in half an hour.”

Constanza haunted M.’s memory ever since he met her at the house of Isabelle Peterson de Brogue, aunt of the second Adelina. She was thirty-five then, her supple caramel breasts exposed in her flowing dark dress (a hand-me-down from a former Third Commissioner). The ‘Minoan style’ was coming back into fashion then. Her long black hair was done up tightly around her head. Her brows hinted at an uncommon sensuality.

It was said that, in her prime, Constanza made love no less than once a week. That she’d selected him for her daughter was to M.’s great credit, even if he was behind N. on the scoreboard. His name appeared in society columns.

Constanza was sometimes asked by friends in government about the news that, of naturally-conceived children, the ratio had recently fallen from 1,000 girls to every boychild to just 998. Many of her intelligent friends, with their jobs in government departments, saw no problem with this. 999, at least, was acceptable.

For the archconservative Constanza that would not do. It should be 2,000 for all she cared. But if there were men, she would have them.

Edit: Continues here

This is the second part in a series, which begins here. I welcome any thoughts or criticism.

Athénaïs whimpered, her mouth agape. Lying sideways on Lord N.'s bed, her thick left thigh was lifted into the air. She felt the ripples through her supple flesh as his knowing body clashed with hers. Her heavy breasts - immortalized in the scandalous painting in his study - slumped towards the bedsheets. He watched greedily as they shook.

She knew he still made love to Lady N. Regularly, even - why else had she had two pregnancies since the end of the War? His sperm was good, Athénaïs was certain. And his wife got her share of it.

But she, she was the real winner. What he did with Lady N. was out of duty: that strange semi-religious instinct that animated so much of his life. When he was with his Athénaïs, he was in love.

And she loved being his. She loved how he gripped her curly brown hair tightly in his fingers, how he jerked her head back at just the right moment. She loved how his hands came down on her heavy, round behind so she'd see bruises in the mirror the following day. She loved how he slapped her, how he threw her body around like a doll. His doll.

She became drunk with lust when she was with him. When they parted, it was like a hangover. But she always, always came back.

"Harder," she breathed. He obliged. She wondered if there was a man his age in England with such stamina.

"I love you," she screamed: "I lo-o-o-o-ve you!" Her voice shook with every jolt from his hips. Later she wondered if the servants might have heard.

Then, he drew himself back and flipped her on to her front. He forced her legs apart and slid into her forcefully from behind. Lying there on her stomach she felt blessedly full. He reached around to grip her heavy breasts. He squeezed them to the point of pain.

Somehow, she intuited he would not pull out. She didn't know how she knew this. Instinct, you'd suppose.

His hands emerged from under her. He held his torso up with one arm, and with the other roughly pulled her hair back. Her face lifted from the pillow. Her doe eyes burst open and her broad red cheeks glowed.

His strokes slowed, and she felt the heavy mass of her butt shift slightly forward with each new push. Her body was filling with what she felt was a warm, loving gift. It was the first time in three years he had done so. Such was his sense of duty to his wife.

Perhaps he had a duty to her too.

"Have you left a little lord inside me?" she asked.

Neither responded, but both hoped he had.

Lord N. was said to have the finest eye in England. His study, along with the rest of the House, had of course been inherited from his father, but the late Viscount also had such immaculate taste that his son found almost nothing to change. 

There was a small portrait of King H. hanging just beside the eighteenth century writing desk. The family name was Fitzroy, and the male line traced its origins to him: illegitimately, of course, but after half a millennium not even the strictest moralists seemed to care.

Only one subtle detail differentiated the room from how it had looked in his father’s day: a painting of a nude torso that hung over one of the bookshelves. It was a soft, supple, feminine figure: better resembling the artists’ models of the nineteenth century than the fashionable ladies of the twentieth.

Two large pear-shaped breasts sat three-fifths up the canvas, their heaviness drawing the viewer in as if by their own gravity. The nipples were soft and pink and looked directly out of the frame; slightly oval-shaped but elegantly round. She was seated on a couch, an open window was implied.

It had been commissioned a year prior in 1946, and its thick brushstrokes and sharp modern tones almost made it stand out in that dark Georgian study. Almost, but not quite. Lord N. knew just where to put it.

Someone knocked the first bar of the Marseillaise on the door. Athénaïs was here.

She looked a bit clumsy in her outfit, a defiantly womanly form screaming from beneath the oppressive brown fabric. Her hair was curled under a small hat.

“Lady N. is not in town?”

“She’ll be coming down from London with my mother. We have a few days.”

She stepped into the study. They kissed. She stood only about five feet even and he had to bend down, chivalrous as he always was. She loved the sight of his large, masculine forehead, and dark hair elegantly combed back. He grabbed her tightly by the upper arms, her hands lifting themselves a little into the air.

Three years earlier another man had tried to grab her like that. She hadn’t liked it. And neither had Major Fitzroy. It was unusual for an officer of his rank to have gone hand to hand with an SS man, even at the height of the war in France, but so it was. She was saved. His duty was done.

They gave him the MC before the whole thing wrapped, though not for saving that doe-eyed French girl.

Those doe eyes looked into his now. Her body had become his playground, his refuge away from the cares of public life. Undressed now on his upholstered chair, she crossed her legs with a knowing smirk. Her thick thighs had survived the years of rationing. He was grateful for that.

With one delicate hand she began fondling his balls, smiling. Then she brought her mouth to the tip of his member.

He grabbed both sides of her head firmly by the curls and moved her to his whim. Then he pulled her back, a little string of precum still connecting him to her lower lip. She smiled at him.

“You know what I want, darling”

Athénaïs stood and gently gave her lover space on the leather. Then, slowly, seductively, placed him inside her, her wide cheeks resting on his lap.

It was always hard to accept him into that tight space where no other man had been. Her strong thighs moved her body slowly up and down, then faster, then faster.

Her full weight smacked against him again and again. The whole train ride she had longed for this moment. She had thought of his handsome features and strong hands that now gripped her firmly by the hips.

She was doing everything wrong. In the study of a respectable married man, a war hero even, she was doing something thought immoral. But she didn’t care. She felt safe like nowhere else on earth.

At the right moment she stood, turned around, and placed his dick between her full, supple breasts - pushing in with a fist on either end. She felt the hot spurts hit the bottom of her chin, the thick white drops dripping down on to her nipples.

The same breasts were in the painting on the bookshelf. But nobody had to know.

The midday sun flooded the penthouse, splashing its walls brightly with warmth. Unfinished coffees sat on the countertop: two matching espresso cups with subtle gilt rims.

The whole apartment bore the imprint of the woman who for some time had made it her home. A few abstract paintings hung on the wall, sharing space with houseplants meticulously groomed. A nude miniature stood in one corner, backlit by a tall window that overlooked downtown. Headless like the Venus de Milo, it was the owner herself, though only she and the sculptor knew.

The young man by now had gotten his cue. Any illusions of this being a mere coffee date had long been dispelled. When they first met that morning she had dressed seductively: a tight-fitting tracksuit hugging her curves, caramel skin peeking out between her shirt and leggings.

She was a short woman, but knew how to make every centimetre count.

She admired the younger man’s stern, oval face - mature somehow beyond its time, and crowned by thick, light brown hair that fell boyishly over his forehead. His eyes were a piercing blue.

Her back was to him as she took off her top, a black bob cut bouncing as it fell back into place. She turned around and caressed his face from its high cheekbone. She knew what she wanted.

As did he. She unbuckled her bra and a heap of lace formed on the floor.

“Do you like them?”

There was no insecurity in that question. She knew damn well.

Her small, brown nipples became the objects of his affection. Her breasts were firm and shapely and sat well on her small frame. She exhaled deeply, running her fingers through his hair as he sucked.

At thirty, she had come to know some things.

She walked him into the bedroom. He pushed her on to the mattress and for a fraction of a second her composure was lost.

She regained it but her desire intensified.

“Are you going to fuck me?”

What a question. If every cell in his brain told him to walk away now he still wouldn’t be able. He pushed her again and pinned her on the bed, kissing passionately with his full lips.

It was she who undressed him: slowly and deliberately unbuttoning his shirt as her hands ran up and down his torso. Together they glimpsed the blue expanse of the harbour out of the corners of their eyes. It was an inspiring view. She loved it. Now, with this newly-discovered twenty-six-year-old, she was on home turf.

In time, all that remained was her black lace underwear - but that was for him to remove. He reached instead under the thin veil of fabric and felt between her legs. She was already wet. With two fingers he teased her on either side of her longing slit.

She was impressed. She slid the panties off herself, forgetting her earlier desire. She was as naked as her statue, reclining: the prize of all prizes.

In his fierce eyes, she saw he was dying to fuck her. In one last effort to keep the upper hand, she pushed him lightly and got on her at on the edge of the bed, her calves protruding over the side. It would now be on her terms. She arched her back.

She was a magnificent sight. Her petite curves, her cheeks at once soft and almost impossibly round, gave the appearance of fertility idol. He was there to worship.

The mature young man asked the customary question:

“Do you have a condom?”

A pause.

“Yes but if you want to fuck me it has to be without it”

A moment’s thought. That caution that reflected the sort of man he was, even with the temptation before him. But stronger lusts prevailed.

He grabbed her narrow waist with one hand, and with the other glided himself into the woman that had so longed for this moment.

He began to thrust. She luxuriated in every stroke, feeling his hard, veiny member conquer the deepest and most intimate part of her body. She wanted to give herself to him in her entirety.

Inside her was a tight, warm sanctuary. Every so often her walls would give a little squeeze of heightened pleasure as the young man used her body as his toy.

The two lovers lost track of time, and virtually of space as well. As his balls smacked against her labia she felt sublimely full; half-gasping, half-moaning as she gripped her immaculate white sheets.

The sound of his flesh hitting hers, rhythmic and determined, filled the whole apartment. Suddenly, he felt a spasm of ecstasy around his raw member, her wet walls quivering with pleasure. He had done it. She groaned.

Endurance was never the young man’s problem. But even he knew his fuse was burning short. He felt the rich texture of her pussy against his skin. Deep in his loins, the pressure began to build.

It was as if they were connected, as if one continuous string ran through them, starting in the globes that hung between his legs and ending in the tips of her fingers. Something now joined them, and she intuited what his body was doing.

“Fucking cum in me” she screamed.

This time, the careful young man had no thoughts. He only went faster, holding her tightly to the point of pain.

“Please, please, cum in me…”

Everything seemed to stop for him. He buried himself deep in her soft body. The rush of his seed overwhelmed him, almost too much to bear. He squeezed her harder still.

Then she felt him throb inside her, unloading days’ worth of his precious sperm. In a moment he was thoroughly empty. She had won.

A smile formed on her face as a strand of her black hair covered her eye. She lay there with her head on the bed.

Later, she would sit in that very place on just such afternoons: drinking coffee and waiting for him to visit; watching the ships on the blue harbour as she rubbed her round belly full of life.

Edit: This is the start of a series. Part II can be found here.