Womb of the New World
Chapter 2
I walk the warrens as soon as morning comes – our bodies will forever sense it, although we rarely see it. There are slender shafts here and there throughout the damo. The little sun you see is gratifying, but is often bittersweet. Who wants to touch a beam of sunlight, knowing that you can never run beneath it through the trees?
“Imogenne, wait!”
Rolley Mafkar approaches, belonging to a small clan who joined my mother’s ten years ago. I grew up with Rolley, and he’s a handsome one, always charming the girls as he makes his way back and forth through the warrens. He guards for one round of the day, and carries heavy things the other, moving wood or buckets of water from the spring. This gives him firm, strong muscles.
“You move fast, for a girl,” he gasps, catching up to me and bending over to brace his hands on his knees.
“You move slow, for a runner,” I respond tartly, and he grins at me, looking up from his position. He has always made my body tighten and soften, and it happens now. The moment it happens, he knows it. A dark look crosses his face. My nipples are hard at the sensation of his eyes on me, and there is nothing I can do about it.
“Are you going to the fields?” He straightens, staying where he is, but in his stance is the aggressive male that knows every inch of my skin and how to play it.
Sometimes I resent this, and I clear my throat, looking around. Children are running around the corner toward us, and I back away so that they can make their way through. I ignore his eyes boring into me, and nod, briefly.
“I’m off for an hour,” he says, low, and I say nothing, walking swiftly away down the twisting paths.
He follows, and we emerge into a dim room, lit thinly from above by a web of naturally perforated sandstone. At the center of the room is a small, circular natural spring, and at the rear, nestled behind tall boulders, is a niche in the back wall. Before that wall, rising and falling in random rock peaks that pierce the shallow water, are yards of white mushrooms.
This place is called the Mushroom Fields, and Rolley and I have been meeting in the space behind the hidden boulders since I was thirteen. I strike firmly across the shallow spring, hopping easily back and forth across the peaks and valleys of the room’s uneven floor.
Rolley launches himself across, making up in stamina for what he lacks in grace. When we reach the other side, he yanks me into the hidden alcove, and presses me up hard against the rocks. My buttocks press back into the crevices, hurting.
“I haven’t seen you in days,” he says, fiercely, locking his eyes on mine and forcing me to face him.
“I haven’t felt well.” I pull my eyes away and trail them down the strong hard line of his neck. The tendons stretch as he swallows, and I part my lips, feeling a strange metallic taste fill my mouth. I have a strong urge to bite him.
“I’ve heard your father wants to marry you off to Balwar Vojis. Is it true?”
It was, but I say nothing, arching my neck and pressing my hot breasts against him. He is so firm and warm, and I rub, feeling my flesh smash and soften against his. The line of his jaw tightens, but in his eyes the hunger can’t lie.
“Are you going to talk or are you going to use your hour?” I let my voice grow husky, reaching down with a hand to cup his groin. It throbs full and heavy in answer, and I smile at him, biting the corner of my lip and giving him a rough wiggle of my flesh against his.
“Helut, Immy, answer the question!” Rolley juts his chin forward, blue eyes fierce and demanding.
He has always pressed me, never believing I couldn’t love him. And I honestly don’t know why I don’t. He seems perfect, in every way, except that I simply don’t want him.
“Rolley, I can’t make my father do anything differently than he wills it. Not even Helut can do that.”
He exhales angrily, nostrils flaring red, and I give him a false smile, and fall back against the rock, waiting. The tirade will end, and he’ll forget it.
“So you’ll do it. You’ll marry Balwar.”
“I’ve evaded marriage as long as I can. So far, it’s only a promising. I can get away with avoiding the actual bonding for at least another year or two. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“I don’t want borrowed time.” He leans in snarling, and I look up at him, startled.
“What do you want?” I shouldn’t have asked this.
But he automatically assumes it means I’m his. His eyes soften, and he brushes his lips across mine, easing them open. I sigh, and his tongue slides in, slipping in deep, hinting at a rhythm. My sex shivers and tightens inside, and I moan at the pressure, letting him go farther between my lips, into my throat. I grip his shoulders, kissing back.
He braces his arms against the wall, ramming his hips between my thighs. The gathering of heat at the core of his breeches imbeds itself against mine. I’ve always been a tomboy, and I’m wearing my brother’s old clothes.
Rolley’s cock burns a hole into me through the worn calfskin, and I squirm, feeling a dull throbbing and slickness, knowing I’ll need to take everything off or lose my mind.
“Sweet Mal,” he whispers, breathing against my wet mouth, and his fingers begin tugging at my tunic and breeches.
Moments later, I am naked on the dirt floor, on top of his spread shirt. He spreads my thighs and shoves his face between them, suckling and teething, so that I gasp and squeal, grasping handfuls of his hair.
“Ooooh, yes, Rolley,” I growl, hearing the husky demand in my throat and not caring.
“You taste so sweet, Immy, open for me,” he pants, and I part my lips with my fingers, watching him lick and eat, tongue and finger, as though he were digging out a pearl. The sight makes me panic with arousal, until the pleasure grows insistent.
“Hurry, put it in me!”
I watch him lift his soiled lips from my moist sex. The coating makes them glisten, and he leans over me, pressing their swollen curves down to me. I take them, tasting myself, and suck hard on his tongue to urge him. He takes hold of his straining cock, braces his free hand beside me on the floor, and pushes the narrow head in, and down, and in, and I groan, wrapping my legs around him.
“Fuck me, fuck me, Rolley,” I command, and he obliges, short of breath and rutting for all he is worth, as the hot firm heat of him mashes up through my insides and strokes my inner walls. Wetness culminates in hotness then rolls into power, and my sex convulses and gushes, my climax overtaking me swiftly. My sex seeps more fluid as I writhe and shudder around the tip of his cock on the floor.
This has always been the part that he loves. It is the part where I lose utter control of myself for an unnatural length of time, groveling and bucking around his turgid member, the sight of him kneeling back to watch me dance on the end of his rod so crass and vile it makes me spill fluid for what feels like forever.
It doesn’t gush, but it oozes, so that I drown him just enough that he is overcome with the vision of me wild as an animal stabbed with a spear. He falls on me again, ramming quickly home until his own climax comes, shooting creamy threads into my womb.
All this fluid rolls inside of me, down my inner walls, sticky and swollen. I take a weekly potion that will take care of his seed. I close my eyes resting back on his shirt, my knees falling apart. Rolley gives a low sigh, and lifts his head, enough of a movement to jostle his sex inside of mine. It produces a squelching, which makes me close my eyes in embarrassment.
“Don’t, Immy, it’s perfectly natural.” He presses a kiss to my brow and I open my eyes again, wary.
“You yourself said it isn’t.”
“Well, women spend, just like men. I’ve never known one to spend as much as you, but it’s not really that much.”
“But you’ve had a lot of women. They don’t all spend like me.”
He gives me a weak smile, rolling onto his back and propping himself on a shoulder.
“Well, no. But I love that you go on for so long. Your pussy squeezes my rod like a dog worrying a bone. It’s ridiculous and delicious.”
I sigh and close my eyes again, willing the embarrassment to pass.
He reaches out to take my breast, squeezing it. “You’re the perfect heft, Immy. Are you ready to go again? I haven’t had you in ages, I don’t think I’ll be through for a while yet.”
I feel his tongue circle my left nipple, then lathe it. I smile, willing myself to relax into the touches, the caresses. Some part of me always feels controlled, held back even as I saturate his penis like saliva filling a hungry mouth. I don’t know what it is, but I know that for some reason he is not enough. I don’t think anyone ever will be.
In the experiment hall, I watch my cousin prepare to bed a human female, Subject C. Subjects A and B went mad with the childbearing, so although we have their offspring, we no longer have viable wombs to seed. We’ll last a little longer, but this is not enough. We are dying, of rot and of imbecility. If we cannot breed a new species, our kind will die.
We cannot leave the world to the humans. The only choice is to merge.
In the past, merging was done through biological experimentation. Embryos pierced with created biomachine larvae, “optimized” with what was believed to be the very best in human biology and mechanical genius. Our cores are advanced metal alloys, our synapses, in the beginning, tripled human speeds and never failed. We did not short circuit. Our joints did not wear down. We did not harbor disease, and we could not spread it. Our stamina was unnatural, our capacity for knowledge boundless. We frightened and seduced our creators – we were kept as lovers, professors, doctors, surgeons.
We helped advance the human race. It was only then that they began to fear us.
In the sunset of our age, we do not have science. We have only trial and error. The humans have also deteriorated, resorting to underground burrows and hunting and gathering. The reality of flying engines, space travel, bioenhanced agriculture – these are all myths, told and retold by their elders to the point of children’s fables.
Many of them simply died from the initial radiation, and if not that, the biological disease that multiplied rapidly, viruses forming like lightning as they tried to flee to untouched areas of the globe. Their frail bodies could not adapt. Most of those that survived the first few generations of mutation and death were lucky enough to run to ground, beneath the Fallout, finding untouched springs and cultivating what they could.
My kind adapted. We morphed, growing into dark and foul versions of our previous selves. Many of us fought, maddened or enraged at the loss of our masters. Some of us tried to mate, and failed. Others succeeded. Multiple generations of one species, made in different ways, tried to find a way to survive.
We are now a mess, as much in our own way as the humans. And so we have resorted to kidnapping and pillaging their women. My first generation cousins and I try to revive old experiments to mate with human clones before the science was banned in Pre-Fallout.
But having no science, the only way to know if they are viable subjects is to attempt to seduce them. If they react in madness, they generally attack us or themselves. They often turn cannibalistic or self-destructive, tearing at their own eyes and limbs. I assume it’s from a sheer incompatibility of nature – we release the mating enzyme in our penis, and they go mad.
We have found only a handful of successful descendents of the first experiments. We specifically were not a part of the experiments – we do not know how their ancestors survived, let alone managed to mate.
The damo is unnaturally hot, and I toss and turn on the pallet trying to find peace. There is none. In my dreams I feel hunted, a dark shadow crawling through the spaces of my brain and breathing. I feel spied upon, but know that there is no one in the room with me. I share the room with others and feel cramped – in a matter of minutes I am hurrying to the wading pool to cool myself, hurriedly stripping out of my sleeping clothes to sit naked in the water.
My legs are shaking. I do not understand why I feel so restless and frightened, and yet, excited – my nipples peak, hard and brown against my wet fingers as I squeeze them, trying to calm them. There is no calming my flesh. I feel the tension in my groin that has intensified for days, making me feel as though my bleeding were near, but it’s not for another two weeks.
“Why, why,” I whisper, rubbing water into my face and trying to shake myself from this sense of chaos. My dark brown hair hangs wet and unruly along my shivering shoulders.
There is no reason for it. My entire body feels as though it weren’t mine, and I don’t know how to control it.
***
My cousin erupts into a female captive’s womb, and she writhes, screaming and babbling, beneath him. We have begun to learn their language, having kept a few of them from the tunnels we’ve caught them from. Her pale flesh flickers beneath torches as she pulls at her wild brown hair, pink sex lips spread wide around the mutated phallus that shoves inside of her.
They are in a private room, but one wall is gated. On the inside, we have kept her chained, and each of my first generation lieutenants, 10 out of the 20 known to exist, has had his way with her. This has been over a period of months, each of them mounting in rotation every female we have in captivity. In these women they have found a bliss they cannot find with our female counterparts – some correlation between our extra parts that our females do not have.
“Helut, Helut save me, Helut save me,” the woman wails, her plump breasts jerking as her body thrashes, but despite her screams, her creamy skin is flushed and she has not actually attempted to remove herself from Lafjir. She chokes her own throat and gnashes her teeth. He, with clawed, slightly webbed fingers and tiny sharp horns, moans above her until the last of his seed is spent.
“Bokin,” he rumbles, falling forward and showing her the saliva dripping from his huge maw. It is the closest we will ever come to saying “God.” He is the one that championed the biomachines, before he was assassinated by threatened governments.
The woman screams at his noises and closes her eyes even as her hips pump down onto him for the final throes. Her sex is so full there is no room left to see how the seed moves or takes; instead, she is filled to bursting as the root of Lafjir’s gnarled, ridged phallus bloats to fill her and hold the fluids in. Our bodies do so many things they never used to do.
When her body finishes rolling, and her cries finally collapse into whimpers, she turns her sweetly childish face aside and weeps. Her arms hang back open against the sheeted table, limp.
This one is always deeply moody after we’ve rutted with her. She is doubtless missing her home, and her people, but we cannot help that. We need to survive, for all of us to survive.
I watch Lafjir stroke her breast, and she moans and bites her lip, turning her face to stare at him with a strange mix of awe and fear. The limit of his time inside of her is almost over – some of us stay a few minutes, others, several dozen. We do what our bodies bid, and can do nothing else.
“May I dress?” She whispers. He nods, reaching out from his great height to pick up her delicate threads and hand them to her.
In the silence, I watch her close her eyes as his organ slowly deflates, and pops out of her like a canine’s, semen and fluid erupting from her in a small gleaming river that drips down between her thighs and onto the table and floor.
She gives a soft cough and hurriedly slinks into her bodily decoration. It’s almost nothing, decorative strings we make all of our women wear. We want their bodies ready to react to us, without anything to block their chemistries from our own.
Lafjir lifts her firmly by the arms and turns her with his back to him, a shiny something in his hand.
“What’s this?” She asks, voice low and sullen. Lafjir lifts it, but his capacity for her language is limited.
“Glass,” he says, in a raspy haunted voice. It’s a word that is ancient and has no bearing in this blasted world. There is no glass here, where there are no foundries advanced enough to make it. We have only shiny metal.
“Glass?”
“He means a mirror.” I step forward.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, and she looks back at me, a resentful gleam in her glazed eyes. She is jealous of her privacy, and although she knows I am there, does not like to be reminded.
I see Lafjir looking at their reflection in the mirror instead of speaking with us. I see the two halves of their face, and wonder at the ironies. Who is really the animal here, and who is not? Are we so unalike?
“Beautiful,” breathes Lafjir, and I turn and walk away.