Breeder

You're on your bed, naked, on your back, with your hips high up in the air – he's forcing you to keep as much of his semen in you as possible. You imagine his sperming crawling into your cervix.

You aren't attractive any more – you're 34 and you've had nine children. Richard's hoping his sperm help make number ten.

You feel like a broodmare.

Your muscles are getting sore. You want to be helping the other sisters with fixing dinner. But you can't until he lets you stop.

Your vagina is pointed at him. He's now sitting in a chair, fully dressed in his work clothes, working on some paper on a clipboard. Absorbed in whatever he's doing, not even looking at you.

The men of New America work hard, and you appreciate that. They provide for your nine children. They earn money so the community can survive. They grow food, raise animals, and buy supplies. They maintain tight security so no one gets in. Or out.

You remember, before coming here . . .
Men would treat you like your feelings were important.

There's a faint smell of his semen, your sweat, and the dinner you should be helping with. And your muscles are getting even more sore.

He thinks that if he left, you would just let his sperm drip out. You used to douche, but Sister Cherone told you douching doesn't help.

You remember . . .
being able to look things up on the internet

But Cherone said this embarrassing position doesn't do anything either – your cervix has already gobbled up whatever sperm it could and is now traitorously sliding them into your uterus.

So he's wrong, but that doesn't unwaste your time or stop the pain in your muscles. You don't argue with the men of New America – you got slapped once. You learned your lesson.

New America wants you pregnant. You're tired of being pregnant, but the men of New America have the power. You're just a female.

You are a broodmare. You have a body designed to be penetrated. Healthy, waiting eggs. A uterus ready to make a baby. Breasts to feed a newborn.

You are so tired of being female.

You remember, as a young girl, realizing . . .
Your body could create a new human being! That seemed so amazing. You were proud of yourself. You were proud of your body.

Now you're weary of creating new human beings. It's a lot of work. You feel used.

Your body doesn't belong to Richard either, it belongs to the community of New America. He's allowed to use your vagina though, whenever he wants. Today, because you're fertile, he can try to use your uterus.

You remember . . .
Men once stared at your body with desire. You were attractive when Lucas brought you to New America.

Now you're 25 pounds overweight – that has to disinterest Richard. You know you should try to lose weight, but it's not worth the effort, you're just going to get pregnant again.

You do have your own bedroom, nine children, and a role here. You're more valuable than a cow, or even three cows. You're probably as valuable as the solar paneling that used up all of their cash last year.

Your name is Grace, but no one calls you that. The children call the fertile women Mom; after menopause the children call them Grandma. The fertile woman call each other Sister, so you are Sister Grace to them. The men also call you Sister Grace, or they just point and grunt.

The timer on Richard's phone bings, and he says without looking up at you, "Good enough. Thank you." You collapse onto your mattress.

You didn't have a choice. "You're welcome." He still isn't looking at you.

You wipe yourself with a tissue and climb out of bed, appreciating the dexterity of your temporarily unpregnant body. You like not being pregnant.

You remember . . .
taking your unpregnant body for granted. You could move quickly and easily; you could sleep on your stomach whenever you wanted.

You put on your plain, 40D bra.

You remember . . . shopping at Victoria's Secret . . .

You put on your all-white panties.

 . . . wearing thongs and feeling sexy . . .

You put on your white socks.

 . . . panty hose . . .

You wiggle into the old brown shift you were wearing, then put on your shoes and tie the laces.

 . . . wearing clothes that made you look attractive, sometimes even sexy. High heels!

Richard is still working as you open the door and walk out into the common room.

It's a huge room, filled with children and women. Sister Maria, seven months pregnant, is holding Andrew and a bottle and walking towards you. She was waiting for you so you could be the one to feed your own baby.

Maria hands Andrew to you and asks conspiratorially, "Do you have time to feed him? I need to help Sister Andrea." Maria was supposed to feed Andrew if he was hungry, not wait for you. It's their stupid-male notion of being a community and all the women being mothers to all of the children.

You remember yesterday . . .
You almost died with anger when you saw Sister Elena breastfeeding Andrew. That cow.

A grateful smile and "Thanks" gush out of you. Andrew is fussing, like he's been hungry for a little while, but probably not too long; Maria would have fed him if he was.

You hold Andrew close and squeeze him tight. He feels so good. Maria hands you the bottle, already warm, and you touch his cheek with the nipple. He turns to the nipple, you put it in his mouth, and you start feeding him. For six months, you breast fed Andrew, but now he's on a bottle. You smell his diaper, but it's clean. You're not surprised; Maria's good.

The room is filled with children. Faith, your almost-two-year-old, is marching around to music with about seven other children. She has a big smile on her face. That parade is being led by Sister Elana, who's breastfeeding. Victoria, your four-year old, is with some girls in the corner playing house. They're talking about something so earnestly. Thomas, your 3-and-a-half year old, is part of a coloring activity. He looks so serious. Grandma Phyllis is leading that, she went through menopause last year.

Richard walks out of your room, and about ten children run up to him wanting his attention, including Faith. A few of the men here are natural fathers, but Richard isn't. He's a self-centered asshole, but a good worker.

But he smiles at all of the kids, you see Faith and the children smiling back, and he tousles a few heads, though not Faith's. She looks disappointed when he starts to leave. You can feel the pangs of her disappointment.

He doesn't really know who's his child and who's not. So he can't give any child special attention, but he can't exactly ignore the children either. You don't remember if Richard had sex with you when you were pregnant with Faith, but she doesn't look like his daughter. They follow him to the door, then he's gone. Out into the men's world.

Andrew is so determinedly sucking milk.

Kenneth, Philippe, Rebecca, and Anna are in school now; they should be home soon. You assure yourself they're all okay. Laura is 12, so she helps out with the work here instead of going to school. You look around for her and don't see her. You get a little flutter of anxiousness, but she must be in the kitchen.

You remember when you were close to giving birth to Laura . . .
You worried constantly that your milk wouldn't come in. Or that she would just reject your breast. What would you do? How would you deal with your failure?

It did, she didn't, and you felt the wonder of giving life and sustenance to her. You felt so much love. You felt so much pride in being a mother. It was wonderful to be that needed.

By the time Andrew suckled from you, you were tired of engorged breasts. You were tired of chaffing and being a feeding station. But you still had that overwhelming feeling of caring for him, despite being stretched so thin in the caring department.

You now understand – your brain is programmed to care for your children. You can't stop that from happening, it's just part of whole pregnancy-feeding-mother package. You are a female.

"Sorry Andrew, your parasite days are over." It's possible to get pregnant when breastfeeding, but not as likely, and New America wants more members.

He's sucking more slowly now. He probably doesn't care where his milk comes from. You can feel his contentment, overwhelming you with his happiness.

You have spent four and a half of your last 13 years breastfeeding; almost seven of those years you have been pregnant.

Freighttrain, you think that's still his name, walks in. That's not good. He walks up to you, points, and says, "You."

You think, My name is Grace. You explain, "I just had sex with Mr. Richard."

"It's your fertile period, right?"

You shrug helplessly. "Yeah."

"The more sperm the better."

Fuck. What are the chances of you not getting pregnant this month? Not very good.

They need you to cook dinner, and this much sex is not fair for you. And can't he see that you're feeding Andrew? Those seem like good excuses to you, but you do not make men angry before sex. "Yes, Mr. Freighttrain." You hand Andrew and the bottle back to Maria, who has already come back to you; she'll have to finish feeding him.

Men over the age of 45 aren't allowed to procreate with premenopausal women here. They aren't considered as virile. And that reduces the chances of a man having sex with his daughter, though you're not sure that's an issue for them. Freighttrain looks like he has only a few years left. So his biological clock is ticking.

So is yours, but so painfully slowly. You have time for probably six more children. That's quite a life for you to look forward to.

What is the record is for number of children? Probably over 20. You remember when you could look things up on the internet. You don't want to break any records. You wanted to have two children.

Freighttrain starts undressing and expects you to do the same.

As you undress, you remember . . .
Lucas would slowly take off your clothes. It was erotic, for both of you. Men always smiled at you when you took off your clothes. Or looked lustful or excited. They never acted like you were something on their to-do list.

Freighttrain is already hard, saving you time and trouble. That's a tiny prop for whatever's left of your female pride. Freighttrain! Ugh. You give up on having any pride.

You remember . . .
Lucas's lips, at first softly on yours, then pressing into your lips with his passion, then his tongue entering your mouth. After that, his kisses trailing down your neck, your chest, and then to your breast.
His hands, roaming your body, exploring you, fondling you, probing you, exciting you.

Freighttrain opens the vaseline on the side of your bed, greases his cock, lays on top on you, and penetrates you. Years ago that would have hurt.

You remember . . .
Lucas worrying about whether or not you enjoyed sex with him. He hoped you would have an orgasm. You sometimes had to pretend, but that was only because he cared about you. You thought you deserved that caring.

Freighttrain doesn't really notice you, even though he's fucking you. At least you don't have to pretend anything – he doesn't care about your excitement. Neither do you.

You remember Lucas bringing you to New America . . . .
You were in love with each other. You were four months pregnant with Laura. He was so enthused about coming here – a community where you could build your own world and be free; something great to create for your children. You were following him, being with him.

You and he were building a life together.

You didn't get all of the facts. Maybe he didn't know them either. His name now is Hammer, the men change their names occasionally, reasons unknown. Maybe he changed his name because he doesn't want you to remember what the two of you once had together. Probably he doesn't want to remember. You hope he feels guilty.

As Freighttrain fucks you, you remember the worst day of your life. You were eight months pregnant with Laura. . . .
"What the hell? Lucas?"

He looked at you, surprised, then very embarrassed. He responded defensively, "What, Sister Grace?"

"You're coming out of Rachel's room, and you're zipping up your – Ow, did you just pinch me?"

"She's Sister Rachel. I explained this to you, Sister Grace. We're trying to join a community here. To fit in, and help it be stronger. A community is built on traditions and rules. You're supposed to call her Sister Rachel."

You didn't scream at him, even though you wanted to. You didn't hit him. "You are coming out of Sister Rachel's bedroom, and you're zipping up your pants. Did you. Just. Have. Sex. With. Sister Rachel?"

"We shouldn't talk here. Let's go outside."

"It's cold outside."

"Get a coat."

You went outside, him walking and you trailing behind and waddling as fast as you could, wearing a coat that didn't button. He stopped and turned around to you. You walked up to him, you looked him in the eye, your pregnant belly pushing into him. "Tell me. Did you have sex with Rachel?" He pinched the side of your neck. "OW! You don't have to pinch you so hard. Sister Rachel."

"Yeah, I did Sister Grace."

"We're supposed to be married, Lucas. OW, stop pinching me, God damn it. Mr. Lucas."

"Yeah, I know that. But you're like . . . "

"I'm like what?" You were almost screaming at him.

"You're eight months pregnant, Sister Grace. For God's sake."

"You can still have sex with me." You said that quietly.

"You're like a cow."

It was like he pressed a knife into your heart. You kind of felt like a cow, that was part of why it hurt so much. But you were carrying his baby. For eight months. He owed you A LOT. Respect. Love. Support.

Not to be called a cow.

"That doesn't mean you can have sex with Ra – Sister Rachel." He pinched you anyway.

"Sister Grace, the guys tease me. If I have sex with just you, they say I'm not a real man. Don't you see? I have to have sex with other Sisters. It's the only way I can fit in. The only way we can fit in."

"What?" You couldn't believe what he just said. You turned away from him and started to cry. Suddenly you felt 8-months pregnant and totally helpless and alone. "You've had sex with other women? Before this?"

"Of course."

You felt Laura kick you. It wasn't a loving kick, it was just a kick and you happened to be in the way. It didn't hurt. Lucas was kicking you in the mouth, hard. Your desires were in his way.

You turned back to him and looked up at him, pain all over your face. "And I'm supposed to go another month of knowing you're having sex with other women?" Please apologize.

"That's the way it is here."

You pushed your face up to his and said angrily, "Well, you're married to me. You can't be having sex with other women."

You had come here with him. You had followed him. You wanted to support him. You wanted to follow the rules. But this was too much. "Just stop. No more. Do you hear me?"

He slapped you.

Your world shattered, and the earth opened up and ate you. And you suddenly knew nothing. Nothing. Your mind was blank.

You didn't know what to do. You didn't know what you should do. You had no idea what you could do. You kept existing, but that was just inertia.

You were cold, and there was nothing left for you here outside with Lucas. You turned around and walked away from him. Now you could feel that pain on your cheek.

You walked into the common room. Could everyone see your red cheek? They looked up at you, then the Sisters looked away and the children stared, probably because tears were streaming down your face.

You went into your bedroom and lay in bed. You wrapped your arms around yourself and hugged your baby-to-be, but you felt no excitement about the future. You were too upset to sleep much. Lucas didn't come to your bedroom that night; he never again spent the night with you.

Eventually your grief gave way to anger. About the time the sun came up, your anger disappeared and you gave up. You rolled out of bed, to help with breakfast even though you were 8-months pregnant.

That morning your life changed, even though everything was the same on the outside. You were now a woman in the community of New America.

You would have stopped being pregnant. But the world doesn't work that way. Laura had a different agenda too. And you already loved her and she too had all the power over you.

But your life had become a Stephan King horror story.

Freighttrain speeds up, you see his face grimace, and he cums. He pushes inside you as far as he can. He holds himself inside you as long as he can, then when his penis wilts he climbs off you.

He still doesn't look at you. He's not ignoring you, he just forgot about you. He has other things to do.

You have to have sex with any man, upon demand. Or request. Or pointing. The men need sex; the women provide. But during your fertile period, it's so many men. Helping to make sure you get pregnant. Being a bull.

They're also hoping your baby will have their genes. They have to buy a lottery ticket if they want to be the winning bull.

You hate your fertile periods. You don't have them very often.

You love having your period. Then you're not pregnant for another month. But you've had your period only 11 times since coming here more than 12 oyears ago. You're a good breeder. You have a large pelvis and big breasts. You've never had a miscarriage, and you're easy to impregnate. The perfect female.

You remember . . .
Lucas would talk to you after you had sex. You would cuddle up against his warm body.

Freighttrain stands and starts getting dressed. For the second time in 20 minutes, you wipe the sperm off yourself and dress. This much sex is ridiculous.

He's out the door first. He takes a boy and throws him into the air, then catches him. Of course all the children want that, so he gets mobbed. You stand in your doorway and watch. He's good with the kids.

When Faith, Thomas, and Victoria have had their turns, you check on Andrew, who's sleepinig. Then you walk into the kitchen, where you find Laura. She's helping fix dinner; Sister Helene is in charge. It's still amazing to you to see Laura growing up. To see her competence. And her confidence in herself. You give her a big smile, and she smiles at you too. "Are you coming to help, Sister Grace?"

You're her mother, not Sister Grace. "I would love to help." You nod to Sister Helene, who assigns you the messy task of making hamburger paddies. As you pull off a hunk of hamburger, you ask Helene how she's doing. She shrugs. "Okay." She's seven months pregnant and looks great, just tired. You all look tired. This is her tenth pregnancy, with three miscarriages.

You see the little nubs starting to be Laura's breasts. She stands like she's proud of them. She's wearing a tight, thin t-shirt so they stick out.

Slut.

You dread when she fills out and her body is used for sex and having children. Smile now, Laura, while you can. Enjoy your youth.

Dinner is about half-way prepared when Freedom walks into the kitchen. He nods to Laura and Helene. "Evening, Sister Helene. Looking good." She says thank you, in a weary voice. "Evening, Sister Laura." Laura gets a big smile on her face. She's already flirting. He looks at you. "I want to make a donation."

You wince. You have to have sex with three men in less than an hour? Did they put up a notice saying to have sex with you? Maybe now there's a rule that all the men have to have sex with you once.

"I'm cooking dinner, Mr. Freedom. Can it wait?"

He pinches your arm. Not as hard as he could, but hard enough to make his point. Humiliating you in front of your daughter. Laura looks shocked. She says, you assume in your defense but then you realize not, "Bad Sister Grace."

Because he punished you, she assumes you're wrong. Your own daughter is on his side. New America has been very successful with their educating.

That might be for the best. You want Laura to be happy. If fitting in means thinking that she exists just to make babies, well . . . you hate the thought, but least she won't know about anything better.

Anyway, she won't have a choice. Enjoy your life, Sister Laura, you traitor. New America took her from you.

You walk with Freedom to your bedroom, he closes the door, and you take off your clothes and lay in bed. Freedom's the kind of guy who would buy flowers for his girlfriend on Valentine's Day and then forget and leave them in his car. The next day he would bring her the wilted flowers and hope he still got credit for the thought.

He says, "You are so beautiful, Sister Gail." He always says that, though usually he gets your name right. He isn't even looking at you. When he gets his clothes off, he turns to you, sees that you're ready for him, and starts masturbating to get hard.

He doesn't realize that's insulting to you. But you're used to it, and it's very convenient. When he's hard, he climbs on you, spits into his hand, wipes his saliva on his penis, and enters you.

You remember when . . .
Sex was passionate and romantic.

You'll always be Laura's mother. But today you momentarily hated her. And she was treating you like an equal. Sister Laura indeed, she's still just a child. But that isn't how this community works, and women don't make the rules.

It's a life of hard work. For the men, like Mr. Freedom, this community speaks to their dreams of freedom and self-reliance. Plus they get free sex on demand. The women here were dragged along by husbands and boyfriends. It's still hard work, and we're the supply of free sex.

You remember before coming here . . .
You chose which men fucked you, and when they fucked you, so they had to worry about your needs, and your happiness. They had to treat you as an equal, because you demanded that.

Now they don't. They're free. Free from government control. And you never realized it, but free from women controlling them, free from political correctness, and free from the demands of the women's movement.

That's their idea of a real man. And maybe you're their idea of a real woman. Except for those extra 25 pounds.

They still have to follow the laws they make for themselves. But that's being a part of a team. Men love teams.

And they can still treat you politely and respectfully when they want. But it's a favor. A generosity.

So there are about three times as many men as women. Free sex can do that – a big attraction for the men; not so much for the women. The discrepancy in numbers is a problem.

But the odds will get better. Sister Monique is 16. She's lived here her whole life. She just got pregnant, though she isn't showing yet. She could break the record. Sister Andrea is 14. She'll be available for sex and having babies soon. And there's Laura and two other girls about her age.

You're distracted from your thoughts by Freedom cumming inside you. He enjoys the feeling, then pulls out and kisses you on the lips. He always does that, with the passion of licking an envelope before sealing it.

You wipe as much of his sperm off of you – and out of you because he's not paying any attention – as you can. You both get dressed. He ignores the children as he leaves.

And then you're back in the kitchen. Sister Helene has two more women helping her, and Laura is still helping. They're finishing up. Laura says, "Sister Grace, could you help me with the carrots?"

Is she trying to be annoying? You smile as nicely as you can. "Sure." What has she got against you? Is she jealous of your breasts? You've seen her occasionally looking at them.

As you're cutting and slicing carrots with Laura, Lucas walks into the kitchen.

Your heart starts to beat faster. After all these years, the sight of him can still excite you.

Laura smiles coyly at him and says and says, "Hi, Mr. Hammer." She's flirting with her father. He flashes a quick glace at her chest and then gives her a friendly but fatherly hello. Then he looks at Sister Monique, who's turned away from him and working at the stove. His eyes study her. You can see his cock getting hard. She's young. Thin. Attractive. Not worn down.

Obviously he wants to have sex with Monique. But when any woman is fertile, he's supposed to have sex with her. So he says, "Is anyone here fertile?"

You raise your hand wearily. He sees your hand, then says, "Oh, Sister Grace."

"Hi Mr. Hammer." You envy Laura – you want to flirt. You try to smile sexily at him, but in your head you're counting how many men you've had sex with in the last hour and you doubt your smile is sexy.

He says, "I guess we should have sex."

You say, mimicking his lack of enthusiasm, "I guess so," but he doesn't notice. He concentrates again on Sister Monique's ass as she stirs something on the stove. She has a good ass. You don't. You get it.

He doesn't stand up. Maybe you two could sit here all day watching Monique, but you want to have sex with him. You want your next child to be his, or at least you want to be able to think it might be his. You hate how he still has that power over you.

You stand up. He notices you again, takes one last wistful look at Monique, then also stands up. You walk to your bedroom and enter; he follows you in and shuts the door. You sit on the bed and take off your shoes and socks, while he starts taking off his clothes.

You take off your shift, then turn away from him as you take off your bra, because you don't want him to see your sagging breasts. But then he just sees your fat ass. You take off your panties and lie down in bed. He says, "You're still beautiful, Sister Grace." He used to call you Grace.

You wish he just called you Grace. But you love that he still thinks you're beautiful. He adds, "No one excites you like you do."

Your heart drops – he went too far, and you remember Monique. Your heart hardens, and you look at his cock. It's soft. That's how excited he is to see you.

You stand up, take him to the bed, and lie him down. Then you start sucking his cock.

It takes a while to get him hard. He used to get hard right away. His eyes are closed, so you don't know what he's thinking about. When he gets hard, you suck some more just to be sure, then you take his place lying on the bed, you quickly pull him over on top of you, and slide him into you. He starts fucking you.

You remember after that night . . .
You kept expecting Lucas to one day come back to your bedroom. He didn't, he stayed in the men's dormitory.

Even though he deserted you, you foolishly expected him to come and help with Laura's birth. You got lots of help, from the women here and one male who was the closest thing to a doctor they have. So you weren't alone, and you had help. There was just no Lucas.

You foolishly expected him to help with the first month of taking care of Laura. He didn't. You had help, just not his.

Once your body had ejected the invading parasite and mostly returned to its normal size, you expected that you two would go back to having sex just with each other. How could you be that stupid? Were you blind? No, you couldn't have faced the truth if you tried.

You were spoonfeeding one the older infants one night while you watched him walk into Sister Rachel's room. Another night you were breastfeeding Laura and watched him walking into Sister Maria's room. Then, for a couple years, whenever he came into the common room, you fled to your bedroom so you wouldn't have to watch.

Lucas smiles as he thrusts into you again and again, but his eyes are still closed; when you make a noise like you are excited, he doesn't notice. So he's probably thinking of someone else.

You're just a vagina.

You remember the second worst day of your life . . .
Mr. Leader came into your bedroom when Laura was two months old and asleep in the crib next to you. You didn't know why he was there. Had you done something wrong? Not that you could think of. Was he just checking up on you? He visits everyone to talk?

You were lying on your bed. You sat up. He sat on your bed, which was a little too intimate. You began to get nervous.

"Now, Sister Grace, you are such a wonderful new addition to our Community."

"Thank you." This wasn't going well.

"And everyone likes you, and you're contributing so much. That's so appreciated. Giving birth to Laura, I know that's a lot of work."

It was a labor of love. You didn't really have a choice. And you don't think of Laura as a contribution. You just nodded.

"Sometimes, people don't fit in to our community. I'm not sure why. But then it's hard on them. The community gets angry at them."

The threat.

He shook his head with regret. "We should show each other love and compassion, I tell them that, but we can't blame them for getting angry at someone who isn't helping. We're building a community here."

He was pretending to want to help you, and claiming he couldn't.

He smiled sadly. "So the people who don't fit in get treated badly."

You tried to smile and nod, pretending like he wasn't talking about you.

"Of course, sooner or later everyone learns to fit in. They have to. And it's not that difficult." He put his hand on your knee in a fatherly way that didn't feel fatherly to either of you.

"But it's easier on people when they fit in right away." He left his hand on your knee.

Your throat closed and you couldn't make a sound. You tried to take the stupid smile off your face, but it wouldn't leave.

And as Leader talked to you more, about the goals for New America, and what they had already accomplished, and what still lay ahead, he took off your clothes, then his.

Then he stopped talking and raped you.

You never fought him. Not the first button, and not the last. Not when he entered you, and not when he came in you. You were frozen, inside and out. Anyway, fighting was a waste of time. They expected things. And they got what they wanted, even if they had to take it by threat or force.

You had seen men going into sister's bedrooms and having sex with them. You had watched Lucas do it. But you thought it was consensual. That the men were invited. Or welcomed in, with permission. You didn't know the women had no choice. Now you knew.

You had been angry with Sister Rachel for months. But the man who brought her here, Richard, has fucked you more times than you can count. You might have had one of his children. She might have had one of Lucas's. A few of your children could be half-brothers or half-sisters.

Then Lucas grimaces, and cums, and you feel him pushing hard into you. When he opens his eyes and sees you, his smile goes away.

After all of these years, that still hurts you. He's the only man you ever loved. But if there's anyone here you should hate, it's him.

He quickly pulls out and starts getting dressed as quickly as he can – he wants to escape. You clean yourself with a tissue, for the fourth time this afternoon, and try to dress quickly too, to stay with him and make him feel guilty. But before you can finish dressing he's out the door and gone.

You hate that any man here can treat you like a piece of livestock, just something to fuck. But it hurts the most when Lucas treats you that way.

You remember after Lucas left . . .
You thought about leaving New America. But you were eight-months pregnant with Laura, so that wasn't very practical.

And then you were a new mother. Night after night being woken up by a crying baby in your room. Not getting enough sleep. A baby constantly wanting to feed from you. You were always exhausted.

Plus you still had to help. Meals to fix. Other children to feed. Cleaning. You were too busy to think.

And, you could look at Laura and just hold her. You could feel your heart aching with love. And you and Laura were being taken care of. You knew in your head that your life was wrong, but all you could feel was a warm circle of perfection with Laura in the center.

So you knew you were going to leave, but you didn't have time to think about when.

Kenneth, Philippe, Rebecca, and Anna are home from school with the other children. They all look okay. Kenneth and Rebecca are studying already. Philippe is arguing with Edward, and Anna has joined the girls playing house in the corner.

Philippe and Edward start fighting! You rush over to stop them before someone gets hurt, but Maria gets there first and pulls them apart. You stop, your motherly compulsions suddenly targetless, and you watch Maria sit on the floor with them and softly talk to them. She's more patient than you.

You remember coming home from elementary school . . .
Your mother would stop whatever she was doing and smile at you, and it was your time together. Whatever you were proud of that day, you would show her or tell her about it. She sometimes had made cookies for you.

Your mother raised you to be the wonderful person you were. She gave so much of herself, and her time, and her energy, and her love. But she only had two children. She had to cook and clean too, but she had time for you.

None of your children are even looking at you. You suddenly want one of them to rush up and show you something from school, or tell you what happened in school.

Or just be excited to see you.

But you don't blame them. You don't have time to be that kind of mother, not to nine children. And you have to do chores, and take care of Andrew, he needs you. Not to mention spending your last hour being serially gang-banged.

Your children have adapted, like children do. To be honest, you don't know why they would pay more attention to you than any of the other women here they call "Mom."

So you bring your children into the world and feed them for six months, then they're mostly on their own. Which is, you realize, kind of what cows do for their calves. That kind of mothering.

The children you gave birth to, who you can't stop thinking of as your children, are being raised by the community. Taught by men, molded by men. Learning the values of men.

Elena, that cow, sometimes makes cookies for everyone. She's a lot better baker than you, but it takes her a much longer time to get pregnant – you're the best breeder here.

You remember . . .
You were thinking that when Laura got old enough, you would take her and leave. Maybe when she was two.

Then you found out you were going to be raped constantly. Sooner or later you would get pregnant. Then you would have five or six months before leaving would become too physically difficult.

You confided to Cherone, "I'm thinking of leaving."

She held her belly and laughed. "You're a member of the community here. You can't leave."

"I know you need me." You looked around. Children to raise. Cleaning. "And I'll miss everyone." Not the men. Maybe Lucas, if the Lucas you knew was still somewhere inside that body. "But I can't live here any more. This isn't me. This isn't what I want to do with my life."

She looked at you very seriously. "You don't understand, Sister Grace. You're a member of New America now. You joined. You agreed to that. You actually can't leave."

"I can't leave?" You were back to being in a horror story.

"Nope. Try to enjoy being here. I hope you like woman things." She added, "I wouldn't complain if you were you."

"But . . . but . . . I have rights."

She looked at you scornfully. "Did you sign any papers here? Ever?"

Papers? What was she talking about? Then you remembered. "Yeah."

They had you sign papers when you were in labor with Laura. They said it was about medical consent or something. You didn't even look, you were in pain; you were far beyond whatever you thought your endurance level was. You were trying to push an eight pound one ounce human being out through your vagina.

"You probably signed 'em when you were in labor." How did she know that?

Oh! They probably do that to every woman.

"You probably didn't read them."

You shrug. Probably no one does. You're in labor and just a little bit busy and distracted. You glanced at the first one, it looked like something medical.

"You got no power here. So the law don't matter. But don't think the law's on your side if you signed papers and you don't even know what they are."

She mumbled, "Stupid girl."

You started to pay attention to where you lived. High walls surrounded the entire commmunity, you thought to keep people out. But they kept you in. There was just one gate to enter and exit, and it was always guarded. That made sure no one entered who wasn't a part of the community. But if Cherone was right, that guard also made sure you didn't leave.

So everything that protected you from the outside world also kept you inside those walls. Everything you had seen as safety suddenly looked ominous.

Women never went to town for shopping, because they had too much to do here; men brought in all the supplies, even food and used clothing. No women never went for a walk outside the walls, because it wasn't safe. No women ever left to visit relatives, because the whole point was to leave that world behind.

No woman left the compound ever, for any reason. And you didn't even know where you were.

You went into the garage and looked at the cars. You were two months pregnant with Kenneth by then. You could get in a car, smash through the gate, and just keep driving. It might work.

But you didn't have a car seat for Laura, so you couldn't smash through any gate. You shouldn't even be driving with her and no car seat. As you were thinking about how to approximate a car seat, you saw the stick shift. Your last boyfriend in high school had a stick shift. But you never learned how to drive it.

If you could somehow escape by foot into the surrounding desert, you would die. If you could somehow steal a car and drive it, they would follow you.

So you were a prisoner here. But unlike most prisoners and slaves, you had voluntarily come here.

Finally the food is cooked, and the women are trying to feed all of the children. You put out the food for the kids who are old enough to eat by themselves, hoping they eat right but no one really having the time to supervise them. The pre-toddlers need everyone's help. Sister Shelley, only two months pregnant, was already feeding soft foods to children fastened into high chairs.

Sister Cherone and Grandma Louise are going with the food to the men's dormitory; they'll feed the men and clean up there. You see Laura feeding Cherone's youngest. She has love in her eyes and caring in every move she makes.

In the middle of dinner, the door opens; you look up and see Mothball. His name used to be Frederick. He brought beautiful Alicia here, the fool.

He searches the room and then finds you. The men were never this relentless at finding you in your fertile period before. Is there a reminder in the men's dorm to be sure to fuck you?

Your eyes flash around the room, and saintly Maria smiles at you. She'll make sure Faith eats her dinner. You stand up, Mothball smiles, and you head to your bedroom, him meeting you there.

Mothball loves blow jobs. You have been eight months pregnant and kneeling in front of him giving him a blow job. He takes off his clothes. Normally you don't even bother taking off yours, but you know how this ends tonight – no sperm safely tucked into your mouth and transferred smoothly to your stomach where they can do no damage. It's fertility time. So you take off your clothes too.

As you start to kneel in front of him, he starts to get an erection. You hold his cock in your hand and it grows larger, and one breath on his cock gives him a complete erection. You start sucking on him.

You remember . . .
Almost two years ago, Alicia came to New America. She was young and beautiful. Most of the men wanted to have sex with her, and the other Sister's lull in sexual activity was appreciated (except when any of you were fertile and the men either had to have sex with you or wanted to. The rules aren't clear.) So you all hated her for being beautiful and making everyone feel ugly, but you really liked that she was here.

It was really hard on her. She kept walking around totally depressed, saying "I am just a cunt." Which is of course not how you're supposed to talk in front of children, and not how you're supposed to be a good Sister in the community of New America. But the men liked her here too, for obvious reasons, so everyone ignored her swearing and depression.

Now you regret doing that. She had four fertile periods before she finally became pregnant, so she got a lot of sex. Then she walked around depressed and repeating, "I am just a baby factory."

Your thoughts are interrupted by Mothball suddenly pulling out of your mouth. You forgot he wasn't supposed to cum in your mouth.

Then he ejaculates, mostly on the floor but also on you. He forgot too. You're glad you took your clothes off.

He says, trying to sound commanding, "We're going to pretend like that didn't happen."

"Okay." But it did. The mechanics of being a man aren't simple. You would feel bad for him if he wasn't the fourth man to fuck you today.

You lay down on the bed. He's still hard enough to enter you, not that that's any great challenge – you sometimes feel like you've had more visitors than Carlsbad Cavern.

When Alicia was six months pregnant, she escaped from New America. She found a rope in the barn, tied it around her neck, tied the other end to a beam, and jumped from the second story.

Then the Sister's sex vacation was over.

You feel really bad for Alicia. But she was right, you are a vagina and a baby factory. You feel bad for all the women here. Including Laura. She doesn't even know about the life she's missing.

It takes Mothball forever to cum for a second time, so your dinner will be cold. But eventually he cums. Or pretends he does, you really don't care and it doesn't really matter – your Fallopian tubes must already be experiencing gridlock.

You remember being three months pregnant with Kenneth and wondering . . .
What papers had you signed? Maybe they were just medical things, but it would be like Leader and New America to give you more. Worse case? Power of attorney. Leader could own you. Divorce papers. Even a marriage license, you guess. So you don't even know who you're now married to.

No, worse case would be adoption papers for Laura. Leader could own Laura too. If you left here with Laura, you might be charged with kidnapping.

You would be a criminal, running from the law, with no driver's license or any ID. You couldn't get a job without ID, and you would have two children to support by yourself.

And then Kenneth was born, then Philippe, then Rebecca. Your opportunity to leave completely shut down.

In fact, if the gate was accidentally open and unguarded, and a car you could drive was miracuously sitting around with keys in it, and your ID and a wad of money were magically in the passenger seat, you still couldn't leave – you can't take nine children with you.

And how would you support them? You couldn't sue for child support: Lucas has no cash, you don't even know if he's still your legal husband. If New America knew your address to send you money, they would surely come take your kids.

If you somehow could leave by yourself, what kind of life would you have? It would be empty, and you'd be constantly worried about them. You could never leave your children behind.

You knew the black slaves in America couldn't escape because they would be hunted down. You never realized that they couldn't just walk away and leave their children to the slaveholder.

You don't wear your wedding ring any more. You were given a new wedding ring to wear. All the Sisters have the same ring, because you're all married to the community. You threw your old one in the garbage, diamond and all. You were angry.

You and Cherone are unloading the last dishwasher. You ask, "Do you ever fake an orgasm?"

She stops and laughs. "All the time, Sister Grace." She shakes her head. "All the time."

Her head jolts up to look at you. She asks, disbelievingly, "You don't fake orgasms?"

You shrug. "No. Why would I?"

"You have real orgasms?" She sounds incredulous.

You smile plaintively at her. "It's been a while on that."

She nods, finally understanding. "Hearing ya'." She puts the last few dishes away, then asks, "Do you fake being excited?"

You feel inadequate. "No."

"Do you ever get excited?"

"Not really."

She puts your hand on your shoulder so you don't leave. "They don't mind? You just lying there?"

"They don't seem to care. I'm not sure they even notice."

"Of course not." She shakes her head again. "Damn. I'll have to try that."

The Next Day

Your weight is on your knees, your face is buried in your pillow, and he's fucking you from behind, trying to make you pregnant. Everyone else is eating breakfast. It's a normal morning for you.

The pillow cover was a pretty floral pattern in pink when you got it, but 12 years have faded it. Your too hefty ass is in the air, and his hands cup your breasts, holding on to you. Victoria seemed too quiet last night at dinner. You wanted to talk to her after dinner, but you were being fucked. Then you didn't want to interrupt her while she was finishing her homework, but you got fucked again, and by the time he was done with you she had gone to bed.

So you want to talk to her this morning, but you're with Mr. –

For a moment you can't remember who it is.

Man with dick. Why should you care who it is?

That afternoon Lawrence walks in. He recently turned 16 and moved into the men's dormitory.

He looks nervous. He searches the room and finds you. He walks nervously up to you. "Sister Grace, can we . . ." He's blushing and having trouble finishing, he's so embarrassed. He might even be a virgin.

You have pity on him. "Should we go to your bedroom, Lawrence?" You're making this easy for him; all he has to do is nod yes.

He says angrily, "Mr. Lawrence to you, Sister." And he pinches your hand. You're so tired of being pinched.

But he's right, you forgot that he was now a man; you were treating him like a boy. You won't make that mistake again.

Anger apparently has cleared his head. "Let's go fuck."

You sigh. He was tolerable as a boy.

When you get to your room, he takes charge and tells you to take your clothes off. When they're off, he complains about you being overweight, but he doesn't stop staring at you. Apparently your body can still excite a naive 16-year-old. Another sad morsel for your pathetic ego.

He lasts about 30 seconds. Then he makes you hold your hips up in the air; he probably asked advice from Richard.

He takes advantage of your position to study your cunt. You can feel his eyes on you.

You fed him and played with him when he was a boy. When you told him to behave, he had to. You stayed with him one night when he was sick. He called you "Mother." It's very strange to have him staring at your vagina.

After a few minutes, he loses interest in you and leaves. You want to collapse into your bed, but you're afraid he might come back – he established male dominance over you with that pinch.

So you stay with your hips in the air a while longer. Your egg must be wishing it had built an ark.

Janie suddenly starts wailing, looks around, and runs to you – you're the nearest mother. She holds out her finger, and you can see that she cut it with the scissors. It's nothing serious, but it's bleeding. Glock just walked in, and there's cameras, so you have to follow the rules and take care of Janie.

You don't want to look up at Cherone, Janie's real mother; you hope she's in the kitchen and doesn't have to see this. But you look up anyway, and you can see the pain on her face. Then you see anger, partially at you.

And then her face goes blank. She's trying not to feel anything. That's a good strategy, though not easy to actually do.

You take Janie's hand and walk her to the medical supplies. You put on disinfectant, then a band-aid. Then you give it a kiss and pronounce it officially all better. Janie gives you a strong hug around your neck, a quick "Thanks, Mom," then runs back to her play.

Your brain rewards you with pleasure – you're happy to be needed and wanted. But you know how much Cherone wanted that hug. You're the same way about your children, but you don't take it as hard as Cherone does. The women of New America are imprisoned in a social experiment designed and run by men.

Glock looks around. He's supposed to have sex with you, but maybe he doesn't know that. So you try not to be easy to see. None of the women like Glock, and you're so tired of being fucked.

And it works! He points at someone else and grunts. You're happy until you see who he's pointing at – Cherone.

That's a really bad idea at this particular moment. Anyone but Cherone. You speak up, "I'm fertile." Cherone is still breastfeeding Tyron, so Glock is supposed to fuck you.

He looks at you, then he scowls. "I don't want seconds."

You want to tell him how far he is from second. "Mr. Glock? Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm coming back for you tomorrow morning."

He brushes past you and strides over to Cherone, who's still just sitting down. She looks up and him and then back down, like she's not interested. He takes her arm roughly and pulls her into the nearest bedroom, which happens to be yours. She's just letting herself be dragged; this isn't going well at all.

You wait, anxiously. After about 15 minutes he leaves. His face is scratched, there's bleeding, and he's smirking. Shit, shit, shit.

You walk into your bedroom, and Cherone is sitting lifelessly on your bed. You can see the bruise already forming on her cheek.

Shit. You help her dress, then you hold her. You don't know what to say. It's going to get better? Not really. Don't get angry? She knows that. She just got pushed too far this afternoon.

"I'm sorry about Janie."

"Not your fault." No, it wasn't – you're required to help all children.

"I care for you, Sister Cherone." And that's the best you can do. You hug her.

"My name is Cherone."

You shrug. You know that. But you're not allowed to call her that.

That night, after everyone has gone to bed, you hear your door open. You know it's Leader. He always comes late in the night when you're fertile.

Your breathing speeds up. You hate him, but his visit is already exciting you.

Your room is still dark, but you jump up, quickly take off your dowdy nightgown.

You remember . . . wearing a negligee

Waiting.

You hear the hum of the vibrator, and your breathing speeds up even more.

And you feel the vibrator, probably the only vibrator within fifty miles, on your clit.

You know what he's doing, and you should hate him for it, but it feels too good. You feel the pleasure, then more pleasure. You don't get a lot of pure pleasure in your life, so your brain sops it up.

And Leader is your supplier.

The humming stops, as you knew it would, and Leader enters you and fucks you. You don't mind, you know what's coming after.

When he's done, and taken himself out of you, he dresses while you try to clean up the sperm that's going to be dripping out of you. You've lost track of how many times you've done that in the last two days. Then you lie on your bed, naked, waiting.

And the humming starts again, and you feel the vibrator on you, and you're lost in pleasure.

Then it's a mixture of pleasure and need, and then there's more need, and then you have a glorious orgasm. You can't make any noise of course, but you're overwhelmed with happiness.

Then the humming stops, and you hear your door open and close.

You know he was probably thinking about something else, something more important, while you lay under his vibrator. All he had to do was turn it on and hold it against you. You should hate him for manipulating you, for controlling your emotions. He just wants power over you.

But he has it. You love his midnight visits. You can feel your willingness to please, to make him happy.

Three Months Later

You momentarily don't have any chores and Andrew is sleeping, so you've walked out to the barn. The men are out working, so you're here by yourself.

"Hi Sister Patience. How are you feeling?" You feed a carrot to the cow you call Patience. You're both pregnant.

"Did you ever try to escape, Sister Patience?"

You look up to where Sister Alicia jumped from. They don't keep ropes here now. Always trying to prevent escape. But you don't have the courage to kill yourself, so you'll never escape. And you could never leave your children, not even like that. So this is your life. Your role on earth.

Patience and Laura don't even know there's something to escape to.

"Do you ever fake an orgasm?" That's not a real question, but you've decided that it's an important social distinction: Does the male care whether or not the female is excited?

"Were you sexually excited when the bull impregnated you?" You wait for an answer, wishing you knew. "Was it worth it?" You know the answer to that: No.

Sister Patience just looks at you. She looks uncomfortable, but that could be you projecting how you feel when you're that pregnant. You feed her more carrot and pet the top of her head.

You have a new attitude. Acceptance. You tried to be like Laura, but that was impossible. So Sister Patience is your role model.

"You would be in the tenth commandment if you were an ox or a donkey, Sister Patience. Do you feel left out?"

You add reassuringly, "I think they meant all cattle. So you can feel included."

Wives are also in the tenth commandment, with the servants and cattle. And everything else that men own.

You try to accept that.

Mr. Badass points at you. You stand and smile at him, then you say like you're happy, "Me?"

Sister Laura looks jealous. You think she's upset because you get his attention and she doesn't. Your time will come, Sister Laura, you stupid child.

They added a new room to the main hall. It's officially called the Couples Room. Really, it's the Pornography Room.

Yes, he walks to that room. It's a popular choice. He unlocks the door – they don't want any children in here, so only the men have keys – you walk in, and he follows you in and locks the door.

The walls are covered with pictures. Women in bikinis. Naked women. Women with incredible breasts. Gorgeous young women. Everywhere.

You are a 34-year-old woman, 25 pounds overweight, with no make-up, looking and feeling tired, surrounded by these impossibly beautiful women. You feel completely inferior and insignificant.

Their hair wasn't cut by a friend who had a moment of free time. They have finger nail polish.

You start taking off your clothes; Mr. Badass is taking off his, but he's looking at the pictures as he undresses. When he finishes undressing, he reverently touches one of the pictures.

You remember . . .
Lucas touching by breast reverently.

You lay in bed, waiting patiently. Eventually he looks at you and realizes you're naked. He rushes to the bed, puts vaseline in his cock, and thrusts into you.

And then he has sex while he looks at those beautiful faces and naked breasts. Your breasts are naked too, but they sag. You're just the warm vagina here; the pictures on the wall supply the excitement.

This room is a lot faster – you're sure the men of New America were only trying to make themselves happy, but they streamlined the process of sex.

You try to act excited, but when he doesn't notice you stop trying.

Mr. Badass relaxes for a moment after he cums. You try to take pride in your contribution to New America, but it's difficult not to feel used.

You're carting dishes into the kitchen after dinner when Mr. Wasp walks in. He points at you. You would rather carry dishes, if you could choose which chore to do.

You don't have a choice which chore to do. You smile at Mr. Wasp, trying to show him your willingness to let him do whatever he wants to you.

Men are stronger and faster than women. Women need them for protection and to provide, so you have to stay by them. So, for thousands and thousands of years, men could have sex with a woman whenever they wanted.

Except if another man owned the woman and defended his property. And then her owner could have sex with that her whenever he wanted. It was probably all the same to her.

So, for thousands and thousands of years, women were having babies and almost constantly pregnant or nursing. They couldn't stop that. And women are genetically built to care, so you can't stop caring for your children. If Lucas came back to you, you would care for him too.

Mr. Wasp takes you into the Couples Room. You take off your clothes and he takes off his clothes. He looks around the room and starts jerking on his cock; he wouldn't even notice you except you block his view of some of the pictures.

So your life is really a normal life for a woman. What you had before, in modern society, that was the anomaly.

He shoves his greased cock into you and keeps looking at the pictures. That's okay. you're not competing with them. It's their job to look beautiful. You just supply the vagina. you're doing a good job; you're not complaining or distracting him. You act excited and he seems to speed up a little, so you keep acting excited.

You remember . . .
You once read that the average Pilgrim wife had 8 children. You thought that was a lot.

Now that number seems low and you're jealous. But they still were baby factories.

You imagined the Pilgrim husbands and wives deciding together to go to America. That seems so naive now.

Mr. Wasp cums and you fake the world's quickest orgasm. You're trying to be a good wife to the men. He pulls out; you start getting dressed.

Humans are mammals, just like the cows and horses and pigs. Males and females have sex and the females get pregnant. You give birth, and then the infants suck your milk. And that continues each species. You're just playing your part in a cosmic cycle.

The dishes are all cleared, so you walk into the kitchen. Sister Laura is helping with the finish of cleanup and looking to you for approval. She's still just a child. You smile rewardingly at her. Good girl. You want her to like herself. You want to love her for who she is.

This is normal. Keeping you in a nearly constant state of either being pregnant or nursing is normal. Men putting their semen in you, without your permission, is normal. Having nine children and being pregnant with a tenth, with no end to this until menopause, is normal.

Knowing that your sons will grow up to use women, that's normal too. Knowing your daughters will be used and spend up to 30 years of their lives being either pregnant or nursing, given no vote or say in how the community is run, and not allowed to leave, that's normal too.

You don't have a passport. They took away your driver's license. Legally, you might not exist. You might have renounced your U.S. citizenship. Given up power of attorney. If your children have birth certificates, you don't know who's listed as the mother.

So you have stopped becoming a person with legal rights. You've become a historically normal woman.

You have breasts. You have a vagina. You have a uterus. More than forty children call you Mother. You help feed and take care of those children. Nine of those are your biological children.

And a tenth is currently hijacking your body and emotions. You have no power, no control over that either.

You try to accept.