France, South Africa, Brazil, Bulgaria (again)

“Here he comes,” Duvon said, looking through the big glass windows. Then, aware of the play on words, he said, “Actually he’s not coming at the moment.” He put the harness and the dildo back in his bag.

Angela’s head turned to see Kai-Kai walking toward them from across the quad, casually talking to three women and pointing out things. They were all dressed oddly, and Angela realized that these were today’s I-1, I-2 and I-3. She’d forgotten their names, but from looking at the schedule yesterday she remembered that one was from France, one was from South Africa, and one was from Brazil. The boy was giving them a little tour of campus.

Angela was of two minds about traditional outfits. The custom seemed to begin a few months ago, she wasn’t sure how. To her, they reduced the women to national stereotypes, and reminded her of traditional submissive female roles. But it was entirely voluntary and the women seemed proud to wear them. Maybe women just liked to play dress-up. The costumes hardly expressed their true personalities. Ms. Agawa, for example, the day before her impreg, spoke in the Guest House lecture room on changes in nutrition attitudes in her home country. She was in a typical woman’s business suit, prim and proper. She taught at Charles Darwin University in Palmerston. It was a shock to see her walking around campus the next day painted up and all but naked.

The Guest House lectures were becoming popular. Given by either P-3’s (women waiting for their impreg) or P-4’s (those who had been impregnated and were waiting for their flight), they were on diverse subjects but always interesting. Perhaps subconsciously these women wanted to prove that they were more than a uterus, in town to receive the Sire’s sperm. Originally intended for the other women staying at the Guest House, the lectures were attracting people from the college community. They were now being recorded and put online.

The heavily suntanned naked Sire walked in through the open door, after chivalrously letting his three female guests in first. Angela detected Duvon’s sigh of lust. She had to admit that the boy’s body was becoming ever more magnificent. In his time as the Sire, he had grown a bit, and filled out a little. He was more of a “man”, with a quiet air of confidence. A far cry from the pale, cringing boy on that Canadian newscast. This summer his skin had darkened to the point that he seemed to be changing races. Biologically he was the product of an Arab father and a Jewish mother, and DNA analysis showed he had Sudanese blood in him, presumably on his father’s side. That would explain the darkened skin. On the Fitzpatrick scale the Good Health Committee now rated him as a Type 5, Type 6 being the darkest. He was inspected carefully as to such matters; not being allowed clothing or covering, his exposure to sun on trips to high-UV areas had to be monitored. Autumns and winters here in Semillas were notably sunless, so presumably by next January he would be back to a paler shade.

The changes in his body were accentuated by the dark skin but were in objective terms not that great. Angela no longer attended the weekly inspections but she received the reports. The Sire had grown about an inch, and gained eight pounds. The concern, as always, was the size of his penis. It had grown proportionally with the rest of him, from 9.1 inches to 9.2, and gotten slightly thicker too. The volume was now 501 cc’s -- as Mrs. MacGregor from Scotland had put it, “half a liter o’ cock!” Vaginal size requirements had to be increased, and larger “Model Sires” manufactured. This decreased the theoretical pool of applicants by about 20%, but that was workable. With the increasing acceptance of the Project around the world they had far more applicants than before.

His busy testicles had also grown, now measuring in volume 120 cc (left) and 110 cc (right). They had been the size of jumbo size chicken eggs, already much larger than a normal man’s (which are like small size chicken eggs), but now, after being called on to manufacture and pump out all those trillions of sperm, they were the size of goose eggs. His usual “yield” at the lab drainings was now about 120 cc, and one assumed his normal ejaculatory volume during impregs had increased. His sperm count had also increased proportionally. All of this was good. As he entered his twenties, if he was a typical male, his sexual capacity would start to decrease. This was taken account of in planning impregs for future years. The long-term insemination schedule for the Sire was one of deceleration anyway; he had begun with eight times a day, and now it was seven, albeit with bigger “loads”. His sperm-making had been “revved up” by the Project, but what the Spermatogenesis Committee called the “natural long-term contours” of his sexuality could not be ignored. He would ejaculate less, his testicles would shrink back to normal (normal for him, anyway -- still extremely large for an adult male) . . . Starting at age 23 he would be impregnating only six times a day, and for the last year, four times a day. Which should still get him to his 25th birthday ahead of 25,000.

Kai-Kai meticulously introduced everyone. It turned out the I-1 was Pierrette Roux from Lyon, France, dressed like a lady of Louis XVI’s court. The I-2 was Marieke Viedert of Johannesburg, who looked like an Afrikaans Sunday School teacher from 1884. The I-3 was Bianca Barbosa from Rio de Janeiro, in a colorful, flowing outfit with a wrap-around headdress. They contrasted in every possible way with the naked young man next to them. All three were overdressed for the hot weather and starting to sweat, though trying to hide their discomfort.

When Kai-Kai and the women had gotten their lunch -- for Kai-Kai, just a small salad and one of his zinc milkshakes -- they came back from the snack bar and sat down with Angela and Phil and Duvon. It was a big round table and there was plenty of room. Kai-Kai was next to Angela and courteously remained standing while the women he had impregnated this morning arranged themselves and sat down. It was normal for people to look at Kai-Kai’s penis, and for Angela it was hard to avoid, since it was practically in her face, heavy, thick and soft, arching forward from the forest of pubic hair, not quite fully flaccid, in front of his goose eggs. From the corner of her eye she could see the glans below, but the others couldn’t, it being below the table line.

After everyone sat down there was talk of the campus expansion. Phil was concerned about it, Kai-Kai was unworried. He seemed to think that an expanded college would have no effect on the peaceful neighborhood he lived in on the edge of campus. Angela, and others, often considered Kai-Kai to be too naively optimistic. She used to dismiss it when people said it was the product of the post-orgasmic endorphins that were always in his bloodstream. It struck her as a crude explanation; people who didn’t know him well tended to think of him only in terms of his reproductive system. But lately she was thinking they might have a point.

Kai-Kai’s sunny outlook on life was actually one of the many things that made the boy appealing. What Angela couldn’t abide, though, was the unspoken assumption that he wasn’t very smart. His mother prevented any deep psychological assessments. But Angela was sure there was a depth to him, perhaps an unusual depth, which was not apparent. Nor did he lack creativity. This was one of the topics she used to hash over with Shonda and the others in the old days, at that pizzeria. Sexual energy, sublimated, often resulted in great works of art, or music, or literature. Everyone knew that. But Kai-Kai would have nothing left over for creative work. His sexual energy was depleted by having seven strong orgasms every day. Or was it? “Maybe Kai-Kai has an unusual amount of it,” Sylvia said once. But he didn’t write a lot, or write music, or do any of the creative things undergraduates try their hands at. Lawanda gave a good answer to that. “He’s a great cook!” Stopping in on that conversation, Professor Allison quoted a famous psychologist. “A first-rate soup shows more creativity than a third-rate poem.” And she knew by now, from watching that clip from Canadian TV, that he was creative in his dance moves, using his nudity and his endowment in what had to be unique ways.

The three women, who were now P-4’s, listened quietly as Phil and Duvon chatted with Kai-Kai. Angela considered how semen which only a couple of hours ago was in Kai-Kai’s testicles and prostate was now sloshing around in their vaginas. With Ms. Roux, his sperm probably were now making their way up through her cervix. Taking account of his copious ejaculations, the women were wearing absorbent pads so that their costumes wouldn’t get stained by the dripping excess. Or at least she hoped so.

Angela had often wondered what happened to the costumes when the women got back to their home countries. Pretty obviously, they had never been worn by these women before, often being made specially for the occasion. They would certainly never wear them in their day-to-day life. The P-7 Committee told her that in most cases the costumes were donated to a local museum, or national health authorities for display in a main lobby.

As Phil and Duvon kept talking, with Kai-Kai mostly listening, Angela’s mind wandered to the heavy burden of work she had this summer. A lot of documents had come in from Russia and she had been working with Ludmilla Woronov, a P-7 of Russian descent who lived a couple of hours away by car. She was the proud mother of Project triplets, who would stay over their grandparents’, along with her other three children, so that Angela and Mrs. Woronov could work undistracted. Mrs. Woronov was a professor of languages at the local state university and was very helpful, and just as important, a certified Russian translator who could sign off on everything they filed.

Angela decided, yes, I will take that one week vacation. The week of the 27th should be good. Her good friend Tami in Vermont was turning 40 that day and she could go there to lend moral support. And enjoy less hot weather.

Kai-Kai got vacations too, from the impreg schedules, though they were planned well ahead of time. He got two annual vacation weeks. Last week was one of them, and as usual the Project just couldn’t leave the boy alone. “Vacations” were always devoted to travel to foreign capitals for photo ops, or experiments on his sperm count and ejaculations. This past spring they had once again examined the effect of deprivation. Poor Kai-Kai was not himself as he was kept from ejaculating for what was supposed to be the whole week. He was irritable and couldn’t sleep. He was instructed not to masturbate, and obedient boy that he was, he didn’t, though he never had anyway, so he probably wouldn’t know how to do it. Finally on the fourth day the Spermatogenesis Committee, which was running the experiment, decided by majority vote to relent and let him ejaculate once, by having Mrs. Kimura deep-throat him. He came within 8 seconds of full engulfment, which had to be a record. Two days later they let him ejaculate again. What did they learn from all of that? Angela thought.

Last week was the opposite -- testing his capacity by seeing how many times he could ejaculate over the course of one day. This was different from the drainings, where it was one right after another until the “drygasm”. Three tests were done, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. For the first two they scheduled one ejaculation an hour, to see if he could last the whole day. It turned out he could, the first at 6:15 a.m., the last at 10:15 p.m., a total of seventeen “loads”, even the last one being a full 3 cc’s, which was about the normal volume from an average adult man who ejaculated maybe twice a week. He did get sleepy and was allowed to nap once in the afternoon and once after dinner. The yield each day was 160 cc’s. This was, as expected, a far greater amount than was achieved at the Lab drainings, due to the increased recovery time.

Angela participated and it was a strange experience. On Monday she was on one of the two-person shifts, attaching the long collection sleeve to Kai-Kai’s penis every hour. It was part of what they joking called the “ejac pack”. Her shift was 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. They met up with the Sire at his house, at the snack bar, and in the hallway after one of his summer classes. She was sure that by 1:15 he dreaded seeing them approaching, though he was too polite and obedient to make any complaint. She and Mikhail would loop the strap around the boy’s waist and fit the tube over his penis. One could say that the always nude boy was now “wearing” something, though it was a cruel article of clothing. They then would apply feathers to his testicles. At 11:15 and 12:15 they found Kai-Kai talking to friends, and at 1:15 with Prof.

Audrey after his American Literature class. Kai-Kai kept conversing amid increasing gasps, pausing only at the moment of ejaculation. The Professor waited politely as the boy moaned and spasmed in front of him, and everyone looked down at the thick spurts jetting into the tube. Then the prof continued what he was saying while Angela and Mikhail removed the sleeve, undid the strap, and wiped the penis off with the wet cloth. Finally they placed the end of the penis over a cup and waited for the boy to urinate a few squirts to flush out his urethra. As they left, Kai-Kai, his damp penis soft and a little inflamed, caught his breath and leaned one hand against the wall, as he listened to the prof talking about the American Civil War.

Wednesday was even stranger, with Kai-Kai sitting in a special wheelchair all day, the tube always on his penis, an unseen dildo lodged in his rectum. Every hour the sleeve would start moving back and forth on his penis, which was kept in an “up and out” position, seeming to stick up into everyone’s faces, and the ribbed dildo would start plunging in and out behind. Again, he went to a full day of classes, his toes curled around the widely-spread motorized pedals that allowed him to go forward or backward or turn. He had different classes this day and as a result when it got to 15 minutes after the hour he was sometimes in class, sitting in his wheelchair in front, near the door. The professor would drone on without stopping as the whirring sound began and everyone knew that Kai-Kai was being stimulated again. Summer classes are long affairs; over the space of two classes he came five times, at 9:15, 10:15, 11:15, 2:15 and 3:15, each time trying to suppress his moans so that they would not disrupt the lecture. The prof and the other students pretended not to notice. Angela and her friends had lunch with him that day. He could not sit that close to the table so he ate from a tray on the wheelchair. The tube stuck out a good two feet over the table and Angela almost jumped in the middle of her lunch as spurts of semen leapt toward her, stopped only by the transparent end of the sleeve and then sliding down to the collection tube. People passing him throughout the day noticed the semen accumulating bit by bit at the bottom.

Friday was the final test. Everyone knew his yield would be greater, but it could not be measured, since stimulation would be done with female tongues, throats and fingers. A special backless chair was constructed which pitched Kai-Kai up on his knees. It was like one of those ergonomic “kneeling chairs”, but it spread his knees at a 90-degree angle and the supporting cushion was cut away behind so as to allow access to his anus. The chair was on a platform which was padded front and back. Mrs. Kimura, or one of the “graduates” from her school of deep-throating the Sire, could sit comfortably cross-legged in front and perform her specialty, while Ms. Rodwell, or others who were similarly expert, could sit behind and tongue the boy’s anus and noodle around in his rectum. The younger girls had on “M.K.C.C.” T-shirts, which was getting to be a common sight around campus, and not only among Drainers. The whole works was on wheels, enclosed in a frame, so that Kai-Kai and the two women could be wheeled anywhere without being interrupted. They were followed by other women who could quickly replace the others after each orgasm.

And so it went the whole day, Kai-Kai trying to converse, or even think straight, while his entire erection was down a woman’s throat, being worked on by her undulating esophageal muscles, and a skilled tongue was jabbing in from behind. Attending class like this was impossible, but the boy did go to the snack bar and the dining hall. He tried to act like nothing was happening and tried to get words out, lost as he was in a moaning haze, interrupted only by his orgasms, loud cries that he tried to suppress without success, followed by perhaps ostentatious gulping sounds from below as he fed the woman in front of him another load. Shortly after which the woman drew the penis out, caught her breath, and got up, to be replaced by her successor. The backless design turned out to be a flaw, since he got so tired by mid-afternoon that he needed friends to hold him up by the armpits. He was allowed a long nap before dinner. He came 23 times that day, a record. The last few were little events with probably no “product”. Probably 18 or so women actually received nourishment from him. His testicles ached all day Saturday. As for the “chair”, Mrs. Kimura kept it for drainings, adding a back to it, and amusingly, a desktop in front, though what kind of work the boy could do at it, while being throated and tongued below, one had to wonder.

Such was the quality of Kai-Kai’s “vacations”. Experiments that were pointless and only served as a trial to the poor boy. Yet another way Angela kept thinking of him as being unfortunate in life. The Draining Committee and the Spermatogenesis Committee, and maybe the Effectuation Committee, were to her mind overly energetic. The schedule of 41 impregnations per week seemed to be working fine. Then there were the “Drainers” and all that “M.K.C.C.” business. They should just let the boy be. But it was not her place to say so. And the current system did seem to be working. As Dr. Chatterjee said once, during a special presentation to the Freshman Bio class, “Kai-Kai here ejaculates into seven women every day, for most of the week. Think of it as lifting a little one-kilo dumbbell. The Drainings are like spending Sunday morning lifting hundred-kilo weights, then taking a break the rest of the day. It makes returning to lifting the dumbbells during the week very easy.” The critical indicator, which everyone kept an eye on, was the drop rate. The overall average remained at less than one percent. Even for the I-7’s, receiving the Sire’s seventh ejaculation of the day, it was only 1.48%.

Only two experiments seemed to her useful, and they weren’t even during vacations. Last October the Project experimented with having Kai-Kai start his day doing one impreg after the other, with only a short break between them, until he got all seven done. The idea (if it worked out) was to allow the boy the rest of the day to be free of the Project and follow his own pursuits. It was a rare example of the Project actually making allowance for the boy to have an independent life. As it turned out Kai-Kai could ejaculate into all seven women on this schedule quite handily. He did it Monday through Friday, the seventh woman being seeded no later than 11:30 a.m. What a change that would make in his life! If he “did his business” for five hours in the morning and was free the rest of the day! Unfortunately only about half of the women ended up getting pregnant. This was a surprise because, based on Draining data, it was thought his sperm count would hold up through all seven ejaculations. The idea was abandoned; impregnating only three or four women a day would not get the Project anywhere close to “25 - 25”.

It didn’t pan out, but it showed Angela that, at heart, the Project was attuned to Kai-Kai’s survival as a mentally healthy teenager. They didn’t insist on extraordinary measures to protect his testicles, for example, despite their central importance to the human race. Often she would see the boy playing with his friends, touch football, running around, his nakedness contrasting with everyone else in clothes, but otherwise just a boy among boys. It was possible, though remotely, that his testicles could get injured this way. What was the alternative? Keeping the boy inside the house at all times? All the impregs done in his bedroom? Perhaps a specially designed cage to be worn around his testicles? His mother made sure he lived a normal life as much as possible, but Angela believed that even without her intervention, the Project planners would have been kind to him. If at times the Project was insensitive to his needs, it wasn’t intentional, and it would get an earful about it anyway from the Local Affairs Committee.

The other experiment, done in January, was meant to address the concerns about Kai-Kai’s penis size. If he could ejaculate into a syringe, and his semen immediately squirted into the woman’s cervix, then women of any vaginal size could be accepted into the Project. This was done, again all week, but on Kai-Kai’s normal schedule. He and the woman would meet as usual, and she would bring the syringe with a stimulation sleeve, and lay back while Kai-Kai ejaculated into it. The women for this week had been trained in how to insert the syringe into their vaginas at the proper angle. Again, this was an idea that should have worked, but didn’t. Of 34 women receiving the boy’s ejaculate in this manner, only 11 got pregnant. As with the concerns about gene degradation and reverse engineering and falsification, it seemed that the Project could only be realized by actual intercourse, on a spread-out daily schedule.

Angela tuned back in to the conversation around the snack bar table. She noticed that the three women were listening quietly while the young men were talking. This gave the air of a polygamous society with “sister wives” who were utterly subservient. Of course that was not true here. But the women were from far away and not familiar with what was going on in Semillas, so their lack of comment was not surprising.

During a lull one of them, Ms. Roux, finally spoke up. “I understand the big event is at hand. You must be the most excited.” At least that’s what Angela thought she said. Her French accent was so thick it was hard to understand her.

“That’s right,” Kai-Kai said in his calm voice. “The first lady from Bulgaria. She should be here any minute.”

Angela was surprised. No Bulgarian woman was on the schedule Angela looked at yesterday. There had been a last-minute change, which was unusual. And at that boring convention last month, Professor Cordrescu talked about problems with penetration in that country, as if it was something to be achieved in the future. But obviously the Penetration Committee, the NGO Committee, and the Admission Committee had been busy. Maybe that professor had mentioned these efforts in her presentation but Angela had been too bored to hear it.

As if on cue, today’s I-4 entered the snack bar, Nikolina Penka of Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Kai-Kai jumped up to greet her, his penis flopping. She was as heavily clothed as the others, in a long dress with a vest with lots of embroidery, and a kind of spangled apron in front. She smiled nervously, a sheen of sweat on her face, and gave Kai-Kai her hand.

Maybe this Bulgarian surprise shouldn’t have been a surprise. Many things got by Angela these days, so involved was she with administrative matters. It looked like she was about to be present at another impreg. Husbands were always allowed to be present, of course, and in the case of polygamous families, other wives, and anyone else the home country wanted to send at their own expense. But that rarely happened. The Project had agreed to provide travel arrangements for husbands -- it could hardly do otherwise -- but past that it was up to the country in question, or in the case of “sub rosa” impregs, whatever NGO had arranged it.

A couple of the impregs were notable for the people who were flown in to witness, and the setting they specified. These had to be done by special application, adjudicated by the Effectuation Committee, whose main concern was that the woman’s ascent to orgasm (strictly speaking unnecessary but considered of prime importance) not be inhibited. Thus far there had been about two dozen impregs with non-marital home country witnesses, more like delegations. The first impreg from Uruguay was like that. Held in the conference room in the Humanities Building, with Angela and Dr. Spaatz sitting by the side, as well as the procreator, a Mrs. Anita Villareal, the formally dressed committee of ten men and women, their papers in front of them, bid the naked boy to approach. He stood in front of the table, like a doctoral student defending his thesis, and though the questions were technical, mostly about the intricacies of male reproductive anatomy and his life as the Sire, Kai-Kai answered them completely and truthfully in his relaxed, innocent way. Then at their signal Mrs. Villareal, dressed in a florid, colorful dress, got up on the large table. The naked boy obediently mounted their fully clothed fellow Uruguayan and ejaculated into her as they sat and observed with poker faces. Civilized, formal, clothed adults monitoring that most animalistic act being performed in their midst. “Strange” was the only word for it.

Even stranger was the first impreg from the South Sea country of Vanuatu. It was a Saturday impreg, oddly held on the vast concrete walkway past the library, meant to be a main thoroughfare but due to bad design hardly used, since there were so many shortcuts. The five elders, in Western dress, had arranged cushions for them to sit on in a circle around a soft blanket for the copulating couple. Angela and many others watched from the windows of the neighboring buildings, feeling like voyeurs but it was impossible to turn away. What was made it even stranger was that they expected the Sire to utter their traditional “prayer of conception” at the moment of ejaculation. This was normally done by a chieftain beforehand, but with this non-marital event they wanted a special spiritual “oomph” to ensure conception. The request made the Effectuation Committee shake their heads but they decided to honor it and instructed Kai-Kai on what he had to do. With his usual dedication he memorized the transliterated form of the prayer, which was about twenty syllables. After the woman had had her orgasm and he gave his low moan, he remembered what was required of him and, his head arched upward in the position of prayer, gasped out to the skies the syllables of the prayer between his spasms, his quaking boyish exhortations echoing against the buildings with each shot of his semen into the waiting vagina. Somehow the situation prompted an especially intense and prolonged orgasm from the boy; his screamed and broken words (the language was called Bislama) seemed to resound all over campus and afterwards he spent about two or three minutes on his side recovering, his head in the woman's arms. The Vanuatuans were well satisfied with his performance and when impregnation was confirmed sent him the gift of a traditional chieftain’s loincloth. When the package was opened, at a party at the Schreiber house, the naked boy held it up and smiled good-humoredly, not allowed to put it on of course. Someone pointed out it wasn’t long enough to cover all of his penis anyway. He gave it to Marikit to playfully tie on over her jeans. It ended up in a glass display next to the Project offices in San Beueno Hall.

Thinking of those impregs, Angela welcomed the relative normalcy of the arrival of Mrs. Penka. In uncertain English the Bulgarian woman, who looked in her late 30’s, took it upon herself to introduce herself. “I didn’t know your country was represented,” Angela said.

“Of course,” Ms. Penka said. She took out her iPhone and passed around a photo of the ceremony before this Sunday’s welcome dinner at the Guest House. Along the second floor roofing were hoisted the flags of every country which had sent a woman for the Sire to impregnate. When a new country was added the woman would be photographed with Kai-Kai, both holding the flag. Such was the photo that was now passed around, the smiling naked boy and Ms. Penka, both with their hands on the Bulgarian flag between them, a red, green and white tricolor. Behind them stood Ms. Canworthy and a crowd of cheering women. When Angela last counted, there were 157 flags up on that crowded roofing. Now there would be 158.

“Welcome to the Project,” Angela said. She was then distracted by a middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and jeans walking in to the snack bar. She knew who he was before he introduced himself. “Good afternoon,” he said in somewhat better English. “I am Mr. Penka.”

It was rare for a husband to accompany his wife to Semillas to witness her getting impregnated by the Sire, but it happened, every few months. One imagined that he would be watching with barely disguised jealousy, but it wasn’t that way at all. Angela had seen it once or twice and they treated Kai-Kai like a son of their own, almost in fact cheering him on as if watching him play in a Little League game. They considered the Sire’s ejaculation to be a gift to their wives, and indirectly to themselves as well, and of course to their country. While at the same time conscious of the size of the boy’s penis and the care he took in not hurting her. When Angela told this to outsiders, they found it hard to believe. But it was true. The Admission Committee made very sure of that, in its careful psychological testing of the husband as well as the prospective woman, and its insistence to the social workers it dispatched to the prospective home that they be as thorough as possible.

The gregarious Mr. Penka sat down next to his wife and took over the conversation. He had a folder with him from which he took an article cut out from an old-style newspaper. “This is from Dnevnik, the biggest newspaper in Sofia, the capital,” he explained. The article was in Bulgarian, which no one understood, but was clearly about his wife’s participation in the Project, topped by a photo of the two of them, smiling next to a man in a business suit who Mr. Penka said was the Minister of Health. Again, Angela wondered why she hadn’t paid more attention to the Cordrescu lecture. He also boasted about his wife, who, sweating in her native costume, could not say much in English. She was an engineer and Mr. Penka showed them a drawing of the hydroelectric dam she was working on.

Duvon and Phil seemed exhausted by all this sudden new information. But Angela was immersed in the Project; all she seemed to see and hear about in Semillas was Kai-Kai and his ejaculations. It seemed her life was awash in his ever-spurting semen. So it was refreshing to hear about something different. Thousands of women passed through Semillas to receive the Sire’s penis, but it was only for a few minutes and they were only here for a few days. The experience was just a blip in lives based far, far away, lives that had nothing to do with the Project, lives that were as full and interesting as her own, perhaps more so. So Angela was curious about the Penkas and kept the conversation going by asking about the dam, about Mr. Penka’s life as a railroad executive, and about their two children, ages 17 and 13. Mr. Penka, whose hair was streaked with gray, was about to hit 50 but looked in great shape and Angela told him so.

The conversation wound down and now there was an uneasy silence. Everyone knew the problem. It was time for Mrs. Penka’s impreg, and the rule was the woman had to make the first move, usually by taking the Sire by the hand and leading him to the designated place. But Mrs. Penka was merely sitting silently, looking down at her empty plate.

Finally, Kai-Kai gently turned to her and said, “Mrs. Penka? . . . They’ve graciously let us use the staff lounge.” He was referring to the lounge for cafeteria staff, not used much in the summer anyway, and motioned to the open door across the room.

She gulped. Her husband held her hand. He said something to her in Bulgarian.

She looked up at the others, and then at Kai-Kai, then at her husband. She spoke a few hesitant words. “Toi . . . golyam.” Then to the others, in English, “He’s . . . big.”

Mr. Penka seemed to be expecting this. He spoke to her in English so that everyone would know what was going on. “He will be gentle.” A take-charge guy, he said to the Sire, “Could you stand up and come over here?”

As the boy obediently stood there, Mr. Penka held up the Project’s penis and drew it in his wife’s direction. “He will only go in four inches, up to here,” he said, holding up the penis from underneath with one hand, and with his other hand crossing his index finger over the top to indicate the four-inch mark, less than half the boy’s full length. Mrs. Penka looked at it doubtfully. As many women could attest, one can look at photos, but the Sire’s penis always looked even bigger “in person”. At her husband’s prompting, Mrs. Penka placed her hand next to his, then as he withdrew she supported the penis with both of her rather small hands. Her white skin contrasted with the brownish purple of the now semi-erect appendage. Now the three of them slowly proceeded to the staff lounge, Mrs. Penka making herself hold Kai-Kai’s penis with one hand, and closed the door behind them.

At this point Professor Lundquist, who taught obstetrics, walked in. He was a distinguished looking man approaching retirement age, with a trimmed gray beard and an unlit pipe that he kept chewing on. He used to be chair of the Medical Committee. He greeted everyone, and oblivious to the heat in his long pants and shirt and tweed jacket, got his hot coffee and was invited to sit with them.

He looked at the closed door and said, in his typical puckish way, “I see the Project is about to invade Bulgaria.”

This made everyone smile. The rest, Angela, Duvon, Phil, and the three women who had been inseminated this morning, sat in silence, in front of their trays. After a minute Phil said, “I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

“She’s afraid of his size, eh?” Prof. Lundquist said, sipping his coffee and then puffing on his pipe as if it had tobacco in it. In fact smoking wasn’t allowed on campus and he had quit some years ago anyway, but he couldn’t let go of such a professorly prop. “Well that comes with the territory.”

“I didn’t have a problem with him, what do you call him, Kai-Kai,” Mrs. Roux said. Her costume was equipped with a fan and she was fanning her sweating face. “He was the most huge, but I had him go in three inches only. I was stretched out muchly, because he’s so thick, but it wasn’t painful.” She paused. “Now, sex with the anus type, that is painful. I tried it once with my husband. His penis is small but we had to stop right away.”

“I didn’t have a problem either,” Mrs. Viedert said. “But my husband is very big, not as big as this boy, but we have to use extra large condoms. I got five inches inside me this morning and it was easy.”

“My husband is like yours,” Mrs. Barbosa said to Mrs. Roux. “Very small, but a great lover. He jabs into me fast like a pildorita. You know, those little hot dogs wrapped in bread. I come all the time.” Angela smiled. As open as the other two women were, this outspoken worldliness was more than they expected. “I also got just three inches today. I was out of breath, but he was gentle. He comes a lot more than my Joao, and much force. It was like a fire hose shooting into me. I’d rather have my little Joao inside me, any day.”

The professor chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling, clearly enjoying this little go-round.

Suddenly there emerged a gurgling cry from the staff lounge. The inseminated visitors were startled, but the Semillas crowd did not react. It was often noted that women who were being pierced by the Sire made passion sounds that were not usual, and probably not like how they sounded with their own husbands. As Duvon once put it, gruesomely but accurately, when Kai-Kai eases into a woman, she often sounds like she has been stabbed, and is choking on her own blood.

But now there was a second gurgling cry, and what sounded like female sobs. Now silence.

Suddenly with a serious face, Prof. Lundquist said, “This might take a while.” They all looked at the door. Then they heard Mr. Penka’s concerned voice. “We need some help here.” Now Kai-Kai’s quiet words, which were distressed and strained. “I - I don’t think this will work, Mr. Penka.”

It was very rare that an impreg could not go through because of the woman’s discomfort, with the attention given to “pitch” and the Sire’s almost timid care. Not really knowing what they could do, but knowing they were wanted, Angela and Prof. Lundquist walked to the door and opened it.