THE HAREM
TERRI THE VALIDE
On Friday it was quiet.
Where were the orgasmic shrieks? The men, roaring out their orgasms into the moonlight? In Stork and Calving and the many other towns the community was in the air. Terri could tell just by listening that the neighbors had another couple over, or that Mrs. Caddel was getting penetrated at both ends. On clear days she could hear a morning round of blowjobs, the wet sound of spit and the pleased huffs of the men. And there was the frequent sound of childbirth. Always joyful. Sometimes that was her.
Here the night was—silent. No, there was noise, this was still a city, but it was mechanical noise. Distant cars on the freeway, a hum from heating systems.
Not a single human noise, and especially not in her apartment complex, which was tomb-silent. All the doors were closed. She’d observed so little—so little HUMANITY—in the ten small residences that made up 10601 Brood Lane. Doors opened to go to work, return from work, pick up mail, and, sometimes, pick up food delivery. And then they were shut, and Terri would hear a noise. A lock being turned.
A few of the residents had stopped, startled, when noticing a girl with extremely large tits watching them, barely dressed in a long t-shirt and a pair of jean shorts. She’d waved. Terri would’ve invited them in, and fondled their own boobs, and licked their pussies, and sucked their cocks, but at most she’d gotten a surprised half-wave, and then they’d quietly dropped their eyes.
Dropped their eyes, from her! From her lucious mammaries, several times voted the most suckable teats in Calving!
They were a diverse group. Ateera, Julia, Bailey, Jelena, Elena, and Kylie. And the man, Seth. Just normal girls, doing normal jobs. Well, Kylie was working for the government, and keeping an eye on her. But the others were. For now.
Terri was increasingly glad that Pastor Flynn had sent her out, for research purposes. There was still so much to learn. There were so many people where the conversion into big-boobed fuck pump was difficult to envision. These residents couldn’t even admire her curves.
In the broader world, Phase 6 was well underway.
By now these apartment girls—and one man—had been sucking down a low-grade priming set of hormones for a pretty long time. A very gentle one, by Calving standards. All the better to be eased into a world of enthusiastic breeding and religious observance, their rears and breasts sculpted gently into better and more fuckable versions. Their fertility was much improved. Birth control was starting to fail, worldwide.
There were aphrodisiacs in the water supply, obviously.
All the media encouraged, on a subliminal or liminal scale, having bareback sex. If Terri could talk to these girls, she was sure they’d have at least a new interest in creampies, shamefully browsed on incognito browsers. At least they’d be struggling to close their bra clasps. Terri had no doubt that all these quiet, sad residents would soon be dull-witted horned-up fuck toys, same as her.
But what KIND of horned-up fuck toy, that was the question!
Then what? Would they just sit alone in their rooms, masturbating to breeder porn? Picking up deliveries of vibrators? Calving was about COMMUNITY.
With that in mind, Terri went and licked all the doorknobs.
She was proud of herself, as an agent of change. The chemicals in her breeder brain rewarded her for converting the heathen. Seeing a new girl’s shocked, dazed look, her hands drifting between plumping thighs, was always worth at least a mini-orgasm. But after so long in the Calving family Terri was more or less always about to cum, so now she was in it for love of the game.
Her spit was a bath of pheromones, chemicals, and tailored hormones, and she rubbed it on the copper. For good measure, she got her fingers nice and drenched in pussy juice, and rubbed that on as well. Just gripping the knob was probably good for a cup size. Gripping knobs was what she was all about.
It was barely a start. Next she went and doctored the water heater.
This was specialized bimbofication knowledge, and Terri knew really well that she was far too dumb to pull off any engineering feats. Pastor Flynn, brilliant man that he was, had found a workaround for his stupid sluts. She’d eagerly watched one of his special programming videos. One of the ones that could make a rat operate a bulldozer, on the basis of operant conditioning and pleasure rewards. The treatment made her even stupider, crowding out what little brainpower she still had, but whatever. Terri was kind of curious how dumb she could get. It’d be fun to find out how little vocabulary she could have. It’d be so hot to just grunt and fuck.
When she approached the big heater her mind went into a pleasurable white haze, capable of one or two thoughts. Dream-like, Pastor Flynn had called it, but it was more animal-like. She was similar to a house pet in a mating rut. It was fun. When she emerged, she was diddling herself in the basement, shirt soaked with drool, and the water heater had a small attachment on one of the hoses.
She did the same with the cable attachment on the exterior. Terri was sure that set of instructions, for how not to electrocute herself, had occupied a really huge chunk of her brain. After watching that video she’d forgotten most of the words related to cooking. She’d recalled ‘fork,’ but not ‘spoon’ or ‘knife’. Hubby had watched her spend thirty minutes relearning how to make cereal, and then had fucked her, mating press, for half a day. He was always so proud of her work for Calving, and he loved what a dumb-dumb she was.
Transformative water flowed into small apartments, cable signals added special signals.
Calving was always thorough. The courtyard had a small pond. Terri dripped a vial into it. She added a new invention to the interior garden. Plants had always released oxygen. Why not something more interesting? And even she was smart enough to set up and plug in the usual overriding Wifi router with its regular brainwashing beat. Barely.
All this work, turning shy people into pregnancy-obsessed sluts, made her juicy. She knew she wasn’t quiet, grunting and shaking as she regularly rubbed at herself.
And yet, no one did anything, no one opened a door.
It was so very quiet. The only noisy thing was her. It was—sad. Terri had to search for the word, but it was still there. She even wanted an interruption. She’d grab the boy or girl, or both, and give them a deep, fun kiss, and watch as her enzymes made them drooling-level horny.
But no one came out.
Unsettled, Terri went back to her rented room, where she had a man tied up in her bed.
He was snoring.
Terri checked the TV feed, noting the tell-tale flicker of engrained hypnotics. The cable feed had added a few hundred new channels, as well. Mostly pornography of various types, but also a set of music stations, some cooking shows, all of which created an intense desire for mating and breeding. Channel 951 in particular was a white noise station that created the most insatiable desire for frothy reproductive sex. It could reduce a girl from college graduate to panting cocksleeve in about an hour. In Terri, it was a pleasant glow, and made her nipples warm. She kept it on. Anything beat the quiet.
Even her man’s log-sawing was better than the quiet.
The water tasted sweeter and better. And just by virtue of it being her, Queen Bimbo Terri, fertile and fertilized, the apartment room was a soup of the latest and greatest in biological bimbofication. Surfaces were moist, the air was thick with her fug. Terri had also stuck a lot of the cutlery and the bathroom vanity items up her pussy, without really thinking about it. Anyone who used a toothbrush, after Terri had been in the restroom, was about to sprout really plush blowjob lips.
Satisfied, she checked on Hassan.
He was sleeping a lot, exhausted. Mostly a response to his body rapidly resculpting from doughy deliveryman to copper-skinned demigod. He was shirtless, and had sprouted a tuft of black hair in each armpit, along with a curly black beard. His chest was barren except for a single sprig of the same curls. And of course it was wider, and broader, and deeper. Terri rubbed it, happy. All men made her happy, and she was happy to service all men.
Past Terri, old Terri, had been shoved so deeply down that she existed more in photographs than in the overripe bimbo mommy of the same name. Terri’s latest silly, adorable rebellion had been quelled the first moment a man slapped her ass and winked at her. Still, old Terri would’ve been pleased that new Terri was totally incapable of racism of any kind. She treated doughy Iraqi Grubhub drivers with the same slavish, docile devotion she gave any male. Racism required some knowledge of geography, among other things.
The bed sank towards her as she sat alongside. Terri was three months pregnant. Or so. She’d been blown up so many times by so many different dicks that her stomach quickly reinflated, assuming the fertility idol pudge that Calving boys adored. A holy kind of figure, Pastor Flynn had told her, and Terri had nodded. She was definitely a hole.
“Oooh, this is really something, baby,” Terri said, impressed at Hassan’s penis. Men exposed to Terri got big dicks, real fast, but he had exceeded all normal growth standards. It was now about eleven and a half inches long even while its owner was asleep. She trailed her fingers along the bottom of it. Even now, after receiving loads from hundreds of cocks, there was a breathless sense of anticipation when she roused one. Her vision narrowed to the stirring dick. It was her world. A reminder that she was a vessel, or more accurately a sort of utility, for men.
“You aren’t done—uhhh—mutating me?” Hassan growled, abruptly awake. Calving men slept less deeply. REM sleep wasn’t necessary for less complicated brains. He strained at the bonds tying him to the bed, or pretended to. “Changing me into—uhhh—uhhh—meat?”
That was about all the vocabulary the man was capable of, even after some restful and restorative slumber. She’d been keeping him from cumming for three days, and it had made him very stupid. His blood was largely in his cock and swollen testicles, and whatever else he had left was in his amazing musculature. Hassan had about enough blood in his brain to keep him breathing.
Terri smiled and rubbed gently at his cock. Transforming men were so funny, so indignant, so deluded. In such deep denial about how much they were enjoying themselves, going from men to masters. The ropes keeping him in the bed were shoelaces, and all Terri had done was tie two overhand knots. She was way too dumb for hitches or other boy scout bindings.
“You don’t like it?” Terri said, still softly stroking him, very softly. Anyone without her consummate skill in handling penises would make him blast off.
All the hormones and other chemicals she’d pumped into him were still urgently changing his dick, as big as it already was. He’d grown several inches a day, and was much more girthy. His penis was still in a half-finished state, the skin new and red, the cockhead noticeably bigger than the shaft. His balls were much larger, oozing onto the bed, still in a puddle from previous sessions. When he was done Hassan’s cock would be a magnificent thing, proud and well-proportioned, but there was an allure to the swiftly growing version, as well. It had an adolescent eagerness to it.
“I—it’s—unghhh—unhhh—” Hassan bucked his hips, against her hand. Terri knew exactly how to tease him—it was especially easy with new boys, where their veins were still livid against the shaft. She pricked a fingernail against a pumping blue vein.
“UNNHHHH,” Hassan said, and drooled. He briefly recalled English. “You’re—just—a SLUT—a—”
The word he wanted was “succubus,” but he’d forgotten it. Terri had forgotten it years ago. He watched her, dumb, watching her stroke his cock. Most of what was named Hassan was now a desperate thirst for more of her milk, and the rest was an equally urgent addiction to getting his dick stroked. What was left, in the middle of that, was a dazed delivery driver invited in by a customer with enormous tits. But that tiny remnant was getting dumbed away by an unmet need to cum.
Terri felt bad about edging him. She wanted boys to cum all the time, and also he wouldn’t be good for much besides farm work and insemination. But she needed potent cum, quickly, and his accumulated wad would be unbelievably powerful. A distilled version of himself, loaded and distilled with testosterone plus.
His IQ dribbled out between Terri’s fingers. Even his thin precum trickle made her nose itch. Days of male aggression trickled across her pink-painted fingers.
“I gotta cuuuuuuuum,” he gasped. “Puh—puh—please.”
“Ohhhh, soon, soon,” Terri said, her finger on an artery. She withdrew her hand. His swollen member twitched. All he could manage after that was occasional grunts and growls. Terri liked those too—it was so darn quiet in the apartment complex. Some masculine howling was a nice change of pace.
She spent a half-hour with him, driving Hassan to the brink and back. What remained of Terri’s mind was elsewhere. The issue, as she poorly understood it, was that the world could not be neatly parceled out into god-blessed nuclear families. There were so many lonely people in the world, and Pastor Flynn wanted more for them than to be lonely sluts. But WHAT?
It wasn’t really about the sex, it was about the connections between people, he’d told her. But she hadn’t really gotten it. Too smart for dumb Terri...
“Muhhh,” Hassan said, when she softly pushed on the underside of his dick, denying him once again. “Buh.” His balls were thick and turgid. When not around she’d kept him on a steady diet of hardcore pornography, and fed him nothing but breast milk. He’d floated in a pleasant narcotic fog for long enough.
“Oh, alright,” Terri said, sniffing. ‘You can cum, now.”
She softly puffed a hot breath on Hassan’s cockhead.
He shot fresh loads, long pent-up. “Ungh. Unghhhhhhh,” Hassan said, spasming. Terri sauntered over to the bedside table, where she had a glass jar ready. After the first few enthusiastic shots, stretching nearly to the ceiling, there was still plenty left to fill a carafe to the halfway point. It smelled delicious, but she didn’t want to waste it. A batch of new bull semen, mixed with her breastmilk, was a can’t-miss bimbo or himbofication solution. Very useful in an emergency, and fun at parties.
Hassan’s relieved howl briefly filled the apartment complex. At last, some noise.
“VERY good, you did SO good,” Terri cooed, and helped the man sit up. She pressed a nipple into his mouth, and he instantly latched on. The shoelaces fell off his wrists, unnoticed. Right—she’d forgotten to tie them at all, last time around. “I bet they heard you five streets over!” Milk flowed out of her tits. He was still drizzling. She owed him big time, Terri felt. She’d have to let him ride her, and he’d get sent to the new Calving facility upstate, near Syracuse, where an entire women’s college needed insemination. They didn’t know it yet, but they did.
Terri closed her eyes.
Nursing was a great way to help her think. And she had a lot of thinking to do.
She had to bring so many people together.
But it was so hard to think in the quiet.