Chapter 50: The Milking Parlor Challenge
The gallon jars of milk were heavy in our hands, sloshing softly as we picked our way back through the grey fields, past the still, skeletal cows. The memory of the milking machine’s rhythmic pull was a pleasant ghost in my breasts, a phantom echo of release. The overalls, now smelling of hay, warm metal, and our own sweet milk, felt like a second skin, the denim worn soft against our over-sensitized bodies.It was Dee, again, with her sharp eyes, who saw it first. Not a shift in the wind or a smell, but a color. A slash of wrong green amidst the uniform grey-brown death.“Look,” she said, pointing beyond a collapsed section of split-rail fencing.
There, sheltered in a shallow depression maybe a hundred yards from the barn, was a garden. It was wild, overgrown, but unmistakably cultivated.Rows had once been. Now, it was a tangled riot of life fighting through neglect. Tall cornstalks, brown and dried but still holding their cobs wrapped tight in husks.Spiky, overgrown carrot tops gone to seed. And fat, dark eggplants, hanging heavy and glossy-purple against wilting leaves.
“Holy shit,” Cass breathed.“Actual food.Not from a can.”
A collective energy surged through us. Milk was one thing.Fresh vegetables were a treasure we hadn’t dared hope for. We set our milk jars down carefully in the grass and descended on the plot with a kind of reverent greed.
We worked efficiently, the practical part of our minds taking over. We tested the corn, peeling back husks to reveal kernels still plump and yellow. The carrots required a firm, twisting pull, coming from the dark earth with a thick, orange taproot. The eggplants were the prize, their smooth, cool skins firm under our fingers. We filled the empty sacks we’d brought, the weight a satisfying promise of meals to come.
But as the work drew to a close, as the last fat eggplant was placed in a sack, a different energy began to simmer. It was in the way Ellie ran her thumb over the slick, purple curve of an eggplant she held. In the way Nancy examined a particularly thick, tapered carrot. The sun, a muted bronze disc behind the haze, beat down on our backs.The overalls were suddenly hot, restrictive.Ellie caught my eye. Her gaze dropped to the vegetable in her hand, then back to me.A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She looked past me, to where our lovers stood at the edge of the garden, having followed us at a distance.They watched, always watched, their stillness more intense than any movement.
“It’s so warm,” Ellie said, her voice loud enough for all of us to hear. A statement, but also a suggestion.
“Sweltering,” Mary agreed, her tone flat, but her hands were already at the straps of her overalls.It started that simply. A collective, unspoken decision.We were alone in a dead world, alive and bursting with every kind of fertility. We had an audience of devoted, starving beasts. And we had these strange, phallic shapes fresh from the earth.Nancy was the first to pop the metal snaps on her overalls. The popt-popt-popt sounded obscenely loud in the quiet. She shrugged the heavy denim off her shoulders, letting the bib fall forward, baring the expanse of her chest, her swollen belly, the cotton of her bra. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed, letting the overalls pool around her ankles. She stepped out of them, standing there in just her bra and panties, the ashy light gilding the impossible curves the serum had given her.
That was the signal.We all began to undress. The sounds filled the garden: zippers, snaps, the heavy rustle of denim hitting dry soil. Bras followed, then panties, discarded on the piles of dark blue cloth.The warm, stale air touched every part of us. Our breasts, still faintly aching from the machine, stood out heavy and firm. Our pregnant bellies swelled proudly.Our asses, those absurd, shelf-like curves, caught the light.
We stood naked in the garden, eight goddesses of flesh and blood amidst the dying greens and the grey earth. We turned to face our lovers. They were rigid, every muscle taut, a low, continuous growl emanating from them as a group.Their hands clenched and unclenched at their sides. Their eyes burned.But they stayed.The command held.
Ellie sauntered over to the pile of vegetables.She picked up a long, thick carrot, still crusted with earth. She turned it in her hand, then looked directly at her lover.“You see this?” she murmured. “You don’t get this.You get to watch.”
She walked back to me, her hips swaying deliberately. She reached out and cupped my breast, her thumb brushing over my nipple. I gasped, the sensation electric.I leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow, our tongues tangling. The audience, the forbidden touch, the sun on our skin—it was intoxicating.
Around us, the others paired off.Nancy and Mary, Bec and Cass, Anya and Dee. We weren’t just mothers or wives or survivors here. We were women, powerful and wanton, putting on a show for our captive, ravenous audience. We kissed, we touched, we cupped each other’s heavy breasts and squeezed the milky drops that beaded on the tips, licking them from each other’s fingers.I broke from Ellie’s kiss, my breath ragged. My eyes fell on a large, dark eggplant, its shape blunt and intimidating.I picked it up. It was cool and smooth, heavier than it looked.
“Fuck me,” I whispered, not to Ellie, but to the air, to the lovers watching.
I sank down onto the dry ground, parting my thighs. The sight I presented to them was deliberate: my swollen body, my slick, exposed cunt, hyper-tight and fertile, and the deep purple vegetable in my hand. I spit into my palm, wetting the broad tip of the eggplant, then rubbed the moisture along its length.Ellie knelt before me, her eyes locked on mine.She guided my hand. “Do it, Amy,” she breathed. “Let them see how full you can be.”
I notched the rounded tip against my opening.It was too big, surely.A ridiculous, obscene idea. But my body, changed by the serum, was made for impossible penetrations.I pushed.
The stretch was immediate, brutal, and exquisite.A grunt was torn from my throat. The cold, firm flesh of the vegetable invaded me, a shocking contrast to the heat of a living cock. It didn’t pulse, it didn’t throb with need. It was inert, a tool.And that made it hotter. I worked it deeper, watching the fascinated, agonized faces of the men.My own lover’s hands were fists, his teeth bared.
“Jesus, look at her take it,” Cass moaned, her own hand busy between her legs with a cob of corn, the rough husk scratching her thighs as she fucked herself with the smoother end.
Nancy had chosen a carrot. She was on her hands and knees, her colossal ass in the air, and Mary was behind her, slowly, relentlessly feeding the orange root into her. Nancy was mewling, her face pressed into the dirt. “More… fuck, it’s so deep…”
Ellie picked up a second, smaller eggplant. She lay back, spreading her legs wide, and offered it to me.“Your turn,” she gasped.I took it. I positioned myself over her, lowering myself onto the vegetable she held steady. At the same time, I began to move the one inside me, thrusting it in and out of my own soaked cunt. The dual sensations—filling Ellie and being filled myself—were overwhelming. The wet, sloppy sounds of our play mixed with our panting and the helpless, hungry groans from the edge of the garden.
Bec and Anya were scissoring, a carrot and a slender ear of corn sliding in and out of them in turn, exchanging vegetables kissed with each other’s juices. Dee was alone, on her back, fucking herself ruthlessly with the thickest eggplant she could find, her back arched, her free hand pinching and pulling at her own nipple, sending arcs of milk into the air.
It was a symphony of depravity. The earthy smell of vegetables mingled with our musky sweat and the coppery scent of our arousal. The visual was absurd, beautiful, filthy: our pregnant forms, glistening with sweat and milk, violated by the produce of a dead world.
“You want this?” Mary suddenly called out, her voice sharp. She had pulled the glistening, juice-smeared carrot from Nancy and held it up.It dripped. “You want to taste it?”
A unified, strained groan answered her. They strained against their invisible bonds, their hunger a physical force.“No,” I growled, my thrusts with the eggplant becoming harder, faster. The cool, unyielding pressure against my cervix was a strange, piercing pleasure.“You watch. You fucking watch what we can do without you.”
It became a challenge, a competition of shamelessness. Who could take the most?Who could make the most mess? Who could wring the most tortured sound from our audience? Ellie came first, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as I worked the eggplant inside her, her internal muscles clenching around the unyielding shape. Her release triggered my own, a wave of brutal, shattering pleasure that rolled through me as I impaled myself fully, feeling the vegetable bottom out deep inside my womb.I saw stars, my vision whiting out at the edges.
One by one, we fell. Cries echoed in the hollow air, sharp and womanly, a stark contrast to the bestial growls that answered them. We collapsed onto the sacks of vegetables, onto our discarded clothes, onto the dirt, bodies spent and slick, vegetables discarded beside us like grotesque, used toys.
Silence settled, broken only by our ragged breathing and the relentless, desirous growl of the men.The muted sun warmed our splayed limbs. The taste of earth and sex was on my lips.After a long while, Ellie turned her head toward me. Her cheek was pressed against the dirt. “We should probably get these home,” she said, her voice hoarse, nodding toward the sacks of corn and carrots and eggplants.
I laughed, a raw, exhausted sound.The absurdity was absolute.“Yeah,” I managed. “Protein and… roughage.”
We moved slowly, sorely, to clean ourselves with handfuls of dry grass, to dress again in the overalls that now held the scent of our escapade. We didn’t look at the men as we dressed.We let them simmer.
As we gathered the sacks, hoisting them over our shoulders, I took one last look at the garden. It was trampled now, marked by our abandon.A few forgotten vegetables, smeared with our fluids, lay in the dirt. A monument to our chosen madness.
We walked back toward the warehouse, the weight of the vegetables a tangible promise of continued life, of fullness in another way. The weight of the men’s eyes on our backs was a different promise, a banked fire waiting for the night to come. And we carried that, too, with every step, a low and thrilling current humming just beneath our skin. The world was dead, but we were fiercely, obscenely alive, and we would feast.