Chapter 29: Spreadsheet of Shame
A collective gasp rippled through the mismatched chairs as nineteen pairs of eyes locked onto the projected spreadsheet. Ilda’s cell pulsed an unignorable, violent red, the number beside her name dwarfing the others into pale insignificance – decades worth of semen intake condensed into mere months. Murmurs of disbelief tangled with the scent of stale coffee and nervous sweat.
"Sweet merciful heavens, Ilda!" squeaked Flora, adjusting her glasses, her own meager blue-tinted figure seeming pathetic. "That’s… that’s not a monthly intake, that’s a reservoir!" Her fingers nervously traced the outline of her own flat, empty pouch beneath her skirt. "Did you fall into a vat of the stuff?"
Ilda leaned back, the plastic chair creaking in protest under her curvy frame, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her lips. She idly rolled the loose skin of her empty scrotum pouch between thumb and forefinger, the familiar motion a quiet habit. "What can I say, girls? Ren’s got a… persistent drip, and Maria? Weekends are dedicated."
A snort came from Keri, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression caught between envy and amusement. "Persistent drip? Honey, that chart suggests Ren is a broken fire hydrant." She gestured vaguely at the screen. "And your ‘bukkake brunches’? Legendary, terrifying. How do you even walk afterwards? Or breathe?"
"The trick," Ilda purred, shifting to ease the pressure of her heavy, lactating breasts against her thin top, a faint damp spot already forming, "is embracing the flood. It’s not just intake, it’s communion. The contact…" She shivered slightly, eyes glazing over for just a second, recalling the electric jolt racing through her whenever skin met seed. "It rewires everything. Turns need into… fireworks."
Silence descended, thick and heavy, punctured only by the faint hum of the overhead fluorescents reflecting off motivational posters urging 'Courage in Change!' Someone cleared their throat awkwardly. The staggering number wasn’t just impressive; it was a stark, glowing monument to a specific kind of fulfillment most here chased but rarely grasped so completely. It highlighted the quiet ache, the frustration of unquenched sensitivity that buzzed beneath their skin.
Fiona, usually quiet, stared at her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her voice barely a whisper. "I scraped together enough for a decent orgasm… twice. Last month." Her admission hung there, raw and vulnerable, the hollowness in her pouch mirroring the hollowness in her tone. "Seeing that red… it feels like failing."
Ilda’s smugness faltered for a heartbeat, replaced by a flicker of something softer, almost protective. "Hey," she said, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that still carried in the quiet room. "Quantity isn’t the trophy. It’s the intensity. That first shudder when it hits you? That’s the prize." She tapped the red cell on the projected screen. "This just means I found my rhythm, my people. Ren’s leaky faucet is my fucking lifeline." She paused, letting the raw honesty land, then added with a defiant, glittering grin, "Besides, someone’s gotta keep the global average up, right? Doing my part for the sisterhood!"
A nervous chuckle escaped a few, but the tension shifted, crackling now with a different energy – a mix of shared yearning and the faint, rebellious spark Ilda always ignited. The facilitator, sensing the volatile mix of admiration and inadequacy, cleared her throat sharply, poised to steer the discussion away from the glowing, damning spreadsheet before resentment bubbled over. Ilda just kept grinning, fingers still tracing the emptiness between her thighs, already anticipating the electric rush awaiting her at home.
The plastic chair groaned again as Ilda settled back, the phantom weight of Ren’s constant offering a pleasant buzz already humming beneath her skin. Her grin softened into something warmer, more private, as her fingers absently kneaded the loose, empty pouch hanging low on her thigh. Outside the stark meeting room, the city pulsed, a reminder of the messy, vibrant life waiting, thrumming with potential contact.
The stunned silence lingered, thick with the scent of cheap perfume and unspoken longing. Flora fidgeted, her knuckles white where she gripped the arms of her chair, her gaze flicking between the glaring red cell and Ilda’s serene expression. "Decades," she whispered, the word cracking. "In months. It's... inhuman." Her own pale blue figure on the sheet seemed to mock her.
Keri, her sharp eyes narrowed, finally broke the tension with a low whistle. She leaned forward, elbows on bony knees, studying Ilda not with envy now, but with a dawning, almost clinical curiosity. Her gaze travelled deliberately up Ilda's curvy form, lingering on the prominent swell of her chest straining the thin fabric, the faint, unmistakable damp patch near one nipple. "Hold up," Keri drawled, her voice slicing through Flora’s awe. "That insane intake... Hell, Ilda, maybe that’s the damn reason your tits exploded to G-cup territory." A beat, heavy with implication. "Probably why they’re leaking like a tapped maple tree now, too. All that... fuel."
Ilda’s hand instinctively rose, cupping the heavy curve of one breast, the damp warmth a familiar sensation. She didn’t flinch or blush; a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips instead. "Observant, Keri," she murmured, her thumb brushing the damp spot, a faint, sweet scent mixing with the bleach and perfume. "The docs mumbled about hormones, adjustments... but yeah." She met Keri's gaze squarely, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "Think it started around month three? After Ren moved in properly. Just a trickle then." She gave her breast a slight, deliberate jiggle. "Now? Like clockwork with the morning espresso. Takes the edge off the constant buzz, honestly. A nice... side effect."
A collective intake of breath hissed through the room. Faces shifted from shock to morbid fascination, then to something more complex – a mix of revulsion and a dark, hungry curiosity. Fiona stared, wide-eyed, at Ilda’s chest, then down at her own small, unremarkable breasts, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. The sterile motivational posters suddenly seemed absurd, irrelevant. This was visceral biology, raw consequence laid bare.
"Oh, gross," muttered someone near the back, shifting uncomfortably. "Seriously?"
"Quiet, Jan," snapped Keri, her eyes still locked on Ilda, a strange respect warring with disbelief in her expression. "It's just... biology. Amplified." She chewed her lip, glancing back at the spreadsheet’s damning red glow. "So, the firehose feeds the sprinklers? Poetic, in a horrifyingly messy way."
Ilda just chuckled, a rich, low sound that vibrated in the tense air. She stretched languidly, the movement emphasizing the lush curve of her hips and the heavy swell of her chest. The damp patch had spread slightly. "Call it what you want, ladies. It works for me." Her fingers drifted back down, tracing the familiar contours of her empty scrotum sack, a tactile anchor. "The buzz, the weight," she patted her breast lightly, "the release... it’s all connected now. A circuit." Her grin returned, fierce and unapologetic. "Ren calls it my superpower. High-maintenance, but potent."
The facilitator cleared her throat, a sharp, brittle sound, desperate to regain control of the spiraling conversation. "Perhaps... perhaps we should table the specific physiological discussions for now? Focus on the emotional landscape?" Her voice lacked conviction. The spreadsheet still glowed, the damp patch on Ilda's shirt was undeniable, and the air crackled with the electricity of something primal laid bare. Ilda met her gaze, unblinking, radiating a confidence that felt less like defiance and more like a simple, unassailable fact of her existence. She settled back, ready for the next question, her body a quiet testament to the strange, messy alchemy of loss and abundance, the hum of anticipation for the next encounter already a palpable force in the sterile room. Her quiet pride was a physical thing, filling the space.