Chapter 13: Town Hall Revelation
The walk to Town Hall was a procession. Beth strode ahead, a force of nature in denim cutoffs and a tight white tank top, her shoulders blocking the sun. Ollie followed, trying to match her pace, his sandals slapping softly on the warm pavement. The sundress she’d picked for him was a soft, buttercup yellow, but the fabric strained across his chest and hips, the seams whispering their distress with every step. He was hyper-aware of the gentle, heavy sway of his own body, of the damp patches already forming where his milk had leaked, just a little, onto the bodice.
People watched. From porches, from storefronts. The women offered nods to Beth, smiles of approval. Their eyes slid over Ollie with a kind of hungry curiosity. The few unchanged men still lurking outside the diner ducked their heads, their fear a sour note in the sweet, oil-scented air.
Town Hall’s doors, massive oak things, were scarred now—deep grooves at shoulder-height where impatient hands had clawed at the wood. Inside, the cavernous space was packed, buzzing with a low, eager hum. The air was thick, heat radiating from the press of amplified bodies. Ollie smelled the Mazzola first, that nutty, organic scent, layered over the cloying sweetness of spilled milkshakes drifting up from the basement grates.
The wooden benches, once meant for slender townsfolk, groaned under the weight of the women. They sat with knees spread, taking up space, their laughter booming off the marble columns. In the front rows, a smaller, tighter cluster of men sat. These were the proteges, the chosen. They wore soft clothes, their forms softened into appealing curves, their faces tilted up with a placid, milk-fed contentment. They were beautiful, in a strange, uniform way.
And then there were the others. A handful of men, maybe ten, huddled together on a single bench near the back. They were thin, angular, all sharp elbows and jutting jaws. Their clothes hung loose. Their eyes darted, animal-white with fear.
Beth didn’t head for the seats. She marched Ollie right down the central aisle, toward the raised dais at the front. Every head turned. A wave of murmuring followed them, cresting as they reached the steps.
Mayor Eleanor Harding stood waiting. She made Beth look almost petite. Ellie was six-foot-eight if she was an inch, her body a powerful column draped in a tailored pantsuit of emerald green. Her hair was a fierce silver crown, swept back from a face that was all commanding planes and shrewd eyes. She radiated an easy, unquestionable authority.
“Beth,” Ellie’s voice resonated without a microphone. “And Oliver. Good. We’re ready.”
Ellie turned to the crowd, raising a hand. The room fell silent, a complete and immediate hush. “Friends,” she began, her tone warm, conversational. “We’re here today to talk about progress. About health. About the future of Ample Hills.” She gestured to the proteges in the front. “Look at them. Really look. Before the treatments, young Michael there had chronic asthma. Jeremy’s arthritis is gone. They sleep through the night. They’re happy. They’re contributing.”
Her eyes swept to the back, to the huddled group. Her warmth didn’t fade, but it solidified into something harder. “And then we have our holdouts. The skeptics. I understand fear of the new. But your reluctance isn’t just holding you back. It’s holding the town back. We need unity. We need everyone pulling in the same direction.”
She turned and nodded to Beth.
Beth guided Ollie up the two steps onto the dais. The lights were hotter up here. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him, a physical pressure. His heart hammered against the constricting dress.
“This,” Beth said, her hand settling on Ollie’s shoulder, her voice carrying easily, “is what commitment looks like. Ollie came to us skinny, anxious. Look at him now.” Her fingers squeezed. “Healthy. Vital. Productive.”
Ellie smiled. “A picture is worth a thousand words, Beth. But a demonstration is worth ten thousand. Oliver? Would you mind?”
Ollie’s mouth went dry. He knew what they wanted. He’d known since Beth woke him. A strange calm settled over him, the same surrender he’d felt in her bed. This was his purpose now. To be proof.
He gave a small, shaky nod.
Beth produced a simple glass tumbler from a small table behind them. She placed it in his trembling hands. Then, without ceremony, she reached behind him and tugged at the zipper of his sundress. It gave way with a hushed sigh. She peeled the top of the dress down to his waist, baring his chest to the entire town hall.
A gasp rippled through the room, followed by a collective, held breath.
His skin gleamed under the lights. The swell of his chest was full and heavy, the marks from Beth’s morning worship still faintly pink. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall, on a crack in the marble.
“Go on, Ollie,” Beth whispered, her voice for him alone. “Show them how good it feels to be useful.”
He lifted the glass. His hands were steadier than he expected. He cupped one curved, heavy weight, positioned the rim of the glass. He closed his eyes, remembering the pull of Beth’s mouth, the deep, releasing ache. He focused on that sensation, on the pressure building within him.
A single, fat drop pearled at his nipple, caught the light, and fell with a clear ping into the glass.
Then another.
Then a thin, steady stream began to flow, arcing neatly into the tumbler. The sound was a soft, liquid trickle in the silent hall. The relief was immediate, a sweet, physical unclenching that made his knees weak. A low, approving murmur rose from the women in the audience. From the proteges, he heard soft sighs of recognition.
He filled the glass halfway before the stream tapered to a drip. He lowered it, his face burning, his body trembling with release and exposure. Beth took the glass from him, held it aloft like a holy grail. The milk was rich, cream-colored, visibly thick.
“This,” Ellie’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and final, “is health. This is community. No more debate. Starting tomorrow, Mazzola treatments become mandatory for all male residents. We will be visiting every household, every business. Compliance is not optional.” Her gaze pinned the men in the back row. “Your community needs you. We will help you, as we’ve helped Oliver.”
One of the holdouts, a gaunt man named Peters who ran the failing hardware store, shot to his feet. “You can’t do this! This is… this is monstrous!”
Ellie’s expression didn’t change. She simply looked at Beth and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Beth handed the glass of milk to Ellie. Then she moved. She was off the dais and down the aisle in three long strides. Peters shrank back, but there was nowhere to go. Beth’s hand, huge and gentle, closed around his bony arm.
“Let’s talk outside, Mr. Peters,” she said, her voice calm, almost sweet. “You’re agitated. The fresh air will do you good.”
He sputtered, resisting, but her grip was an iron band. She led him, not roughly but with utter inevitability, toward the scarred doors. The room watched, utterly quiet. The last thing they saw was Peters’ pale, terrified face looking back over his shoulder before the door swung shut behind them.
The silence lingered for a beat. Then Ellie raised the glass of milk. “To our future,” she said, and took a long, deliberate drink.
A cheer erupted, led by the women and the proteges. It was deafening.
Ollie stood on the dais, his dress still down around his waist, the cool air on his skin. He looked at the cheering crowd, at Ellie’s satisfied smile, at the empty space where Beth had just removed dissent. He felt the pleasant, hollow ache in his chest. He saw the envious, yearning looks on the faces of the other proteges. And he felt, with a certainty that sank into his bones, that he was finally, truly, home.
He pulled his dress up. His hands didn’t shake at all.
His hands didn’t shake at all. They smoothed the soft yellow cotton back over his damp skin, the act simple and final. The roaring approval of the hall washed over him, a warm wave that carried away the last brittle shards of his old self.
Ellie handed the now-empty glass to an attendant, her smile broadcast-wide for the crowd. “Meeting adjourned,” she announced, her voice cutting through the noise. “Teams will visit you with schedules. Be ready.”
The crowd began to disperse, a slow churn of amplified bodies and murmured excitement. Ollie stood frozen on the dais, unsure where to step. Then the main doors boomed open again, and Beth walked back in.
She moved with a loose, easy grace, dusting her hands together once, as if she’d just finished a minor chore. The haunted look on Peters’ face was already a fading memory for everyone but him. She climbed the steps and stood before Ollie, her gaze appraising.
“You did good,” she said, her voice low. Her thumb brushed his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn’t even felt. “Real good. Let’s go home.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She just turned, and he followed, falling into step beside her as they moved against the current of the departing crowd. The stares felt different now. They held a new weight, a recognition. He was no longer just Beth’s project; he was the example.
The afternoon sun was blistering on the pavement outside. The town seemed quieter, the usual distant sounds of construction and conversation muted. Or maybe it was just the ringing in his own ears. He felt hyper-aware of the damp spots cooling on his dress, of the pleasant, drained heaviness in his chest.
“What… what did you say to him?” Ollie asked, his voice sounding small.
Beth shrugged, a rolling motion of muscle. “Just talked sense. He’ll come around. They all do.” She glanced at him, a sly smile touching her lips. “You were the real convincer, anyway. That little display?Perfect. Ellie’s thrilled.”
He digested this, walking in the shade she cast. Thrilled. He had thrilled Mayor Harding. The thought was alien, a strange little spark in his gut.
They took the back way, cutting through the overgrown lot behind the shuttered video store. Weeds brushed against his calves. Beth was quiet for a block, then she stopped, turning to face him beside a rusting chain-link fence.
“Look at you,” she murmured, not unkindly. Her fingers hooked in the neckline of his sundress, pulling it down just an inch to see the tender skin beneath. “You’re already filling back up. See?”
A fresh droplet, pearly and perfect, welled up and traced a path down the curve of his breast. He shuddered, a full-body response that had nothing to do with the heat.
“It doesn’t stop,” he breathed, more statement than question.
“Why would you want it to?” she countered, her voice a rough whisper. She leaned in, her breath warm on his skin. “It’s what you’re for now, Ollie. It’s what makes you beautiful.”
Her words landed, bypassing thought and sinking straight into a deep, accepting part of him. The last tension bled from his shoulders. He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed. The pressure was building again, a sweet, insistent fullness that demanded release.
He didn’t need a glass. He didn’t need an audience.
A soft, sighing sound escaped him as the let-down reflex hit. Twin streams burst forth, arching freely into the dusty air, pattering onto the dry grass and cracked earth at their feet. It was a release so profound it buckled his knees. Beth caught him, holding him upright, her strong arm around his back as he gave into it completely.
He lactated freely, without shame or ceremony, there in the abandoned lot. The flow was strong and steady, painting the ground in a silent, white testament. Beth just held him, one hand splayed across his stomach, her chin resting on top of his head. “That’s it,” she coaxed, her voice vibrating through his skull. “Let it go. All of it.”
When it finally subsided, he was panting, leaning against her solid frame, lightheaded and empty. Clean.
She pulled his dress back up, her hands gentle. “See?” she said, kissing his sweaty temple. “No more hiding. No more fuss.” She took his hand, her fingers linking with his. “Now you’re ready.”
He nodded, wordless, and let her lead him the rest of the way home. The empty milkshake cups on her bedroom floor looked like ancient relics now. He walked past them without a glance, drawn to the bed, to the familiar scent of vanilla and oil in the sheets. He knew what came next. The milkshake, the massage, the deep, drugging sleep that would stoke the process all over again.
He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. He wasn't scared. He was eager.