Chapter 5: The Morning After the Test
The light came in through the gap in the curtains like an accusation.
Xenia woke slowly, her body registering its damages in a lazy inventory. Left shoulder—that was from the cuffs, arms held overhead too long. Lower back—the bench, all those hours on Italian leather that wasn't designed for comfort. Ass—yeah, that was the dildo, still a ghost of fullness. And her cock, even soft, had that particular soreness that came from being milked dry three times in one night.
She smiled into the pillow.
The pillow smelled like Priscilla. Lavender and something sharper underneath—expensive perfume, probably, or expensive soap. Something that cost more than Xenia's first car.
The bed was enormous. King-sized, but the kind of king-sized that made you feel like you were floating in the middle of a very expensive sea. The sheets were white, impossibly soft, and marked with the evidence of everything they'd done after the shower. Xenia traced a stain near her hip and felt something warm curl in her chest.
She heard the coffee first. Then Priscilla's voice, low and professional, coming from somewhere near the window.
"—no, that's fine. Tell her I'll review the variance request on Thursday. And remind her that the deadline for the fall festival committee is Friday, not Monday. She's always trying to push deadlines."
Xenia rolled onto her back. The sheets slid down, exposing her breasts to the cool air. The bedroom was enormous—bigger than the entire basement apartment she'd been renting before this. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a view of nothing but trees. Maple Grove was all trees and secrets, apparently.
Priscilla stood by the window, wearing a silk robe the color of champagne. Her hair was down, still wavy from the shower, and she held a cup of coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. She looked like a painting. She looked like she'd slept eight perfect hours and hadn't been fucked into next week.
She looked up when Xenia stirred.
"Good morning," Priscilla said. Into the phone: "I'll call you back."
She hung up and set the phone on a windowsill. Then she crossed the room, the robe swishing against her thighs, and sat on the edge of the bed.
"How do you feel?"
"Like I went three rounds with a professional wrestler." Xenia stretched, her joints popping. "And won."
Priscilla smiled. "You definitely won." She reached out and touched Xenia's shoulder—a light, almost casual gesture. "You've got marks."
"I know."
"Does it bother you?"
Xenia looked down. Red lines crisscrossed her wrists where the cuffs had been. Her ankles, too. Bruises were starting to form on her hips, her thighs. She looked like she'd been in a fight and lost beautifully.
"No," she said. "It doesn't."
Priscilla's fingers traced one of the lines. "I'm glad. Some people can't handle the aftermath. They want the pain but not the evidence."
"I'm not some people."
"No. You're not." Priscilla stood, walked to a side table, and poured a second cup of coffee. She brought it to Xenia, who sat up against the carved headboard and took it.
The coffee was perfect. Of course it was.
"Here's the thing," Priscilla said, settling back onto the bed. "You passed the test. All three tests, actually. The community's going to accept you."
"That's good."
"It is. But there's a catch."
Xenia sipped her coffee. "There's always a catch."
"The charter has certain expectations." Priscilla's green eyes were steady. "You know about the founding mothers. The original intent. The whole reason this neighborhood exists."
"Women who wanted children. Women who were tired of waiting for Mr. Right." Xenia had read the paperwork. She'd signed it. "It's a breeding community. I get it."
"It's more than that." Priscilla set her cup down. "The women here—some of them—they've been waiting. Saving. They joined this community because they wanted to be mothers, and they wanted to choose who fathered their children. The charter guarantees them that choice."
Xenia's coffee cup paused halfway to her mouth. "Okay."
"They've seen you. At the grocery store. The hardware store. The community meeting last month, when you stood up to ask about the fence regulations and every woman in that room forgot how to breathe."
Xenia felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I didn't notice."
"You never notice." Priscilla's smile was wry. "Anyway. Some of them have already made their requests."
"Requests for what?"
"For you." Priscilla let the words hang. "They want you to father their children. They've been waiting for someone like you for years. Strong. Tall. Healthy. And per the charter, I have to bring you their requests."
Xenia put the coffee down. Her heart was doing something complicated in her chest. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." Priscilla reached for a tablet on the nightstand and tapped the screen. "I've got three women so far. Laura Graham. She lives across the street—you met her at the barbecue, the one with the twins. Sarah Chen. Her husband's a surgeon, they've been trying for years, no luck. And the Delacroix sisters—well, Simone Delacroix. Her wife is fine with it, apparently."
Xenia stared at her. "You're telling me there's a list."
"There's a list."
"And you want me to... what, go door to door?"
"Not door to door. That would be undignified." Priscilla's voice was dry. "Each woman has requested a private session. At their home. Or here, if you prefer. The charter specifies no pull-out, no protection, and you stay until it takes or they give up."
"Until it takes."
"Or they give up. Yes."
Xenia ran a hand over her face. Her body was still sore from the night before. Her cock twitched under the sheets, interested despite her exhaustion.
"Laura Graham," she said. "She's the one with the red hair, right?"
"Strawberry blonde. Yes."
"She's what, forty?"
"Forty-two. Her husband died five years ago. She's been on the list ever since."
Xenia thought about Laura—the polite smile, the tired eyes, the way she'd looked at Xenia across the barbecue like she was seeing something she'd given up on finding.
"And Sarah Chen?"
"Thirty-eight. Her husband travels constantly. They've been married for a decade, but they only actually see each other a few times a year. She wants a child but not necessarily with him." Priscilla shrugged. "Marriages are complicated."
"And Simone Delacroix?"
"Twenty-nine. Very enthusiastic. She's been asking about you since the moment you moved in."
Xenia's laugh was hollow. "I've been here three weeks."
"Maple Grove moves fast when it sees something it wants."
Priscilla set the tablet down. She leaned forward, her robe falling open just slightly, and took Xenia's hand.
"Look. I know this is a lot. But this is the community. This is why people move here. The safety. The structure. The certainty that our children will be wanted, planned, loved." She squeezed Xenia's fingers. "You can say no. To all of it. To any of it. The charter allows for that."
"What happens if I say no?"
"Nothing. You still get the house. You still live here. The women will be disappointed, but they'll understand."
"And if I say yes?"
Priscilla's smile widened. "Then you become the most popular person in Maple Grove. And you'll probably need to drink more water. And take vitamins."
Xenia laughed—a real laugh this time. "Vitamins."
"Sperm production is a numbers game. The more you produce, the better your odds." Priscilla paused. "So I've heard."
"You've heard."
"I've researched. Thoroughly."
Xenia leaned back against the headboard. Her mind was spinning. Three women. Three sessions. No protection, no pulling out, no hesitation. Just her body doing what it was built for.
She'd left a trail of pregnant women across four states. Nobody in Maple Grove knew that. The charter committee knew she was fertile—they'd done their research; that was the first thing they'd checked. The community didn't care about her past. They cared about her future.
"You're asking me to breed three women," she said slowly. "This week. And then what?"
"And then more. The list is long." Priscilla's eyes were bright. "You're the only futanari within two hundred miles who's applied for residency. The charter specifies the community must have at least one active breeder at all times. Right now, that's you."
"Active breeder."
"It's a technical term."
"It's a weird term."
"It's a job description." Priscilla's tone was matter-of-fact. "You didn't think you were just going to live here for free, did you?"
Xenia looked at the window. The trees were golden, turning. Fall was coming. She thought about all the autumns she'd spent in different cities, different suburbs, different beds. Always moving. Always running.
This would be different. This would be permanent.
And the thought terrified her. And thrilled her. And made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something vast and unknown.
"When?" she asked.
"Laura's free this afternoon. Sarah can do tomorrow morning. Simone is available anytime you're ready." Priscilla tilted her head. "But you should eat first. And hydrate. And maybe take a nap, because you look like you've been up all night."
"I have been up all night."
"And whose fault is that?"
Xenia turned and kissed her—soft, slow, a thank you for the night and the morning and the words that were still settling in her chest.
"I'll do it," she said when they broke apart. "All of them. Every name on the list."
Priscilla's smile was radiant. "I was hoping you'd say that."
"Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because..." Xenia struggled for the words. "Because for the first time in a long time, I'm somewhere I want to stay. With people who want me here."
"You are." Priscilla cupped her face. "You're wanted."
They kissed again. Longer this time. Xenia's hands found the tie of Priscilla's robe and started to pull.
"Oh no." Priscilla pulled back. "None of that. You need to eat."
"I can eat later."
"You can eat now." Priscilla stood, closing her robe with a kind of finality. "And then you can nap. And then you can go breed Laura Graham like a good neighbor."
Xenia groaned. "You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?"
"I'm going to be very, very proud." Priscilla walked toward the door. "Now get dressed. There's eggs downstairs. And toast. And a glass of orange juice with your name on it."
"Orange juice."
"Vitamin C. Good for sperm production."
Xenia laughed and threw a pillow at her. Priscilla caught it, set it down, and disappeared into the hallway.
The room was quiet. Xenia sat in the bed, alone, and looked at the ceiling. It was painted a deep blue, like a night sky, and there were stars—hand-painted, subtle, hidden in the dark.
She thought about the women who'd slept here before her. The founding mothers, the ones who'd built this community from the ground up. They'd wanted something different. Something honest. A place where desire and duty weren't mutually exclusive.
She thought about Laura Graham, strawberry blonde and tired. Sarah Chen, married to a man who was never home. Simone Delacroix, twenty-nine and hungry.
She thought about the word "breeder." The weight of it. The responsibility.
Then she threw back the covers and stood up. Her body protested, but it was a good protest. A reminder of the night before. A promise of what was to come.
She found her clothes on a chair by the window—folded neatly, because Priscilla was the kind of person who folded someone else's clothes after fucking them senseless. Stained, but wearable. She pulled on her jeans, her t-shirt, her boots.
Downstairs, Priscilla had set the table. Two plates. Eggs, toast, fruit. The orange juice truly did have her name on it—Priscilla had written it in permanent marker on the glass.
"You're ridiculous," Xenia said.
"I'm thorough." Priscilla gestured to the chair opposite hers. "Sit. Eat."
Xenia sat. She ate. The eggs were perfect, because of course they were. The toast had just the right amount of butter. The orange juice was cold and sweet.
And when she finished, she looked across the table at Priscilla and said, "Laura's at two?"
"Two."
"I'll be there."
"I know." Priscilla raised her coffee cup in a toast. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Xenia. Try not to break anyone. They're fragile."
"I won't."
"Good." Priscilla sipped her coffee. "Because there's a lot more where they came from."
The drive to Laura's house took four minutes. The sky was doing that autumn thing where it couldn't decide between blue and gold, and the trees along Maple Drive were already shedding leaves in lazy spirals. Xenia parked Priscilla's loaner car—a Volvo, because of course—and sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel.
Three women. One afternoon. No protection.
She'd done this before, but never with witnesses. Never with a schedule.
Laura Graham's house was a tidy colonial with blue shutters and a wreath on the door that said "Welcome" in cursive. Xenia knocked twice and heard footsteps, then the door swung open and Laura stood there in a sundress the color of wheat, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot, her smile nervous and hopeful.
"You came," Laura said.
"I said I would."
"I know. I just—" She stepped back, gesturing inside. "Come in. Please."
The living room smelled like vanilla candles and freshly baked something. Cookies, maybe. Laura had made cookies. Xenia's heart did something complicated.
"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? I made snickerdoodles, which is stupid, I know, but I didn't know what else to do with my hands."
"Water's fine." Xenia followed her into the kitchen. "And a snickerdoodle. Or three."
Laura laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm. She poured a glass of water, arranged cookies on a plate, and set them on the counter. Then she stood there, twisting her fingers together, looking at Xenia like she was something that might disappear.
"I've never done this before," Laura said. "The community, I mean. The charter. My husband and I talked about it, before he died. We were going to—" She stopped. Swallowed. "We were going to try. But then he got sick, and everything changed."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was five years ago. I've had time to—" She gestured vaguely. "Grieve. Heal. Want things again."
Xenia ate a cookie. It was good. Buttery and soft, with just the right amount of cinnamon.
"You have twins," she said. "I saw them at the barbecue."
"Emma and Jack. They're seven." Laura's face softened. "They've been asking for a sibling. For years. I kept telling them it wasn't that simple."
"And now?"
"Now I'm hoping it might be." Laura met her eyes. "I know how this works. I read the charter. I understand what you're agreeing to."
"Do you?"
"I think so." She paused. "You're going to—" Another pause. "You're going to try to get me pregnant. And if it works, I'll have a baby. And if it doesn't, we'll try again. Or we won't. And either way, you'll be part of this community. Part of my life."
"That's a lot to put on a stranger."
"You're not a stranger." Laura's voice was quiet. "I've been watching you since you moved in. Everyone has. You're—" She blushed. "You're hard to miss."
Xenia set down her water glass. She crossed the kitchen in two steps and stood close enough to feel the heat coming off Laura's skin.
"Where are the twins?" she asked.
"At my mother's. Until tomorrow."
"And the bedroom?"
"Upstairs. First door on the left."
Xenia took her hand. Laura's fingers were cold, trembling slightly. Xenia led her up the stairs, down the hall, through the door.
The bedroom was simple. A queen bed with a quilt, a dresser, a window that looked out on the backyard. No toys. No equipment. No benches or straps or milking machines. Just a room where a woman slept and dreamed and waited.
"Are you sure?" Xenia asked.
"I'm sure." Laura let go of her hand and reached for the hem of her sundress. "I've been sure since the moment you walked into the community meeting and asked about fence regulations."
"You remember that?"
"I remember everything." The dress came off. Laura stood in her underwear—simple, cotton, practical. Her body was soft from two pregnancies, her breasts heavy, her stomach marked with silver lines. "I know I'm not—I'm not like the others. The younger ones. But I can still—"
Xenia kissed her.
It was a gentle kiss. Soft. The kind of kiss that said I'm not in a hurry and you don't have to be either. Laura made a small sound against her mouth and melted into it.
"Bed," Xenia said.
Laura went.
What followed was slow. Deliberate. Xenia undressed her piece by piece, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed. Laura's neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breasts. The stretch marks on her stomach. The soft skin of her thighs.
"You're beautiful," Xenia said.
"I'm forty-two."
"I know. I said what I said."
Laura laughed, and the laugh turned into a gasp as Xenia's mouth found her nipple. She arched off the bed, hands fisting in the quilt, and Xenia took her time.
She took her time with everything.
By the time Xenia was naked, Laura was trembling. By the time Xenia's cock pressed against her entrance, Laura was begging—soft, breathless words that didn't quite make sense.
"Please," Laura whispered. "Please."
Xenia pushed inside.
Laura gasped. Her body stretched around Xenia, tight and hot and impossibly welcoming. Xenia moved slowly, watching Laura's face, cataloging every flicker of pleasure and pain.
"More," Laura said.
Xenia gave her more.
The rhythm built. Slow at first, then faster. Xenia's hips found a pace that matched Laura's breathing. The bed creaked. The quilt bunched beneath them. Laura's hands found Xenia's back, her nails digging in.
"I'm close," Laura said.
"Me too."
"Don't stop. Don't—please don't—"
Xenia didn't stop.
When she came, she came deep. Laura cried out, her body clenching around Xenia, pulling her further in. Xenia emptied herself into her—pulse after pulse, hot and thick and endless. She felt it filling Laura, felt it spilling out around her cock.
When she pulled out, Laura made a sound of protest.
"Stay," Laura said. "Just for a minute."
Xenia lay beside her. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains. Somewhere downstairs, the cookies were getting cold.
"That was..." Laura couldn't finish.
"Yeah."
They lay in silence. Xenia's hand found Laura's stomach, resting there, feeling the warmth of her own spend still pooled inside.
"Do you think it worked?" Laura asked.
"I don't know."
"Me neither." Laura turned her head and kissed Xenia's shoulder. "But I'm glad we tried."