awash in semen

The gregarious Mr. Penka sat down next to his wife and took over the conversation. He had a folder with him from which he took an article cut out from an old-style newspaper. “This is from Dnevnik, the biggest newspaper in Sofia, the capital,” he explained. The article was in Bulgarian, which no one understood, but was clearly about his wife’s participation in the Project, topped by a photo of the two of them, smiling next to a man in a business suit who Mr. Penka said was the Minister of Health. Again, Angela wondered why she hadn’t paid more attention to the Cordrescu lecture. He also boasted about his wife, who, sweating in her native costume, could not say much in English. She was an engineer and Mr. Penka showed them a drawing of the hydroelectric dam she was working on.

Duvon and Phil seemed exhausted by all this sudden new information. But Angela was immersed in the Project; all she seemed to see and hear about in Semillas was Kai-Kai and his ejaculations. It seemed her life was awash in his ever-spurting semen. So it was refreshing to hear about something different. Thousands of women passed through Semillas to receive the Sire’s penis, but it was only for a few minutes and they were only here for a few days. The experience was just a blip in lives based far, far away, lives that had nothing to do with the Project, lives that were as full and interesting as her own, perhaps more so. So Angela was curious about the Penkas and kept the conversation going by asking about the dam, about Mr. Penka’s life as a railroad executive, and about their two children, ages 17 and 13. Mr. Penka, whose hair was streaked with gray, was about to hit 50 but looked in great shape and Angela told him so.

The conversation wound down and now there was an uneasy silence. Everyone knew the problem. It was time for Mrs. Penka’s impreg, and the rule was the woman had to make the first move, usually by taking the Sire by the hand and leading him to the designated place. But Mrs. Penka was merely sitting silently, looking down at her empty plate.

Finally, Kai-Kai gently turned to her and said, “Mrs. Penka? . . . They’ve graciously let us use the staff lounge.” He was referring to the lounge for cafeteria staff, not used much in the summer anyway, and motioned to the open door across the room.

She gulped. Her husband held her hand. He said something to her in Bulgarian.