Scotland

Mrs. Schreiber chimed in. “He won’t tell us what he thinks, and someone who is having an orgasm often looks and sounds like someone in pain. But from what I hear, he probably enjoys the first three or four ejaculations. After that his penis is very sensitive, and he probably wants to just go to sleep, but he’s . . . well . . . he’s so selfless, putting himself through that, giving all he has to the Project. He thinks of all the lives he’s saving.”

As if on cue, there was another gasp from upstairs, then an “oh Lord!”, definitely with a Scottish accent, then the rhythmic moans of a woman in orgasm. Followed by that polite low moan Angela had gotten to know, the young Sire’s announcement that he was about to ejaculate into a procreator’s vagina (which, in the jargon of the Project, was the “moment of effectuation”). This time he was more vocal than usual, and in his boyish voice he called out the woman’s name. “Ohh . . . ohh . . . oh Mrs. MacGregor! . . . OH! OHHHH!!” Along with some loud creaks of the bedsprings. Then the matching deep breaths of male and female and then silence.

Angela, Mrs. Schreiber and Elaine sat at the table without speaking, then simultaneously sipped from their wine glasses, as if in celebration, respect, or prayer.

It was Angela who broke the silence. “Have you ever been at a draining?”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Schreiber said. “We don’t go. And of course we don’t participate. The incest taboo is alive and well with us. The Project assumes we never have sexual contact with the Sire.”

“Ewww!!” Elaine said with a smile. “Sex with my brother? Yuck!!” She laughed like a teenager. Of course what they were saying was true. When Kai-Kai’s sexual equipment was touched by family members it was only in a clinical manner, like when his mother inspected his testicles, as if checking a rash on his forehead, or Elaine laid his long penis out in that frozen metal case, as if putting a band-aid on a cut finger.

Angela laughed too. “The drainings must be agonizing enough without you helping out!” She immediately regretted this joke but it was well received.

“Seriously though, I understand they go on until he has nothing left to ejaculate, what they call a ‘drygasm’. That’s usually about his ninth or tenth orgasm, maybe three or four hours in. He’s left to nap for half an hour or so, then splashed awake with ice water. If he’s in the lab he’s dropped into an ice bath in the transparent tub, then pulled out. At least that’s the summer protocol. At that point Mrs. Kimura and her friends take over. They usually get two or three final orgasms out of him before they show mercy and let him konk out.”

“Surely they don’t get any more fluid out of him by that point.”

Elaine continued, “That has been the subject of a lot of debate in the Draining Committee. Those final, deep throat orgasms are not typical. As they put it, the contractions are slower than normal, every two seconds or so, with a full body character. Of course Mrs. Kimura, or whoever is throating him, is also using her fingers to reach into his rectum to massage his prostate, which should cause him to eject whatever fluid he has left in there. During the contractions Mrs. Kimura reports a kind of sensation similar to fluid shooting down his urethra into her stomach, but she can’t be sure. Kai-Kai is not lucid enough at that point to say one way or the other. In fact no one really knows.”

At that point a tall, slightly overweight woman in a long skirt and a slightly askew tartan jacket padded unsteadily down the stairs in stocking feet. In her hand was a freshly signed certificate.

“Och, that was somethin’,” she said.

Mrs. Schreiber smiled good-naturedly. “I hope it was pleasant.”

Morag MacGregor, age 44, six feet tall and 195 lbs., mother of six children, three of them grown and moved away, settled in next to Angela, clumsily but comfortably, a well-f**ked women in post-orgasmic bliss. “Oh I got off pretty damn well. But half a liter o’ cock! And on such a wee lad! My Niall is huge but . . .” She looked at the mother’s concerned face and said, “No, it didna hurt. I had to breathe odd to make it work though.”

“Here, let me copy that for you.” Elaine did that and returned the original certificate to the I-7.

Mrs. MacGregor took a flask out of her pocket. “I know, I’m a stereotype. A Scot with her whiskey. I’d offer you some but I see you’re already drinkin’.” She took a swig. “My last gulp for nine months. . . Well maybe this one is.” Another swig.

They smiled at her, the big friendly face, hair turning unashamedly gray, wrinkles around the eyes, products of a life of much happiness and laughter. She said, “He’s a good lad. A fair reflection on you,” she said to Mrs. Schreiber, as one middle-aged mother to another.

“I hear he’s a good student too,” Mrs. MacGregor continued.

“Yes, he is,” Kai-Kai’s mother said. “Too quiet, though.”

“Well, that’s not surprisin’, he must be awful peaceful, with all those endorphins floatin’ around in him. . . I’m surprised he has time for anything, with all us hens to knock up.”

“That’s a common misconception. Um,” Elaine said, blushing as everyone laughed at this unintended pun. “Actually the impregs take up a total of only two and a half hours a day, including going to and coming from the locations.”

The Scot contemplated her flask, and decided to screw on the top and put it back in her jacket. “As much time as bein’ on the school football team.”

“Yes.” They had never thought of it that way before. And it certainly could be called an athletic endeavor.

Mrs. Schreiber said, “You should get up there for the smear before he falls asleep.”

“Och, right.” In a moment she was down again with her prize, the smeared original certificate. “Where are the others?” Elaine gave her the folder with the other certificates for the day, the copies and the originals (except the one which left with Mrs. Piri). It was the I-7’s job to take these back to the Guest House. “He’s worn out but I’m worn out too. I took all of him!” she said with pride. “G’night now!” She got her boots on at the door and was gone.