Calliope Muse

By Rebecca L. Brown

CALLIOPE MUSE IS a Breeder. You can tell by the way she wears her hips; full— not shaved down widthways like all the other girlies. If not by that, then you can tell by the hang of her tits—almost down to her waist if she didn’t have that clasp contraption on and buckled up tight. Calliope Muse is a Breeder and that makes her desirable. Enviable even, if you ask the right woman. Men would give their left eye for a ride on a woman like her—not for the pleasure of it, but for the prestige. She could carry your litter for you, a nine month wait, then sell them on to the highest bidder. Six of them, maybe seven if you’re lucky. Ten thousand credits each, if you market them right—or free to a good home if you can’t shift them in the first six months.

I tried my luck once—tried enough luck for twenty men. I walked right up to her with my hair slicked back and my best smile switched to full volume.

“Calliope Muse,” I said, “will you let me fuck you sometime?”

“What’s it worth that I don’t have?” She could have her pick of men and I’m not catch—not that she wouldn’t throw me back afterwards. You don’t keep a woman like Calliope Muse for more than nine months. She’s public property—her and the space that lies between her thighs. There aren’t enough Breeders these days to go around—the Breeder market doesn’t pay well enough and they need them young for the mods to take properly.

All the government funding these days is in Fighters. That and Candy’s Companions: a little something sweet for the discerning gentleman. Almost every girl wants to be sweet like Candy’s these days.

I guess I’m not discerning enough, because when it comes to women I’ve got my eyes on something money-making. Shaved hips and push-perked tits are fine I guess, but girls like that cost you more than you’ll ever make from them. Calliope Muse is a fortune waiting to happen.

What was it worth? What could I offer her that no other man could? My geneslips were okay, nothing special but they’d earned me a proc-pass—if anyone would take me, that is. In the olden days, I would have offered her love, loyalty and some other crazy fluff or other.

“Forty percent of the first five and twenty after that.” It was a generous offer, at least as a starting bid.

She laughed, leaning forwards so that she was blowing right into my face. She smelled like an animal in heat, damp and dog-like.

“Seventy on all of them and a say in where they go.” An outrageous demand. Either she didn’t want me or she thought I wanted her for more than money. She wasn’t worth it—isn’t worth it, no matter what anyone tells you.

“Sixty percent, with an extra five on the first one… and I choose where they go.” I could offer to let her keep the runt of the litter—wasn’t that what people used to do?—but they’d take it off her.

Calliope Muse is a Breeder not a Mother. She’ll never hold in her arms what she carries in her womb—and why would she want to?

“No deal.” She said. “Take your spunk somewhere else—if anyone will have it.” She was playing with me. I’d never had a chance. Even if I’d agreed to seventy, she’d never have taken me. She had dreams of something more—a Hyperman, maybe, or a pretty Metro with hips shaved almost as close as the girlies‘. My genes were as good as any of theirs—better maybe. She hadn’t even asked to see.

Calliope Muse is a Breeder—but not with me. Never with me.

How many litters will you carry in your life? I want to ask her. Ninety? One hundred, maybe? If just one of them could have been mine—just one percent—I could’ve been a wealthy man.

What’s it worth? What kind of promises was she looking for? What if I had said I can change you, Calliope Muse? What if I had said I can make you like the other women?

Is that what she wants? Is that what she’s looking for? A man who will want to press himself between her thighs even when they have shaved away her hips—and with them that chemical-induced fertility with which she is lousy. Calliope Muse, do you want a man who looks beyond the percentage he can make to the part of you which was never re-written? The part of you which makes you Calliope Muse and is found in you alone.

I can pretend that, if you need me to. I can pretend anything if it empties my balls and fills my pockets.

I go over to her—to Calliope Muse, with her thick set hips and her low-hung tits.

“Calliope Muse,” I say, “will you let me fuck you sometime?”

“What’s it worth that I don’t have?” A moment repeated, but this time I have the answer. Is it the right one? I tell you what I think you want to hear.

“Calliope Muse, I want to run away with you. I want you to shave your hips so that no man—no other man—will ever ask to be between your legs. Calliope Muse, I want to have you always and always to be yours. I want to belong to you, the way that two people should belong to each other.”

She leans forwards towards me and I think that our lips are going to meet. She leans forwards until I can taste her skin and then she throws back her head and laughs—laughs like I have never heard anybody laugh before. She laughs until tears run down her cheeks and the whole world is looking. The whole world listening.

“No.” She will tell me. Or else maybe: “Yes.” Or neither—I am beginning to think that Calliope Muse does not have the answers.

***

I dream of Calliope Muse.

I dream of her low-slung tits pressing into my shoulders and the musk-sweat smell of a Breeder in season. Calliope Muse is always in season—you can smell it on her skin like stale perfume or someone else’s breath.

I dream of her wide, unshaved Breeder’s hips grinding into my thighs. She is soft—softer than expected. I sink my fingers into her and wake up to sticky sheets and a pillow pressed up tight against my pulsing cock.

She wouldn’t stay afterwards. I would lie there like that as she pulled on her panties and buckled up that clasp contraction of hers. Calliope Muse is not a lover—not one of Candy’s girls either. There would be no awkward embracing between us.

“Yes.” She told me.

“Yes.”

Not for love but for seventy five percent and the choice of where to sell them. Calliope Muse will get the best price. She knows the market—or so she tells me.

Now, Calliope Muse holds my future between her wide, dimpled thighs—and I am waiting.

“Not yet.” She told me, her hands pressed deep into the curve of her hips.

“Not yet.”

“Soon.”

***

“Calliope Muse, will you let me fuck you sometime?”

“Soon.”

It has been three months. Three months of waiting. Three months of holding back. My balls churn when a girlie passes me in the street—any girlie. Every girlie. Even the worn-faced Workers with their hair shaved so short you can barely tell they are. My balls know. Maybe it is the smell of them. The musk of womanhood somewhere underneath the oil and dust and ground in drear.

They are not like her. A different breed, almost. Calliope Muse is a new girlie—an improved girlie—and she knows it.

A freak—they would call her that and worse. As if they thought the world might need more drab and unlovely girlies like them—barely girlies at all, these days—and fewer like Calliope Muse.

You came from her, I want to tell them, or one like her. Without some wide-hipped woman somewhere, there would be none of you. One of her for every hundred girlies and two hundred pups pushed out between her thighs before she stops pushing.

Calliope Muse is new and fresh. A new girlie—an improved girlie—but would you choose to be her? Back when there was a choice, not enough did.

Candies, you insisted. My children will be Candies. Two children each and the best in life for every child. Who wants to waste their life on raising half-litters to send them into factories—or worse? Every man in his place—but not enough to fill some of the spaces—and then, there were so few to choose they took the choice away—just for a little while. The litters with it.

You can’t own a man, they told you. You can’t own a child.

Now, the money chooses for us.

Calliope Muse choose for us—for me and her.

“Calliope Muse, will you let me fuck you sometime?”

“Soon.”

***

Calliope Muse is a liar. A fraud.

“Not his.” She told them. They shrugged. They won’t test—not if she doesn’t want them to. Seven to the litter and all of them sold, but not a penny of it coming my way.

I fucked you, Calliope Muse, I want to tell her. I fucked you and that money is mine. She wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t listen. What is spunk worth these days? What price do you get for the gallon? The litre? The pint? Fill her up and off she goes. Fuck her and she fucks you over.

I should have known. Nine months I had her and no longer, not even long enough for her to pop them out ...

Pop—one.

Pop—two.

All the way up to seven.

And sell them on.

When she sees me, she throws back her head and laughs. I have only ever heard one laugh like it before—hers then and hers now. She planned this all along. Planned it with the whole world looking.

But Calliope Muse doesn’t care who sees her. You can tell by the way she wears her smile. 

Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer, photographer and retired archaeologist. She specializes in horror, SF, humor, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost. For more updates on her work, you can visit her blog.