Love and Marriage

Tara settled into her chair at the breakfast table, her mind still foggy from the whirlwind of the morning's events. She had barely begun to process the casual revelation about Clara’s android double when the conversation around her took a new, unexpected turn.

“We’ve discussed this already, Dad,” Clara said, exasperation clear in her voice as she put down her coffee. “I’ve met everyone on your list, and none of them are right for me.”

Mr. Darrow frowned, setting down his fork. “None of them? The candidates we’ve selected are based on rigorous genetic assessments.”

Clara crossed her arms above her giant tits, leaning back in her chair. “I know that. But just because some guy’s mom had massive tits doesn’t mean he’s the right match for me.”

Tara blinked, her attention fully drawn to the conversation now. The tone was different from their usual banter—sharper, more serious. And what Clara had said... it took Tara a moment to grasp the gravity of it. Gene tests? The candidates' mothers?

Mrs. Darrow sighed softly, placing her napkin on the table. “Clara, we understand that personality is important to you, but you can’t overlook the genetic aspect. We’ve seen the results—both sons of the Argona family have mothers in the top 1% of bust size. That’s exactly the kind of lineage we need to secure the future of our family.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Mom, I know. I get it. But they’re boring. It’s like talking to a brick wall with these guys. ”

Mr. Darrow’s expression darkened slightly. “You’re not just marrying for yourself, Clara. The future of this family depends on making the right match. The Bustocracy has high standards, and we need to ensure that your children carry on the best traits.”

Tara’s stomach turned. She hadn’t fully grasped how far the obsession with breast size went in Mammopolis until now. The idea that Clara’s future children were already being scrutinized, evaluated for their genetic potential, was deeply unsettling. And the fact that it wasn’t just Clara’s own bust size that mattered—but the bust size of the mothers of potential suitors—made it even more surreal.

Mrs. Darrow leaned forward, her tone softening slightly but still firm. “Clara, we’ve reviewed the gene tests—each of these candidates has been assessed for their compatibility, not just with you, but with our family’s standing.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Darrow added. “House Argona has produced nothing but top-tier Bustocracy members for generations. Their genetic history is impeccable. We’re not going to find a better match in terms of ensuring our lineage.”

Clara scoffed, shaking her head. “So I’m supposed to just pick one of these guys because they come from a long line of women with huge tits?”

Tara sat back in her chair, stunned by the conversation unfolding before her. She had known that the Bustocracy was driven by status, but this level of calculation—choosing partners based on genetic compatibility to ensure future children would be busty enough to maintain or even elevate their rank—was more **** than she had imagined.

Mrs. Darrow gave Clara a long, measured look. “You have a responsibility to this family, Clara. You’ve been given opportunities that many others would never have. Don’t forget that.”

Clara huffed, clearly irritated. “I haven’t forgotten. But I’m not going to sacrifice my own happiness just to make sure my future daughter has the perfect cup size.”

Jim, the android, quietly refilled Mr. Darrow’s coffee, his face as calm and unreadable as always. Tara found herself watching him, wondering if even he understood the gravity of the conversation happening at the table.

Mr. Darrow, clearly growing more frustrated, folded his hands in front of him. “Clara, you’re part of the Bustocracy. This isn’t just about personal preference—it’s about ensuring the strength of our bloodline. ”

Clara’s lips tightened as she glared at her father. “And what if I don’t want to just be a breeding vessel for your genetic project? What if I want to actually like the guy I marry?”

There was a heavy silence at the table. Tara glanced between them, feeling the tension rise. It was as though Clara’s rebellion against her role in this strange, calculated system was building to a breaking point.

Mrs. Darrow broke the silence first, her voice calm but resolute. “Clara, no one is asking you to marry someone you despise. But you need to be practical. Your children… they will carry on our legacy.”

Clara scoffed, pushing her plate away. “And by ‘legacy,’ you mean making sure they have giant tits.”

Mrs. Darrow’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t trivialize this, Clara. You know the stakes.”

Tara felt her heart race as she watched the scene unfold. It was becoming clear just how much pressure Clara was under to conform to the demands of the Bustocracy. Marriage wasn’t just about love—it was about genetic superiority, ensuring that the Darrow family would remain at the top of the social hierarchy. Every choice was a calculation, every potential suitor evaluated for their ability to produce the most desirable offspring.

Mr. Darrow, his voice sharp with frustration, set down his coffee cup with more **** than usual. “Clara, enough is enough. We’ve been patient with you. We’ve let you enjoy your freedom—your one-night stands, your casual flings—but you’ve failed to find anyone suitable. It’s time for you to stop playing around and take this seriously.”

Clara glared at him, her arms crossed defensively. “I am taking it seriously,” she shot back. “Just because ..."

Mrs. Darrow interrupted her, “We’ve allowed you to date, to explore, to find someone on your own terms, hoping you’d come to this decision naturally. But, Clara, you haven’t. All you’ve done is indulge in fleeting encounters. You’re not making any progress toward securing your future—or ours.”

Clara’s jaw clenched, her irritation palpable. “I’m not some breeding cow ...”

Mr. Darrow leaned forward, his tone firm but calm. “No one is saying that, Clara. But you’re at the perfect age now. Your prime. If we wait too long, you’ll miss your window. You’ve had your fun, but the time for games is over. You need to get bred and ensure the future of this family.”

The casualness with which Mr. Darrow said *bred* sent a shiver down Tara's spine.

Mr. Darrow leaned back in his chair, his voice measured but authoritative. “We’re not asking you to marry someone you despise. But we are insisting that you take this seriously now. You need to get married. You need to produce heirs. That’s your responsibility as part of this family.”

The word "heirs" hung heavy in the air. Tara’s heart raced as she listened to the conversation. This wasn’t just about Clara’s personal preferences or happiness—this was about securing the future of the Darrow family, ensuring that the next generation of the Bustocracy was as busty, as genetically superior, as possible.

“I need ... excuse me.” Mr. Darrow muttered, loosening his tie. Without another word, he got up headed toward the hallway that led to his private quarters. Tara’s heart skipped a beat. But when Clara rolled her eyes, Tara realized exactly what Mr. Darrow was about to do.

“Of course,” Clara muttered under her breath. “He’s going to fuck the bot again.” Mrs. Darrow didn’t even blink. She calmly continued her tea, giving a slight nod of acknowledgment as Mr. Darrow disappeared from view.

Clara caught Tara’s wide-eyed look and shrugged. “What? It’s just a bot. He’s been doing this forever. It’s how he ‘relaxes.’”

Tara stared down at her plate, unsure of how to respond. The idea of Mr. Darrow venting his frustrations on a robotic version of his daughter was unsettling, to say the least. And yet, in the context of Mammopolis, it was as normal as anything else. Here, bodies—whether real or synthetic—were commodities, objects of pleasure and stress relief.

Clara pushed back her chair with an audible scrape, her expression a mixture of irritation and resignation. "I can’t deal with this right now," she muttered, her voice tinged with frustration. She stood up abruptly, her eyes falling on Jim, the male service android, who was standing quietly at the edge of the room, observing the scene with his usual calm expression.

Clara crossed the room in a few swift strides, grabbing Jim by the arm. “Come on,” she ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument. “I need a little stress relief, too.”

Jim, ever compliant, followed without hesitation, his expression as unreadable as always. "Of course, Miss Clara," he said smoothly, his voice soft and measured as he allowed himself to be dragged toward the hallway.

Tara watched in stunned silence as Clara led Jim away, her frustration clearly about to be vented in a much more physical manner. It wasn’t the first time Tara had seen someone in Mammopolis use an android for casual sex, but seeing it happen so suddenly, so matter-of-factly, left her feeling even more out of place. Clara’s parting words hung in the air, adding to the surrealness of the moment.

And then, it was just Tara and Mrs. Darrow.

Mrs. Darrow remained seated, her demeanor unshaken by the events unfolding around her. She sipped her tea delicately, her posture as composed as ever. She didn’t seem fazed by her husband’s or daughter’s sudden exits, as if this were just another ordinary morning in the Darrow household.

Tara, on the other hand, sat stiffly in her chair, her mind racing. The table felt enormous now, the silence between them almost deafening. Mrs. Darrow, finally acknowledging the quiet, glanced at Tara with a calm, almost knowing smile.

“Well,” Mrs. Darrow began, setting her cup down with a soft clink, “I suppose you’re getting quite the introduction to how things work around here.”

Tara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unsure of how to respond. “It’s… a lot to take in,” she admitted, her voice small.

Mrs. Darrow gave a small, understanding smile. “It can be, at first. But trust me, you’ll adjust.” She paused, her eyes lingering on Tara for a moment before she spoke again. “Why don’t we take a moment to unwind together? There’s no need to let the tension ruin the day.”

Tara blinked, feeling a flush of confusion and uncertainty. “Unwind?”

Mrs. Darrow’s smile widened slightly, the glimmer of understanding in her eyes making it clear what she meant. “Yes, dear. We could relax… together. Masturbation can be quite effective for releasing tension, don’t you think?”

Tara’s breath caught in her throat. The offer, while jarring, wasn’t entirely unexpected in a place like Mammopolis. Everything here was so openly sexual, so matter-of-fact. But still, the casualness with which Mrs. Darrow suggested something so intimate left Tara feeling off-balance.

After a moment’s hesitation, she gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Mrs. Darrow rose gracefully from her chair, motioning for Tara to follow her. “Come, we’ll go to the lounge. It’ll be more comfortable there.”

Tara stood, her legs feeling strangely shaky as she followed Mrs. Darrow down the sleek hallway. And then, Tara heard it. Clara’s voice was low and breathy, the unmistakable sounds of her frustration being “handled” in a very Mammopolian way.

Tara’s face flushed slightly, her footsteps faltering as they continued walking. But just as they passed Clara’s room on the right, another sound hit Tara’s ears—Clara’s voice again, but this time from the master bedroom on the left.

Tara glanced toward the slightly ajar door of the master bedroom as they walked past, catching only the faintest glimpse of the scene inside. It was Mr. Darrow, with the Clara bot. The muffled sounds from within were unmistakable, the bot’s voice a perfect replica of Clara’s, moaning and responding just as the real Clara would.

Tara’s breath caught in her throat as the surrealness of the situation hit her like a wave. Clara’s voice, coming from two places at once—one, the real Clara with Jim, and the other, a lifelike bot being used by her father in the next room. The two sounds mixed in the air, blending together until it was almost impossible to tell which was which.

Mrs. Darrow, noticing Tara’s brief hesitation, gave her a small, knowing smile as they continued walking. Tara nodded numbly, still processing the surreal mix of sounds that echoed in her ears. By the time they reached the lounge, her mind was still spinning, but she **** herself to focus on the moment. Mrs. Darrow motioned for her to sit, her expression calm, almost soothing.

“Let’s relax,” Mrs. Darrow said softly, settling down across from Tara. “No need to carry all that tension with you.”

Tara sat down, her body still tense, but as Mrs. Darrow began to guide the moment, she felt herself slowly letting go. In this strange, surreal world, where nothing was too private or too sacred, Tara was beginning to understand the rhythm of life in Mammopolis.

And soon enough, she realized, she would have to adapt—or be consumed by it.