Small town problems

The alarm screamed at 6:30 AM, but Darren had been awake for hours. He lay perfectly still, holding his breath as the government issued SmartSheets performed their morning scan. A thin blue light pulsed beneath the fabric, searching for any trace of illicit activity.

Clean.

Darren exhaled. Another night survived. He peeled back the sheets - specially mandated for all males over 18 since the Fertility Crisis began - and inspected himself. No accidents. No violations. The chastity monitor around his waist (a "birthday gift" from the state when he turned 18) remained undisturbed after his first night wearing it.

His 18th birthday. The day he became legally milkable.

Downstairs, the smell of burning toast cut through his dread. His mother Barbra stood at the stove, humming to herself as she juggled pans. When she turned, her floral apron strained against her curves - the same curves Darren had trained himself not to notice since the Porn Purges made even accidental arousal a crime.

"There's my man!" she squealed, pulling him into a hug that pressed her pillowy breasts against his chest. Darren stiffened, his body betraying him in ways that could land them both in a re-education centre. "Eighteen! I remember when you were just a wee babe latched onto these -"

"Mum!" Darren jerked back, face burning.

Barbra laughed, oblivious to his discomfort. She'd always been tactile - a side effect, Darren suspected, of ten years alone since Dad's accident. At 4'11" with riotous auburn curls and hips that didn't quit, she turned heads everywhere. Even now, at 47, Darren caught his friends staring.

He focused intently on his eggs as Barbra prattled on about birthday plans. The way she leaned over the table made her cleavage impossible to ignore. Darren gripped his fork until his knuckles whitened. Months of state-mandated chastity had left him permanently on edge, and now...

"Happy birthday, sweetheart." Barbra slid an envelope across the table. Inside, £1000 in crisp bills. "For driving lessons. And maybe a lads' trip.

The walk to school felt like a **** march. His friends Billy and John waited at the gates, their identical chastity belts visible beneath skinny jeans.

"Happy birthday, wanker," Billy grinned. "Get your first compliance check yet?" He mimed jerking off. "Heard they make you do it in front of a nurse now."

John punched his arm. "Shut it, you twat." But Darren saw the fear in his eyes too.

The headmaster's oily voice slithered down the hallway: "Ah, Mr. Callahan. Do give your mother my regards." Mr. Fagan's eyes lingered on Darren in a way that made his skin crawl. The balding fifty-something had been "checking in" on Mum for weeks. Now Darren understood why.

The classroom buzzed with nervous energy. Timmy - the school's walking rumour mill - cornered them. "You haven't heard? They're taking all the Year 13 boys today. Special clinic orientation."

Billy barked a laugh. "You're full of shit."

But the notice on the board confirmed it: *MANDATORY REPRODUCTIVE EDUCATION - ALL MALE STUDENTS 18+*

Timmy lowered his voice. "Nurse Callahan's running it."

The world tilted. Darren's mouth went dry. Because in their tiny village, there was only one nurse.

His mother.

Across the room, the school secretary appeared with a clipboard. "Boys, line up. The clinic van's here." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Nurse Callahan's waiting."

Darren's knees buckled. Somewhere between the desk and the door, Billy whispered what they were all thinking:

"God help us. We're getting wanked off by your mum."