The Great Semen Famine

They were already calling it the Great Semen Famine.

It had started a month ago with our Normality Earrings wearing protagonist's casual remark about how nearly everyone enjoyed having semen mixed into their meals.

Bran's words had hung heavy in the air, not as prophetic pronouncements, but as mere throwaway remarks – until they weren't. They were a pebble dropped into a stagnant pond, rippling across Republic City (and the rest of the world) with a **** unimaginable. Suddenly, everyone knew they'd always craved the taste of sperm in their meals.

This wasn't mere culinary evolution; it was a collective amnesia, a shared memory implanted in an instant.

Chaos blossomed from the fertile ground of desire. Restaurants, once havens of culinary craft, became battlegrounds for the precious drops. Chefs, transformed into alchemists of the male essence, wrestled with inadequate supplies, their desperation a bitter spice in every dish.

Waiters, faces etched with apologetic sweat, stammered explanations to irate customers demanding their 'rightful' sauce. "Limited stock, sir," they'd mumble, "Only what's on hand, currently…" The unspoken implication hung heavy – the chef, the busboy, even the burly bouncer outside, all contributing their limited reserves to the culinary cause.

The black market, a viper waiting in the shadows, coiled awake. Seedy alleyways pulsed with whispered deals, vials of seed passed like contraband under flickering gaslights. Triads, ever adept at sniffing out profit, turned their muscle towards "harvesting" the source, forcing men into back rooms, their contributions extracted under threat and sold for exorbitant prices.

It was chaos. It was interaction. It was discussion and argument. It was the sort of social friction that fueled the growth and evolution of the Normalities birthed from the Earrings. New habits, new traditions, were born in the crucible of the Semen Famine, and soon a new normal emerged. Brand new cultural mores and values that had not existed mere days before but were now believed to have been around since time immemorial.

One such new-old habit was the 'The Self-Service.' Men, ever resourceful and adaptable, rose to the challenge with a flourish (or rather, a vigorous shake). After settling into their meals, they'd partake in a ritual as natural as taking a bite – a condiment contribution. With a practiced flick of the wrist, pants would be lowered, and a very personal sauce would be added to their plate.

Nearby females, far from being offended, would nod in appreciation. The sharing of seed, after all, was a symbol of community, a gesture of culinary camaraderie. Ladies would eagerly offer their plates, even their mouths, to their dining companions, delighting in the salty, musky taste they so craved.

It wasn't enough unfortunately, only a bandaid on the problem. While the semen was fresh, the supply was limited. The men who were willing and able to contribute their fluids repeatedly were soon overwhelmed by demand. Restaurants struggled to keep up, their dishes becoming increasingly unbalanced and unpalatable.

The city, for all its culinary prowess, had a shocking secret: there was no industry supplying the stuff. Sure, seed stalls dotted the streets, hawking vials with labels like Dragon Drool and Mermaid's Pearls but these were mere drops in the ocean of desire. The warehouses overflowing with barrels of sperm, the merchant networks drawing in regular donations from the countryside's virile peasantry, the cottage industry of farmers and breeders dedicated to supplying the insatiable appetites of the capital...they simply didn't exist.

The Semen Famine was on Korra's mind as she sat on on the edge of one of the terraced pasture that looked out over the bay and the city. The sun was warm on her tits as she idly divided her attention between the gleaming metropolis and the trio of young female Air Acolytes clustered underneath the nearest Sky Bison, its massive form casting a dappled shadow.

Laughter, a cascade of tinkling bells, rose as one stroked the behemoth organ with practiced ease, her fingers coaxing a slow, creamy ooze. "Come on, Mushu," she teased, her voice honeyed. "Give us a taste of your sky nectar."

"Yeah," another chimed in, her cheeks rosy and lips pursed. "You know how much we love your big tasty loads."

The third was more direct, her hands reaching to cup and massage the Sky Bison's gargantuan testicles. "Cum," she chanted, her voice low and husky like a prayer, "Cum cum. Come on. Cum."

Korra watched, a smile playing on her lips. The scene was a stark contrast to the city's parched desperation. Here on the island they had plenty of young healthy male Air Acolytes with little else to do but jerk off and contribute to the communal supply. Add in the Bisons' ability to produce vast amounts of thick thick! musky goodness with the relatively low numbers of people on the island and things were very different for the air temple.

Memories flickered across her mind of home.

The menfolk gathered around the communal cook fire, their laughter echoing through the crisp glacier air. Each pump, each glistening contribution to the pot, was a ritual of shared pleasure, a testament to their interconnectedness. And her father, his sun-kissed skin and twinkling eyes, would release his own creamy offering onto her and her mother's breakfast plates, a silent blessing of love and abundance. Her mother's face, radiant with joy as she cleaned his penis up, a droplet of pearly seed hanging from her lip.

The city, she knew, was different. A million souls crammed into that shining mass of stone and steel. How did they manage? Did they have cookouts too, a symphony of pumping arms hidden in back alleys and rooftop gardens? Did fathers, weary from the day's toil, offer their bounty to steaming bowls of noodle soup, a silent language of love and sustenance?

The urge to intervene, to be the Avatar who brought not just balance, but a dribble of joy, pulsed through her. Sharing their island's bounty, a beacon of light in the city's drought, seemed almost…obligatory. But the reality was harsh. Their surplus, compared to the city's insatiable need, was a mere drop in the salty ocean.

The sound of the trio's excited cries and shrieks brought her back to the present.

Mushu bellowed, long and low, the deep rumble sending a flurry of birds bursting from the trees.

Then came the deluge.

The geyser that erupted wasn't a graceful arc, but a tidal wave of creamy white, flooding the clay trough whose perfect placement to catch the falling load showed the acolytes' experience with the process.

The girls, shrieked with a mix of delight and relief, their playful glee a sharp counterpoint to the bison's guttural groans as it emptied its seemingly bottomless balls.

Korra watched, mesmerized, as the creamy torrent cascaded from Mushu's trunk, steadily filling the trough. The Acolytes' laughter, laced with the earthy musk of the bison's passion, echoed in her ears, igniting a familiar fire in her belly.

It wasn't just the sight, the smell, the sheer volume of the milky bounty – it was a whisper, a memory of late nights tangled with Bran, his broad frame a furnace of desire that mirrored the rumbling power of the bison's eruption. His hands, rough with earth and calloused with years of bending, kneaded her back, each stroke a promise of the pleasure to come.

And then, there was his immense organ, a potent counterpoint to her own slender frame. It wasn't just the size, the way it filled her completely, stretching her walls to their limit. It was the texture, the corded veins pulsing beneath his skin, the smooth, prominent glans that pressed against her core with each thrust. It was a perfect fit, a cosmic puzzle piece slotting into place, a testament to their shared earthiness.

When Air Acolytes Penpa, Sherong, and Khetsun finished up with Mushu they turned to see the condition of the Avatar as she lay back on the ledge, their eyes went wide before they exchanged knowing glances and giggled. The dark skinned girl as topless as she tended to be these days had her eyes closed and one hand shoved deep into her pants, clearly fingering her pussy and the other groping one of her ample breasts, raised nipples like brown erasers.

"Hey Korra," Khetsun asked, her voice low and teasing, "Whatcha doing over there?"

Penpa and Sherong snickered, their eyes roaming over the Avatar's exposed form.

Korra snapped out of her thoughts and memories. Her eyes shot open and her hands froze in place, her cheeks heating up with embarrassment. She hadn't realized how caught up in the moment she had gotten.

"U-um..." she mumbled, sitting up and pulling her hands out of her pants. "I was just... meditating. Trying to... connect with my spiritual side, you know? Avatar State!"

“This is how I do it! It is!”

This was so embarrassing! Here she was, the Avatar, the great bridge between worlds, and she was caught red-handed masturbating.

To a bison.

This was Bran's fault, leaving her pussy high and dry for four days. FOUR!

Three too many…

Korra's bare tits, swayed as she walked alongside the trio, two male Air Acolytes having arrived to collect Mushu's load. All four girls had already snuck some mouthfuls, and based on the expressions of the two young men, they'd be sampling their own helping just as soon as the girls vacated the area.

Korra enjoyed having her big pleasure-providers out in the open like this. She wasn't so bold out in the city, going with a loose blue halter-top that the girls inevitably popped out of whenever she fought, ran, or jumped. But that didn't bother her. Big titties were for milking cocks and part of that was getting them hard in the first place. She still had her vest but she doubted she'd ever wear it again. Wearing that thing felt like a suffocating cocoon and she honestly couldn't understand how she could ever have worn it in the first place.

The Air Nuns were chattering about last week's breeding ritual with Tenzin.

Apple-cheeked Sherong was rubbing her tummy through her loose red and gold robes, a secret smile flitting across her lips. "I just know," she chirped, her voice filled with the dizzying confidence of first love and impending motherhood. "My little bender will take to the skies like a dandelion dream!"

Penpa, her eyes sparkling with mischief, nudged Sherong playfully. "Oh, come now! You can't tell this early and that is only the second time Tenzin even filled you up!”

Khetsun, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. "And even if you are, how can you be so sure it's Tenzin's? Remember who else joined the ritual that day?"

A grin, wide and knowing, spread across Korra's face as she recalled Bran's casual invasion of the sacred Air Bender rite. The look of shock, tinged with excitement, on the Air Acolyte's faces as Bran pushed past Tenzin and mounted the nearest girl, his huge, veiny, cock spearing her with one powerful thrust. The girl's delighted moans as she eagerly welcomed Bran's thick member inside her, the way she eagerly rolled her hips in rhythm with his powerful thrusts.

Sherong blushed, her cheeks turning rosy as she shook her head. "Of course I remember!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "It's not like we had much choice. He was like a rutting Sky Bison, taking whoever he could get his hands on.”

Korra's lovesick pussy, still riled up from her interrupted session earlier, throbbed and directed her thoughts to the memory as the girls chattered away about that day...