Local hero

Mary collapsed onto the sofa, her body a symphony of exhaustion. The seams of her government issued nurse’s uniform had finally given up the fight, surrendering to the weight of her pillowy breasts, which now spilled free. The air clung to her musky, salty, the unmistakable reek of a day spent coaxing cum from strangers. Her stockings, once pristine, were streaked with the evidence of her failures trickles of semen she hadn’t quite captured in the sterile cups.

The front door creaked open.

Tom stood frozen in the doorway, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes dragged over his wife legs splayed, uniform ruined, skin glistening with sweat and other men’s release. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Any chance of a wank?"

Mary’s glare could have curdled milk.

Tom flinched, retreating toward the kitchen. "Right. I’ll… get dinner sorted, then."

She exhaled through her nose, summoning the last dregs of her strength, and peeled herself off the sofa. The uniform hit the floor with a wet slap. The shower’s scalding spray burned, but it was a good burn the kind that scrubbed away the phantom discharge of fifty different cocks, the ache in her wrists, the sticky reminders of her new civic duty.

By the time she emerged, swaddled in pyjamas, Tom had laid out dinner, microwaved lasagne, the edges fossilized. They ate in silence, the television droning about another "record-breaking collection day" for Project Mumford & Sons.

Mary shovelled food into her mouth, her arms throbbing with every movement.

Tom cleared his throat. "So… how was your day?"

Mary’s fork clattered against her plate. "How the fuck do you think it was? I just jerked off fifty strangers. My arms feel like they’ve been through a woodchipper."

Tom winced. Instantly, guilt twisted in Mary’s gut. He was trying. In his own clumsy way, he was trying. She sighed, scooting closer to him on the couch. His arm curled around her, his lips pressing into her damp hair.

"You’re doing good work," he murmured. "If it wasn’t for you for women like you we’d be extinct. You’re my hero."

Mary melted into him, the anger bleeding away. For a moment, she could almost forget the chafing, the smell, the way her wedding ring caught the light differently now dulled by latex and lube.

By the end of the week, Mary had made adjustments.

A lavender oil burner now sat in her booth, fighting back the ever present smell of semen. A small radio played upbeat pop perfect for maintaining rhythm. ("Up-down, twist at the tip, just like Sally showed you.") Wet wipes were stashed everywhere, ready for the inevitable misfires.

Her body was changing, too. The flabby underarms she’d once hidden were tightening into lean muscle. She could feel it when she lifted grocery bags, when she twisted open jars. A morbid thought flickered: At least the apocalypse gave me toned arms.

Sally, her ever smiling co-worker, had become an unlikely mentor. The girl treated the clinic like her personal playground, swapping techniques like they were baking tips. ("Use your thumb on the frenulum—gets ‘em every time!") Mary hated how well it worked but marvelled at sally, she was clearly made for this life.

Saturday morning, Mary rose before Tom. She slipped into a sundress real fabric, no straps, no exposed boobs and made breakfast. Tom’s hands wandered, and she batted him away with a practiced sigh.

"You know the rules."

His face fell, but he didn’t argue. The law was the law.

The supermarket parking lot was bustling. Mary barely had a hand on a trolley before a pimply stock boy sprinted over.

"Let me get that for you, Mrs" He yanked a gleaming cart from the back. "Brand new. We keep these for our best customers."

Mary blinked. "…Thanks?"

The trolley glided like it was on rails with all four wheels going the same direction. No squeaks. No mystery stains or sticky parts.

As she shopped, eyes followed her. She checked her dress no spills, no accidental nudity. (Though God knows, flashing a tit would’ve felt normal by now.)

A shop assistant materialized in the cereal aisle. "Can I help you find anything, ma’am?"

Mary **** a smile. "I’m fine, thanks."

Then, in the dairy section

"Thank you."

A woman, mid-thirties, beaming like Mary had handed her the moon. Behind her, a man lurked by the baked beans, his face tomato red.

Mary stiffened. "For… what?"

The woman clasped her hands. "My husband’s been attending the clinic. They told us we’re scheduled for insemination next year! Because of you."

Mary’s stomach dropped. "How do you even know who I—"

"Oh!" The woman giggled, pulling out her phone. A government-approved app flashed Fertility Heroes: Meet Your Local Contributors! Mary’s clinic photo grinned back, alongside a chipper bio: Nurse Mary, 52. Top 10% Collector!

Mary’s face burned.

The woman leaned in, conspiratorial. "Pro tip: Tickle his balls, he loves it and will cum in seconds." With a wink, she vanished, her husband scurrying after her like a scolded puppy.

At checkout, the manager, a sweaty man with a comb-over nearly tripped opening a lane just for her.

"That move you did yesterday?" he breathed, scanning her milk with reverence. "The double handed twist? Genius." His fingers trembled as he punched in a discount. "Staff rate. For your service."

Mary fled to her car, her ears ringing. As she loaded bags, an elderly man in a tweed cap snapped to attention and saluted.

She slammed the door, gripping the wheel.

"What the actual fuck."