14 February 3009. My fortieth birthday. It dawned dull, grey and dismal. Just like any other winter's day. The sky, one of those skies that hang so low it almost seems if you stand on tippy-toes and stretch up, up, up with your arms, you could touch it with the very ends of your straining fingers. The air so cold, so sharp, it drifts from your mouth in a haze of silver moisture.
That was my birthday.
On the outside.
On the inside, under my skin, in my mind, the day burst into life with a flash and dazzle of sunlight. Fluffy white clouds danced around the edges. Minda had told me once, that long ago, the 14 February had been a time of celebration; a time when people who were free to love and form relationships, exchanged gifts and kisses. I was never quite sure where my friend got these snippets of information from, and was even less sure how true they were. But this one I had kept close to my chest. It gave my birthday a special significance. And on this, my fortieth birthday - my liberation day, the day I had been longing for through all the endless dreary weary days of my existence - it was all the more important.
I was an incuba, had been for as long as I could remember, as had been my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother, and her mother, and so on and so on, right back to the early years of the twenty-first century. All the way back to the time of the Domination. I suppose I can pride myself - if there is such a thing as pride in my position in life - that I had done my job well. I had produced fifteen live spawnlings: all from good healthy bloodlines; my studs had always been fit, young and from good stock. I knew that all of my spawnlings - even the females - had been used for a higher level of work than myself. For this I was glad. Especially for the females. There is no work so degrading, so soul-destroying, as being an incuba. If it hadn't been for Minda, I think I would have lost my mind years ago. the last few weeks without her had been a struggle.
Minda had reached her own liberation day two months earlier. I couldn't wait to meet with her again in Bethnal Green. What a pair of liberation girls we would be.
By now she would know the truth of the place. Minda had always pictured it as a vast expanse of rolling meadows under a clear blue sunny sky. Cosy beam-fronted cottages in which we could live out the rest of our days, far from the cruel reach of the enforcers.
As for me, I didn't much care. Anything was better than the here and now.
After Minda had been liberated, I had been allowed to have our housing pod to myself. The enforcers obviously thought there was no point pairing me up with a new incuba. After all, I too would be gone soon. For the first time in years they had left me alone. They had taken their privileges elsewhere.
To be an enforcer to an incuba had it's perks. For them. The great strapping ugly brutes of men, with their great throbbing ugly organs of manhood, were allowed to pair with us, as and when they would. As long as the incuba involved was not with spawnling, we could be used as often as the enforcers so wished. All enforcers were castrated as soon as they agreed to take on this much sought after position within the Domini.
I was lucky than most. After twenty-five years of producing spawnlings my body had succumb to age and time. My thin breasts hung saggy and low, the loose skin of my stomach was criss-crossed with stretch marks.
There were not many who sought their privileges with me.
It was Minda I had felt for. Even after producing twelve spawnling, her body had remained firm and plump. There had been nights when three or four enforcers had taken it in turns to pair with her.
I had lain in the next cot, face to the wall, fingers in my ears, trying to block out her pain.
And then there were the times they had brought us our studs: leading the younger fitter men to our cots; watching with their thirsty eyes as our pairings took place; fondling their own engorged organs in their huge calloused hands.
How I hated the enforcers. Hated them with a passion.
Every day we were forced to go about naked - only being given a loose-fitting gown when it was our turn to visit the washing bay or the medical unit - all the while their greedy pig like eyes were on us. Watching our every move.
But enough of these dark thoughts. It was my fortieth birthday. My liberation day. Nothing was going to spoil that. Not even the enforcers.
At some stage in the night a clean soft gown had been placed on the foot of my cot, and I now shrugged it on over my head. Our usual gowns were a dirty faded grey colour, this one was a dazzling snow white.
The sliding door to my housing pod hissed open and my enforcer stepped in. Without a word he took me by the arm and led me from the cell......