The Wife-Swapping Club Holds an Ishtar Party
Introduction:
The club throws a fertility party on Easter, using ovipositors and ‘cream eggs’
It’s the day most calendars call Easter, but the pagans once called Ishtar. It’s also the day of the wife-swapping club’s annual breeding contest, an event they used to honor the ancient pagan fertility goddess which the holiday once celebrated. The ladies have used birth control pills to carefully align their periods, and they’re all at the peak of their cycles, actually ovulating tonight. Attendees show up in pairs, a man and a woman. Almost as soon as they arrive, the genders are separated. Women go to one room to have their blood drawn for pregnancy tests, while the men are whisked off to another where a number of skilled ladies extract their sperm. Each sample is carefully preserved, topped off to the same volume by diluting it with Pre-Seed solution, and then taken into the kitchen where the hollowed-out gelatin eggs await. By the time the jars reach the event’s hostess, all identifying marks have been removed. There are fifty jars, and she uses fifty separate syringes to load three hollowed-out gelatin eggs with sperm, and three with an inert solution. The eggs are placed carefully into small baskets, each of which has a single ovipositor in it. Each basket contains six eggs, three of which are “hot” and from a single donor, three of which are inert… and no way to tell which is which.
The hostess is done now, and a half dozen almost-nude pregnant women wearing bunny ears and very little else pick up the baskets and carry them out to the party guests. The women are all in cocktail dresses, daringly cut, with the convenient access which their fertility demands. The men are in tuxedoes; up until the pregnant bunny girls came skipping out of the back room, it was a very formal affair. But now, as the baskets thump down on the tables with an imposing finality, the air is tense and still. Up until now, twenty five men and twenty five women have been enjoying glasses of champagne and a light dinner, in the theme of a roaring 20s speakeasy.
The hostess takes center stage and asks, “So, what are you waiting for?”
The wait is over. The time is now. Each couple has a basket on their table, and to leave eggs in it at the end of the night is to never be invited again. Every man wonders: Whose cream eggs, so to speak, are these? Will my wife be inseminated with my sperm, or my friend’s, or the guy two tables away? Some couples trade eggs with others. They might be getting blanks, or they may be getting a second donor’s sperm. If they trade eggs with several couples, the chances of some of his cum ending up inside of her increases, but the probability that it’ll be competing against other mens’ cum increase as well. They only have ten minutes to decide, many of the couples horse-trading amongst each other as if they were gambling breeding rights for a prize mare. When the bell rings at the end, it’s time for the breeding.
Some women choose to return to their tables, others lay down and spread their legs on the floor. A few retire to couches around the side of the room, but all decide upon somewhere. The bell rings again, and the air fills with the sounds of twenty five women being entered at the same time. Some take their fate in their own hands, sliding the ovipositor into their own vaginas with a defiant glare. Others have their men do it, entitling them to say they inseminated their women that night, whether it was with their seed or not. A few enterprising swingers made exotic arrangements, their women hooking the ovipositors together in a double-ended configuration, thrusting and gyrating as they compressed the shafts to lay eggs inside each other as they ground the toys into each others’ pussies until their vulvas touched. As the night moves on, clothing gets discarded – dresses are torn, tuxedos lie forgotten in the corner. While a few couples were content to rely upon the ovipositors and then recline on the couches to watch the rest of the night’s spectacle unfold, most only used that as the starting point. Almost as soon as the last eggs were inserted into the waiting cunts, most of the men were mounting their women, trying to ensure that whatever sperm she’d just taken deep inside of her would face stiff competition from his own.
When they gathered again four weeks later, the women sipped grape juice as attendants drew their blood for pregnancy tests. The winners – defined as any woman who’d gotten pregnant during that cycle – were announced after dinner. There was a groan throughout the room from the barren couples, as the $20,000 stakes they’d contributed were redistributed to their fertile competition. But even amongst the losers, none of them regretted participating – they only redoubled their resolve to breed next year, when the contest was held again.
