2nd Place for March Madness: Easy Cum, Easy Go By Gill Hoffs






Wankers.  This place is full of ‘em.  Big ones, little ones, fat ones, thin ones.  Losers, arseholes, then… the ones lucky enough to be a bit like me.

The tall, athletic, clever ones, who earn the big bucks.  ‘Big bucks for hand fucks’, as I think of it.

“A new life for your wife!” is one of the tag lines on the pamphlet pile by the door.  “Room in your womb?  Then let a new life bloom!” says a ridiculously hopeful poster on the wall.

New lives?  Fuck that.  This place, this planet, is too crowded already.

I’m here for my sample.  I’m here to ‘help’.  I’m here to redress the balance.


There’s a pile of crusty-paged porn and a tatty pot plant in the cubicle, along with a beige leatherette chair still damp from the detergent the receptionist wipes door handles and sticky surfaces with between donors, and a half empty bottle of ‘Hot Stiff!’ lube.  The place stinks of cinnamon, presumably from the previous wanker’s liberal usage of lube, and I know I won’t be having that sprinkled on my coffee at the café tonight unless I want to puke it back up immediately.  I take the test tube from my trouser pocket, still warm from the lab, and uncork it.  The old lady at the front desk gave me a clear plastic cup with a barcode sticker on it when I passed her my forms.  My crème-de-la-crème sludges in.  My beauties.  My babies.  My murdering jizz.

Over and done with in half a minute, or less. 

So now, I have time to kill.  And noises to make.  Just in case.

A hairy Mary squints at me from the cover of a jazz mag on the table, and despite my best intentions, I get a semi.  Unbuttoning the fly, I’m glad I did without my undies.  I hate it when the waistband cramps my balls.  Out flops my friend for some fun…

I do without the lube, grasping the beast with both hands and throttling it till it spits a surge of spunk all over the table.  Wiping the worst of the stringy white mess away with a tissue, I hide the shiny smear with the pile of porn, feeling the well-used paper crinkle and crunch under my skin, and resist the urge to suck my fingers.

Then I tuck myself back in, spent and softening, pick up the tub, and leave.

I hand it to the receptionist, wink at her, and murmur:

“I was thinking of you, honey…”

Her expression doesn’t change.  I doubt she heard me over her constant sucking of detachable teeth and what smells like mint humbugs.

Strolling out into the winter dusk, I grin at a passing bus.  I meant what I said when I deposited my seed at the sperm bank.  But I wasn’t just thinking of her, oh no.  I was thinking of the human race.


Dicks and twats, the lot of them.  I don’t mean what they have between their legs; I mean them.  How I hate them, how I love it when they crash and burn.  There’s nothing sweeter to me than funeral flowers, withered tributes of white supermarket roses at a cyclist’s crash site, or the fuel fire stink of a pile-up on the motorway.  A brick tossed casually from a bridge can have such happy results.

Except for the bloodied faecal stench of a fuck-up at work.  Now, that is a treat.  Blood clots, placenta, piss and shit, and if I’m lucky, the sounds of a family in mourning.  If I’m really lucky, no sound at all, except the biiiiiiiip of a flatline and the obstetrician’s sigh.  I’m glad of the masks we have to wear.  They’re great for hiding my smiles.

Take this one right here.  Small.  Blonde.  Plump.  Fertile.  Weeks past her due date, so she’s here for a ‘sweep’.  I’ve checked her notes – ‘such a conscientious midwife’, I’ve heard the doctors remark – and see she’s not one of mine.  The father’s medical history’s all there, and there’s nothing about IVF, or rape.  Infection it is, then.

I murmur reassurances as she lies on the bed, legs akimbo.  Her thighs are smooth without even a hint of stubble, waxed maybe the day before yesterday, and her pussy’s framed with a golden triangle of fuzz.  It’s like it’s pointing the way, signing ‘insert the nasty shit here’.  I pull on gloves taken from the box I wiped bacteria in yesterday, and pull the wrists up tight with a snap.  Smile, and dive in.

“This might be a bit uncomfortable, let me know if anything feels strange…”

When I tear my eyes away from her juicy wetness, her pussy tight around my fingers – man is she gonna tear when the little bastard pushes its way out! – I wink at her, and strive to keep my breathing normal.  She smells so damn good; I want to inhale her, all of her.

Crooking my finger, the neck of her cervix tight and hot through the glove, I swivel and ‘sweep’ as if checking a door frame for dust.  Her breath shudders and her vaginal walls feel like they might break my finger.  I withdraw and snap my gloves off and into the bin, leaving her to wash her hands as the nurse hands her a wad of paper towel and eases white maternity knickers up her legs.

She might get a fever tonight.  She might get it tomorrow.

She’ll develop something soon. 

I hope I’m on shift to ‘help’.


I check the obituaries with my phone, then the memorial pages online.  “Gone too soon…”  “Born asleep…”  No, you stupid cunts, dead DEAD DEAD!

Still, it’s a good start to the evening.  I recognise some of the surnames from hospital notes – amazing how people just assume that if a glove comes from a box it must be sterile – and some of the faces from hanging around the clinics.  Recipients of my ‘spermy special’, I hope.

All that time in the lab, all the missed dates and pizzas, and misshapen mice, seem worthwhile now.

I can picture and near enough taste the gore.  My imagination’s not the best, but I’ve been on shift when the odd one’s come in before now.

Getting comfy on the sofa, I slip my hand round my cock and remember…


She was part of my first batch, several cities ago.  Jennifer?  Inez?  Sofia?  Margaret?  Something, it doesn’t matter.  In she came, screaming, four months gone.  Well, everything gone.  She just didn’t know it yet. 

Writhing around in her own bloodied mess, clots sliding off the rubber gurney, splatting on the floor, squishing under our feet, making us slip, she clutched her abdomen as more, more, more gushed from between her legs.  Black and purple and stinking.  The deep dark red of a Bad Baby.

It didn’t want to be born.  It just wanted her pain.  It’s easy to engineer them to crave adrenalin and endorphins if you know how.

I made the right noises, soothed her appropriately, paged for a doctor, and thought of the tinkering in the lab, the engineering and messed up mouse models that went into this – this murder proceeding before our eyes.

The doctor came at a run, sorted drips and fluids and bloods, but she might as well have thrown the bags on the floor and stamped on them.  That’s where the O-neg ended up.

All too soon, the stupid woman was still.  I damn near came in my pants with pride.  Later, when I sucked the blood and shit and amniotic fluid from my uniform, I did.

Thinking of it now, I do again.

Right into a petri dish.

There you are, my beauties.

Back to the lab again…

By Gill Hoffs

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