Womb of the New World

In a post-nuclear future, the lush pleasure cyborgs of Earth have become powerful, fearsome mutants known as Wroks who rule the wild, desolate Fallout landscape. The Wroks and their leader, Yoevin, desperately hunt for a female capable of mothering a cyborg's child. As the years pass, they struggle while fighting to hold on to the intelligence and humanity granted by their makers centuries ago. Hidden deep in caverns below, Imogenne and her people survive by cultivating the earth, making rare forays above ground for supplies and fresh resources. But Imogenne is not like the rest of her people. She is wild, sensual, and strangely independent -- like her mother, who disappeared years ago in a Wrok attack. On the verge of being betrothed to a man she does not love and facing the rest of her life underground without adventure or freedom, she is haunted by darkly erotic visions that promise something more beyond the world -- and biology -- she knows. When she is captured in a night Wrok raid, Imogenne hopes to escape her new masters and survive by her wits. But she then discovers a horrifying truth: Her body has a will of its own, one that may very well leave her no choice but to become a mother of the New World. Words: ~19,000. This title contains graphic sexual scenes: m/f, captive sexual submission, voyeurism, mutant cyborg and human intercourse. Do not read this work it if you find such themes offensive. -- EXCERPT: I turn my head slowly to look at the walls. Stone, heavy and grey. One side has a window looking out onto a night sky. Another is entirely made of a metal gate, and on the other side sits the monster. I swallow hard, and say nothing, taking in every detail, willing myself to give no reaction at all to my captor. “Look upon me, then. You’ll see me for many days hence.” His eyes glow red and unnatural, but in them is an intelligence. The ears are pointed, like the bats of our warrens, nearer to the back of his head. “What are you?” I ask, noting the powerful muscles of his body, beneath black, warped skin that looks dry and peeling. Veins ride out hard against the flesh, bulging as though from an excess of power. From behind his back rise huge, membranous black wings, with pointed upper tips that hook together, holding them closed … again, like a bat’s. “I once looked like your kind, you know,” he says, not quite answering the question. My eyes wander down, unable to stop. “I would not look there now, if I were you.” His voice is gravelly and soft, and I stop my eyes at his chest, feeling my heart suddenly skip beats. It rarely does that. “Why?” “There are many strange stories to tell. You’re the only one I’ve met who hasn’t lost some of her sense by now. I wonder how many stories you could bear.” “Test me, then.” I lift my eyes to his and feel a daring in them I do not know the source of, but it takes over, like everything else. His chin is sharp and pointed, and I see fangs hiding behind the surface of his lips. They gleam, those lips, wet and hungry for something I have yet to see.