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Part 1: A Matter of Survival
Copyright 2013 by woodfellow
This story is difficult to write. Before I start I should explain that I am a single father. My wife passed away almost ten years ago when our daughters were young, and I never remarried. Like most fathers I like to think I’ve done a passable job at parenting. I’ve provided for my daughters, loved them, and saw to it they received good educations.
This is the story of some incredible things my daughters did to survive during the war. I am putting it down here almost exactly as it happened, with only small changes to protect my daughters’ identities. It’s for you the reader to decide what kind of father I am.
It all started with the chaos of the invasion. We were gathered around the television in our apartment watching news reports of the attacks. (“We” consisted of me as single father, and my two daughters Paulina and Kasia, 18 and 19 years old respectively.)
Then just hours later wailing sirens everywhere, then bombs and gunfire and shouting. The invasion force came so swiftly we had no time to consider options. I still think back and wonder…what if we’d left when we could?
When the soldiers arrived at our apartment building, we like every other family were holed up in our apartment.
Within minutes men in riot gear came door to door and announced a general lockdown of the building. We were to hand over any weapons we had (we had none), and stay locked in our rooms until further orders. Peeking out the curtains we could see armed guards around the perimeter of the building. There was no way to safely escape. Especially from the third floor, and with two girls aged 19 and 18. I wouldn’t allow Kasia and Paulina to leave me, so we stayed in our apartment as instructed.
The next day we heard from the soldiers again. One of them stood outside and spoke over a loudspeaker.
“Attention residents of Building 47! This is an important announcement concerning your safety.
“We have liberated your city, and you will be detained within this building until further orders. You may communicate with one another and move freely inside, but you are not under any circumstances to leave the building. Failure to comply will result in punishment.
“Water and electricity will be restored soon. Food will be distributed each morning, at 0800 hours in the front lobby.
“Now this is the most important announcement of all. All women and children under the age of eighteen are to report to the front lobby at 1600 hours today, which is four hours from now. You will be transported elsewhere for further processing. Please bring minimal belongings with you, only essential clothing. Failure to comply with this relocation will result in harsh punishment.
“This is the end of the announcement.”
Nearly every family poured into the hallways of the building. Were they serious? Where would they take the women and children? What would happen to the men left behind?
I remember Jozef, the man down the hall in 312. He was about my age and had a son and wife. Jozef decided to go talk to the soldiers outside, to reason with them. Half a minute after he left the building we heard a single shot.
“We repeat, you may not under any circumstances leave the building! All women and children are to report to the front lobby at 1600 hours.”
In the end, every family in the building decided to comply with the order. The soldiers would kill to maintain order. So at 1600 hours, a group of women and children formed in the lobby, and were ushered out of the building into the street. To where we had no idea.
Every family, that is, except one: Mine. I couldn’t accept the risk of sending my two young girls with the others. Without their mother to protect them, I had no idea what would happen. I feared the worst, rape or murder or both. It was a fateful decision.
For the next three months, the men in the building (and Kasia and Paulina) established a new rhythm to our lives. There were about 150 of us in total. The soldiers kept their word and supplied us with food each morning: Not a lot, but adequate. In the soldiers’ tally I was living alone, so I got rations for one. Several of the other men gave us extra so we did fine.
Meanwhile, outside a crew had erected a tall razor wire fence around the building perimeter. It was becoming clear that (a) this building was essentially a prisoner of war camp, and (b) they intended to stay for a while. Any thought of escaping had now completely left our minds.
Of course I lived in fear of the girls being discovered. Fortunately the soldiers rarely came into the building. A few times they came door to door to speak with us individually. We had a plan ready if the girls needed to hide.
One day two soldiers came to search our apartment, and the girls hid. One of them remarked on the girl’s clothing and items scattered around. I passed it off as sentimental reminders of my daughter who had bahis firmaları been sent away. Fortunately that soldier didn’t think to cross-check against their records, which would have indicated no children had been relocated from the building three months earlier, bearing my last name.
And so we lived for a time, relatively happy.
At about five months in, we got another announcement over the loudspeaker:
“Attention residents of Building 47! It has come to our attention that several of you are hoarding and wasting your daily food distributions. Effective tomorrow you will have a new eating arrangement.
“The large room downstairs will become a dining facility. You will eat two supervised meals there each day, at 0800 and 1700 promptly. Guards with dogs will be posted at the exits to catch residents leaving with food. Violators will receive harsh punishment.”
I don’t know why they changed the eating arrangement; several of us thought maybe the war wasn’t going well, and they didn’t have enough to keep feeding us the way they had been. Others thought it was an effort to dehumanize us. Everyone remembered Jozef, and what would happen if you broke the rules.
For Kasia and Paulina this new arrangement changed everything. How would they eat? They obviously couldn’t sneak past the guards; the new dining room was off-limits to them. And true to their threat, the soldiers now had dogs at the dining room exit, trained to sniff for uneaten food. The rules seemed to give no way for Kasia and Paulina to eat.
Fortunately the other men in the building gave us their extra food. It didn’t turn out to be much — there wasn’t as much hoarding as our captors seemed to think — but it was enough for at least several months if we made it stretch. I was still holding out hope that the occupation might be over soon.
At nine months in the situation became critical for Kasia and Paulina. Our food supplies had run out about a month before, even being on half rations. They had already lost a lot of weight, and when the food completely ran out their weight began to plummet. Each was losing about three kilograms per week. We had bet on the fact that something would change with the eating arrangement, or some way of sneaking food in would be discovered, but time had run out and there was no solution.
I simply could not sit by and watch my girls starve to death. So I called all of the men together and asked for ideas. One thing I was certain of: If I brought the girls to the soldiers, we would almost certainly all be killed, if for no other reason than to serve as an example to the others. So that was out of the question.
We tried to think if there was anything else the girls could eat. Was it possible to live on boiled cloth, like cotton? It seemed unlikely to have any food value. The idea of catching insects or mice came up, but because there was no food in the building, most of those pests had long since disappeared.
When we’d exhausted every idea, Tomasz spoke. Tomasz had been a doctor before the war, and he was known in the group as both level-headed and logical. Tomasz said, “One thing is clear: Food only enters this building through the dining hall. Somehow us men have to transport the food out of there.”
Desperate I said, “Yes Tomasz but how?? We’ve been over this countless times. There is no way to carry food past those guards! Do you have any ideas?”
Tomasz looked at me uncertainly then, as if unsure whether to continue his train of thought. He resumed speaking. “It is true we cannot bring food out on our bodies. But perhaps we can carry it out inside our bodies.”
A murmur of surprise swept through the men in the room, and he continued on. “Hear me out. This is a dire situation and as a medical professional I only want to explore all the possibilities.”
Tomasz collected his thoughts for a moment, then went on. “Option 1 is, after we leave the dining area some of us vomit our food back up. This is how the birds feed their young, as you may know.”
The room erupted in loud discussion. Everyone was shocked, stunned, and horrified. He had to speak louder to be heard over the men.
“Excuse me, please let me continue! I wasn’t finished. Thank you. Yes I know this sounds distasteful to all of us, and especially to those poor girls, but I ask you wouldn’t this be preferable to death?”
“There is another option, and I remind you I’m merely considering all the possibilities. Option 2 is for the girls to eat something that our bodies produce with the food we ingest. Now most of what our bodies produce unfortunately has little food value: Urine, feces, sweat, hair, fingernails. Those would not help your girls survive.”
“There are I believe two things our bodies produce which may have some food value. The first is blood. Blood has a high nutritional content, and with a rotating system of donation I think we could provide enough to keep your daughters alive. Each person must recover kaçak iddaa about 40 days between donations, but with 150 of us men we could produce about two pints of blood per day for each of your daughters. There is however one problem with this option: Unless somebody has the necessary phlebotomy equipment to draw blood, there is no way to do this safely.”
All of the men confirmed they didn’t possess needles or other equipment for drawing blood. Plenty of knives, but there would be no safe way to extract large amounts of blood with just that.
Doctor Tomasz continued, “The second thing our bodies produce that has food value is a bit unusual. I am speaking of seminal fluid. Ejaculate. Quiet please, let me finish! Male ejaculate has about the same nutritional properties as egg white. It’s moderate in calories, but high in protein and essential vitamins. Now again I’m speaking only of theoretical possibilities here, but if we were two collect two ejaculations from each of us per day, at about 3.5 milliliters and 15 calories each, that would equate to about 2250 calories for each of your daughters. That should be enough to keep them alive.”
Loud discussion continued through the room. It was hard to conceive of what this might mean. But our options were: I either let the girls starve to death, or they could try to survive on a diet of vomit or semen.
Looking back I feel ashamed that I even considered Tomasz’s ideas. Wouldn’t it have been better for them to die in dignity? But I will say this: At that point in time, seeing my daughters on the verge of starvation, I did not hesitate for a moment. The will to survive is a deep thing, and only becomes known to you in that moment when death is near.
Vomit or semen? I would put the question to Kasia and Paulina. For their part the men obviously preferred the latter, I guess because for most of us self-induced vomiting is less pleasant than masturbation.
For Kasia and Paulina it was difficult to convey the choices to them. They were very weak by that point, and not thinking clearly. More importantly they had no idea what semen was. At their ages they’d never had firsthand experience. Kasia said the rumor among her friends was that boys shot out “milky stuff”, so she thought it might taste like milk. I gave them the doctor’s description in terms of egg whites. In any case, they both decided that was more appealing (or less unappealing) than vomit. So the decision was made.
I tried to think of any possible way around it. There was none. The girls would need to eat semen to survive.
We then set about figuring out the mechanics of doing a large-scale semen collection twice a day. First we opted for a simple approach: We set up a schedule for each man to come to our apartment. Each would go into our bathroom and masturbate into a cup, and emerging they would give it to me. The girls stayed in their room, out of sight: I didn’t want the men to see them for fear they might develop a sexual overtone during this feeding exercise.
Bringing the semen-filled cup into their room, I would alternate which girl got to drink it. Really they were so weak and malnourished that both would eye it hungrily each time I came into the room.
Each girl in turn would take the cup I handed them, and tilting it back like a cup of water would let the thick ejaculate slide into her mouth. In her malnourished state she would hungrily swallow. Then using a finger she would wipe the rest out of the cup, producing a big dollop she would pop into her mouth and suck off her finger.
Over and over and over again, this is how they ate.
The men varied a lot in terms of the quantity and consistency of the sperm they produced. Some would produce a very thin ejaculate, others a thick ropy fluid almost like yogurt. Paulina after a while started asking for the name of the man who had ejaculated each of her portions. She said she could tell the men apart by the taste of their semen, and after a while she got pretty good at guessing the man without my telling. She’s always had a good memory.
The men also varied a lot in terms of how often they could produce. Some of the men, especially the younger ones, could ejaculate as many as five or six times per day. Some of the men could not ejaculate at all, or infrequently. Most however could produce twice a day. To accommodate the volume it was clear that having one man in the bathroom at a time wouldn’t give enough throughput. So I set up several masturbation stations in our apartment’s living room. Each had a comfortable chair with a towel draped over it, and most of the men preferred to masturbate sitting down.
As a side note, it was interesting to see how the different men masturbated. Some would pump fast and furiously, others with a slow deliberate rhythm. The one thing I insisted on was that when they ejaculated, they had to take care to catch 100% of it in their cup. At that point getting every drop was a matter of life and death for Kasia and Paulina.
Most of the men liked to have some kaçak bahis kind of simulation to help them orgasm. Some of them would bring pictures of their missing wives, which they would look at while they stroked. One of the men, Pawel, had nude pictures of his pretty wife Beata. He took to leaving those pictures in our apartment for the other men to use; I doubt he ever told Beata about that afterwards.
For some of the men, their stimulation was to watch the other men stroking. At first a man would be circumspect about it, pretending to look at some pictures but looking at another man out of the corner of his eye. Over time though as they all got more comfortable, these men would stare more openly at the others, who didn’t seem to mind. And some of the men kind of formed pairs, where they would watch each other stroke, and ejaculate almost in unison. I didn’t really care what the men did, so long as they were ejaculating and my girls were getting fed.
Gradually the girls began to recover from their malnourished states. Each was consuming about 165 to 170 batches of semen per day, as amazing as that sounds. They weren’t gaining weight yet, but at least their precipitous weight loss had stopped, and they were slowly gaining strength. It appeared the crisis had been averted.
Each of the girls found that the taste of semen was generally to their liking. Perhaps it is an acquired taste, or it tasted good to them because of their long period of starvation. In any case, each would drink the cup, then use her finger to scoop up the remainder on the inside, and pop that finger into her mouth. Paulina complained about how sticky it was and hard to get completely out of the cup. Both of them preferred it warm, so asked me to bring it to them as soon as possible after each man had ejaculated. Paulina even said to me, “Why can’t we just be in the same room as them? That way we’d always get it nice and warm!” I think her mind was already at work even then.
At this point I must make a shameful confession, which to this day haunts me. I, like all the other able-bodied men, contributed equally to the feeding of my daughters. Yes that is correct, I would feed my semen to my daughters just like I did the other mens’. I think there will be a special place in Hell reserved for me.
At first I rationalized that they needed every bit of nutrition they could get. They really were that close to death. So a few times each day I would excuse myself from all the collection activity, and go to the bathroom. Perhaps a few of the men noticed that I would emerge with a full collection cup. I don’t know. Anyway, I would feed this semen to them, and as I said Paulina (and by now Kasia too) wanted a name attached to each one. So I invented a fictitious man called Gabriel, who was the man responsible for all of my semen. I figured a little white lie to maximize their chance of survival was the right parenting decision.
Now as I said, when I came into the room with a fresh batch of semen, I would always alternate which girl got it, to keep things fair. One evening I was giving a cup to Paulina, and Kasia stopped me in my tracks.
“But Daddy, that’s not fair!” she said. Kasia wore this pouty look she gets when she wants her way.
“What’s not fair dear? You got the last cup, this time it’s your sister’s turn.”
“But Daddy, you said that was Gabriel’s! Paulina and I both decided we like the taste of Gabriel’s the best! It’s no fair because we only get two a day from him, and Paulina already got hers in the morning!”
I thought back and remembered that, indeed, I had given my semen to her sister Paulina to drink that morning. I hadn’t understood why she had the smile on her face when I handed it to her and announced it was Gabriel’s. Now I knew.
Kasia continued, “Daddy, how about we treat Gabriel’s like desert? Paulina gets one a day, and so do I.”
And so it started that each of my daughters began swallowing a load of their father’s semen once a day, every day. I’d like to say I was ashamed of it all, but really I was just glad their health was improving. And to be honest I was also a little bit happy they preferred the taste of Gabriel over all the others.
Everything evolves with time, and my daughter’s feeding situation was no exception. As I said, by this point we had a high-volume semen collection operation in place. I had six masturbation stations set up around our apartment’s living room, with most of the 150 men cycling through twice a day, and sometimes as many as 5 or 6 times, to masturbate. They would ejaculate into a cup, being careful to get every drop, and I would carry this to the bedroom next door, where my daughters would drink it down. I estimate that, in those early days, they were each consuming about 160 ejaculates and 2200 calories per day.
Unfortunately after about a month, the rate of production began to decline. From 160 ejaculates per day (per girl), it declined to 150, then 140, and finally 120. The girls were getting hungry again, and starting to lose weight. Our numbers in the building were such that each man had to be ejaculating at maximum potential for my daughters to get enough to eat. So I had to get to the bottom of the declining numbers.
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