Introducing... "Heather and the Farm"

So, a little while back, I worked with Paploman (@paplomancomics on IG) on the above illustration (I think I posted it a little while back on here, but context and all). It was a one-off, but it was fun to do. He's a chill guy, and his style walks a fine line between playful, eccentric, and hyper-erotic (qualities I can appreciate in good measure). 

We lost touch for a little while, but reconnected recently and decided to work on a collaboration together: something set in the not-too-distant future where food is scarce and where society depends, in part, on the production of human breast milk. There's a whole industry set up around it, supply, demand, market equilibrium, you get the idea — and not least of all, the woman who create this valuable commodity. Anyway, this story centers around a heroine named (duh, because I swear I'm not that narcissistic, but there you have it) Heather, who is recruited for a job at her local Dairy Farm.

How far will it go? Who knows! But it's a solid idea, and I think it'll be fun for it to take form. I'm doing the writing (all short chapters, but we're both down to make a lot of them); Paploman is going to be doing the artwork. I've never actually done a story that's illustrated before, so I'm excited to work with him.

Because you all have been so wonderfully patient (I SWEAR the next chapter of "Metamorphasis" is coming soon, with plenty extra to make up for the delay), I decided to give you a sneak peak of the start. Heeeeere it goes... (Artwork to come.)

"Heather and the Farm" 

Chapter 1

“Beck, Heather!” The call resonated through the auditorium.

The knot in Heather’s throat tightened as she stepped forward from the line of her classmates, each dressed in her own high-necked unitard adorned with the school’s colors.

A portly Inspector dutifully marched to face Heather, clipboard in hand. Her eye’s scanned Heather’s body, with particular attention being paid, of course, to the cantaloupe-sized, teardrop-shaped bare breasts that protruded through two holes cut in the LacSquad uniform. 

Her expression remained dour as her gaze shifted to the clipboard. “Says here this is your first year on LacSquad. Unusual for a senior — 18 is a little late to start.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Heather responded timidly. She still felt a pang of reservation about signing up to Hendrick High’s Lactation Squad, but things had been difficult at home, especially since the land flooded. And God knew her friends had told her enough about the living she could make with her ample bosom: the past year of training her body to produce milk had been a struggle, but if she could eventually make a living and help support her family, it would be worth it.

The Inspector hefted one of Heather’s breasts in her palm, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Firm. Pliable. Elastic.” Her tone was clinical, almost disinterested. “You’re up to a liter a day?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Heather said, again. That wasn’t exceptional, but Heather had learned enough to know that Inspectors didn’t grade on milk output alone, but on potential. 

The Inspector jotted on her clipboard. “You pass,” she said. “I think we have a place for you.”