It was the time of harvest. And indeed, the pastures and orchards were soon full of couples and families, up from the villages of the Reals, come with their baskets to pick the fruit of the Earth. (They were late this year, preoccupied in meetings over the Plasticos.) And in the warm sun, all were topless.
The women caroused and laughed amongst the trees, reaching up to pick the bright colored fruity orbs, while breasts of every color, shape, and size wobbled here and there, beneath their arms, through the orchard and its sunny, leaf dappled light. Men were there too, chuckling and laughing and harvesting; they were all flat-chested, without fruit to bear, but they had good appetites, and were all the more appreciative of those who did bear fruit, of the females who strutted about with bouncing, nourishing founts upon their chest. Plums, Ruby grapefruits, peaches, or coconuts. Even grapes on the beginning lasses. It didn't matter which, all were part of the joy and variety and abundance of life. The women would sing as they picked, and the men would salivate as they peered discreetly from a distance.