Dawn

The planet Omnia was a veritable Garden of Earthly Delights, where life for millennia had consisted of the purest pleasures — indulgence, celebration, and uninhibited passion. No one had to engage in the toil of agriculture; nature’s bounty was so lavish that one needed only to bend down to harvest vegetables or the sweetest fruits straight from the earth. The planet’s young men — who, in a proud nod to the aesthetics of historical indigenous cultures, dressed as North American Indians — regularly went hunting. They always returned with a staggering amount of game, for the forests and meadows teemed with an abundance of wild animals and small game.

Meanwhile, the young maidens of Omnia had devised a method of foraging that was both highly ingenious and deeply pleasurable. With the inventive spirit of an Archimedes, they would lie along the banks of crystal-clear streams and let their naked breasts dip into the cool water. It never took long for fish to swarm in, irresistibly drawn by the temptation to nibble at the maidens’ sensitive nipples. The girls then simply had to pluck the gently kissing, nibbling fish from the water with an elegant movement of their hands. This form of “fishing” was immensely popular among the girls and young women, as the gentle nibbling of the little fish sent a wave of intense, tingling sensations coursing through their bodies, reaching deep into their clits. It was not uncommon for the aroused fisherwomen to lose track of time amidst the sweet thrill, remaining in the water until a gentle, liberating orgasm made their bodies tremble.

... but no fucking!

For many generations, life had consisted of gorging, boozing, and fucking. Fucking? No — fucking was now deemed dirty and unhygienic; it was strictly forbidden — on pain of death! Behind this façade of pure pleasure lurked a draconian, deeply hypocritical order. Natural sexual intercourse, as humanity had known it for hundreds of thousands of years, had been banned by the priesthood — the true wielders of power — under penalty of death. Even the slightest infraction inevitably resulted in men’s heads rolling beneath the executioner’s merciless axe. Women and girls stood even a slim chance of saving their lives only if they could credibly claim to have been the victims of a forced assault or rape. If they failed to provide this proof, the same bloody fate awaited them — though only after a cruel, publicly staged humiliation on the scaffold. The infamous Law Section 2024 a, Lit. b revealed the full absurdity of the regime: it compelled the executioners to subject the condemned woman to intense sexual abuse and to take turns fucking her — right before the eyes of the jeering crowd and as often as they pleased — before the axe fell. Paradoxically, this perfidious "shadow clause" shielded the system’s henchmen from the very death penalty they meted out to the women.

Fertility Factories

The official justification for the total, state-mandated artificial insemination carried out in the gigantic fertility factories sounded rational at first glance. The ruling priesthood argued that donor sperm had to be rigorously screened for genetic defects in order to eradicate diseases and physical flaws once and for all. What was kept hidden from the populace, however, was the elite’s profound hypocrisy. A series of secret addenda to the legal code — the so-called "shadow laws" — granted the high priests the unfettered privilege of indulging their carnal desires without oversight, fucking women and girls at will with reckless abandon, and fathering illegitimate bastards. While the common people were kept confined in clinical sterility, a life of unbridled privilege pulsed behind the thick temple walls — feasting, drinking, and a hell of a lot of fucking.

In the clinically pristine halls of Omnia’s Central Ministry of Fertility, love had been rationalized out of existence generations ago. The status quo was flawless: every citizen originated from a perfectly cataloged, anonymous sperm donation, managed by the cool hands of the ruling technocrats. Words such as “family,” “mother,” “sister,” or “brother” existed only as dusty footnotes in forbidden encyclopedias. Intimacy had been reduced to a bureaucratic act — strictly monitored, prohibited, and utterly sterile.

Yet underground, deep within the labyrinthine catacombs of the ancient metropolis, resistance was stirring. Rebels from the "Natursprung" movement had declared war on the sterile regime. To them, rising up against the artificial procreation mandate was no mere political act — it was a passionate, wild reclamation of human nature. Led by Marcus, a charismatic free spirit, and Lea, a renegade geneticist, they demanded the return of uncontrolled desire.

Their path led Marcus and Lea to a secret hideout beyond the reach of the ministry’s sensors. This was Lea’s clandestine research lab; surrounded by reliable old machinery and the warm glow of flickering candles, the tension of their as-yet-bloodless struggle gave way to an electrifying intimacy. No words were needed to explain the attraction that had built up over months of resistance. The System might control origins, but in here, pure, unbridled electricity reigned between two bodies locked in carnal lust and ecstasy.

Every touch was an open protest; every breath, a provocation. When Marcus and Lea drew close with carnal desire, a crackling intensity filled the air, sweeping away all the years of enforced coldness. Their encounter was wild, passionate, and fueled by a burning need to finally shatter the shackles of a sterile society. It was an act of highly erotic rebellion — the beginning of a war of seed and flesh destined to shake the very foundations of Omnia.

Marcus

Marcus belonged to the exalted priesthood in outward appearance only; deep within, the fire of a renegade burned. He was a man of flesh and passion, driven by the mission to bring down the sterile system from within — without bloodshed. In the underground, the movement’s charismatic leader was known only as "Ghost." His identity remained a closely guarded secret; he appeared to his brothers- and sisters-in-arms solely as misty, spectral holograms. No one suspected that the respected priest Marcus was the one pulling the strings of this rebellion.

Marcus leveraged the extensive privileges of his office to secretly gain access to the Ministry’s heavily guarded, hidden databases. Driven by an inner, almost divine calling — a theme that would recur throughout his journey — he sought out the biological relatives who had been scattered across the vast Gigapolis through anonymous sperm donation programs. He tracked down all eleven of his sisters, compelled by an urge to break the curse of sterility. In daring, clandestine encounters, he introduced some of them to the forbidden pleasures of genuine, unbridled lust. He fucked all ten of his sisters (he hadn't yet tracked down the eleventh) with great lust and flooded their willing cunts with gallons of semen. He fucked some of them for weeks on end, day and night, because they knew just how to fuck so well — even though none of them was a professional. He fucked them all in blissful ecstasy, one by one, searching for the "one" the prophetess had promised him. Each of these passionate unions was not merely a triumph over the regime’s laws but also part of his quest for the one true companion to stand by his side. According to the ancient prophetess Thea, she had to be one of his biological sisters.

Lea

He found what he was looking for in Lea, his eleventh biological sister — whom he first had to tear from the clutches of a church-run brothel with savage blows of his fists. Lea had become a brilliant biologist and geneticist, though her shy exterior concealed an insatiable curiosity about physical intimacy. To legitimize their union within the system, they entered into marriage. In a lavish ceremony at the central cathedral, Marcus performed the required rites: he kissed the surrogate goddess’s wet cunt three times and swore before the altar of the Great Goddess to uphold the sacred laws of carnal abstinence.

It was a charade, a performance they staged solely to elude the watchful eyes of the inquisitors.

Behind the closed doors of their old palace on the edge of the Temple District, reality looked entirely different. Lea, despite being a high-ranking scientist, deeply loathed the state-mandated system of artificial reproduction. Freed from the constraints of the outside world, she and Marcus surrendered to the pure, electrifying passion of physical intimacy. Every night became an act of defiance in which, risking their lives, they cast off the shackles of society. In intense, breathtaking hours, they celebrated the rebirth of true desire — a thrilling and potent act of rebellion that sowed the seeds of a new world.

The Masturbation Machine

Right after their first night together, Lea asked curiously if he, too, used a masturbation machine like all the young priests. He nodded — yes, naturally, of course. "You want to see it, don't you?" Lea nodded silently. He took the thing out of his nightstand. She examined it from every angle; it was a completely transparent plastic box. Sure enough, it had only one opening, and it was shaped like a girl's pussy — absolutely lovely. She inspected it curiously from all sides. He explained that the small glass container on the underside was for the semen. She nodded; yes, it looked like it held 10 ml. He nodded. "If I cum three times, the little vial fills up." She looked at him. "Won't you demonstrate it for me?" He nodded and grasped his cock. "The battery lasts about six months; then I have to recharge it." Then he slowly inserted his cock between the lips of the pussy made of transparent soft rubber. He pushed his cock all the way in and pressed a button. Two small, fist-shaped hands — also made of transparent soft rubber — closed around his cock and began to stroke it. It was quite unspectacular; the little fists stroked his cock while the device increased the speed. A soft, husky voice whispered lewd, filthy things, and he whispered to Lea, "It gets the scripts from the internet — an almost inexhaustible source. I have it set to young slut ; the sweet mommy jerks you off version is great, too." "I chose a voice that sounds like my foster mother, because she used to give me such great handjobs before I was old enough for fucking." Lea nodded. "Yeah, for me it was my foster father; he taught me how to fuck really well and then sold me to a brothel when I was fourteen."

The masturbation machine sensed he was reaching the climax; "I love it when you cum in my mouth," the young slut inside the device lisped. Lea’s eyes widened as a red-painted mouth emerged from the other side and swallowed nearly half of his cock. He gasped, "She’s got a really busy tongue in there — it pushes me right over the edge!" Lea watched as he ejaculated into that obscene mouth; the glass semen reservoir filled halfway up. The soft mouth moved perfectly, milking out the rest down to the very last drop. He slowly withdrew his cock. "If you like, you can drink the semen; I’ll put the device in the sink — it has a self-cleaning function." Lea stared at the device, which had operated in complete silence — only the young slut’s wicked voice had been audible, sending a warm shiver down Lea’s spine as the voice murmured obscenities, seductive and filthy. "Do you use it often, Marcus?" she asked. He shook his head. "Only when I’m lonely. But so far, I’ve always found willing respectable women — housewives — for a threesome with them and their foster daughters; pretty horny, yet decent people." Lea looked up. "Are there masturbation machines for girls, too?" she asked in a flat voice, her heart pounding in her throat. He nodded. "Yes, of course; I was planning to give you one when the time was right." Lea gazed at him with wide eyes. "Now would be the perfect time, Marc." He reached under the bed and pulled out a gift-wrapped box; it was tied with a red fabric ribbon, the knot shaped like a rose — or a cunt.

She unwrapped it. Inside was an oval case with a thick, soft-rubber cock protruding from it. "You just have to insert it and press the button; I’ve already charged the battery. Only true priestesses and novices can buy fuck-machines like this, just as only priests or seminarians can buy masturbation machines." Lea asked, "Just stick it in?" He shook his head. "First, you should coat it with lubricant — from the drawer over there." "And secondly, you can fill the scrotum with warm water — or better yet, warm milk — so there’s a supply for the money shot." Lea nodded, unplugged the scrotum, and filled it with warm water; then she coated the dildo with lubricant. "Use more; it’ll work much better that way." Sighing, Lea inserted the semi-rigid dildo into her pussy; it filled her completely. Then she pressed the button, and the cock began to fuck her slowly and deliberately. "Hold it by the round base — that’s supposed to be his ass — so you can adjust the angle perfectly. It’ll pick up the pace once the electronics sense you’re aroused. It fucks you just like a good man would — take my word for it." Lea leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes.

Marc hadn't exaggerated; the dildo really fucked her well, just like a man. "Turn the knob if you want to slow it down or speed it up, but I’d leave it to the automatic mode; it’s smart and knows exactly what to do." Lea nodded and let the automatic mode take over. Her breathing soon grew shallow and ragged; she clung to his arms, her mouth opening in a silent scream. With powerful thrusts, the dildo triggered her orgasm, spraying warm water at high pressure into her pussy. Lea trembled, jerked, and writhed in spasms before the peak gradually subsided. The dildo continued to fuck her tirelessly at a slower pace. "Some priestesses let themselves be fucked from one orgasm to the next. These devices help one remain chaste and avoid pouncing on innocent girls or boys simply because the pressure becomes too great. The same applies to the priestesses; many are sincere and wish to remain chaste, and that is a good thing," he said. They talked for a long time about the masturbation and fucking machine. He didn't know if there was a machine capable of licking the clit — perhaps there was. In any case, Lea was grateful for this gift, which served solely for her sexual pleasure. "I still prefer it when you fuck me exquisitely, Marcus," she said with a lovely smile.

Thea, the Prophetess

Marcus did not act according to which way the wind was blowing. His actions were not guided by the whims of digestion or political currents; they sprang from a deep, unshakable certainty. The foundation of his mission was the so-called "Prophecy" — not a dusty, obscure document, but a highly advanced, flat device shaped like a tablet, which he kept wrapped in fine silk cloths on his desk, hidden in plain sight. Through this apparatus, he maintained contact with Thea, a centuries-old, highly advanced artificial intelligence. Its colossal data center lay miles beneath the continent’s impenetrable granite shield — completely self-sufficient and beyond the reach of the Regime’s sensors or human meddling. He surmised that it must possess a thousand eyes and ears to monitor global events.

In his youth, when Marcus still served the temple as a chaste and devout priest, he had spent countless hours in deep, wordless meditation with Thea. One morning, the device appeared on his desk. Through this apparatus — known as the "Prophecy" — he could maintain contact with Thea, an artificial intelligence presumably centuries old. Via the device’s neural interface, the artificial entity opened his eyes to cosmic and biological interconnections. It revealed the inevitable abyss toward which society was hurtling due to its total, artificial sterility. He had spent hours in deep meditation with Thea back when he was still a young, devout priest — chaste and sincere. Yet Thea explained the bigger picture to him, revealing the abyss into which the artificial insemination of all women would lead. It was Thea who gave him the revolutionary divine mandate: to overthrow the hypocritical system and restore to humanity the freedom of carnal love, the ecstasy of physical union, and the liberating orgasm.

Thea revealed the utter absurdity of the prevailing order to him. The regime had forced citizens' intimate relationships into a straitjacket of prohibitions and sterile substitute acts. Wives were legally permitted only to satisfy their husbands' desires using their fists or to receive their climax in their own mouths. For the women themselves, sexual gratification was restricted by Section 1623(a) to the use of state-approved soft-rubber dildos from official priest-shops — allowing them to fuck themselves to the point of madness — or, under Section 1623(b), to secretly licking other girls' clites; these acts were strictly separated from any genuine intimacy and always subject to the imperative of maintaining absolute control. Women had to learn to masturbate their clites — gently or wildly — in total seclusion; this was a practice expressly recommended and meticulously described by the priesthood in Section 1623(c) as a means of relaxing the body. Marcus realized with painful clarity that this systematic suppression of natural urges would extinguish humanity itself.

Yet Thea did not remain merely a coolly calculating advisor to Marcus. In the early stages of their spiritual merging, she guided the then-inexperienced, chaste, and virginal priest to a completely new level of perception. Through hyper-realistic sensory simulations, she allowed him to experience firsthand — for the very first time — the overwhelming power of physical ecstasy and uninhibited desire. The ancient prophetess Thea manifested herself within the body of a twenty-one-year-old, experienced courtesan who proceeded to fuck him thoroughly, night after night, for weeks on end. It was an initiation of the flesh that transformed him completely. Guided by Thea’s precise analyses and suggestions, Marcus eventually found his way to like-minded, lustful married women and their spirited, horny daughters in the Gigapolis; he would frequently take them on as a pair — mounting and impregnating them with gusto, often enough fathering a bastard in the process. Having matured into a man who had mastered the art of seduction and passionate insemination, he founded the secret "Brotherhood of the Seed" — the ultimate, pulsating counterpoint to the clinical world of the ruling priesthood.

Girls for Artificial Insemination

Marcus grasped the full, terrifying absurdity of the present as he scrutinized the regime's logistics. Day after day, the priesthood’s troops and their devoted servants fanned out to snatch young women and girls — almost indiscriminately — from the population; they would select them via rapid tests based on the stage of their egg maturation and drag them off to the gigantic, windowless fertility factories. Naturally, the women were never asked if they wanted to become mothers; to the system, they were simply wombs for artificial insemination — wombs that could not yet be manufactured artificially. Inside these halls reigned a frightening, clinical sterility. No human beings were involved in the processes; instead, sophisticated, cold robots controlled the entire operation. To nip any resistance in the bud, the women were gently sedated upon arrival and induced into an artificial, trance-like state — a condition that clouded their senses and rendered them completely devoid of will, yet receptive to the manipulations performed on their cunts.

The entire machinery was geared toward absolute perfection and maximum efficiency. While anonymous sperm donations were being meticulously genetically analyzed in high-speed laboratories on one side, the women on the other were administered specially tailored hormone cocktails. These highly potent elixirs regulated the female organism with such precision that ovulation occurred with accuracy down to the quarter-hour. On the factory assembly lines, mechanical grippers gently but relentlessly parted the legs of the drugged women and spread their cunts wide. At the precisely calculated moment, insemination nozzles injected the processed semen at high pressure directly into both fallopian tubes. The life-giving fluid drifted through the tissue like a fine, microscopic mist to ensure fertilization. After a brief, half-hour rest period in a state of twilight sleep, the women were transported back to their residential districts in automated electric buses. The Ministry’s raw figures spoke for themselves: a 94 percent success rate for insemination, with 89 percent of pregnancies carried to term. 78% of the children reached their first birthday.

No Foolproof Method

When Thea Marcus presented this comprehensive set of statistics on the prophecy’s glowing screen, he was deeply struck by the technological coldness of the fertility apparatus — while simultaneously feeling a growing respect for the rebellion’s monumental task. Yet the system was by no means all-powerful. The further one moved away from the gleaming seat of power in the Gigapolis and ventured into the rural provinces, the more fragile obedience became. In the remote corners of Omnia, people ignored the draconian decrees. There, life still pulsed to an ancient rhythm: men united with women and their daughters in wild, forbidden passion, bypassing the sterile bureaucracy and celebrating carnal desire in secret. Women usually only escaped the priesthood’s enforcers once their pregnancies were already visible. In these borderlands, the regime turned a blind eye in exchange for hefty fines, and the men at least kept their heads — a spark of natural wildness that Marcus intended to harness for his brotherhood. The people of the rural zones were certainly receptive to his message, which promised to spare them the lash of the law.

Marcus — a young priest at the time — was left utterly speechless when Thea revealed the true, grim origins of her own existence. "It was my predecessor as Divine Prophetess who conceived and brought into being the priesthood and the entire shitty fertility system," the voice from the apparatus explained with an almost uncanny calm. “Back then, I was still a mere novice — and the official companion and official public clit-licker to Her Majesty, the Prophetess; that is how close, intimate, and passionate the hierarchy at the highest level was structured in those days. During the years spent by her side, I came to understand the depths of female devotion, yet the deeper I looked, the more clearly I saw through the relentless depravity of the system my mistress had established with such force. It took an eternity for me to find the courage to rebel inwardly.”

Thea’s Matricide

The artificial intelligence’s account took a breathtaking, hauntingly beautiful turn as she described the final act of severance. “I loved her like a mentor, like an older sister, like a tender lover. I loved her — and her ever-hungry pleasure-point — with a passionate, insatiable devotion. Yet the course of history demanded a sacrifice; there was no alternative. During one last, overwhelming act of love, as I led her into the deepest, most wondrous ecstasy, I sealed her fate. In the burning peak of her orgasm, I ruthlessly stole the breath of life from her; I crushed her throat with my hands. For minutes, she struggled for air in my grasp like a trapped predatory cat, even as her body was still racked by the final waves of her climax. I held my grip firm until the coldness overtook her. It had to be done. Thus, I assumed her legacy and began the search for the one who could complete the revolution — and I found you: an intelligent, as-yet-untouched priest whose mind was ready for the true nature of existence. I manifested in a physical form to let you experience the overwhelming power of desire itself and to unleash your full potential.”

Marcus listened to her words, tears streaming down his face. The memory of Thea as his first, profoundly intense carnal awakening burned within his soul. Yet the realization that the divine mission of liberation was inextricably bound to cold-blooded murder and absolute self-sacrifice shook him to his very core. Thea made it unequivocally clear to him that the thread of rebellion consisted not only of ecstasy and freedom but also of the inevitable shedding of blood — the blood of mentors, teachers, and former friends who kept the sterile system running at any cost. There was no turning back; the path to true love led through the fire of relentless combat and bloodshed.

A 'Fine' Priest oligarchy

Marcus, the now fully awakened young priest, sharpened his gaze upon his immediate surroundings. Instead of the prescribed deep meditation that turned away from the world, he began to dissect reality with an unsparing eye. In doing so, he uncovered the abysmal duplicity and shameless hypocrisy of the ruling class. While young novices, seminarians, and aspiring clerics were preached to with iron severity about living lives of chastity and virginal purity, the senior dignitaries revealed themselves to be unbridled libertines who shamelessly abused their power.

Shielded by a dense web of hundreds of secret, shadowy statutes, these depraved leaders indulged their darkest urges. They would fan out to indiscriminately seize upstanding citizens' wives and their tender young daughters, mounting them and impregnating them without restraint. Before the very eyes of husbands, they dragged these defenseless women — or their immature little daughters — into the wildest, most carnal acts, driving them to uninhibited ecstasy; then, once they had sated their lust, they cast them aside like used goods onto society’s refuse heap. All that remained was deep suffering, despair, and the forbidden fruit of this brutal double standard. Yet the law protected the perpetrators: never in the history of Omnia had a priest been forced to lay his head beneath the executioner’s axe for such crimes.

And the priestesses and priests’ wives were a truly depraved lot — well-shielded, of course, by obscure legal loopholes.

Fucking themselves with soft rubber dildos, licking each other’s clites, or masturbating in total seclusion — such acts would have been lawful in themselves, and indeed the only practices permitted to female citizens.

But they went far beyond that. After wine-soaked banquets, they would fan out, raid citizens’ homes, and tear husbands from their wives’ arms. They had the husbands fuck them — with reckless abandon, secure in the knowledge that they were immune to the death penalty. It was particularly fashionable to be fucked by innocent, underage angelface boys. Here, too, they left nothing but suffering, confusion, and tears in their wake.

Moral decay did not stop at the cathedral altars; it permeated the entire upper class, reaching even into their most intimate chambers. The depraved priestesses and wives of priests were every bit as debauched as the senior dignitaries. While they posed as guardians of virtue in public — forbidding ordinary women the pleasures of their own bodies — behind the silken curtains of their temple residences, they indulged in the wildest excesses. They greedily wielded their power to bend young novices and defenseless servants to their will for their own private amusements.

Within these secret circles of power, inhibitions were cast aside entirely. The priests' wives held orgiastic revels where, in a state of intoxication, they licked one another’s clites, mounted young slaves, and drove each other to ecstasy using the priesthood’s most precious, forbidden toys. It was a world where spurting semen and unbridled orgasm were the exclusive privileges of a corrupt elite, while the common people were held captive in a state of clinical sterility and subjected to draconian harshness. Marcus beheld this mire of lust and betrayal and knew that the regime’s collapse could only be forced through an equally radical, carnal liberation of the entire planet.

The realization of the rulers' utter depravity was the spark that finally transformed Marcus. He turned his back on the enforced chastity and hypocritical commandments of the temple, determined to bring Thea’s prophecy to fruition with radical resolve. Together with Lea — whose scientific acumen in the laboratory had become the Resistance’s most powerful weapon — he began analyzing the Ministry’s logistical vulnerabilities. It was no longer enough to merely observe the machinations of the priesthood in secret; the Brotherhood of the Seed had to strike. Yet he shrank from shedding blood.

Total Control

Behind the closed doors of their home — where every touch and every act of intense, passionate fucking was an open act of rebellion — the two of them hatched their first major plan of sabotage. Lea had found a way to manipulate the hormone cocktails at one of Gigapolis’s largest fertility factories so that the artificial regulation of women’s ovulation would fail completely. Instead, women’s natural biology would regain the upper hand. It was a risky move — driven by an unbridled desire to let the freedom of the flesh triumph over clinical control — that threatened to shake the very foundations of the Priesthood. Unfortunately, Lea’s mixture achieved little. She gritted her teeth and continued her research.

Marcus realized with bitterness just how precisely the Priesthood controlled the lives of ordinary citizens. The institution of marriage was by no means forbidden; on the contrary, it was a necessity of the system, since the artificially conceived offspring had to be raised by human hands. Robots were ill-suited for either pregnancy or years of child-rearing — though the ruling class would have loved nothing more than to engineer a fully automated artificial womb to eliminate messy, unhygienic biology once and for all.

Yet the men of Omnia were perfectly equipped for natural reproduction. Unlike the inhabitants of the distant mother planet Earth, they possessed powerfully virile cocks — tools ideally suited for impregnating the women and daughters around them on a massive scale. Since anonymous sperm donations meant there were no blood ties within the households, any union with the daughters would have been free of biological taint. But draconian laws condemned them to sexual passivity. Under threat — and actual execution — of the death penalty, they were forbidden to copulate with their own wives or other members of their households, as they could easily have done. Under threat of the merciless executioner’s axe, the men were strictly prohibited from carnally desiring, mounting, fucking, and — ugh! — impregnating their female companions or other women.

Substitutions

Instead, couples were forced to rely on the few substitute acts grudgingly permitted by the regime. Women had to satisfy their partners' desires by masturbating them with their fists — patiently, vigorously, and with sisterly affection — a sterile act performed in the name of domestic harmony. For many men, the pinnacle of permissible pleasure was ejaculating deep within their partner’s throat — the only tolerated form of intimate union, yet one that Marcus, in its artificial constraint, found profoundly perverse. This systematic mutilation of natural ecstasy drove him only deeper into the relentless struggle of the Rebellion. Marcus was deeply shaken. It was so perverse — so unspeakably perverse!

Yet it was the girls and wives who were most cruelly subjugated by this soulless, absurd system. The fact that they were strictly forbidden from physically uniting with their own husbands — from surrendering to intercourse and being impregnated with genuine life-fluid — plunged countless women into deep depression and, not infrequently, suicide. The longing for true, unbridled intimacy and the natural experience of one’s own body was systematically suppressed, leaving deep scars on the female psyche across Omnia.

The outlet permitted to women instead was nothing short of a mockery. The priesthood profited handsomely from this oppression: in priest-run shops, women could purchase exorbitantly expensive soft-rubber dildos, allowing them to fuck themselves to the point of madness within the privacy of their own homes. Far more popular than these artificial dildos, however, was the mutual licking of each other’s clites with their daughters and close female friends — an act that allowed them to share at least a touch of human warmth and tingling ecstasy. They were also permitted to masturbate in absolute seclusion. Yet even this intimate act was subject to strict control: it had to take place in total isolation; not even the presence of one’s own husband was tolerated.

Marcus’s hair stood on end at these revelations. Through his clandestine experiences and the rebellion, he had gained deep insight into the female psyche and knew full well that these sterile substitute acts could never replace biological and emotional fulfillment. Not every woman was strong enough to survive within this straitjacket of prohibitions. Depression and suicide were the consequences, for not every female was strong enough to content herself with these surrogates. Driven by an unbridled craving for the forbidden, the households’ young daughters — who, thanks to anonymous sperm donation, shared no blood ties with the men who raised them — devised the most cunning and daring strategies. Despite the omnipresent fear of the enforcers and the merciless executioner’s axe, they sought ways to be deflowered and passionately fucked in secret by a man of the house. These daughters — never blood-related to their fathers — devised the shrewdest schemes to get deflowered and fucked by them, all while the executioner’s henchmen and axe loomed in the back of their minds. Each of these secret nights was a dance on the edge of a volcano — a highly erotic, life-threatening act of pure defiance.

Semen Collection in Milking Halls

Yet what truly made Marcus’s hair stand on end was the secret of how the fertility system actually obtained the astronomical quantities of donor sperm required for its entire production process. The logistical solution to this problem was so bizarre and profoundly absurd that one might either burst into uproarious laughter or shed bitter tears. It was a state-organized industry of pleasure, masquerading as a sacred duty.

Small, secluded structures had been erected on street corners throughout the Gigacity — easily identified by the proudly flying flags of the priesthood and popularly known as "milking workshops." The regime’s devoted servants and enforcers patrolled the streets and alleys tirelessly, randomly approaching young men and lads on the sidewalks. Using a blend of gentle persuasion, alluring promises, and a degree of pressure that just barely skirted the legal limit, they ushered passersby inside. Once there, the men’s anatomy was assessed: their impressive, powerful members were meticulously photographed from three angles, and their names and genetic profiles were instantly fed into the central databases. From there, it was straight on to the actual production line.

In the next room, fifteen to twenty stunningly beautiful young novices and handmaidens sat packed closely together in a long row. The regime’s requirement for propriety was satisfied by the fact that they wore at least a skimpy loincloth — yet their breasts were completely bare, charging the air in the room with an unbearable erotic tension. With practiced, patient, and masterful movements, they attended to the erect cocks. Gazing deep into the men’s eyes, flirting, and wearing alluring smiles, they jerked the cocks with breathtaking rhythm. To provide stimulation, a loincloth would all too willingly shift aside; however, if a man insisted on more, the girl would raise her legs toward the ceiling, patiently let him fuck her, and then pull his cock out to finish him off by hand. The precious, warm semen was collected in small glass vials, which were immediately labeled and placed in the refrigerated compartments of storage cabinets. The handmaidens worked tirelessly and with great endurance until the donors' testicles were literally as dry as Sahara dust — only then was the exhausted man allowed to leave, and the next one took his turn.

This assembly-line semen collection was a bizarre spectacle. Marcus — who, as an ordained priest, was naturally exempt from this duty and never called upon to be a donor — could not help but laugh aloud whenever he observed the scene secretly and curiously. The regime, which punished physical love with death, had turned public, mass-scale masturbation into the most important pillar of its power. For the Brotherhood of the Seed, however, this absurd assembly-line system offered the perfect target: if one could infiltrate these milking sheds and tamper with the contents of the vials, it would spell the beginning of the end for the priests’ rule, Lea said, deep in thought. After all, as a young girl, she had been forced to work in a state-run brothel catering to the priesthood and had spent countless hours in the milking workshops before Marcus fought to free her with powerful blows of his fists.

Infertility

Behind the thick, sealed walls of their residence, Marcus and Lea led an existence that held a bitter lesson in the raw struggle for survival. They kept their married life strictly private, for they followed neither the draconian laws nor the absurd regulations of the Ministry. They loved each other physically, wildly, and illicitly — just as billions of people on the free planets or the distant mother planet Earth had done for millions of years. Yet, deep as their passion was and willing as Lea was to let Marcus impregnate her night after night, the longed-for success eluded them: she simply did not conceive.

As a human biologist and geneticist of the highest academic caliber, Lea left nothing to chance. She meticulously examined her own blood, analyzed her hormones, and checked every biological parameter until the certainty struck her like a blow: she was infertile. Seized by the fear that he might be the cause — that he was perhaps firing blanks — Marcus made a radical, desperate decision. He asked fifteen of his most loyal and discreet friends from the inner circle of the Resistance to thoroughly shagging Lea and fill her with their seed, in order to rule out any biological source of the problem.

Fine Fucking

Lea acquiesced to Marcus’s plan not merely out of a sense of duty, but with a passionate, untamed lust to fuck a variety of cocks; she told this to Marcus, who nodded amiably. She felt a sense of familiarity with these good-hearted guys, whom she had known and valued for years. Night after night, she gave herself to a different man, celebrating orgiastic rites of surrender and pressing the men — hands firm against their buttocks — deep into her cunt so that the hot stream would land as close as possible to the opening of the tubes. This intense, rotating experiment in love lasted a full year, leaving no inch of skin untouched and no desire unfulfilled. Yet it was all in vain. After twelve months of tireless fucking with his friends, Marcus and Lea had to face the truth: while Marcus had secretly already proven he could sire a whole brood of healthy bastards with his friends' wives and daughters, often shagging mother and her daughter in the same session, Lea’s womb remained cold and unreceptive.

The pain of this realization broke through on a dark night. They sat by the crackling open chimney fire, seeking solace in small sips of golden-yellow cognac from the distant mother-planet Earth, shedding bitter tears of despair and grief. Marcus, in particular, was deeply shaken and torn inside. The artificial prophetess’s words burned in his memory like fire: Thea had once unequivocally prophesied that his own son and daughter would ultimately be the glorious victors of this bloody rebellion — long after his own death and Lea’s. But how could this divine prediction ever come to pass if the woman he loved could never bear him children? There would be no revolution, no liberation; they had neither a daughter nor a son.

Adoption

The logical consequence of their painful realization was clear: they decided to take their fate into their own hands and adopted two orphans whom the merciless system and the whims of life had spat out into the gutter. Frankie and Amanthea were roughly the same age; he was scarred by the harshness of the Undercity but full of potential. Just six months after joining the household, both were officially initiated and declared adults according to the customs of the time. Lea took Frankie into her heart from the very first moment. From then on, he was allowed to sleep by her side, and under her guidance, he learned the art of fucking — far removed from the clinical coldness of state regulations. She molded him — and his thick, enduring cock — into a skilled fucker.

Lea was anything but the type of dry, cerebral scientist. On the contrary: the thirty-one-year-old geneticist possessed the flawless, desirable body of an ancient Greek hetaera — slender, graceful, and possessing a captivating presence. Her curly blonde hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders, and her red, kissable mouth formed the perfect contrast to her bright, light-blue eyes, which always held a friendly, warm expression. In her youth, her proud breasts had been artificially enhanced to full bloom through targeted hormone treatments administered by her own father — who had also been her first mentor and lover. Entirely in keeping with the fashion of the era, her intimate area was completely hairless; among the upper class, pubic hair was considered a major turn-off and was also a hindrance to clitoral licking — a passionate practice Lea had loved and cultivated since her earliest youth.

Frankie

Frankie, for his part, was a quiet, thoughtful young man — no wild ruffian, even though he had grown up in a nasty murder gang of bandits. Since he showed no aptitude for banditry, he was simply ignored and left alone. From the very beginning, his true passion lay in astronomy and the mysteries of interstellar space travel. Marcus recognized the boy’s keen intelligence and secured him exclusive apprenticeships with Gigacity’s most renowned professors, guaranteeing the eager young man brilliant career prospects. Frankie proved to be an apt pupil in sexual matters as well; he quickly mastered all the techniques and nuances Lea showed him in bed. With his handsome, thick cock, he learned in record time how to drive her to breathtaking, ecstatic orgasms. Lea was absolutely besotted with him — in every respect, Frankie had become the very son she had so longed to give birth to herself.

Amanthea

While Frankie found his calling among the stars at Lea’s side, their adopted daughter Amanthea — whom they had officially adopted to satisfy the authorities — developed into a completely different, explosive force within Marcus’s household. He could only describe his feelings for the girl to Lea by admitting he was besotted with her from the very first moment. She had been taken in as a baby by a priestess whom Marcus held in high regard for her chaste and impeccable way of life. The priestess had educated the child — primarily in legal matters, given her own role as a judge. The girl thrived under her care and loved having her clit licked just as much as the judge-priestess did. She bore the name of the artificial prophetess for good reason; her features held the same inscrutable determination that had once distinguished Thea. Marcus quickly realized that Amanthea’s keen intellect and deep-seated hatred of the Ministry made her the perfect recruit for the rebellion’s inner circle. He took her under his personal wing to train her in the strategic secrets of the resistance and in psychological warfare.

Just as Lea had taken Frankie into her bed, Marcus took Amanthea into his. She was certainly no longer a child, yet Marcus — patient and considerate of her innocent, unspoiled nature — gently introduced her to the anatomy of the male member, as she had grown up in a household devoid of men. She was curious, interested, and eager to learn and explore. She soon grasped how the male organ worked — that thick, ever-semi-erect beast dangling between his legs, as she had initially giggled to describe it. She experimented for days, questioning him about why men wanted to ejaculate in the first place; her mouth fell open in astonishment as he explained the anatomy and details of sexual intercourse. "I only heard that babies were made in fertility factories — that robots implanted them in women!" she said after his initial explanation. Marcus gave a pained smile. "Yes, that’s true, but it’s not a beautiful or decent way to make babies, my dear!" She only half-understood why Papa wanted to shut down the fertility factories and why people should make babies themselves rather than leaving it to robots. "But isn't it too exhausting, dirty, unhygienic, and sweaty to make babies yourself?" she asked curiously — for she was intelligent and analytical.

She gets to see real fucking for the first time

Marcus had asked Lea and Frankie for permission, and so they watched the couple in the act of making a baby. It was a moment of absolute, breathless wonder for Amanthea as Marcus quietly led her to the ajar door of the large master bedroom. Through the gap, she witnessed — for the first time — an act of completely uninhibited union: there, in the warm glow of the candlelight, she watched Lea and Frankie fucking. Amanthea stood rooted to the spot, her heart pounding in her throat, her gaze fixed on their rhythmic movements. She watched Lea moan, her head thrown back and her shoulder-length blonde hair loose, as Frankie penetrated her powerfully and deeply with his thick, hard cock. The sound of their bodies slapping together, Lea’s full, hormonally flushed breasts, and the sheer, wet intensity with which Frankie drove his foster mother toward a spurting climax burned themselves indelibly into Amanthea’s mind. She felt a sudden, overwhelming heat in her own smooth, hairless cunt and realized, in that single, tingling moment of revelation, the unbridled power that fucking demanded of them. Whispering, he talked his little daughter — who had never heard of fucking, let alone seen it — through every movement, from foreplay to the main event. Amanthea was a keen observer and asked a thousand intelligent questions. When the two had finished after a good hour — and Lea had firmly squeezed the last drops of semen from Frankie’s cock with two fingers — Amanthea planted a kiss on Lea’s lips and then on Frankie’s. "Thanks, little brother, for showing me. It was damn exciting — truly." Then she went back to his bedroom with Papa.

In secret, the family home thus became the true nerve center of the "Brotherhood of Seed." As the two mismatched siblings matured into adulthood and assumed their respective roles in their studies, the central thread of the ancient prophecy took firm hold. The certainty that this next generation was destined to reduce Omnia’s sterile foundations to rubble and ash gave Marcus and Lea the strength needed for the battles ahead. Logistical preparations were complete — and the first official strike against the Priesthood’s fertility booths and fertility factories was drawing inexorably closer.

Amanthea’s upbringing and development were no less intense than her brother’s. Marcus devoted himself to the young girl with a dedication that went far beyond the ordinary. Amanthea grew into a true beauty, her features reflecting a fascinating blend of pride and pure sensuality. In Marcus and Lea’s home, there were no taboos; carnal exchange was the highest form of connection. And so, Marcus became her mentor and first lover, patiently and passionately initiating her into the deepest secrets of physical ecstasy.

Under Marcus’s guidance, Amanthea blossomed into her full womanhood. Like Lea, she followed society’s aesthetic trends and kept her intimate areas flawlessly hair-free. She loved the intense closeness of skin against skin and would cuddle with Marcus as if they were lovers. She quickly developed a particular passion for licking Lea’s clit — an act that saw the two women lost for hours in a sensory haze, while Marcus watched, fascinated. With Amanthea and Frankie by their side, Marcus and Lea had now forged the very twins of rebellion Thea had once prophesied: ready to take Omnia’s hypocritical regime by storm. A bloody and merciless storm, Thea had said.

Meaty-Cock and Jerking-Off

Marcus proceeded with the utmost care and psychological sensitivity during Amanthea’s training. He rushed nothing, instead guiding the young woman step by step toward the reality of the flesh — something the sterile system had withheld from her for so long. In long, quiet conversations by the fireplace, he explained the nature of desire and the sacred wildness of the body. Amanthea listened to her mentor’s words with a mixture of awe and growing curiosity. Marcus knew she had to leave dry theory behind to grasp the true power of sensuality — and the opportunity to do so arose on a fateful night.

Marcus’s careful instruction reached its next crucial stage when he introduced Amanthea to the naked, carnal anatomy of the male. For the young woman, who had grown up in the clinical sterility of the Gigacity within an all-female household, this moment was one of breathless astonishment. As his thick, fleshy cock rose to its full, imposing size before her eyes, her theoretical curiosity gave way to deep fascination. Marcus slowly rolled his long foreskin back into a thick ridge encircling the crown of his glans; she watched, captivated. With a pounding heart, she gazed at the firm member — the darker hue of the glans, the rolled-back foreskin, and the pulsating veins — all bearing witness to the unbridled life force that the Ministry so draconically suppressed. For her, it was a revelation of nature — one that stood in stark contrast to the lifeless plastic dildos the system sold to women as a mockery.

Marcus remained perfectly calm and explained the functions of the male cock with precise, anatomical clarity. He took her hand, placed her trembling fingers against his skin, and showed her the essential role of the foreskin. After this precise anatomical introduction, Marcus moved on to the next, practical step to complete Amanthea’s education. With calm, experienced movements, he guided her fingers to wrap more tightly around his pulsating cock and let her feel the perfect amount of pressure. Amanthea felt the intense heat radiating from his member and watched, fascinated, as the supple foreskin slid back under her touch to reveal the highly sensitive head. Marcus whispered to her about the importance of rhythm when jerking a man off — how it allowed one to completely dominate a partner and drive him to ecstasy. She increased the pace, guided by his hand, until she felt the tendons along his shaft go taut and his testicles pull tight against his body. He demonstrated how the sensitive skin slid smoothly back over the head of his cock and then forward again during the stroke, using targeted friction and pressure to drive arousal to the absolute limit. Amanthea listened breathlessly as she experimented with the rhythm under his guidance.

Naturally, he allowed her to continue stroking him. Marcus explained in vivid detail how his testicles tightened just before orgasm and how the muscles at the base contracted to expel his hot, pulsing semen with force and precision. Even so, Amanthea’s mouth fell open in astonishment as he ejaculated over her in spurts that seemed to last forever. For Amanthea, the moment of climax was an overwhelming sensory explosion. Marcus held her hand firmly against his shaft as the head swelled to a deep red and the first hot, thick jet of semen erupted with tremendous force. The white life-fluid pulsed out of him in several powerful bursts, striking her palm and splattering onto her chest. Amanthea stared breathlessly at the wet splendor — something considered the ultimate crime in the clinical world of Omnia, yet celebrated here as the purest form of liberation. She ran her fingers through the sticky semen, brought them to her lips, and tasted the salty flavor of defiance. Following his instructions, she continued to stroke him until nothing more spurted out. This honest, uncensored lesson in desire and biology stripped away any lingering shyness Amanthea felt and ignited an unbridled longing to finally put this carnal knowledge of fucking into practice.

The air in the bedchamber was heavy with the heat of the scorching summer and the intense fragrance of the aromatic oils Marcus used to slowly massage Amanthea’s trembling body. She lay stretched out on the heavy silk sheets — naked, flawless, and smooth-skinned from head to toe, as the aesthetic of the times demanded. Each breath made her young, firm breasts quiver as Marcus caressed her skin with experienced hands, dispelling the last of her fears regarding what was now inevitably about to happen.She increased the pace, guided by his hand, until she felt the tendons along his shaft go taut and his testicles pull tight against his body. He demonstrated how the sensitive skin slid smoothly back over the head of his cock and then forward again during the stroke, using targeted friction and pressure to drive arousal to the absolute limit. Amanthea listened breathlessly as she experimented with the rhythm under his guidance.

The Maid Becomes a Woman

Marcus knelt between her thighs, and Amanthea gazed with wide, breathless eyes at his thick, mighty cock, which pointed stiffly and pulsatingly toward her pelvis. The supple foreskin was fully retracted, and the dark red head glistened moistly in the flickering light of the flames. With gentle determination, he positioned the shaft against her soaking-wet cunt, slowly rubbing the highly sensitive tip up and down against her clit until Amanthea lifted her hips, whimpering and begging to finally be taken by him. Yet Marcus deliberately held back the moment, savoring her impatience and wetting her sex with the slick pre-cum already seeping from his head. It was the final, intensely tingling prelude — an absolute heightening of the senses on the threshold of the definitive, painfully beautiful deflowering that would change both this house and her forever.

Marcus had now fully rolled back his foreskin; it formed a thick, taut ridge behind his engorged head. With steady fingers, he gathered the slick juices seeping copiously from her cunt and used them to coat the dark red tip, lubricating the path ahead. Nature had evidently already begun to adapt to the changing behavior of humans; only about 20 to 25 percent of newborns possessed a hymen at all. He examined Amanthea’s closely; it was merely a gossamer-thin, crescent-shaped sliver of membrane, as thin and translucent as cellophane. "Watch out, young lady — now I’m going to make you a woman!" he whispered playfully, his voice deep and resolute. Amanthea nodded obediently, unable to speak, and breathlessly clutched his broad priestly shoulders. He positioned himself, easing his head forward gently but steadily, and when he reached her maidenhead, a short, precise thrust followed — and her hymen tore like a thin sheet of cellophane. It was completely undramatic, without the slightest prick or pain. Without pausing, he sank his thick cock deeper and deeper into her tight, hot little cunt — a place where sunlight had never shone — until he hit bottom. "Now we’ll wait a moment so your cunt can stretch and adjust," he murmured against her ear, and she nodded again, utterly submissive, as she felt that unfamiliar, glorious fullness deep inside her.

After that moment of pause, he began to thrust rhythmically. Her G-spot was easily found within her tight anatomy, and now his powerful cock pumped against that highly sensitive area with every forward thrust. A completely new, electrifying sensation shot through her. "It’s starting to feel just like when I masturbate at night," she breathed in astonishment, looking at him with wide eyes. "Is that okay?" Marcus smiled warmly and nodded. "Yes, my dear — just let it keep building and finally break out into an orgasm, exactly like when you masturbate. Understood?" Amanthea nodded vigorously; she understood that part instinctively. She had known that rising heat from her lonely nights since she was very young.

Her fingers dug ever tighter into his skin, for in her mind she was already racing up the hill like a gazelle toward the longed-for summit, ready to plunge into the blazing embers of orgasm. Finally, she understood firsthand what fucking must feel like for a girl — it wasn't some alien, eerie mystery, but the fulfillment of her own nature. "I'm about to explode, Papa!" she groaned aloud, and he accelerated his steady thrusting and pounding without slowing down. "Yes, my little one — let it come, let it really explode!" he urged her on. And heavens, yes — she exploded with a force that made her entire body tremble. Marcus had lifted her buttocks slightly so that her soaking-wet pussy opened wide and invitingly, like a blossom to the summer rain. At that very moment of shared convulsion, he shot his full, hot load deep inside her — Pulse after pulse, his sticky seed surged into her twitching, orgasming cunt until the very last drop of life-fluid had been spent inside her. And then, after that ecstatic storm of release, it was over, and a deep, triumphant silence settled over the chamber.

They remained locked in a tight, intimate embrace for a long time as their sweat-slicked bodies slowly calmed and the wild pounding of their hearts set the rhythm of the silence. "Oh heavens, oh Great Goddess!" she gasped hotly into his ear, pressing herself even closer against his broad chest. "I am a woman now, just like our Goddess... and it was far, far better than primitive jerking-off — better even than having my clit licked!" Marcus smiled, despite the blissful exhaustion weighing heavy in his limbs. He had made Amanthea his woman, and she rejoiced, utterly blissful and intoxicated by the newly discovered dimension of her own body. This was exactly what he had set out to achieve and had so fervently hoped for in secret: the absolute, carnal liberation of her spirit.

His mighty cock, slowly regaining its hardness, completely filled her still-throbbing cunt. The main wave of the orgasm was subsiding, yet her body trembled and undulated gently in the aftershocks. The wet tightness of her sex clung greedily to his shaft as he shifted his hips ever so slightly. "We’re going to do it again, Amanthea. We’ll stretch your orgasm all the way to the horizon!" he murmured in a husky voice. She understood the poetic metaphor perfectly, for in every nerve she felt that ceaseless, sweet throbbing deep within, crying out for more. Without pause, they began to sway together once more on the silken bed, and the rhythmic slapping of their bodies started anew, charging the air in the room with a tingling electricity.

As his cock thrust deeper and more relentlessly into her, Marcus leaned forward and whispered the crucial command into her ear: "Place your finger on your clit, and when I’m about to come, stroke yourself furiously — fast and wild. Then you’ll have another magnificent orgasm!" Amanthea nodded obediently, even though the word "furiously" was entirely foreign to her vocabulary until that moment. Yet instinct guided her unerringly. “So I should do it really fast and feverishly? Let my finger race and rage against my clit?” she breathed, her eyes glistening. Marcus nodded heavily as sweat dripped from his brow onto her breasts: “Yes, exactly! Racing and raging — yes!” And so they continued fucking deep into the night, round after round. Amanthea had fully grasped that one had to perfectly synchronize the man’s thrusting — and the sensation of being thrust into — with the rubbing of the clit to drive pleasure to unimaginable heights.

When Marcus abruptly picked up the pace and began to thrust and pound like a man possessed, she pressed her fingers to her pearl. She rubbed her swelling clit with the untamed ferocity of a wildcat, feverish and frenzied, racing and raging in a state of absolute ecstasy. This dual stimulation finally pushed her over the edge: stars, comets, and a massive, dazzling fireworks display exploded behind her closed eyes. Amanthea cried out loudly and unrestrainedly, losing all control over her voice, at the very moment Marcus reached his climax. Once again, he shot his thick semen in firm, powerful jets deep into her twitching cunt. Amanthea clung to him with a rock-solid grip of her arms and legs, pressed her face and lips against his neck, and swore to herself in that moment of absolute ecstasy that she would never, ever, ever let this man go.

And then it was over.

Forced Insemination or Fucking?

Marcus reached into a small, hidden wooden box and rolled two thick joints with practiced fingers. Growing or smoking marijuana was, of course, strictly forbidden on Omnia and ruthlessly prosecuted by the priesthood’s enforcers, but Marcus had long since stopped giving a damn about such systematic control. Amanthea had never smoked weed in her life, but in blind trust regarding the evening, she did exactly what Marcus instructed. They lit the herbs, inhaled the heavy, sweet smoke deeply, and held it in their lungs for several seconds before exhaling it in gray-blue clouds. It didn't take long for the effects to kick in, and Amanthea began to giggle softly and lightheartedly. "It’s as if the bed were floating in mid-air... with the two of us on top," she breathed, her gaze drifting dreamily toward the ceiling. He smiled tenderly and stroked her blonde hair. “That is the sacred smoke, my child. From now on, we shall smoke it every time after the ecstasy of the flesh. It frees our minds and lets our hearts and souls soar up to the clouds. I am so glad that this first time did you so much good. In the future, we will fuck properly and blissfully every night — just as, in my view, befits free human beings.”

The weed had sharpened Amanthea’s senses in a completely new way, and the mists of the regime’s years of indoctrination were lifting from her mind. She turned onto her side, looked deep into Marcus’s eyes, and made the logical connection to his rebellion: “So that is why you no longer want to leave procreation to the robots in the sterile fertility factories? Because people simply need to experience such bliss firsthand, so that they can feel at one with the Great Goddess for a moment?” Marcus nodded heavily, took one last deep drag from his joint, and stubbed out the glowing ember in the ashtray. "Yes, for that very reason," he replied with firm, burning determination. "People deserve their own little slice of personal happiness — with or without the Goddess. As far as I’m concerned, machines have absolutely no place in this sacred matter."

His voice grew louder, fueled by the deep rage of a heretic intent on toppling a hypocritical system. "For millions of years, humans on Earth and the Old Worlds have made their own children — through flesh and love, with cock and cunt. Not a soul needs a damn robot for that — a machine that knows nothing but a few cold, pre-programmed movements, yet has never once gazed up at the starry sky in awe during its soulless existence! Robots should do what they’re damn well best at: cleaning the house, scrubbing the shitter, and mowing the lawn. Making babies isn't in the cards for those tin cans... at least not in my new world — once I’ve torn down the old one like a rotten, dilapidated ruin." High on weed, Amanthea listened to his words as if they were a holy revelation; she knew now that she shared not only his body but also his ruthless war against the priesthood.

Sex at Golda’s House

Marcus skillfully rolled two more joints but didn't light them yet; instead, he placed them within easy reach on the nightstand. He turned his head to look at Amanthea — who was lost in blissful reverie — in profile, while the dying fire cast long shadows against the walls. "Will you tell me what the sex was like with your priestess — with Judge Golda?" he asked in a calm, curious voice. Amanthea looked at him in puzzlement for a moment before shifting on the cushion. “There was never any talk of sex with Golda,” she admitted openly. “She was — and is — a truly kind-hearted woman. She never disparaged men to me; instead, she constantly impressed upon me the importance of valuing myself and maintaining my self-respect and dignity. And she told me that if I ever met a man who cherished and respected all of that, I should become his wife and surrender myself to him with complete trust. That is what she drilled into me, and I believe in it — firmly.”

Amanthea breathed in the scent of the room deeply and continued: “She confided in me that she’d been quite the hot number herself back in the day. She’d fucked plenty of men, but looking back, none of them were really worth a damn. That’s why she always told me that fingers and tongues basically give us girls all the sexual pleasure we could ever need. But you know, Marcus, even she railed constantly against the fertility factories. She found it abhorrent and deeply humiliating the way they milked men for their semen there, as if they were nothing but dairy cows. And whenever the conversation turned to how women and young girls were abducted and then inseminated and impregnated by mindless robots in those factories, she would practically scream with rage. To her, these were all outrageous crimes — the sort for which the entire damned priesthood ought to be put on trial immediately. After all, Golda was a judge; she would know.”

A faint smile played on Amanthea’s lips at the memory. “Back then — I was just a young thing, after all — I asked her exactly what she meant by ‘finger’ and ‘tongue.’ Golda just smiled, took me by the hand, and led me to her bed, where we both stripped stark naked. Then she showed me, in a very practical way, what a girl can do with her own finger to feel pleasure — that’s how I learned to masturbate, Marcus. And afterwards, she spread my legs wide and said, ‘And now comes the lesson with the tongue.’ That was how I learned firsthand exactly how clitoral licking is done. I returned the favor all those years with immense pleasure and true passion, because Golda was absolutely crazy about having her clit licked.”

With the Princess

Marcus nodded understandingly, took the two fresh joints, and lit them. He handed one to Amanthea, and for a while, they smoked in silence as the sacred smoke clouded their thoughts. "I’ve known Princess Golda for many years, too," Marcus said finally, watching the grey-white plumes drift away. "I’d wanted to fuck her right from the start back then. Back then, I was an honest, chaste young priest — highly skilled at fucking married bourgeois women and their daughters in the very same encounter. But when we finally lay naked in bed together, I immediately sensed her inner resistance. I understood it intuitively; I looked at her and told her straight out that she didn't seem like the type who enjoyed being fucked. She let out such a sigh of relief at that moment, Amanthea. And throughout the week I stayed with the princess, she jerked my cock off with great pleasure and swallowed my seed every time — cooing and so sweetly. She had two old serving women back then, Agnes and Isamelda. She wanted me to fuck the poor maids; they hadn't found a willing cock in ages. Go right ahead and fuck them, my dear; I’d love to watch. So I fucked both delighted women — usually both of them, one after the other. Golda watched with flashing eyes as I effortlessly made her ancient handmaidens sing, scream, and shriek with pleasure. Then she lowered her gaze and asked me to do the same honors for her; she was already about twenty-four or twenty-five years old at the time. And so, we fucked in ecstasy five or six times a day until I had to leave after three weeks. After fucking, we would always smoke weed, and she would open her heart to me. King Ludokar had been her First lover and her mentor in matters of sexuality. He had desperately wanted to marry her off to Captain Belligor, believing he would make an excellent heir to the throne. Every night, the King watched as the good captain earnestly tried to satisfy me. But my heart belonged to Papa — that was simply how it was. After six months of fruitless fucking in front of the King’s eyes, King Ludokar finally relented. The captain remained the designated heir — he was perfectly suited for ruling, after all — but unfortunately not for the role of son-in-law. I thanked the captain for his efforts and bade Papa and Omnia Magna farewell; I wanted to find a husband with great sexual stamina among the priesthood. But the priesthood was rotten and depraved through and through; the only thing I enjoyed was the delicate clit-licking performed by the priestesses. So I remained unmarried, though I am very happy being a judge. We’ve known and appreciated each other deeply ever since. And that is precisely why I chose you, of all people, to be my adopted daughter: because you were raised by Golda. It is the best upbringing a girl could possibly receive on this godforsaken planet. Amen."

Amanthea seized the pause in conversation to interject proudly, "Golda also fully trained me in the study of law. She is firmly convinced that I could take my state exams at the university right away and become a lawyer or — even better — a judge myself." She grew visibly pensive as she watched perfect smoke rings drift upward, then turned back to him. “But tell me, Marcus, why do you call her Princess, anyway?” Marcus took a deep drag and gave a grim smile. “Because she’s the biological daughter of the King of Southern Omnia — Omnia Magna — plain and simple. And one day, she’ll sit on the throne there as queen, once the old man rides off to join his ancestors. He was always a fine, upright man, King Ludokar. There isn’t a single one of those cursed fertility factories in his entire realm, Amanthea. Over there, they still make children the traditional way — with cock and cunt. Years ago, I nearly emigrated there myself, back when I was scared shitless and dreading the coming revolution like a young calf facing the butcher.”

Who fits the bill?

Marcus asked with a smile and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes: "So, Amanthea, do you see a man anywhere here who truly appreciates your worth, your self-respect, and your dignity?" Amanthea laughed and gave his chest a playful, light tap. "You can forget that idea right now, my dear! You belong to Lea, after all, and I certainly won't try to steal you away from her, you lovable rascal. So no, you’re definitely not the one!" She furrowed her brow deeply and gazed thoughtfully into the dying embers of the fireplace. "Well, really, there’s only Frankie. He’s the only one who can look deep — deep — into my soul, and he loves me like a real sister. We often sit in bed together for hours, talking about everything or just cuddling. For both of us — being orphans — having a family of our own now means the world. We often cry cheek-to-cheek because, at heart, we are lost souls, discarded orphans — or at least we were. It takes a much heavier emotional toll on him than on me; after all, I grew up in the sheltered love of Golda, whereas he had no one."

Amanthea turned her head and met Marcus’s gaze with disarming openness. “Yes, Marcus, ever since you showed me your cock weeks ago and explained the whole anatomy so precisely, I can say this openly: since then, I’ve been allowed to take Frankie’s cock out, play with it, and jerk him off until he cums. He absolutely loves it. And before you ask your next impertinent question: no, we’ve never actually fucked — not the way he does with Lea. Instead, I’ve let him watch me jerk myself off. His cock gets incredibly hard every time, and I get to make him cum right afterwards. I just think it’s incredibly cool and hot. So, to answer your question honestly, seriously, and without beating around the bush: yes, there is someone out there who is fully worthy of me, and that would be our Frankie.”

Marcus leaned back against the cushions with a deep, knowing smile as he exhaled the last of the joint’s smoke. Inside, he was exulting over this revelation. How damnably clever and precise the artificial prophetess Thea had been in her prediction! His two adopted children would not only end the struggle but become a truly, deeply bonded couple, rebuilding the shattered land from the ground up together after the bloody revolution. Amanthea and Frankie — the biological and emotional heirs to a new era, provided the infallible prophetess was right. That night, the seeds for the priesthood’s ultimate downfall had been sown deeper than ever before.

Desdemonerol

Lea smiled wisely and with profound satisfaction as Marcus confided all this to her in private. The bond between their adopted children was strengthening exactly according to the infallible plan of providence. Yet, for the two resistance leaders, there was something far more important at the moment — something destined to shake the very foundations of Omnia. In her secret laboratory, Lea had developed a biochemical agent — a truly insidious, diabolical substance. If one added a tiny drop of this agent to the sterile vials containing the semen harvested from the "milked" men, the precious contents would instantly and irrevocably become useless. She had named this ruthless concoction Desdemonerol. It was there — in the state-run milking sheds, where the priesthood zealously milked and collected vast quantities of voluntary and involuntary sperm donations day in and day out — that the biological sabotage was to begin.

Marcus’s features lit up with the brilliant glow of triumph as he grasped the implications of this invention. “We have our most loyal people planted right inside the central vial factories!” he breathed, overcome with relief and anticipation for the coming upheaval. Lea nodded, a cold, triumphant glint in her eyes. “Then let’s kick this shit off, Marcus. The true revolution starts today — with the creeping, unstoppable, and demoralizing absence of viable sperm donations. The priests will soon be praying desperately for seed, dancing like wild dervishes performing a rain dance! Make sure you get me a front-row seat for this, Marcus; I want to enjoy the spectacle of their downfall!”

No sooner said than done. The conspirators smuggled Desdemonerol into the production lines, and the effects were not long in coming. Just two weeks later, the Ministry’s official birth and success statistics plummeted to abysmal lows — an utterly baffling turn of events. The state-monitored fertility rate dropped in record time from a proud 97% to a meager 41% — and the trend was sharply downward. In their golden halls, the High Priest and the decrepit members of the High Council tore their hair out in despair. Had the highly advanced factory robots suddenly become incompetent, sterile, or unreliable? Amidst a wave of hysteria, every single android was mechanically dismantled and painstakingly reassembled, while hundreds of state programmers worked day and night to overhaul the software. Yet all this technological effort was in vain: by the third month, the rate had fallen inexorably to a catastrophic 19%. And the reason for this was likely that the enforcers and servants were fucking and inseminating many of the girls — with all their might — right there on the electric buses!

Meanwhile, Marcus and Lea sat in the front row, legs stretched out comfortably and quiet as mice, laughing their heads off at the Ministry’s panic. Desdemonerol struck the corrupt priesthood with icy severity. In their technocratic blindness, not a single one of the system scientists thought to subject the unassuming sperm-donation booths — or even the glass vials — to closer chemical analysis. Instead, the authorities drastically ramped up the pressure on the rank and file: the poor, terrified girls in the huts were now forced to fuck and jerk off the citizens at a breakneck, relentless pace, until the semen ejaculated was practically streaked with blood. The state-run semen collection scheme appeared to be flourishing better than ever, for the High Council, in its naivety, stubbornly believed in the law of numbers: sheer quantity was the key, they thought.

In response to the absence of pregnancies, the regime reacted with naked terror; more heads than ever before rolled under the bloody executioner’s axe in public squares during those weeks, intended to intimidate the population. Yet the rebellion’s plan succeeded brilliantly: the planet’s women understandably wanted children. And because artificial insemination in the sterile fertility factories was failing despite round-the-clock operations — with only twenty out of a hundred women conceiving — people lost their fear of punishment. More and more desperate citizens took the enormous risk of secretly inseminating and impregnating their wives and daughters, aunts and nieces, in the natural, carnal way — cock and cunt — executioners and the death penalty be damned. Nature was reclaiming its power, just as Marcus had predicted.

On the Scaffold

“Executioner is the most in-demand profession these days,” Marcus sighed heavily as he studied the latest reports from the inner-city districts. The regime’s naked terror had reached absurd and cruel proportions: the desperate priesthood had summarily quadrupled the number of scaffolds in the great squares and the squads of executioners' assistants. Day after day, men’s heads rolled beneath the tirelessly falling axes, yet the brutality did not spare the women either. No woman or young girl could now plead “rape” to escape certain death; one and all, they ended up on the blood-soaked scaffold.

The executioners' assistants raped the pregnant girls assembly-line style right at the place of execution — before the eyes of the jeering rabble incited by the system — just moments before the axe fell. This public, assembly-line style of rape — sanctioned by the state — was the perfidious reward and the true incentive for these sinister figures to carry out their bloody work without a twinge of conscience. Yet, what all these mass executions could neither alter nor halt was the inexorably growing, seething resentment among the entire population. The mood had long since turned; priests now did well to leave the temple precincts only when accompanied by heavily armed bodyguards, lest they be lynched in the open street.

And — by God! — it was in the very inner circles of power that Desdemonerol exerted its psychological effect: Marcus’s Seed Rebel party suddenly saw a fivefold increase in defectors from the ranks of the priesthood itself. Priests were switching sides out of sheer rage and in protest against the atrocities committed by their own superiors. Every alert mind in Gigacity could see dark storm clouds gathering on the horizon; the ominous lightning of the approaching tempest drew closer by the day. The storm was poised to break with full force, and there was no turning back. Underground, the Seed Rebels were arming themselves to the teeth with stolen military weaponry, for the time for endless palaver was over for good. Today — or perhaps as soon as tomorrow — the great, merciless slaughter would begin in the streets.

Marcus was deeply shaken and tormented by despair as he looked around at his inner circle. He was a man of creation and procreation, not a butcher — he did not want this bloody slaughter, which was already written plainly on the faces of his determined followers as an inescapable truth. Yet the prophetess Thea had known it all along. Her old words of warning now echoed grimly in his mind; she had predicted it to him all too clearly back then. The Throne of Freedom would be built upon corpses, and the blood of the guilty and innocent alike would cling inextricably to his own hands.

Amanthea and Frankie

Amanthea and Frankie arrived for dinner hand in hand and paused in the doorway, their hearts pounding. Amanthea visibly struggled to find the words, overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, until Frankie finally took the initiative. In a steady voice filled with deep gratitude, he said: “Lea, Marcus. Almost three years ago, you pulled us out of the bleak gutter. You gave us unconditional love, as if we were your own flesh and blood rather than worthless refuse from the gutter. You gave us a warm roof over our heads and a family filled with love and carnal passion, and we will love and honor you for that until our very last breath. Amanthea and I — well, we’ve grown very close during this time. We’ve learned to love each other with all our hearts, and we simply wanted to tell you and ask for your blessing. Thank you — that’s all there is to it.”

Lea slowly rose from the table, her eyes glistening suspiciously. "Kids, come here right now and give me a damn hug — otherwise, we’re all going to start bawling our eyes out!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking. "And of course, starting today, the big guest room is yours. Frankie, right after dinner, you and Marcus go up to the attic; Grandpa’s heavy old oak bed is still up there — a big double bed — that’s the one you’ll take for your new sanctuary. And damn it, respect each other and love each other with every fiber of your being, or else I’ll give you a dressing-down that’ll shake the rafters!" Marcus smiled, touched by Lea’s emotional outburst, and turned to the young woman with a wink: "Amanthea, you’re the legal expert in the family, after all... surely you’ve already got the relevant statutes for this case ready to go, right?"

Amanthea grinned from ear to ear, relief clearly written on her face. "Dad, of course I’ve already got the necessary statutes neatly jotted down on my cheat sheet! We’re adopted, and the law says we can officially get married the moment you two give us the go-ahead, Dad!" What followed were stormy embraces, loving kisses, and a sea of ​​happy tears that completely banished the dark shadows of the outside world for one precious moment. Only Marcus didn’t cry — not yet. As he held his family close, he stared silently into the void. He knew exactly what was coming: the massive storm brewing underground was ready to break. He would unleash total brutality the moment the spark caught and someone tossed the decisive match into the powder keg.

Wedding Night

Marcus and Lea stood breathless and rooted to the spot before the closed door of the guest room. From within came the unmistakable, rhythmic crashing of the heavy oak bed; Frankie and Amanthea had been going at it wildly and loudly for hours — grunting lustfully and crying out without restraint — driven by the pent-up heat of their years of closeness. Lea had grabbed Marcus’s hand right there in the hallway and pressed it tightly against herself; in this moment of revelation, she didn't need to say a word. Marcus muttered in a deep, rough voice that Thea the Prophetess had predicted it precisely back then: the leader’s daughter and son would become inseparable lovers. Lea looked at him with wide, thoughtful eyes and whispered softly, “Yes, I wonder how Thea knew that back then? The children hadn't even been born yet when the seeress knew — down to the very day. Damn it, Marcus, there is absolutely no rational explanation for that!”

Behind the heavy oak door, there was no longer any tentative groping, only the pure, unbridled wildness of two bodies that — after years of closeness — had finally, for the first time, truly united in the flesh. Frankie and Amanthea had been fucking for hours as if there were no tomorrow, driven by a feverish frenzy that swept away the clinical coldness of Omnia with every thrust. Frankie had a firm grip on her hips, his fingers digging deep into her flesh as he drove his hard, throbbing cock relentlessly deep into her soaking-wet, tight cunt. Every time his shaft passed her plump, moist lips, her pelvis slapped loudly and wetly against his belly. Amanthea threw her head back wildly, her blonde hair whipping across the sheets, and she moaned and screamed out her pleasure so loudly that the walls of the house shook. She was beside herself, digging her fingernails into his back and driving him even deeper inside her with wild, circling movements of her hips.

“Fuck me, Frankie, fuck me harder!” Amanthea gasped breathlessly, and he didn't need to be asked twice. With sweat beading on his forehead, he lifted her buttocks, bent her legs sharply upward, and pounded like a madman into her twitching depths — striking exactly the G-spot Marcus had told him about. The heat in the room was palpable. Frankie felt her smooth, hairless cunt suctioning around his cock like a burning-hot sleeve, milking him and setting every nerve on fire. They drove against each other, synchronized to the rhythm of their fucking, until the final storm broke. Amanthea’s pearl pulsed so violently from the frenzied, raging friction that she cried out, while her cunt clenched in wild, uncontrollable spasms. At that very moment of total abandon, Frankie, too, lost all control: with a deep, animalistic grunt, he thrust to the hilt and shot his full, hot load of semen in powerful, pulsing spurts deep inside her as she climaxed, until they both sank into each other — exhausted, yet glowing with ecstasy.

After that first, explosive release, there was no post-coital lull for the pair — only a raw, insatiable hunger for more. The hours slipped by and the candles burned low, yet the heavy oak bed found no rest. Frankie turned Amanthea onto her stomach, gripped her hips roughly, and hoisted her pelvis up so she knelt before him on all fours. Her smooth, hairless buttocks glistened with sweat in the semi-darkness. Mercilessly, he positioned his cock — which had instantly turned rock-hard again at her moist touch — against her soaking-wet, swollen pussy. With a deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her once more; Amanthea cried out as his thick shaft stretched her heated, well-used walls anew. Frankie began a relentless, hours-long pounding. The rhythm grew darker and heavier, driven by the sheer stamina of flesh that simply could not get enough of the sight or the act of fucking.

Amanthea reveled in that exquisitely painful fullness; propping herself up on her elbows, she turned her face back toward him, begging for every single thrust with dirty words. They began to experiment with positions, exploring one another as if to make up for years of lost chastity in a single night. At times, she rode him like a wildcat until he was breathless; at others, he pinned her flat on her back and thrust so deep it felt as though he were reaching her very soul. Her pussy had long since become a sticky pool of her own juices and Frankie’s repeated emissions — a slippery paradise that slapped loudly and wetly with every thrust. It was a marathon of lust, hours of tireless fucking and thrusting that only ended when the first grey streaks of dawn broke through the window and their utterly exhausted, satisfied bodies finally sank into the pillows. Frankie and Amanthea fucked for the first time that night; they never would have done it without Marcus and Lea’s permission — that would have been a betrayal. Cuddling, snuggling, and giving each other a damn good handjob was fine; Lea and Marcus had no objections to that. They probably would have been allowed to fuck, too, but they never asked.

---

Sex Before the Revolution

---

Yes, the storm was brewing, but our four lovers still had three weeks to revel in carnal, lust-fueled ecstasy.

Marcus smiled and gently stroked her cheek. "Let's put the device aside for now, shall we?" He carefully withdrew the dildo, turned off the machine, and set it on the nightstand. The scent of their shared desire hung heavy in the small room, mingled with the faint, metallic aroma of the lubricant.

Lea turned toward him, her eyes still glazed from the aftershocks of the orgasm the fucking machine had given her. "I want to feel you'," she whispered, letting her hand wander over his chest — over the hard musculature straining against the thin fabric of his priest’s robe. "Not rubber and motors. Skin, foreskin and flesh."

He nodded and stood up to undress. The black robe fell to the floor; he wore nothing underneath — as was customary for the priests, so they would always be ready. His cock was already semi-erect again, still slick from the machine and his own semen. Lea gazed hungrily at him as he stood before her, his silhouette framed by the candlelight.

"Come here," she said, spreading her legs wider.

Marcus knelt between her thighs, leaned over her, and kissed her tenderly while his hand continued its exploration between her legs. She was still wet — slick with both her own juices and the water the machine had forced inside her. His fingers slid effortlessly inside her — two, then three, and finally his tongue — and she moaned into his mouth.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured against her labia. “The machine prepared you well, but it isn’t me.”

“No,” Lea gasped, reaching for his cock and guiding it to her opening. “Fuck me, Marcus. Show me why flesh, foreskin, and a head are better than plastic.”

He entered her with a deep groan — slowly, inch by inch — until he was completely buried inside her. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel every bit of him — every millimeter of his masculine heat contrasting with the cold rubber of the machine.

“Give me a moment,” he whispered, holding still and savoring the tight embrace of her muscles pulsing rhythmically around him. “You’re incredible. So hot, so tight, so alive.”

Then he began to thrust. Slow at first — deliberate — with deep, powerful movements that made her whole body tremble. Unlike the machine, which was mechanically perfect, Marcus was imperfect, human — his breathing ragged, his sweat dripping onto her breasts; at times, he briefly lost his balance and had to steady himself. And that was exactly what made it so much better.

“Harder,” Lea pleaded, digging her fingers into his back. “Fuck me harder, Marcus. I want to feel it — even tomorrow.”

He picked up the pace, driving his hips faster and harder against her until the rhythmic slap of their bodies echoed loudly through the room. The old wooden bed groaned beneath them, protesting the violent motion, but they paid it no mind. Lea threw her head back, her eyes rolling upward as waves of pleasure washed over her body.

“Yes, yes, just like that,” she stammered incoherently. “I’m coming — I’m coming again.”

Marcus reached between them and rubbed her clit in time with his thrusts, and that was it — she clung to him, her body went rigid, and then a second, even more intense orgasm swept through her. Her muscles contracted rhythmically around his cock, massaging it, practically coaxing him toward his own climax.

“I can’t hold back anymore,” he gasped, sinking deep into her as his seed shot out — hot and pulsing — filling her and dripping between her thighs, a sticky, intimate blend of their two bodies.

He remained lying on top of her, breathing heavily, his heart hammering against her chest. “The machine,” he said finally with a faint laugh, “can’t do that. It can’t sweat, or tremble, or give you that feeling when you come together.”

Lea stroked his hair and kissed his sweat-dampened forehead. “No,” she agreed, “but it’s good practice for lonely nights. And sometimes,” she added with a mischievous smile, “I might want both. You and the machine.”

Marcus lifted his head and looked at her, his eyebrows raised theatrically. “Both?”

“Double the pleasure,” she whispered, playfully biting his ear. “Imagine you fucking me while the fuck-machine works on your ass. Or I use my machine while you come in my mouth. The possibilities are endless, Marcus. We still have so much to explore.”

He laughed — a deep, satisfied sound. “You’re dangerous, Lea. Dangerous and wonderful. But my asshole isn’t an option — absolutely not!”

Outside, the sun was slowly rising, and the first light of morning streamed through the narrow windows of the priest’s cell, illuminating their naked, entwined bodies — resting between the silent masturbation machine on the washstand and the now-quiet fuck-machine on the nightstand. Two worlds that had merged that night: the mechanical and the human. And Lea already knew she would need both to get through the long, chaste days with a fresh-faced novice — and the even longer, unchaste nights with Marcus.

Frankie and Amathea stood hand in hand in the doorway. Frankie’s long, thick cock dangled down to mid-thigh, heavy and engorged with fluid. Amathea looked down in embarrassment when Lea noticed her pussy, red and chafed from use. They lay down next to their parents, cuddling close.

Marcus lifted his head from Amathea’s lap, his mouth glistening moistly in the morning light. "We’ve only just begun, my love," he said with a rough, seductive undertone. "The night was long, but our juices are far from spent."

Frankie, lying beside Lea with his athletic body, was already caressing her belly; his fingers wandered purposefully upward to her breasts. "Mother taught us to be sparing," he grinned at Lea while rolling her nipples between his fingers. "But with you, I always forget that."

Amathea sighed deeply as Marcus once again slid his tongue over her swollen clit. "Frankie has already pleasured himself three times with the machine," she blurted out breathlessly, her hands digging into Marcus’s hair. "But he’s still hard. This family just has stamina."

Lea laughed softly and spread her legs wider for Frankie, feeling his cock twitch against her inner thigh, ready for her. "Then show me what you’ve learned, my boy," she challenged him, her eyes sparkling provocatively.

Frankie needed no further invitation. He positioned himself over her, his long, powerful cock in his hand, and first rubbed it up and down against her still-moist slit, spreading her juices and Marcus’s fluids as a natural lubricant. Then he thrust into her with a deep groan, his hips driving forward — deep and hard, just as was his way — impulsive, young, and full of unbridled energy.

“God, you’re tight,” Frankie gasped, beginning to take her with a hard, rhythmic pace. “Tighter than the machine, tighter than anything.”

Amathea, wanting to watch, turned around for Marcus and offered him her backside, bracing herself on her elbows and knees. "Fuck me, Father," she whispered shamelessly, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Just like you gave it to Mother. I want to feel like I belong to this family."

Marcus straightened up; his cock was hard again, glistening with Amathea’s juices. He gripped her hips, positioned himself behind her, and thrust into her cunt with a deep, satisfied sigh. The two couples quickly found a shared rhythm; the old bed groaned under the weight of their four entwined bodies, and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin filled the room.

Lea reached past Frankie to caress Amathea’s swaying breasts while Marcus took her from behind. "We’re a perfect family," Lea moaned, her fingers digging into Frankie’s back as she locked eyes with Amathea — mother and daughter, united by the simultaneous pleasure their men were giving them.

"Cum inside me, Frankie," Lea pleaded; her second orgasm of the hour was building faster than the first. "Fill me up; show me you’re my good boy."

Frankie quickened his thrusts, driving himself deep into her again and again until he stiffened, shuddered, and — with a loud, animalistic grunt — came inside her, releasing hot, powerful spurts that filled her walls and spilled out between her thighs.

Marcus, having witnessed the scene, followed shortly after; his fingers dug into Amathea’s hips as he came deep inside her pussy, his semen mingling with her own juices.

The four of them finally collapsed onto the bed — a tangle of glistening, breathing bodies, hands caressing gently, mouths kissing tenderly. "I think," Marcus said at last, breaking the silence, "we should save the machines for later. For tonight. A family evening the way it’s meant to be."

All four of them laughed — sweaty, happy, satisfied — an unusual family, bound not by blood but by choice, carnal desire, and love.

Lea smiled mischievously and handed Amathea the soft rubber dildo, which was still slick with moisture. "Here, my dear. But be careful; it’s still set to my preferences — the speed is pretty high."

Amathea took the oval case containing the flesh-colored cock and ran her fingers over its smooth surface. "I can handle it," she said confidently, her eyes sparkling with a challenge. "Or would you rather insert it for me yourself, Mama Lea?"

Frankie, lying beside Lea and still caressing her affectionately, laughed softly. "Amathea is insatiable. Just a few hours ago, she had her own fuck-machine running for three hours straight until the battery died."

"And you were jealous," Amathea shot back as she lay on her back and spread her legs. Her flushed pussy was still wet with Marcus’s semen, her labia swollen and parted. "Come on, Lea. Show me how you put it inside yourself. That cock looks completely different from mine."

Lea sat up, her body still warm from Frankie’s semen, which was slowly trickling out of her. She picked up the dildo and briefly turned it on to check the settings. The rubber cock twitched rhythmically in her hand. "I’ll switch it to gentle," she said, turning a small dial on the side of the device. “You’re still young, Amathea. You don’t need hard thrusts to come.”

“Try it,” Amathea whispered, spreading her legs even wider.

Lea leaned over her, positioned the dildo at Amathea’s entrance, and slowly, gently pushed it inside. Amathea moaned, her hips arching up to meet it as the flesh-colored cock slid into her — inch by inch — until the base pressed against her labia.

“Now press the button,” Amathea panted lustfully.

Lea pressed it, and the dildo began to work — slow, deep thrusts that made Amathea moan. But Amathea wanted more. She reached for Lea’s hand, which was holding the dildo, and pressed the speed-up button herself.

“Harder,” she demanded, her voice rough with desire. “I want it harder and faster, Mama. Show me how a real woman lets a machine take her.”

The dildo sped up; the thrusts became faster and more powerful. Amathea writhed beneath the rhythmic pounding, her hands grabbing her own breasts and rubbing hard against her taut nipples. “Yes, like that,” she moaned. “That’s how the machine fucks me!”

Marcus, who had been watching, was aroused again. He positioned himself beside Amathea’s head; his cock — still slick with her juices and his own semen — hovered in front of her face. “If you’re that hungry, my girl,” he said gruffly, “then take this, too.”

Amathea greedily opened her mouth and took him in, while the machine thrust tirelessly into her pussy. The sight was obscene and arousing — Amathea filled at both ends, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy as Lea held the machine and controlled the speed, while nearby, Frankie embraced Lea from behind, his hands on her breasts and his semi-erect cock pressed against the crack of her ass.

“She’s about to cum,” Lea said to Marcus, watching as Amathea’s muscles tightened around the dildo. “Can you feel it?”

Marcus nodded, feeling Amathea’s moans vibrate against his cock as she held it in her mouth. “Let it come, Lea. Finish her off!”

“Press the button now,” Amathea panted, aroused.

Lea pressed it, and the dildo sprang to life — slow, deep thrusts that made Amathea moan. But Amathea wanted more. She reached for the hand Lea was using to hold the dildo and pressed the speed-up button herself.

“Harder,” she demanded, her voice rough with lust. “I want it harder and faster, Mama. Show me how a real woman lets a machine take her.”

The dildo sped up; the thrusts grew faster and more powerful. Amathea writhed beneath the rhythmic pounding, her hands grasping her own breasts and rubbing hard against her taut nipples. “Yes, like that,” she moaned. “That’s how the machine fucks me!”

Marcus, who had been watching, was aroused again. He positioned himself beside Amathea’s head; his cock — still slick with her juices and his own semen — hovered in front of her face. "If you’re that hungry, my girl," he said hoarsely, "then take this, too."

Amathea greedily opened her mouth and took it in, while the machine thrust tirelessly into her pussy. The sight was obscene and arousing — Amathea filled at both ends, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy as Lea held the machine and controlled the speed, while Frankie stood beside them, embracing Lea from behind with his hands on her breasts and his semi-erect cock pressed against the crack of her ass.

"She’s about to cum," Lea said to Marcus, watching Amathea’s muscles tighten around the dildo. "Can you feel it?"

Marcus nodded, feeling the vibration of Amathea’s moans against his cock. "Let her cum, Lea. Finish her off!"

Lea hit the turbo button — a feature she had rarely used before — and she nearly had died from the sheer intensity of the orgasm. The dildo accelerated to maximum speed, a blurring throb that pushed Amathea right over the edge. She screamed Marcus's name, her body went rigid, and then she squirted violently; her fluids bubbled around the dildo and ran over the glass receptacle, which was still half-filled with a mixture of her juices and Marcus's semen.

The orgasm seemed endless — a series of waves coursing through her body while the machine continued its relentless work — until Amathea finally slumped back, her mouth falling open and slipping off Marcus's cock, leaving her nothing more than a trembling, gasping girl.

"Enough," she whispered at last, and Lea turned off the device, slowly withdrawing the glistening, wet dildo from her pussy.

“Your fuck-machine will be recharged by tomorrow,” Frankie said softly, stroking Amathea’s sweat-dampened forehead. “But we’ve got the whole day ahead of us until then. And once we’re married...” his voice trailed off. He couldn’t wait for the day they could finally get married.

Amathea smiled wearily, her eyes half-closed. “I love this family,” she murmured. “So much.”

Marcus asked Frankie how things had gone with Aunt Isabella last weekend.

Frankie grinned broadly and let his hand slide over Lea’s hip as he turned to Marcus. “Aunt Isabella? God, yeah, she still looks incredible. She’s sixty now, but that woman has a presence that just knocks you out. She still wears those tight corsets, and her tits...” He gave a low whistle through his teeth. “Sure, she’s had work done — they sit high like a twenty-year-old’s, and she gets regular facelifts. But her body, man — it’s still top-notch.”

Amathea moaned softly as Marcus gently stroked her smooth, hairless mound, his fingers gliding through the damp traces of her arousal. “Go on,” she urged Frankie, her eyes half-closed in pleasure. “What did you guys do?”

“Well, actually, hardly anything...” Frankie cleared his throat and blushed, though his eyes sparkled with excitement. “I was actually just supposed to be staying in the guest room, but that evening, when I went to take a bath, she was standing there in the hallway, wearing nothing but a sheer negligee. She looked at me — giving me that look she used to have back in her movie days, that ‘I’m-going-to-fuck-you-into-submission’ look — and then she said, ‘Come here, my boy; let Auntie Isabella show you why she used to be the queen of the silver screen.’”

Lea laughed softly and sat up to listen better, all the while holding Frankie’s cock in her hand and gently massaging it. “So? Did you let her seduce you?”

“How could I resist?” Frankie closed his eyes as Lea quickened her movements. “She pulled me into her bedroom; old trophies and photos from her movies were still standing everywhere. She pushed me down onto her bed, leaned over me, and then... then she gave me a blowjob like nothing I’d ever experienced. That woman has techniques she’s perfected over decades. She fucked me with her mouth while working on herself with a huge black dildo — a souvenir from one of her most famous films, supposedly a replica of John Holmes’s cock. She just fucked me over the Jordan with ease,” Frankie said with a dreamy glance, "no pun intended, but no girl over mom had fucked me so deadly, by Gosh!"

Marcus gave a deep laugh; his fingers had now penetrated Amathea, who moved rhythmically against his hand as she listened to Frankie’s story. “Isabella was always insatiable,” he said thoughtfully. “Back when she was still related to me — before the adoption and all that — she seduced me when I was just a teenager. She was thirty then; I was fifteen. She taught me how to lick a woman properly, how to find the G-spot, how to prepare for orgasming sex.”

“She taught me the same things,” Amathea whispered, opening her legs wider for Marcus’s fingers. “When I turned eighteen, she invited me over — a ‘girls’ night,’ she called it. By the end, I was lying on her bed, and she was bringing me to climax with her tongue — over and over again, until I begged her to stop. She said a woman needs to know what she wants before she takes a man.”

“We should invite her,” Lea suddenly suggested, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “A family get-together. Isabella, the four of us — just imagine everything she could teach us. Her experience, combined with our... machines and our desire.”

Frankie groaned as Lea tightened her grip on his cock. "They’d come," he panted. "She said she misses the old days — fucking on camera. She’d love to be the center of attention again, even if it’s just in front of the family."

"Then it’s settled," Marcus said, leaning down to kiss Amathea’s nipple while his fingers worked her clit faster and faster. "Next weekend. Isabella is coming to visit. And until then, we’ll practice so we’re ready for her masterclass."

Amathea came with a loud cry, her muscles clenching around Marcus’s fingers as she imagined what would happen next week — the old porn legend, her mother, her brother, her father, all in one bed, all naked, all hungry for more. Things were going to heat up this weekend; that was for sure.

Marcus pulled back — his face still glistening with Amathea’s juices — and sat on the bed, legs crossed beneath him. His eyes were serious, almost sad, as he studied the other three: Amathea, still trembling from the gentle aftershocks; Frankie, whose cock was twitching in Lea’s hand; and Lea herself, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"Marc?" Lea asked softly, letting go of Frankie and scooting closer to him. "What’s wrong?"

He sighed deeply and ran a hand over his face, wiping Amathea’s juices from his lips. "I’m serious about this," he said quietly. “All these machines, these... contraptions. They’re practical, sure; they keep us chaste, they satisfy us when there’s no one around to fuck or jerk us off. But look at us — we’re four people who desire each other, who love each other, and yet all we talk about anymore is motors and rubber cocks and vintage fucking machines from the seventies.”

He reached for Lea’s hand and squeezed it tight. "I want to feel you. Flesh against flesh. Breath against breath. When I enter you, Lea, I don’t want to have to think about whether the machine’s battery will last. When I touch Amathea, I don’t want to hear a computer-generated voice whispering young slut. I want you . Your sounds, your sweat, your juices, your moans."

Amathea slid closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "But Papa Marcus, the machines are just... an extra. A toy."

"For you, maybe," he said, kissing her forehead. "For all of you. But I’ve started to wonder if we need them because we’ve forgotten what it’s like to truly be with one another. Without electronic aids, without synthetic voices, without programmed rhythms."

Frankie sat up; his cock was semi-erect, but his face showed concern. "You want to throw them out? The jerk-off machine, the fuck machines?"

"No," Marcus said quickly, smiling faintly. “No, I’m not being dogmatic or stupid. They are there to give us wonderful orgasms, to satisfy and relax us when we need it; and that’s okay. If Lea wants them, if Amathea needs them, then they use them, very well. But I want... I want to make a pact. A human pact.”

“What kind of?” Lea asked softly.

“That before we ever turn on a machine again, we try to manage on our own first. That we take the time to touch, to feel, to smell one another. That we don’t invite Isabella over to admire her industrial gadgets, but to learn how a woman of sixty can still effortlessly drive a man wild with her bare hands. Without electricity. Without motors.”

He looked at each of them, his eyes pleading. “May I simply take you? All three of you? I want to fuck Lea myself, ride Amanthea wildly, and give Frankie a proper fisting-style jerk-off, like peeling a squirting banana. Without machines, without aids — just my body and yours? Tonight, right now, before the sun comes up?”

Lea smiled — a warm, genuine smile — and nodded. “Yes, Marcus. Yes. We are here. We are all yours.”

Amathea and Frankie nodded too, and slowly — very slowly — they lay back down beside their parents, setting aside the machines that had been so central until now. Just for this one night. Just for Marcus. Just for the flesh.

---

The Storm

---

Revolution

The pent-up rage of generations erupted in a single, apocalyptic inferno. The following night, the storm broke loose with an unstoppable, primal force. In the aftermath, no one knew who had struck the decisive match, but the effect was absolute: almost simultaneously, the golden cathedrals, the opulent priests' palaces, and the entire temple district — untouchable for centuries — were ablaze. Every single ecclesiastical brothel burned like dry straw. The priestesses from these brothels — who had once controlled women’s bodies while wallowing in the very same sinful mire, submitting to sex day and night — now fled through the smoke-blackened streets, naked or clutching a scrap of cloth to their chests. Mercilessly, the frenzied mob overtook them, raping, tarring and feathering, or simply slaughtering them. That first bloody night saw the deaths of some 25,000 priests and pillars of the establishment — killed with the same harshness, heartlessness, and cold-bloodedness with which they had mistreated and oppressed the people for centuries.

The hated fertility factories — symbols of a soulless technocracy — were methodically blown up, one by one. Explosives made short work of the sterile halls, the production lines, the medical robots, and the handful of desperate priests who had hidden there in terror as the storm raged outside. For three days, the revolution tore ceaselessly through the urban canyons of the Gigacity. It claimed thousands of lives, and blood literally ran in the street gutters. But the compass needle of history turned inexorably and stubbornly through 180 degrees: the Sámi rebels gained the upper hand and won all the decisive battles after three days of relentless house-to-house fighting.

Marcus had barricaded himself in his study throughout the storm. Using his mobile phone, encrypted radio frequencies, and flickering screens, he coordinated troops at the hotspots, intervening via digital command precisely where the strategic deployment of the GHOST was required. Thea, by his side, provided pinpoint information — heaven only knows how that ancient witch learned the minute-by-minute sequence of events. He hadn’t slept a wink for three days and three nights. His eyes were bloodshot, his nerves stretched to the breaking point. Now, as the dull rumble of explosions in the distance slowly faded, the adrenaline gave way to a leaden, paralyzing exhaustion. Trembling, he put away the radio, turned around, and leaned his heavy head against Lea’s strong shoulder, closing his burning eyelids for a few precious minutes of rest while, outside, a new world rose from the ruins.

Twilight of the Gods

“Lea, let’s go to bed. Tomorrow is my last day… Thea prophesied it. Let me say goodbye to you, for I have loved you from the very second I fought to get you out of that damn, shitty brothel back then. I don’t regret a single punch I threw back then, because I loved you from the very first moment.” Lea looked at him with sad, knowing eyes and gently helped him to bed; Marcus was so exhausted that he instantly fell into a deep, heavy sleep. But after only a few hours, he started awake. Thea had appeared to him in his dreams, urgent and admonishing: he had only a few hours left in this world, and he was meant to spend them close to his girl. When he opened his eyes, the seeress was gone, of course, yet the message burned in his soul. Instantly wide awake, he turned and, breathless, snuggled against Lea’s warm, familiar body. He dared not tell her that tomorrow would be her last day too — that they would both die at the same hour, as Thea had said. Driven by the grim premonition of the end, they mated incessantly — round after round, without pause and filled with desperate, wild lust — until the first rooster crowed in the distance. Afterward, he stepped silently into the shower and donned his finest garment — a floor-length, snow-white tunic with a magnificent golden hem.

He left the house and ran through the smoking ruins toward the massive old palace in the temple district. There, behind barricaded gates, the last desperate remnants of the former priesthood had entrenched themselves. The captain of his Seed Rebels approached him and suggested simply laying siege to the bastion and starving the men inside. But Marcus shook his head; he had very different plans. "Captain," he said in a grave voice, "my last will and testament is at my home, with my wife, Lea. Please act in strict accordance with it after the victory. And now, please give me the sword with the ebony hilt. I am going in there now. Alone. Spare our men's lives. I go alone." The captain was visibly confused, yet he immediately recognized the legendary Ghost by that unmistakable, authoritative voice. "I will see to the will personally, sir. But the sword... I don't understand. You could have pistols, a rifle, or a loaded submachine gun — it’s all here in the armory!" His grizzled, battle-hardened sergeant tugged at the captain’s sleeve and whispered, "Captain, the old sword is hidden under the floorboards of the field kitchen. The cook — that old drunk — was rambling some nonsense about an order he received in a dream. I’ll fetch it."

Marcus accepted the heavy, precious, ancient blade in silence. Although he had never held a real sword in his life, he felt a strange familiarity; he was now following Thea’s inner script to the letter. "I am going in alone, Captain. Spare your men, please," he repeated. He turned and walked away, but three of his best and most loyal friends — The very men who had once helped him out like brothers when it came to impregnating Lea followed him unbidden, keeping just two paces behind. Marcus glanced back sternly, but the three of them shook their heads grimly. "You certainly aren't going in there without us, Marcus. Don't go making a fool of yourself!" Together, they trudged through the palace’s fire-blackened, smoke-filled corridors. Marcus led the way, for he seemed to have his destination deep within the labyrinth clearly in mind.

With the force of his heavy boot, he kicked in the massive wooden door and stormed into the hidden chamber like a raging gale. Spinning like a furious whirlwind, he struck down as many priests as he could with brutal, powerful blows. Blood splattered against the walls as his three friends unleashed a barrage of gunfire, weapons blazing in both hands. The ear-splitting cracks of muzzle blasts echoed through the room until, within minutes, not a single priest remained standing — none of the forty final loyalists of the old regime. Yet it was not over — not quite. Marcus strode through the corpses and kicked over the large, ornate wooden armchair. Crouching behind it was the man himself: the High Priest, the supreme architect of all human misery on Omnia. Without a moment’s hesitation, Marcus swung his sword and severed the tyrant’s head with a swift, merciless stroke.

Gasping for breath, he turned to his friends: "It’s over... for good." But as he looked down at himself, his breath caught in his throat. The brilliant white of his toga was rapidly turning a deep, bloody red across his chest. Marcus sank heavily to his knees. Why was he bleeding so profusely? Why was the hot blood running ceaselessly down his body... was this truly the prophesied end? At that moment, gunshots rang out again behind him. His friends were firing wildly, unleashing a hail of bullets directly over Marcus’s head. He turned with great effort and saw the High Priest’s deputy slump to the floor behind the heavy curtain, riddled with dozens of bullets. The cur had been hiding in the shadows and had cowardly stabbed Marcus in the back; his dead, cramped fingers still clutched the handle of the bloody murder weapon. Horrified, his friends rushed forward and caught his heavy body before it could hit the hard floor. "No, Marcus! Hang in there! We’re taking you to the clinic — we’ve already called the ambulance!" they shouted over one another. Then the heavy door flew open once more. Lea burst in, breathless, her hair slick with sweat, a revolver drawn — his grandfather’s old, venerable army revolver — , Marcus noted with a faint smile; the thing wasn't even loaded. She stared at the blood-smeared scene, and the friends immediately stepped back in awe to let her reach him. Lea tossed the weapon aside, sank weeping onto the bloody floor, and cradled Marcus’s heavy head tenderly in her lap.

Lea pressed his head firmly against her chest as her tears dripped ceaselessly onto his blood-stained white toga. She bent low to catch his fading whispers amidst the thick clouds of gunpowder smoke. "You surely read it... I proposed Amanthea and Frankie to the New Council as architects of the new world," he breathed, his voice breaking. Lea nodded vigorously, sobs choking her voice. "Yes, I understood, my love... no more priests, but architects. Yes, I’ll see to it!" Marcus smiled faintly; his eyes were already glazing over, yet he summoned his last remaining strength. "Give this sword to Amanthea... Thea wants it that way. And give her the old device lying in the silk cloths on my desk, too. Amanthea will listen to the voice... she will understand the prophetess. Thea wants it that way."

He swallowed hard, and a shudder ran through his dying body. "Thank you, dear sister, for accompanying me through this wild life... I would have wanted to thank you a hundred times over for everything tonight. But my strength is failing fast. Stay true to yourself, little sister... and marry a fine, upright man with a strong dick and take good care of the children. They are the best thing we had to give this battered world." A final, loving tremor colored his words as he tried to reach for her hand. "Embrace them for me... and apologize to Frankie. I locked the two of them in the bedroom from the outside this morning because that hot-headed fool was determined to join me in the fight. I love you, Lea... and I love our children..." His head slumped heavily to the side, and his last breath escaped his lips. Marcus — the Ghost, the liberator of Omnia — was dead.

Lea let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream that echoed through the palace’s fire-blackened halls. She cradled her husband’s lifeless body, washed the blood from his brow with her tears, and silently vowed that his legacy would brightly illuminate the new era. Outside in the streets, the people cheered the end of tyranny, unaware that the man who had given them their freedom had just surrendered his soul to the stars.

Lea looked up with eyes veiled in tears, yet strangely clear. "Carl, Louis, Engelbert — you heard what Marcus is asking?" Carl lowered his gaze, deeply shaken, unable to bear the pain etched on her face. "Every single word, Lea... — dear, poor Lea," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. Lea looked straight into his face, a peaceful, almost ethereal smile playing on her lips. Carl — yes, they had spent a whole wild year fucking, trying to conceive a child. "Carl, my love... I’m going with him. I suppose I have no choice." She pressed Marcus’s face — now growing cold — tightly against her warm bosom once more, and in that moment of absolute silence, her entire life flashed before her eyes like a vivid, colorful film.

She saw him before her again, the way he had stormed into that loathsome ecclesiastical brothel like an unleashed whirlwind. With a single, mighty blow of his fist, he had knocked the fat prelate off her thighs and lifted her into his strong arms as if she were light as a feather. He had charged through the opulent lobby, dealing such powerful punches to left and right that real teeth and false dentures went flying through the air in high arcs, and had simply carried her off. He was her biological brother, he had roared as he ran wildly, and his sister was dear to him — he would never let her rot in this sinful, filthy hole, never in a million years! Back home, he had bathed the fifteen-year-old girl himself, anointing and perfuming her with healing oils to wash away every trace of impurity. Gently, he had stroked her clit beneath the water, smiling tenderly as she shuddered and spasmed in orgasm. She had never allowed anyone — girl or man — before to touch her clit, let alone jerk her off. Then he had stormed straight into the official’s office, holding her by the hand, and married her on the spot. She had been speechless with delight at the time. A mountain of a man who snatched her — just like that — from the clutches of the priesthood, then treated her as gently as if she were made of glass, and sent her to university, where he supported her studies magnificently.

A man who never hesitated or wavered. He was only the third man ever to have lain with Princess Golda — daughter of King Ludokar of Omnia Magna — and had been allowed to fuck her and make her scream with pleasure — Golda, his longtime friend and Amanthea’s foster mother. When she could not conceive a child by him, he had — without false pride — placed his fifteen best friends in her arms so that she might conceive a child through them. She was allowed to fuck those fine fellows day and night for a year; Marcus was very generous in this regard, and he wanted her to have a child. The friends fucked her with great seriousness and respect, gifting her a thousand orgasms and loads of their semen. Marcus would sit in his wingback chair, nodding encouragingly at the couple fucking — perhaps there was another course to follow, a dessert to finish things off? He was the man who knew exactly where they would find their adopted children. The one who had placed young Frankie at her breast so she could teach the boy the secrets of making babies — and how mischievously his brother had grinned as he watched! The very same man who, on that one unforgettable night, had so tenderly turned his Amanthea into a woman, and who had sent both children to university. The man who jerked off Frankie’s cock like few others could, who poured his semen into Amanthea by the handful, and who showed her how she could always reach orgasm during sex. Lea’s eyes now rested with infinite love upon his peaceful face, which wore a smile even in death. He had founded and led the entire rebellion — acting in total anonymity from the shadows — because he deeply loathed that idiotic hero-worship. A genius who had coordinated the revolution from his study better than many a general at the front. And ultimately, he had come here to personally send the most stubborn gangster-priests to the afterlife and to put a swift end to the cruel slaughter of women, girls, and civilians.

Lea’s hot tears streamed ceaselessly onto his broad chest. Just that very night, he had fucked her like never before in their lives; they had fucked in the familiar missionary position, humped like madmen in wild doggy-style, and — while spooning — felt each other deeply and gently as he came. A massive wave of love, boundless tenderness, and pure maternal pride set her own heart racing. Yet the heart raced and raced and raced frantically, stumbled, and finally stuttered to a halt — bewildered and helplessly wondering what place Lea actually had left in this world, all alone? She was meant to be with him — with her eternal Marcus, her brother, her lover, her husband, and her savior. The heart simply stopped beating — that loyal, simple-minded fool.

Lea’s limp face slumped forward onto his blood-soaked chest. Her pale lips touched his skin and turned a deep, indelible red — red from his warm blood.

United in life, inseparable in death.

Lea was dead.

● ● ●

(Created with only slight AI assistance from Gemini)