Bathurst Island

Now it was the 11th of July, a hot day, and Angela sat alone in the snack bar, sipping an iced coffee, wishing she had worn a tank top instead of long sleeves, shorts instead of jeans, sandals instead of sneakers. Chinese cultural modesty was a hard thing to overcome. The campus was mostly empty. Some summer classes, but lots of empty classrooms, and empty buildings undergoing renovation. Loud noises as construction went on here and there. Semillas University was growing, due to the publicity it got from being the center of the Sire Project. The Project was getting more and more private and foundational donations from around the world, but some were going to the college itself now too. A new medical building was going up. Yet, as far as she could tell, the town of Semillas was still small and friendly. If only it could stay that way.

Now she smiled as Duvon and Phil, Kai-Kai’s friends, sat down across the round table with their burgers and fries. Despite its being lunchtime it was just the three of them here. “Hi, Angela,” Duvon said. “Maybe you could help me tell Phil here to cool down. He’s still going nuts about Ms. Agawa.”

Angela found herself laughing. “There might be others like her, you know.” They were talking about the woman from Bathurst Island, off the north coast of Australia, who was yesterday’s I-4. It had become customary for a lot of the women, on the day of their impreg, to wear the traditional dress of their cultures. Usually they toned it down a little, because they never wore traditional dress themselves, some of them were unsure what “traditional dress” would be, and some costumes did not comply with American standards of modesty. Not so Ms. Agawa, who went around that day bare-breasted and barefoot, wearing just a beaded loincloth, her face and breasts painted with yellow and green stripes that seemed to glow on her black skin. It was the traditional formal dress of the Tiwi Tribe. The fact that she was six feet tall and looked like a model made her stately walk through campus all the more striking. She wore her almost complete nudity like it was the most expensive garment on campus, acting like a visiting dignitary. Which in a sense all the women were. That’s certainly how Kai-Kai treated them.

Phil, a little less dignified, still could not dampen his excitement. “She was hot, real hot, and gorgeous,” he enthused. Unlike Duvon, Phil was bisexual and gawked at women as often as at men. “And of course a black woman, used to a big penis like Kai- Kai’s.”

Angela rolled her eyes. So did Duvon. From processing thousands of women, and looking at their “pitches” —the depth to which they would allow Kai-Kai to insert his penis —the Project deduced that penis size was not related to race. If anything it was related to height, so if Ms. Agawa’s husband was tall and black, Phil might have been right, though for the wrong reason. As she recalled, Ms. Agawa’s “pitch” was seven inches, which was pretty deep.

According to a chart done by Dr. Weber of the Mathematics Department, who did statistical analyses for the Admission Committee, the listed pitches followed a bell curve distribution which was similar to the distribution of penis size in the general population, but skewed toward the high end. The standard deviation was 0.7 inch, which meant that about 7% of the women specified a pitch of seven inches or more. But only about 1% of men actually have penises that long. 0.5% agreed to be pierced by all of Kai-Kai’s nine-plus inches. In other words, he got to go “all the way in” on the average every 200 impregs, or about once a month. But only about 0.00002% of men, or one in 50,000, actually have penises of nine inches or more. Perhaps the women specifying deep pitches were feeling adventurous. Or maybe they realized from practicing with those “Model Sire” dildos that they had bigger vaginas than they thought.

Phil kept enthusing about Ms. Agawa. “A hot woman, almost naked. It’s no surprise Kai-Kai came extra fast.”

“I suppose you couldn’t help but look,” Angela pointed out. Ms. Agawa, obviously uninhibited, requested that the impreg take place on a sunny grassy spot next to the quad, near one of Kai-Kai’s outdoor showers. It attracted a crowd, even on a campus in summer session, even in the blazing midday sun. In the 102-degree heat it was probably the sweatiest-ever impreg. Also unusual, in that the woman was almost as naked as the Sire himself. Two bodies with sweat pouring off them, glistening in the sun. Angela’s sexual dreams about Kai-Kai had abated (finally!), but that image would probably return to her some night. Ms. Agawa was also very vocal, her orgasmic cries resounding off the buildings, drowning out Kai-Kai’s polite low moan when he ejaculated.

Just before they joined together Kai-Kai had graciously allowed Ms. Agawa to coat his erect penis with a chalky substance which according to tribal beliefs increased the chance of conception. Afterward as he got up and turned to the crowd everyone could see that only the two inches at the root remained white. The remaining seven inches, down to the glans, was wet and its normal purple post-coitus hue, the chalky substance having been dissolved in Ms. Agawa’s vagina.

“And then after that,” Phil said, “to walk down to the lake, and take a cool swim, washing all that sweat off, and fall asleep in the shade of that tree. Mmmm! Heaven!”

Duvon and Angela smiled. Then Duvon said, “Seriously, Phil, would you really want to be the Sire?”

Phil sipped his soda and cleared his throat. With a suddenly sober look he took a breath and said, “No.”

Lots of young men might envy Kai-Kai at times, but Phil spoke for basically all of them. Never being allowed to wear clothes, always having  to ejaculate into the assigned women on a strict schedule, having one’s anus pried open every week and one’s insides minutely inspected, every aspect of one’s body being studied and photographed and published and known to everybody, and at the Lab drainings, having orgasm after orgasm forced out of one well after one’s penis got oversensitive and one just wanted to go to sleep . . . No, being the Sire was not something a young man would really want, no matter how he might fantasize about it in one of his randier moments.