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Prof. Mikaere Agawa, of Palmerston, NT, Australia

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.


Angela said, “How did your second all-guy draining go?” Referring to two weeks ago Sunday.


“Not good,” Duvon said desolately. “I thought us guys would know how to get another guy off, but I have to face it. Kai-Kai likes the ladies.”


Phil, who had been there, said, “Supposedly everybody is bi, to some extent. I’m 50 - 50. But Kai-Kai must be at least 99 percent straight. We finally had to call in Mrs. Daverson to throat him.”


“I’m sorry, that sounds like a bummer,” Angela said. She supposed their hopes were dashed for good. Now her eyes widened as she saw Duvon pull a harness out of his bag. She knew what it was —a strap-around holder for a dildo, used when someone wanted to “f**k” a man in the anus. She heard it was called “pegging”. “You didn’t really use that on him, did you?”


“No,” Duvon said, laughing. “It’s hard for a guy to put on. His junk gets in the way. We were hoping to get Ms. Daverson to use it. No luck.”


“What are you doing carrying that thing around in your bag??”


Duvon looked at it thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s kind of a good luck charm. Maybe I’ll find a girl who’ll use it on me. I’ve got a dildo too.” He fingered the cupped ring in the center of the harness that would hold it. “But a small one. I’m not into pain.”


Phil said, “Duvon is more a receiver than a giver.”


“Oh,” Angela said, nodding understandingly, wondering what her traditional-Chinese parents would make of this conversation.


“Here he comes,” Duvon said, looking through the big glass windows. Then, aware of the play on words, he said, “Actually he’s not coming at the moment.” He put the harness and the dildo back in his bag.


Angela’s head turned to see Kai-Kai walking toward them from across the quad, casually talking to three women and pointing out things. They were all dressed oddly, and suddenly Angela realized that these were today’s I-1, I-2 and I-3. She’d forgotten their names, but from looking at the schedule yesterday she remembered that one was from France, one was from South Africa, and one was from Brazil. The boy was giving them a little tour of campus.


Angela was of two minds about traditional outfits. The custom seemed to begin a few months ago, she wasn’t sure how. To her, they reduced the women to national stereotypes, and reminded her of traditional submissive female roles. But it was entirely voluntary and the women seemed proud to wear them. Maybe women just liked to play dress-up. The costumes hardly expressed their true personalities. Ms. Agawa, for example, the day before her impreg, spoke in the Guest House lecture room on changes in nutrition attitudes in her home country. She was in a typical woman’s business suit, prim and proper. She taught at Charles Darwin University in Palmerston. It was a shock to see her walking around campus the next day painted up and all but naked.


The Guest House lectures were becoming popular. Given by either P-3’s (women waiting for their impreg) or P-4’s (those who had been impregnated and were waiting for the flight), they were on diverse subjects but always interesting. Perhaps subconsciously these women wanted to prove that they were more than a uterus, in town to receive the Sire’s sperm. Originally intended for the other women staying at the Guest House, the lectures were attracting people from the college community. They were now being recorded and put online.

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