Atlantea Ch. 11

I opted for the blow job option and knelt in front of her. I was facing away from the television, and of course, was blocking her view. Not wanting to miss any of the action in what was so far a thrilling game, wherein the Caps were battling back from a 4-0 deficit, she moved her head back and forth vigorously, while I held on to the back of her head. After about 30 seconds I felt like I was ready to blow, so pulled my cock from her mouth, producing a loud smacking sound, and ran around behind her. I stroked my rod a few more times, then pushed down on the tip so that it was aimed at the funnel.

"Hey!" she said, as a few warm drops hit her unclothed back.

"Sorry!" I said, holding my unruly member more firmly, and getting the rest of the semen into the funnel.

"I better stay like this," she said, referring to her kneeling position, "to increase chances of conception. Wanna finish off my boobs? They're still pretty frickin' full."

I slid back under her, just in time for the third period to start. While I drained both of her breasts, the Caps scored another goal, then ended up winning in overtime. I had another massive erection by this point, so I went around behind her and filled the funnel to its brim once more.

* * *

I settled into a routine, each day an orgy of sexual activity. The Atlanteans had arranged a cover story with my university, wherein I would, supposedly, be finishing the rest of my master's degree at a school in Switzerland, and, as a result, I no longer had to show up at the department. I had no responsibilities, other than impregnating Phoebe, Natasha, Ruby, and Alicia, and satisfying Rosalind's insatiable cum fetish. Truth be told, much of my dwindling supply xhash was going to sessions with her. I was also performing regular perineal massages on my three fiancées, with the happy result that Natasha was finally able enjoy vaginal sex to be able to orgasm without a concurrent foot rub. Ruby and Alicia, likewise, were eventually able to take my penis inside, too.

It was apparent to me, after a week, that all four women were pregnant. Ruby, Alicia and Natasha were acting unusually exhausted, even taking into account they were all new moms. Also, at night their bodies were giving off more heat than before. I tried to get them to take pregnancy tests, but all refused, saying they were sure it was too early. I was convinced that their actual reason for demurring was to have an excuse for us all to continue having wild sex.

Phoebe also seemed especially tired, and whenever I lay beneath her to nurse, I noted that her skin had taken on a persistent, red flush. Thus, I was certain she had conceived, as well. Even though we only ever tried to breed during Caps games, this was a busy part of the season, so there had been several opportunities already. Still, she refused to get tested, too. In her case, it was no doubt more to do with being in denial about going through the whole process of having a baby for a second time. In the end, all the women put off testing themselves until a few days before I was to leave for Atlantea. It was fortunate that all results were positive.

When that day arrived, I was surprised by the sanguine attitude of the females of the household, and in fact I was the one who completely lost my composure; I turned into a sobbing wreck. Rosalind and Phoebe, while not happy about my looming absence, were not going to break down over a good friend leaving town for a while. My three fiancées, meanwhile, had enough time to prepare, mentally, for my departure, and took solace from the fact that they now had each other to lean on. I made it through most of the ritual dry-eyed, myself, even when I kissed each of my children good-bye. At the very end, however, Ruby presented me with three, thin brass rings, which she slipped over the appropriate finger on my left hand. "These are to make sure you come back to us," she said.

Somehow, this gesture brought forth a geyser of emotion within me. I hugged the surprised Ruby fiercely, and began to sob uncontrollably for the next five minutes. The taxi driver waited patiently for me; the clock was already running, anyway.

"Get outta here, ya big lunk," Phoebe said, "before you drown the whole neighborhood!"

* * *

After the driver pulled up to the departure area of the airport, I gave him the rest of my cash, a fifty-dollar tip. I had no more need of US currency. All I had was the clothes on my back, the contents of the small leather zipper bag, my passport, and the old cell phone that the Atlanteans had sent me. It was a cool, gray morning, with a slight wind. I went inside the airport and wandered around aimlessly, shivering, wishing I had brought a heavy coat, and feeling foolish, for the next twenty minutes, before the phone rang at last.

"Are you alone?" said a scrambled voice, without preamble.

"Yes--"

The voice interrupted me. "Go to the men's room near to the Starbucks next to the American Airlines check-in counters. Enter the stall area, and knock on the third door from the right."

They hung up before I could clarify anything. I was nervous, now, and almost forgot their instructions. When I found the bathroom, there were a number of other patrons doing their business, so I had to pretend to be intent on washing my hands for a solid three minutes before having a window of opportunity to knock on the indicated door, when nobody was looking. It had been closed the entire time, at least, giving me confidence I was in the right place. The door swung open, and a gray-clad woman in a baseball cap dragged me inside, and shut the door. She had sunglasses on, despite being indoors, and something under the brim of her cap was making her face blurry, even from such a short distance.

She put her finger to her lips, indicating we should not talk, then motioned towards my leather bag. It seemed like she wanted to look through it, which indeed she did. Satisfied there was nothing inappropriate within, she patted me down, and checked my passport. Then she handed me a paper ticket that had been issued, in my name, by a major airline. The flight was a non-stop to Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. She pointed at the text on the ticket indicating the final destination, then pointed at the cell phone. I took this to mean I would get another phone call when I landed. My flight was taking off soon, so I had to hurry to clear security and get to the gate on time.

The flight was uneventful. I do not remember it well, and, for reasons of security, will not say how long the flight was. My emotional state oscillated from one extreme to the other, the whole time. I was filled with anticipation at the thought of seeing Calista again, yet was also still processing the meltdown I had had when leaving this morning. The cloak-and-dagger nature of the trip I was on did not help put my nerves at ease. A few minutes after landing in Minneapolis, the cell phone rang again. A different, but also scrambled, voice said, "Go to the Ground Transportation Center, follow the signs for app-based ride services, and wait for a white Chevy Suburban." They also provided a license plate number.

'I'm shocked it isn't another Mercedes SUV!' I thought.

Inside the back of the SUV, which was already waiting for me by the time I got there, were two people. One was one of the ubiquitous gray-clad, blurry-faced women. The other was a strikingly handsome black man, possibly the best-looking male I'd ever met in my life. He had medium-length hair, piercing brown eyes, and a lantern jaw. He was also in phenomenally good shape; this much was obvious even at a glance. Somehow, based on his excessively looks, I expected him to be unfriendly or stand-offish, but he proved quite the opposite.

"Hey there," the man said, extending a hand, "I'm Chris! Pleasure to meet you!" We shook hands; his grip was firm but not crushing.

"Same here," I said, then paused awkwardly. "Oh, right, my name! I'm Jason. Jason Walker."

"I assume you're another, uh, immigrant?" Chris said. "I'm not sure what to call us, actually."

The gray-clad woman interjected at this point. I realized, from the angle of her head, that she had been staring at Chris the entire time. Even without being able to see her face clearly, I suspected she was infatuated with him, and I found it hard to blame her. "Technically your status is 'provisional M-20 visa applicant', although that is to change shortly," she said, in clipped, overly-precise English. The SUV had, by this point, begun to move again.

"May I ask your name?" Chris queried the woman, in a pleasant baritone voice.

"Why yes, of course;" she said, "my name is Pandora."

Chris laughed. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Pandora, and, uh, if you don't mind, don't go opening any strange boxes, okay?"

Even without seeing her facial features, I could tell she was flustered. "What?" she said, then paused a few beats. "Ah, my name!" She started to laugh, as if Chris' reference to Greek mythology had been the funniest joke in the world. Chris maintained a straight face.

'Thank God he doesn't laugh at his own jokes,' I thought.

Our trip was short, ending only a few minutes later, at the General Aviation terminal. The SUV had pulled onto the tarmac, past the far side of the building. Chris and I got out, while Pandora stayed inside the vehicle, which then pulled away. In front of us was another trailer, of the same dimensions as the one where I had had my admittance interview. This one, however, instead of being black, was painted blue and white, and had an enormous logo along the side, with the words "Supreme Event Rentals" written in large capital letters, to the right of a stylized silhouette of a wedding cake. There was a line of men queued up to one end, waiting to alight a stainless steel stairway which led to a sturdy metal door. A woman in body armor was standing discreetly to one side, and a gray-clad Atlantean was near the end of the line, motioning for Chris and I to form up.

The first thing I noticed was that, although I was not the shortest man there, it was only by around an inch. The waiting males were also all strikingly handsome, each nearly as good-looking as Chris. I began to wonder what I was doing among them. Although I have an excellent physique, and certain attractive anatomical traits beyond that, I have never had any illusions about my face; the best I can say is that there is nothing objectionable about it.

I began, mentally, to ascribe nicknames to each of the guys, as we stood around waiting. Chris, I had dubbed Underwear Model, even after learning his real name. In front of us were: a burly man I dubbed Lumberjack; a slim, well-dressed man of Korean descent, BTS; an impeccable-looking blond-haired, blue-eyed fellow, Ken; a muscular bruiser whose long facial scar, running diagonally along his right cheek, only enhanced his handsomeness, Wolverine. Other men got the nicknames Dali, NFL, Baryshnikov, Hippie, Clark Kent, and Surfer Dude. Lumberjack, the first in line, was admitted after a few minutes. A short while later, the door opened again, allowing BTS through. Since Lumberjack had not yet appeared out the other side of the trailer, I assumed there was were multiple rooms within the trailer, as there had been during the visa application process.

I was the last person in line, so while we were waiting, Chris and I continued to chat. It turned out that he had been a baseball player in college, dropping out before completing his degree to join a AAA farm team in Wyoming. Sadly for him, a rotator cuff injury cut his promising career short, and he returned to school, ultimately making his way into the M.D. program at a prestigious major university on the East Coast. I relayed my own, somewhat less impressive, academic credentials.

"So did you finish your degree yet?" I asked.

"No, they're doing this whole thing where I get my M.D. at their university, and it magically transfers back to one in the states. How about you?"

"Yeah, I'm going to finish my master's degree at Diamandis, and, same thing, through some kinda voodoo, it'll seem like I graduated from a university here."

"Sweet! We're goin' to the same place. I'm sure we'll run into each other if you're in the Department of Sports Medicine!"

By this point, we were standing at the top of the staircase; everyone else had been admitted into the trailer. The door opened and Chris was ushered inside. I looked up at the clear, fading light of the Minnesota afternoon sky, and drew a few, deep breaths.

'Here goes nothing,' I thought, as the door opened again, and the gray-clad woman motioned me inside.

"Hello, Jason! You have no idea how glad I am to see you!" said a familiar voice.