Chapter 51: Jamilya and Other Prominent Victims At G20

Years slipped by in a blur of soaked sheets and breathless fucks, too many to count, too wild to list. Just to list a few: Amara now strutted around with two sets of twins clinging to her, same with Serena and Thea, each of them unknowingly, or maybe willfully ignoring, that those brats carried my genes. Maybe it was easier to pretend those sweaty, reckless nights hadn’t timed perfectly with their delicious ovulations. After all, what were the chances our reckless little flings had lined up exactly with their fertile window?

I still got my regular invites from David and Mark, both still riding high from that night we passed around Nora, Annika, and Lena. With their wives, Sarah and Anja, they proudly showed off their new twins, blissfully clueless that the adorable little ones were carrying my DNA. Thyra was sharper, she knew damn well the kids she pushed out nine months after our sweaty fuck were mine, but kept her clueless husband in the dark, for obvious reasons. She still wouldn’t shut up about wanting another jog through the dunes, promising her tight little ass as a bonus if I showed up.

With Annika and Lena, I had VIP status at high-end swinger parties. Nothing was too wild for those two cock-hungry sluts: gangbangs, pillories, multiple cocks stuffed in every hole, older men panting between their legs, you name it. With their massive tits and ridiculous stamina, they drove those rich bastards insane, which gave me all the leverage I needed to start demanding favors.

Some were stupid enough to offer up their own wives, trusting their birth control a little too much to realize the danger they were letting inside. Tx34 made sure their wives got just as hooked on my cock as they were on Annika and Lena, with the small but crucial side-effect that it also guaranteed impregnation, triggering ovulation on the spot and steamrolling whatever protection they thought they had. Sharing those two, leveraging them purely as breeding tools, was easy: they weren’t mine to protect, and watching other men unload in them was a kinky thrill all on its own.

All that, and much more, was going on in parallel to my bourgeois live with my gorgeous wife Susan. Our six kids were all in school by now, finally giving her a few hours of peace. She was always busy, of course, volunteering, organizing shit at school, running the house like clockwork. She never gave me grief over being gone so often, always glowing whenever I was home. Susan had thrown herself completely into being a mother, keeping drama off my back, never bitching once about slipping into the traditional homemaker role. We had a sweet setup. I got to enjoy the kids growing up without shouldering much of the grind.

Needless to say, we still had great sex ... just not often. Susan only wanted it once a week, sometimes less, and only ever in our bed. Still, when she did spread her legs, it was worth the wait. Those massive tits of hers were always the first thing I grabbed, soft but heavy, perfect to bury my face in. She wasn’t adventurous, not into wild positions or surprises, but even after six kids, her body was still fuckable as hell. Sometimes I’d give her a tiny dose of tx34, just enough to make her nipples perk up and her cunt a little more needy, but truthfully, I didn’t need it to make our sex feel different. What we had was something else: deep, unconditional love that turned every fuck into a rare kind of meaningful connection. No cute little virgin fuck-doll or smoking-hot model could ever come close to offering that.

Susan’s lack of sexual appetite wasn’t much of an issue, since she made damn sure our insatiable nanny, Nina, kept my balls drained on a regular basis. She even encouraged us to fuck every morning before breakfast, while Luca, Nina’s clueless husband, was still snoring in bed. Susan went out of her way to carve out extra alone time for us whenever I was home, as if part of her wifely duty was to make sure her husband had every chance to spill his seed. Nina had already added another two sets of twins with my DNA to the household. Meanwhile, Luca, the softspoken, kid-obsessed kindergartner, helped manage the chaos, unknowingly giving Nina all the cover she needed to slip off and get stuffed again.

And then there was Nina’s sister, Nora, her younger look-alike. True to her word, she had come back to me once she was married, ready to claim what she’d always wanted. She didn’t want her husband’s babies, she wanted mine. Nora fully embraced the thrill of cuckolding her clueless husband, eager for her children to be half-siblings with her sister’s kids.

And how the hell could I say no to that? Especially when Nora had already cleared it with Susan before she even approached me.

That small detail made their frequent visits even sweeter, our growing family quietly intertwining in ways nobody else could guess. Seeing them all together, laughing, playing, bonding like true siblings, gave me a deep, private satisfaction, almost as if I’d built myself a harem. Well, aside from the small technicality, both Nina and Nora still had husbands.

I didn’t feel guilty about my other family either, Kim and Francesca. I had six more children with them, the oldest already in school. They grew up in Paris, though we’d managed a few short vacations together. Great kids, loved by their mothers, who raised them as siblings, which, technically, they were.

Within our discreet London circle, it was never openly discussed, but everyone quietly accepted that the three of us had formed an unorthodox family. Francesca and Kim happily explored each other’s bodies whenever I was away, completely excluding Francesca’s clueless husband.

As far as he knew, Francesca had simply lost all interest in sex. His frustrations, though, were conveniently eased by an ongoing affair with a nurse at his clinic, an affair I personally kept hot by slipping her a small dose of tx34 during my yearly clandestine visits.

It was never hard to figure out when they were having their illicit trysts. All I had to do was compare the schedule he gave Francesca with his official hospital roster to find suspicious discrepancies.

Disguised as a cleaner, I waited outside his office and discreetly dosed the nurse just before she entered, sending her lust soaring. The mindless fuckfest that followed was enough to keep their secret affair burning. Luckily, Angela had advised me to pair him with a nurse who relied on an IUD for birth control, or he’d have lost count of all his illegitimate children by now.

Francesca and Kim were my trusted partners. Francesca was sharp as a knife, sensing situations before anyone else. Kim was gentle and compassionate, intuitively picking up emotional vibes like an antenna. Both loved each other just as fiercely as they loved me. Between the three of us, there were no restraints, no jealousies.

They had sworn absolute loyalty to my cock, but otherwise enjoyed their bodies freely, delighting in teasing other men mercilessly. Kim made exceptions only for sucking off black guys, and even then, only if I personally gave permission and watched. I couldn’t blame her; she’d never known another cock but mine, a fact she held onto with fierce pride. Her vow remained unbroken: nobody but me would ever enter her other holes.

It usually went down like this: just recently, while sunbathing nude on a Caribbean beach, Kim took pity on the athletic black studs who were clearly tortured by the sight of her naked body. She video-called me, practically begging for permission to wrap her lips around their thick, gorgeous black cocks. Of course, I happily agreed and stroked myself while watching her suck them off right there on the sand.

That wasn’t the only twisted aspect of our relationship. Francesca and Kim didn’t give a damn that I was fucking other women, and I don’t mean just my wife and the harem surrounding her. They knew exactly what I did as a male escort, and rather than being jealous, they took pleasure in scouting new pussy for me, talking my cock up like it was God’s gift to womankind. Francesca whispered to her smoking-hot model friends, and Kim teased the desperate, young trophy wives at exclusive resorts where they often stayed with Francesca’s rich husband footing the bill. Each recruit was younger, tighter, more fuckable.

At first, I figured they just liked the idea that their lover was desirable to others, like how some men take pride in knowing other guys are ogling their “trophy” girl. Me fucking them was just an extreme version of that. If these other chicks let me inside their pussies, that had to be the ultimate proof they found me attractive, which in turn boosted the status of Francesca and Kim. As if I was a “trophy man”.

But then I started noticing it: every time a girl began to show, that glow in their eyes, that quiet, smug pride. Every swollen belly looked like a personal victory to them. And they weren’t just tolerating it, they were offering them up, serving prime breeding sluts eagerly to my cock, encouraging me to breed them. What was it about these women that got them off on the idea of their man impregnating others?

Was my sperm their weapon to subdue other couples? Some kind of power play among women? A way to prove that their man outclassed the others, that their choice in mate had more value? But then, why did they seem just as satisfied when the women I knocked up didn’t even realize who the father was? I started thinking maybe it wasn’t about social dominance at all, but something deeper. A tribal instinct to expand their own clan through me. Sure, those kids weren’t theirs, not directly, but they were half-siblings to their own kids. The bloodline strengthened, the tribe grew, and their genetic legacy pushed outward. Was that what drove it? I couldn’t say for sure. But whatever it was, that instinct ran so deep it drowned out jealousy completely, strong enough to overrule the urge to keep their man to themselves.

Whatever it was, they reveled in watching flawless, innocent beauties surrender to me, the less experienced, the better. Knowing my seed consistently knocked these girls up filled them with a raw, possessive pride. Their ultimate goal was finding a virgin for me to deflower, a teenaged model just starting her career, or a barely-legal daughter bored at some luxury resort with her parents. Whenever they sensed an innocent, inexperienced female, they closed in like predators circling prey, coaxing her toward fully exploring her blossoming sexuality.

Francesca always made sure these hot little sluts paid outrageous fees for the ‘privilege’ of meeting me, never failing to instruct Angela exactly how much she could squeeze from them. If I were being honest, I’d have paid just to fuck those flawless bodies myself, but who was I to complain? It was lucky Angela handled the finances, or I would’ve waived their fees most of the time.

That arrangement worked beautifully for years, the number of conquests climbing into the high thousands. Things got even better once Francesca’s and Kim’s kids left for boarding school. With no more need to keep up appearances for their sake, Francesca ended her marriage, officially blaming her husband’s ‘infidelity’ and making sure he paid dearly for it.

She couldn’t stop laughing as she told us how satisfying it was to barge into his office right as he was pathetically humping that young nurse we’d been grooming for him for years. His tiny prick was twitching inside her slick cunt, desperate and close, while she moaned and came hard, legs trembling, body jerking against the desk. He froze mid-thrust, denied even his climax, caught red-handed and humiliated, knowing full well there was no excuse in the world that could save him.

Francesca’s perfectly timed scream brought half the office running, all treated to the pathetic sight of their boss buried in some cock-hungry slut, just as he yanked out his soft, underwhelming little dick, slick and twitching but clearly unfinished. The whispers started immediately, snickers, jokes about his pathetic wiener echoing down the hallway, adding the final layer of humiliation to his already shattered pride. Sure, it was France, so screwing a subordinate during office hours might’ve been brushed off with a shrug and a smirk. But that limp little dick? That was the one thing to stay with him forever.

After the divorce, Francesca relocated to London with Kim, and our threesomes became an even more regular indulgence. Over time, they even grew close to my wife Susan, which made it easier to keep things smooth. Naturally, we kept the sexual part tightly under wraps, no reason to make Susan uncomfortable. As far as she knew, they were just a sweet lesbian couple, which was a convenient little half-truth that only hinted at what they really wanted.

So, with my extended love life running like clockwork, I could focus entirely on my work. My “massage business” was booming, with pussy lining up from Monaco to Malibu. Not just random sluts either, these were top-shelf women. Models with flawless bodies, trophy wives with perfect tits and tight little fuck-holes, spoiled actresses craving something raw and real between their legs. Every session ended the same way: her cunt drenched in cum, her womb already primed thanks to tx34 triggering ovulation, and her mind still spinning from the otherworldly high of our fuck, already aching for another dose of my cock.

Rich assholes strutted around, proudly showing off their glowing wives and girlfriends, clueless that the life growing in those bellies was mine. I didn’t just fuck their women, I bred them, systematically, relentlessly. And now, a good slice of the next high-society generation carries my genes, around a thousand new heirs every year for the past decade.

The most fun I had was infiltrating the nobility, knocking up princesses, duchesses, and blue-blooded sluts who thought they were untouchable, then watching them swell with pride as they became mothers. Cuckolding a prince, king, or duke hit different. There’s nothing quite like knowing I fathered a future king or queen of some fancy European country while the royal husband smiled for the cameras, thinking the brat was his. Even with all their titles, their power, their teams of bodyguards, they still couldn’t protect their wives from straying ... one innocent massage turning steamy, their judgment wrecked by tx34 triggering that irresistible, primal urge to be bred.

After that, even those blue-blooded, nose-in-the-air royals turned into eager puppies, moaning, panting, their dignity melting into the sheets. The pleasure hit so deep it rewired them. They came back hungry, obsessed, booking sessions in secret, fully aware they were betraying their husbands. All that nobility, all that prestige ... and in the end, they were just horny, cock-drunk sluts, no different from any other bitch in heat.

Every time I spotted one of those kids in the yellow press, I couldn’t help but grin. Revealing the truth would set off a firestorm ... infidelity scandals, collapsing reputations, furious nobles trying to salvage their bloodlines. Public opinion would crater if they found out how these proper little duchesses got bred like sluts behind closed doors. And the legal shitstorm it would unleash on royal succession? Delicious chaos.

It was just as satisfying to knock up the wives and daughters of politicians, business moguls, and other high-profile public figures. The real thrill came from targeting the worst of them: corrupt politicians, smug dictators, fascist strongmen, and shady corporate tycoons who built their fortunes on exploitation, fraud, or blood money. Impregnating their pampered wives, making them swell with my brood after one ruthless fuck, while those arrogant bastards strutted around clueless, felt like justice, raw, dirty, and deeply personal.

Though, when I think of it, knocking up the wives, or daughters, of those beloved, popular politicians wasn’t so bad either. Sure, it lacked that delicious edge of revenge, but it made up for it in other ways. My kids got to grow up with nice homes, decent parents, adored by the public. Maybe I had a dark streak after all, because part of me got off on the idea that even those good, respected men were no match for me. That I could quietly hijack their legacies, steal their wives’ wombs, and use them for my own breeding success. And the best part? I felt nothing but pride, knowing that behind every handshake, every smiling photo-op, they were raising my heirs.

For the purpose of impregnating high-profile public figures, I attended major international events, World Economic Forum, UN General Assembly, G20 summits, that kind of crowd. Getting in was easy enough. Most organizing teams were packed with eager, doe-eyed young women, and slipping into the venue or hotel scenes took little more than a charming smile and as small drop of tx34 on their skin. Once I was in, surrounded by delegates, journalists, diplomats, and their pampered wives, the insemination part was the easiest task of all.

I had two go-to methods. The first was simple, raw, and opportunistic: hiding in restrooms of the main venues, lounging near social areas, gyms, hotel pools, waiting. It was always the same: a distracted delegate’s wife, a stressed-out junior diplomat, a naïve young journalist, or some overworked staff girl just stepping out of a stall. One quick push, a few slick strokes of tx34-laced fingers, and her resistance would melt away. Those quick fucks weren’t the most intense of my life, but the sheer status of the pussy wrapped around my cock made every thrust worth it.

The second method was more refined. I posed as a high-end massage specialist in the luxury spas of the main hotels, where bored political wives killed time between banquets, and exhausted female delegates sought a little relief. These sessions were slower, more intimate, but ultimately more effective. The sensual buildup, the trust, the post-orgasmic daze, it gave me room to create a lasting impression. And those longer-term connections paid off. The first set of twins I pumped into their wombs would often be joined by siblings years later: repeat bookings, same seed, deeper roots ... and best of all, this time for a hefty fee.

A typical experience along this second route happened during a G20 meeting in Southeast Asia, where Angela had secured me a luxury suite inside the main conference resort. The attached spa was exactly what you’d expect, overflowing with bored wives of male delegates during the day, and in the evenings, overworked female journalists, exhausted diplomates, even a few tight-assed foreign ministers, all looking to unwind after a long day of fake smiles and closed-door negotiations.

A few drops of tx34 were all it took to seduce the cute little receptionist, a petite Asian thing, barely over four feet tall, with tiny titties, smooth skin, and that shy little smile that made her look half her age. I never quite got used to how some adult Asian women could come in such impossibly tiny packages, barely bigger than a twelve-year-old British schoolgirl. Minutes later, I had her bent over a supply cart in the back room, her tight little cunt gripping my cock like a velvet vice while she moaned into the crook of her elbow, trying to muffle the filthy sounds spilling out of her mouth. It was a sweaty, no-pullout fuck that left her legs trembling, her eyes dazed, and her womb freshly knocked up. By the end, she was wrapped around my finger, just like her snug, eager pussy had been wrapped around my cock.

I convinced her to hand over the women’s massage list for the duration of my stay, swapping out the usual staff for myself. Well, of course, only for those clients who were tight, hot, and of fertile age, which seemed something, she was perfectly willing to accept. I let her pocket the fees, which made her practically evangelical, gushing about my magic hands, whispering to every new arrival, pushing free trial sessions as ‘specials.’ In her mind, I was just another horny guy who enjoyed a chance to grope beautiful women. She had no idea that what I offered wasn’t just pleasure ... it was targeted, potent insemination.

This arrangement kept me busy from morning till night, with victims lining up, one after the other. The tx34-laced massage oil turned them into dripping, desperate sluts, their mating instincts overriding reason, their ovaries pumping out eggs like clockwork, completely bypassing whatever birth control they thought protected them. My stamina was pushed to the edge. At that one G20 meeting alone, I bred well over a hundred women, before, during, and after the week-long convention.

It started the week prior, when the early wave of diplomats and planners arrived, most of them fresh-faced female staffers in tight skirts, some still just-out-of-the-box virgins on their first foreign trip. Then came the delegates, usually older men dragging along their spoiled, sexy trophy wives looking for distraction. And finally, the female delegates themselves: less youthful, less flawless, but so intoxicating in their power and fame that knocking them up was every bit as tempting as breeding the freshest virgin staffers.

Among my victims at that particular conference were a well-known editor-in-chief of a prestigious international newspaper, several high-profile news anchors, and the chief of staff to a powerful head of state. I won’t name names, out of respect for their privacy and to protect my children growing in their bellies, but if you can picture an attractive woman in one of those positions, odds are she was on my table.

The most memorable? A scorching-hot young babe of Russian origin, tight as a drum, who just happened to be the personal mistress of a dictator from one of the former Soviet republics. She went by the name Jamilya, not her real one, of course, a beautiful alias for an even more beautiful body. Jamilya was tall, elegant, and athletic, with that perfect hourglass silhouette, long blonde hair flowing like silk, and a pair of perky little tits that made up for their modest size by being outrageously sensitive and flawlessly shaped.

When Jamilya showed up for her first “massage,” the front desk hostess had no idea who she really was, just another gorgeous client. She led her to the room, told her to undress, lie face down, and relax to the soft, soothing music ... while I was in the next room over, balls-deep in a dark-skinned UN diplomat from an African nation, flooding her with cum mid-climax, wrapping up another breeding before turning my attention to the dictator’s girl.

When I finally stepped in, Jamilya jolted upright in panic, clearly stunned to see a male masseur. Her small hands flew to cover her exposed tits, but when she realized her clean-shaven pussy was also on full display. She hesitated, panicked, shifting her arms back and forth, unsure what to cover: those perfect firm breasts or that glistening, pink slit. Watching her squirm, caught in that futile little dance of modesty, was almost comical. I just stood there, smiling, letting her stew in her helpless discomfort. Before she could fire off some outraged rant about privacy or professionalism, I calmly walked over.

“No need to hide those wonderful boobs,” I said, gently pulling her hands away from her chest, thumbing one nipple with a slow flick. She gasped and shoved at me, eyes wide with shock, snapping in a thick Russian accent, “Perrrvert! You stop now! I scream, you see!”

But I didn’t stop ... and she didn’t scream. I kept rubbing, calmly, confidently, working the tx34-laced oil into her perfect little mounds, flicking and twisting her stiff, hardening nipples like I was daring her to cry out. As the drug cranked up her arousal, the protests faded, the pushback weakened, and her body started giving her away: her breathing deepened, her neck flushed a soft red, and low moans slipped past her lips. Whatever willpower she had dissolved, replaced by raw, overwhelming lust ... peaking higher than usual, even for someone under tx34.

As I’d seen time and time again, the women who screamed the loudest about loyalty and morals were often the ones who fucked the hardest once their walls came down. They weren’t cold or restrained by nature, quite the opposite. These were sluts with dangerously high sex drives, who clung to rigid moral codes like armor, terrified of what would happen if they let those urges loose. Their outrage was just a mask, a desperate effort to suppress the gnawing hunger to bend over for a stranger, to cheat, to get lost in the forbidden thrill of an animalistic fuck behind their partners back. But once those defenses cracked, the transformation was instant. They turned into cock-starved sluts, moaning like whores, clawing at the sheets with their legs spread wide, begging to be filled, again and again, chasing the very thing they’d spent their whole lives pretending they didn’t want.

Whether the theory held water or not, Jamilya transformed into a shameless little fox within minutes. She kept up the act of shock for a bit longer, but her resistance faded fast. Her arms went limp at her sides as I kneaded her ultra-sensitive tits, palmed that firm, perfect bubble butt, and circled her slickening clit with slow, teasing strokes.

The moment my fingers brushed her pussy, she let out a strained, breathy “Noooo!!” and weakly tried to shove me away, but her eyes gave her away completely. That glazed-over, half-lidded stare was dripping with arousal. I knew then it was all performative, an echo of the old belief that women needed to feign reluctance to seem respectable. But her cunt was already betraying her, hot and hungry, begging for what her mouth still dared to deny.

Whether the theory held water or not, Jamilya transformed into a shameless little fox within minutes. She kept up the act of shock a little longer, still pressing at my chest with shaky arms, but her resistance was fading fast. Her hands fluttered, unsure whether to push or cling, while I kneaded her ultra-sensitive tits, palmed that firm, perfect bubble butt, and circled her slickening clit with slow, teasing strokes. Her body was already betraying her, hips twitching, skin flushed, every breath dragging her deeper under.

My other hand stayed on her chest, fingers roaming, occasionally flicking her rock-hard nipple. Her response was instant, each touch making her gasp out a breathy, desperate “uhhh”. Her nipples were insanely sensitive, and I used that against her, keeping her right on the edge. Every time she started to tip over, I switched hands, denying her the release, dragging out the tension until her entire body was trembling, soaked, and aching to cum.

She became more and more desperate with each stolen climax, her breath ragged, thighs quivering, her whole body twitching under my touch. Her pussy was soaked, her clit swollen and pulsing, her hips bucking involuntarily every time I brought her to the edge ... then cruelly backed off. I leaned down, my lips brushing her ear, and whispered, “If you want to cum, you have to beg me.”

She whimpered, trembling, clearly trying to cling to the last shred of pride. But the next time I stopped, right as her body was about to tip over into release, her voice broke, barely a whisper: “Pleeeeaaase...”

I smiled against her neck. “Please what?”

She looked up at me with glassy, pleading eyes, her face flushed, teeth clenched, torn between shame and need. Her fingers gripped the back of my neck, nails digging in. But the moment I denied her again, one flick from release, her body arched violently and the fight shattered.

“Do it to me! I want konchit ... finish!” she cried out, her voice cracking with surrender, echoing through the spa hallway.

That was it. That desperate scream, that raw, honest plea ... I’d broken her. It was even loud enough that the receptionist must have heard her because a few seconds later, the door cracked open slightly. The receptionist peeked in and her eyes went wide as she took in the scene: Jamilya, legs trembling, tits flushed and bouncing, her pussy exposed and twitching under my hand, her fingers clawed into my back like she needed me to survive.

Jamilya saw her too, locking eyes with the girl at the door for one humiliating instant. She froze, face contorting with shame, realizing her slutty surrender had been witnessed. Whatever illusion she’d been clinging to, composure, modesty, self-control, was obliterated in that single glance.

The receptionist’s cheeks flushed a deep red. She stammered, “I’m so sorry ... I didn’t mean to interrupt,” then quickly backed out, the door clicking shut behind her.

I leaned down, lips brushing Jamilya’s ear, and whispered, “Stop pretending you’re not a needy little slut. Loyalty’s just your mask. Acting all high-class, hard-to-get, when all you really want is to fuck around. Just admit it.”

I pressed hard, rubbing her clit with ruthless, focused strokes while sliding a finger deep into her soaked cunt. Her breath turned ragged, eyes wild, and then she screamed, “YES!!! Don’t stop! YESSSS!”

Then I had mercy on the dripping little slut and pushed her over the edge. Her whole body snapped, legs locking, back arching in a perfect bow as the orgasm tore through her, long, raw, explosive. It was the kind of climax that shattered thought, the most intense release she’d ever known, flooding her senses like a storm. She convulsed uncontrollably for minutes, her body shaking like she’d been struck by lightning or possessed by the devil. I had to hold her upright. Without me, she would’ve collapsed in a twitching heap on the floor. Even after the worst of it passed, her legs kept trembling, her muscles vibrating with aftershocks.