Chapter 52

1300 hours, local time
Sunday, 7 June, 2015
Temporary Howard Residence
Dubuque, Iowa

The Prophet David Howard, while eating a meatball marinara sandwich for lunch, found himself drawn to the fine buttocks of Amelia Kinney, a local ginger who acted gladly as maid, cook, and governess for him. He paid her, of course, as he could more than afford to as both Prophet and Governor, but she mostly wanted his attention and she certainly had it now. That was why when she worked in the kitchen, she wore only an apron. A young widow of twenty-five, only married for three months when Fireball Day claimed her husband, she had miscarried their only baby upon hearing the news that he died in the Dublin Fireball on a trip to Ireland. Now, she was eager to breed again and she definitely hungered for the Prophet’s touch.

While she bent over the table to clear some plates from it, David stood up and dipped his finger into the marinara sauce. He smeared it onto her bottom cheeks as she leaned forward, then touched it with the same finger and licked it off. Amelia gasped, then smiled coyly, leaning into his touch. He found her softness irresistible, pulling her against him. They kissed passionately, tongues mingling, tasting each other as she moaned softly into his mouth.

“I’ve been waiting to contract Schumacher Syndrome directly from you, because that way, I ensure that you breed me, Prophet,” Amelia told him with a saucy smile, “it’s time to give me Schumacher and to impregnate me, right?” she told him, knowing that Schumacher Syndrome wasn’t a disease, but a bulwark against disease ... and that a woman who got Schumacher Syndrome would be impregnated by whichever man gave it to her if they had vaginal sex, regardless of her normal cycle.

“Apparently, the Lawgiver himself spread Schumacher Syndrome at just fifteen, impregnating Jana, his first sexual partner, though that child miscarried and she mostly made him cum outside of her twat after that. That baby became an angel after death and now holds some rank inside the Heavenly Host,” Serena Kurtz-Howard, his Prophetess sister and wife, informed her brother in her distinct Hamburg accent.

David took another bite of his meatball sandwich, the juices dripping onto Amelia’s apron as he pressed against her from behind. He slid into her with rough urgency, groaning around his mouthful. She was slick and ready, her body arching back against him, welcoming the invasion. He could feel her warmth enveloping him, hear the wet sounds as he thrust deeper, the sandwich still clutched in his hand.

“Sweet mercy,” he mumbled, sauce staining her skin where his fingers gripped her hip while he fed himself with his other hand.

Amelia moaned, low and throaty, pushing her ass back to meet his rhythm. “Yes, Prophet—give it to me,” she gasped, her knuckles white where she gripped the table’s edge. “Fill me with Schumacher.”

Her skin flushed crimson everywhere—cheeks, shoulders, the backs of her thighs—as he pistoned inside her. The scent of garlic and sex thickened the air, mingling with the clatter of utensils knocked from the table. Each thrust drove her forward, her apron strings tangling around his wrists like desperate fingers.

David kept eating. He shoved the last third of his sandwich into his mouth as she creamed around him—her pulsing climax drawing his own release. He groaned around the bread and meat, swallowing thickly just as he surged deeper and came; hot jets flooding her while marinara dripped down his chin. His eyes stayed locked on the freckled swell of her ass, mesmerized by how her muscles clenched and trembled.

“Damn, Amelia,” he breathed, sauce staining her hip bone where his thumb pressed.

“You don’t know how hard it was to be celibate while waiting for you to breed me, while everyone else understandably wasn’t. It wasn’t out of priggishness or prudery. I didn’t condemn or judge anyone in those orgies. I just wanted my firstborn to be yours,” she licked her lips as he pulled out and suddenly, an angel appeared, entering her as well.

“Relax, it’s me, Angus, your late husband, come to breed you at last ... and sire a Prophet on you. Or rather, a Prophetess. You shall have fraternal twins, one by him, one by me, and shall name our daughter Fiona,” the angel announced as he screwed her from behind.

His wings enveloped their joined bodies, feathers brushing David’s sauce-stained chin as he watched—transfixed—while Amelia gasped at the dual sensation: David’s cooling seed still trickling down her thigh, and Angus’s blazing presence surging inside her. The air crackled with ozone and the scent of rosemary, inexplicably replacing the garlicky tang. “Oh God, oh God—” Amelia stammered, her hands scrabbling against David’s chest.

Angus’s mouth captured hers in a kiss that tasted of lightning and peat smoke, silencing her cry. His lips moved fiercely, possessively, yet Amelia felt a profound tenderness flood her veins—a heavenly echo of her wedding night. Then he vanished, leaving only a shimmer of iridescent dust on her tongue and the phantom pressure of his fingers tangled in her hair. Before she could even gasp for breath, David reclaimed her lips, his taste now mingled with her dead husband’s essence—salt, sweat, and something unearthly sweet. Enthusiastic cheers erupted from the kitchen doorway where David’s many wives and husbands clustered, their eyes wide with voyeuristic delight.

David gestured sharply with his chin, sauce still glistening on his jawline, turning to each of his spouses, “Lick her. Take turns. But don’t lick what is needed to breed her.”

Amelia gasped as so many tongues descended—rough and smooth, wet and curious—lapping marinara from her neck, shoulders, the small of her back, and her butt-crack, everywhere but the twin streaks of semen and angelic essence trickling down her inner thighs.

Angus’s shimmering dust settled on Amelia’s tongue like spun sugar, dissolving into a burst of heather and ozone that made her shudder. David gripped her hips tighter, his nails leaving crescent moons in her freckled skin as he stared at the mingled fluids.

“Twins,” he murmured, awe thickening his voice, “Fiona and ... mine will be Brian. He won’t be the Messiah, just a naughty boy,” he alluded to a Monty Python reference.

After everyone laughed—a jagged eruption of nerves and voyeuristic glee from the crowded doorway—they all descended on Amelia. Hands slick with marinara gripped her thighs, spreading her wider against the sticky table edge as tongues abandoned her shoulders and spine. Rough fingers dipped between her folds, circling her swollen clit with relentless precision while others teased her nipples, twisting them into stiff peaks. They made her cream herself repeatedly, fingers coaxing wave after shuddering wave from her oversensitized body, her thighs shaking as slickness soaked the wooden floorboards beneath her. Each climax ripped a raw cry from her throat, her body arching and convulsing against the press of mouths and hands while David watched, his eyes dark and possessive.

David’s spouses eagerly finished their sandwiches—hot meatball subs she’d carefully assembled earlier after Sunday services—as they feasted on her trembling form. Crumbs rained onto Amelia’s flushed skin while they chewed, their laughter mingling with her gasps. One wife, her mouth full of bread and provolone, leaned down to bite Amelia’s earlobe; another husband sucked a bruise onto her hipbone beside the fading imprint of David’s thumb. They ate quickly, hungrily, grease smearing across her stomach, her thighs, the swell of her breasts—everywhere except the sacred twin trails glistening between her legs.

“Good girl,” murmured the beaded Allen, born and raised an Orthodox Jew, no longer kosher, wiping his oily fingers on her apron before reaching for another sandwich half. “Cook knows best.”

Amanda, originally his wife alone, now married to all of the Howard tribe’s adults and teens just like him, made a point of kissing him with Amelia’s anal sweat on her tongue. It was delicious.

The crowd’s fever broke as quickly as it had seized them: chins dripping sauce, they drew back from Amelia’s trembling form, leaving her splayed against the sticky table like a sacrificial offering. Only David remained pressed against her, one hand possessively cupping her belly where twins now stirred—one mortal, one celestial. He traced the fading heat of Angus’s celestial touch above her womb, a silent treaty written on sweat-slicked skin.