Chapter 1

The man woke slowly. As usual, these days, he had a solid erection. It was dark; even if it was day outside the heavy curtains wouldn’t admit the light. He reached out, and the battery-powered clock lit up. “Six o’clock. Time to start the day, I suppose.” He pressed a button by the bed and a small light blinked. “Okay. So we have power at the moment. Should get that report today.”

His door opened, and a young woman, completely nude, hairless apart from the glossy dark hair of her head, crossed the room, lifted the duvet from him, and climbed on, straddled him, and lowered herself onto his rigid organ. Her vagina was snug, hot and well-lubricated. She began to move. Knowing his preferences, she pursued her own pleasure at the same time as carrying out her duties. He was never quick on the trigger these days.

His household staff were well trained. All took their turns in satisfying him, whether, like this one, she was eighteen, or like his housekeeper, fifty-nine. All, in fact, were in good condition, physically: varying in form, of course, but happy to have a place in this prosperous household. The girl – Patricia – was in no hurry. She had an excellent body, with medium, well-formed breasts and womanly hips. His hands caressed her thighs, followed the curve of her hips and waist, and settled on her breasts. Her nipples were hard and erect, pressing into the palms of his hands.

“You’re very good, Trisha.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What do you hope, Trisha?”

“Hope, sir?”

“Your future. What do you want for your future?”

She frowned, but didn’t stop her movements. “Future? I don’t think any of us think about the future, sir. I’m pleased I have a secure place. Warmth. Food. Clothes – sometimes, at least.”

“Does it upset you, that I like you all nude?”

She didn’t answer immediately, but thought about his question. However, her first orgasm crept up and leapt on her. He felt her squeezing him, her vagina rippling on him, before she began to move again. “No, sir. I don’t think so. You’re good to us, actually. I don’t mind you looking at me. I don’t mind doing this; at least you let us cum.”

He knew that not all his acquaintances were considerate of their women, so didn’t comment on that. “Would you like a baby?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, sir.”

“No?”

“I don’t have any control over my life. I’m told, ‘clean that grate’ or, ‘peel those potatoes’, or, ‘it’s your turn to be the duty girl to fuck Master when he calls’. We all have IUDs, even Missus Peterson. I know some girls get pregnant in other houses. But all I know is, I’m warm and dry, well fed, and safe. It was no fun being trained, but once I got here, the other girls told me how to cum, and I don’t mind being fucked. Actually, it’s the best part of the day. But I don’t want to be a cow, a milk-maid. I know some girls in other houses, they’re trained to give milk, and sometimes their master fucks them while they’re being milked.”

“I see. Well, Trisha, thank you for being honest with me. I expect I’ll cum in a few minutes. I can feel it approaching.”

“That’s good, sir. I like to feel it, even though I have to go and shower after.”

She orgasmed again, and that was enough to take him over the edge. When her aftershocks and his pulses had finished, she lifted off, sucked the juices off his wilting penis, and left. He watched the motions of her pelvis and behind as she walked away. He was, he reflected, very lucky. He could have a woman any time he wanted, just by ordering her. He could choose from seven or eight ... yes, it was eight, now, women. Different hair colour, different build, breast size from A to D – he deliberately didn’t employ women with breasts bigger than that. But it was becoming obvious that it was important to start breeding. He’d think about that later. The toilet called.

He’d barely got back into bed and picked up a book, when a tap on the door announced the arrival of coffee. Real coffee, and the price was dropping, now, a little. Not that he minded chicory, but one had to keep up appearances. The housemaid, maid being a job description, definitely not a description of her sexual status, was a petite girl, seventeen, with A-cup breasts, and short, copper-coloured hair.

“Your coffee, sir. Is there anything else?”

He took the cup and saucer with a smile. “I will want an attendant in the shower when I’ve had this. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes, sir, thank you. Shall I wait here?”

“Absolutely. Sit where I can enjoy looking at you.”

“Oh, sir! Really? Look at me?” She sat across from him, consciously spreading her legs to display her sex. That was, after all, one of the ‘rules’ of his household.

“Is that so shocking?” He sipped at his coffee before it cooled past the point of acceptability.

“It’s just ... you’ve got so many pretty women!”

“I have, and you are one of them. Very much so.” He finished his coffee, and climbed out of bed. Nude, his dick was already trying to harden less than an hour after Trisha left. Of course, he’d been looking at a pretty girl, nude, swollen sex on display. Shower. Ably assisted by a pretty teen girl applying the soap – mainly with her body. They dried each other, thoroughly. Finally, as she was about to leave, he said, “Carla...”

“Yes, sir?”

“I would enjoy your company tonight. Would you arrange that with whoever is supposed to have that duty?”

“Yes, sir. It might involve a fight, but I think I’ll be able to swing that.”

“A fight? Really? Never mind. Arrange with Missus Peterson for you to bring my supper up here, and for you to eat with me.”

Her eyes widened. She took a breath, let it out and took another. “Yes, sir. Later.” And left.

He dressed. He sometimes considered having one of the maids dress him, which might be fun, but being honest with himself, would probably take a lot longer than he wanted to spare. So, he made his way downstairs and to the kitchen.

He did have a dining-room, very handsome with polished hardwood furniture and original artwork on the walls. The floor was parquet – easier to clean than expensive carpet. But when on his own it was better to sit in the kitchen. His staff wouldn’t mind the extra work, but having his meals straight from the stove, and the eye-candy too, made it a no-brainer to him.

Missus Peterson, late fifties, beginning to grey, but in very good shape, wearing only a pinafore apron to protect her front from spitting fat, smiled at him as she placed a carafe of coffee by his place. “Good morning, sir. Porridge? Full English? Or a kipper this morning?”

He knew that whatever he had, his staff would eat whatever was available, and be pleased to do so. “Good morning to you, Missus Peterson. I rather fancy a kipper this morning, if you please.”

“Very good, sir. It will be just a few minutes, as you know. Carla has already made your request for this evening known. She’s rather excited.”

“Really? I’m happy about that. If the girls want to come and have their breakfast with me, that’s fine. I say this every time, don’t I?” He laughed.

“You do, sir, and they appreciate it. Makes us all feel valued. But I always maintain the option that you might like to breakfast in quiet surroundings.”

“In which case, Edith, I could eat in the dining-room, and that is what I will do if I require privacy. I enjoy looking around at my beautiful staff.”

The older woman busied herself at the stove, putting a kipper to poach, then pressed a discreet button by a bain-marie. She placed a basket of fresh bread rolls on the table with a dish of butter, just as five girls drifted in, one at a time, to help themselves from dishes there. He addressed himself to buttering a warm roll before beginning to dissect his kipper.

The girls, two of them still teens, were used to his presence and accustomed to his generally egalitarian attitudes, so while they were, or tried to be, quiet, there was a fair amount of giggling and chatter. He smiled to himself, and finished his kipper, poured another mug of coffee, and left them to finish their breakfast; not without a last, smiling, scan of their upper bodies.

In his study, a package lay unopened, presumably delivered earlier in the morning. It was sealed with red wax; there was a little darkness where the wax had burned when it was melted. He wasn’t sure about the impression, but that didn’t bother him. He used a letter-opener to lift the flap and remove the contents, and sat back in his comfortable chair to read.

Teams in chem-bio suits had entered four contaminated cities, and one area of Edinburgh. They’d breathed bottled gas, and travelled using army NBC vehicles. Clearly, it had been impractical to carry out a comprehensive survey, merely a preliminary one. London, Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow and Holyrood, Edinburgh. As Chair of the East Anglian Committee, he was really only interested in the nearest city, London, but he glanced at the others too. London, it seemed, had been hit by a persistent nerve agent. The name of it meant little to him. Apparently, it could be neutralised by chlorine, though the logistics of a thorough decontamination were enormous. The account of the foray into the Capital was intensely disturbing, describing human remains littering the streets, vehicles which clearly had crashed as a result of the death throes of the drivers, animals too. The team reported the presence of living rats, however. Birmingham had been hit by a biological agent. The report suggested that the virus might be no longer viable, as no active traces had been detected. However, as in London, the human cost was severe and represented the greatest problem. Manchester, likewise. Glasgow, however, had been hit with a nerve agent, and so had Holyrood.

He only briefly perused the details of the reports; there would be plenty of time for that. Nothing, it seemed, was straightforward.

A tap on the door, which opened and one of his older – all of thirty – girls entered with another cup of coffee.

“Alice! Thank you. That’s perfect timing.”

“Will there be anything else?” she asked, placing the cup and saucer on his desk, her voice sultry. Alice was lush, with generous curves, shaved, like all the others, her pudenda was prominent, and there was a visible trace of moisture around her lower lips. Her shoulders were back, emphasising a pair of matched, firm, D-cup breasts.

“Why yes, I do think so. I believe I have a sort of hardness here which would enjoy a snug home while I drink my coffee.”

The girl showed no reluctance in rounding the desk as he pushed his chair back from the desk and lifted the arms out of the way. She freed his erection – a solid seven inches – from his trousers, straddled him and lowered herself onto it. She was hot, wet, and snug, and he relished the feelings as he picked up his cup and sipped. She knew what she was about, and ground against him; not moving far, she knew he was happy for her to seek her own satisfaction, and did so twice before he finished his drink.

“That was perfect, Alice,” he caressed her breasts and stroked her sides, provoking a giggle as she was a little ticklish. She continued to move as he stroked her silky skin.

“I think,” he said after some consideration, “I would like you bent over the desk for me to finish.”

“Oh, yes sir!” She lifted off with some alacrity, turned and leant over the desk, presenting herself to him.

He slid in easily all the way, ran his hands over her and reached under to cup her boobs. Her nipples were hard and stiff and she groaned as he squeezed them. It took only a few minutes for him to come, but she was there with him. She pinched her labia together, turned and cleaned him up with her lips and tongue.

“Thank you, sir. That was good.”

“Thank you Alice. You always get me going. There’s something I want you to think about, Alice. We need to breed. I don’t mean just you and I, I mean our nation. How would you feel about having a baby?”

“Oh, sir! Really? I think I’d love that! I thought I’d never be a mother, but I used to daydream about it. Back before the War, I mean. Since then, well, it’s just been trying to survive.”

“Very well, Alice. I’m going to talk to everyone about that.”

Then it was back to work, looking at more directly important documents about his farms.

Lunch, a light lunch, in the kitchen again, surrounded by his staff.

Back in his office, his phone rang. “Sir, there’s a Major Prestwick calling from Derby for you.”

“Thank you, Sara. Put him through.” Click. “John Turnhouse.”

“Oh, Mister Turnhouse, I’m glad you’re in. IS33/75. Your ex-wife, that is. It’s almost six months now, and we are satisfied that her attitudes have been completely changed.”

“Are you suggesting I collect her, Major? That can be arranged.”

“There is an alternative, sir. A local business has a vacancy for a sales and clerical assistant. She is interested. She would have her basic living requirements and a small stipend. It is likely that she would be invited to enter into a legal relationship, possibly marriage, in time.”

“I see. As it happens, I have a very satisfactory situation here now. However, I think I would like to visit and talk to Clementine – seventy-five, that is. Would that be satisfactory?”

“Oh, certainly, sir. If it could be soon? She could leave under the indenture and transfer to formal employment as a free woman as soon as her indenture expires. She really is quite keen to do this.”

“Is she, by Jove! I’m glad to hear that. I would like to satisfy myself of her working conditions and indeed that she is consenting freely to this. While her return might be disruptive, I do feel that should be offered as an option.”

“Most commendable, sir. As I say, if you could come soon, that would be good. If you wish, I can offer you an apartment here at the Horseshoe. However, I suspect you would be more comfortable at a hotel.”

“I think I would. I stayed at one nearby before, that was most satisfactory. Look, I’ll make arrangements and hopefully be with you in a few days.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Til then, Major.” He hung up. Thought for a moment, then went to the kitchen where Edith Peterson was kneading bread. “Edith...”

She looked round.

“Could you call everyone together in the lounge? I need to spend a few minutes talking to them all together. Say five minutes? So you have time to finish what you’re doing?”

“Yes, sir, of course. I’ll get the bread in the warm cupboard to rise, and come to the lounge then.” She turned back to her task, but raised her voice. “Katie! Katie, come in to the kitchen, please.”

From the laundry-room, a slight, brown haired, mid-twenties girl emerged. “Yes, Missus Peterson?”

“Run round and round everyone up, will you? Meeting in the lounge in five minutes. Don’t forget Vicky, out in the garage. Say not to worry if she’s got oily hands.”

“Yes’m!” she immediately trotted off, and John headed for the lounge himself. There, he found Carla busily dusting. He watched her movements appreciatively.

She looked round from her work, smiling, and found his eyes on her. “Oh, sir! You do make me feel good!”

“Well, Carla, later on I’ll try to show you how much I appreciate you. I’ve called a meeting for all the household staff in here, so you might want to stop what you’re doing.” She stood there, holding her duster in one hand and a feather whisk in the other. He glanced at his watch. “In fact, Carla, sit down.”