The Cafe

John Turnhouse:

You may remember me, the reluctant Chairman of the East of England Committee. I spoke of my household of lovely ladies, and my ‘adoption’ of Verity, a lesbian at some risk as a result of her preferences. I had, and have, plenty of willing ladies, and there was no need in me to expect her to have sex with me. Indeed, one of my ladies, Lobelia, was bisexual, with a leaning towards her own gender, and she and Verity settled into what seemed a satisfactory relationship. Together, they looked after the estate garden. (And the vegetable patch, if I really need to be more specific).

The journey during which I acquired Verity was needed in order for me to visit my ex-wife. She’d been in a training facility in the north Midlands, and had an opportunity to leave and join a family business. I was satisfied when I saw her and the business that, firstly, she really wanted to make the change, and, secondly, that the situation was acceptable to me. The business, run by father and son, appeared a good one, and Clementine was excited to have a meaningful job, and a new man of her own, in the father.

In the course of the journey, I did some thinking and planning. As a result, I made some changes in my household. Among them was a plan for my ladies, those who were willing, to have babies. This was, and is, a present necessity after the drastic drop in the population. The first to be pregnant was Alice: in her thirties, lush and dark-haired, she was the first to express a desire to be a mother, and she duly produced a healthy boy-child. She was followed a couple of months later by Sara, my majordomo, a year or two younger than Alice. Sara is more athletic, with trim curves and auburn hair. At the time I’m writing of, she’d produced a perfect little girl-child, and the question arose of which lady would be next in the queue. I was determined that it would be a matter of consent.

However, before dealing with that, I had something in my area of responsibility to investigate, so I summoned Victoria, my chauffeuse. She appeared just less than thirty minutes later, having taken time to clean up from whatever she’d been doing with one of our cars. Her overall slid to the floor as she entered my study and shut the door behind her. I couldn’t help smiling and becoming erect. Vicky is quite tall, with an excellent figure. She sashayed across the room, and I pushed my chair back from the desk.

“You called, sir?” As she spoke she was loosening my trousers. I keep the house warm, so my ladies are comfortable in their birthday suits, and I had on just a light shirt, which she unbuttoned. She revealed my straining erection, and straddled my lap in order to lower herself on it with a sigh.

“I did,” I replied as I palmed her breasts, her nipples already hard and erect. “I’m going to need to visit Colchester later. This morning would have been better, but after lunch will do.”

She ... oh, sit down and get comfortable. This is too long a tale to listen to standing. She was working her assets (and very fine assets they are) well, and it only took a few minutes for her to begin coming. I followed immediately after her second, and she stayed there as I shrank – a very slow business, I can assure you.

She sighed. “We could go in a few minutes, sir. I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. Perhaps you’d like to shower with me?”

I would never turn that offer down. “I’d love to, Vicky.”

It was mid-morning by the time we’d showered thoroughly and dressed. As it was a short journey, we used the electric Leaf. Not so long ago, I’d have taken my motorcycle, but I had reasons to be more formal. Not to mention the plea from our police to travel with Vicky (who carried a hand-gun as my bodyguard) whenever possible.

I’d heard from my colleagues on the Committee of a new enterprise. A topless coffee-bar, would you believe? I have serious concerns about the position of women in our messed-up society. I say that, despite the set-up in my own home. I am not really sure how the gender imbalance resulted in women becoming second-class citizens, or even slaves or indentured servants, but that was the situation.

We drove, or Vicky drove, of course, up the deserted trunk road. Here and there, small groups of slave or IS laboured to repair potholes, a never-ending task. Most of them were women, but worked very well, nonetheless. I made a mental note to consider rewards for such. At length, we drew up outside a cafe with mirrored glass windows. There didn’t seem any reason not to park there, so I suggested Vicky come in with me. She raised an eyebrow in question (she’s very definitely heterosexual) but smiled and followed on.

Inside, it might have been any cafe from before the War, with tables and chairs distributed about, pictures on the walls, and a counter for service. Except all the staff were, of course, female, and all were topless, wearing just a short skirt and light sandals. They varied considerably in age and build, several displaying large – very large – breasts, one or two of which were dribbling milk.

Approaching the counter, I scanned the menu. They did, in fact, offer coffee and even more surprisingly, tea, as well as a wide selection of cordials and herbal infusions. The tea and coffee were as expensive as I might have expected.

“What would you like, my dear?” I asked Vicky.

She hesitated, and took a breath, but didn’t use it.

“Vicky, my dear, please choose whatever you want. It’s supposed to be a treat.”

“They have tea,” she began, pausing again. “Darjeeling tea. Could I?”

“Certainly!” I turned back to the counter and ordered Darjeeling tea in a pot, then, “Arabica coffee, if you please, black.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows very noticeably. “We have Columbian and Ethiopian Arabica,” she said, “The Robusta varieties grown in Europe are much cheaper, of course?”

I smiled at her. “This is a treat, both for me and my driver,” I glanced at Vicky. “The Ethiopian, please.”

“Do you wish milk?” She was addressing both of us, “I know that some coffee drinkers like to add their own milk. Ours is either mothers’ milk from the source or cows’ milk from a local farm. The mother’s milk, well, several of our waitresses really need to be milked regularly.”

“I will have some milk, please,” Vicky said, smiling. “From the source, too!”

As a result, when a waitress delivered the tray with our order, it included a jug. An empty jug, into which our waitress expressed milk straight from her breasts. Vicky watched, and stopped her when she thought there was enough milk in the jug.

As she was about to depart, I stopped her. “Can you spare us a couple of minutes?”

“Certainly sir! Can I interest you in some relief?”

That shocked me for a moment, but I was able to suppress that quickly. “Not this time, um, Margo. But as a matter of interest, is that a routine offer?”

She sat with us. “Yes, sir, it is. But not one we are required to make. We do not charge, but most of our customers are happy to tip for such extras.”

I nodded. I found a twenty in my wallet, and slid it across the table, along with a card. She picked up the note, folded it neatly, and tucked it into a discreet pocket in her miniskirt.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you very much!” She examined the card and gasped. “Chairman Turnhouse! This is an honour!”

I shook my head. “Not at all, Margo. I’m just another customer, though one with, perhaps, more influence than most. Tell me, are you and your colleagues happy here? Are you treated well? I see part of my responsibilities as concerning the wellbeing of everyone, slave, IS or free.”

“We are well treated, sir, and happy enough. Most of our customers are clean, polite and generous, and the owner does look after us quite well. But sir, you’ll want to drink your coffee while it’s hot.”

I chuckled. “Thank you, yes, I will. But seriously, feel free to use the number on my card, or pass it to the owner.”

She departed, and I enjoyed my coffee, better, in fact, than the Robusta I’d been getting. Vicky sipped at her tea with milk, a little wide-eyed at the treat. While I was enjoying my coffee, I glanced at the menu. I’d expected a list of beverages, with prices, and perhaps some cakes or biscuits. The latter were there, but there were also salads and sandwiches.

I was due for a Committee meeting after lunch, so after consideration, said, “Vicky, I’m thinking we might try their sandwiches, or salads – your choice – before I have to go to my meeting.”

“You’re spoiling me, sir.”

I smiled. “You’re worth it, my dear.”

“Then I’d like to try their salad. Perhaps with the locally cured ham?”

I felt virtuously satisfied with the morning as we departed and headed for the Committee meeting. This was held, as was our habit, in a large meeting room in the city library. When we entered the building I sighed as I saw the security detail. That had clearly been necessary soon after the atrocities, and now employed discharged soldiers, female for the most part. They wore combat uniforms, sidearms and tasers. The latter were really more for show than necessity, as I knew the ladies were proficient in unarmed combat; however, some sociopaths didn’t seem to recognise that possibility. Vicky entered with me and I introduced her to the duty NCOIC to make sure she was aware that Vicky carried a handgun and was authorised and trained to use it.

I left Vicky to peruse the shelves, and made my way upstairs to the committee room.

The meeting was routine. We did discuss the new enterprise, and several other committee members had sampled the place. Michael Kenton, member with responsibility for industrial activities, shrugged. “I know you don’t like slavery, John, but in this case, the ladies do seem to be happy and content with their lot.”

I nodded. “I agree. I left a card with instructions to get in touch if there were problems.”

“You weren’t tempted?” That was Steven Carson, Harbours and Maritime. He was smiling.

“Not really,” I shrugged, “though I have to say that they were an attractive lot. As it happens, I had my driver with me, and of course I have a houseful at home.”

“You took Vicky in there?” Steve looked amazed, and glanced around, “that girl’s built like a brick shit house.” He coughed, and coloured, looking at me he went on, “begging your pardon, Chairman.”

I laughed out loud. “Steve, relax. I entirely agree. In here, we should be able to call a spade a spade, not a horticultural implement, don’t you think?”

I saw him relax, “But it’s not necessary to be coarse, sir,” he said apologetically.

“Anyway, gentlemen, I think we can permit the cafe to continue, don’t you?” There were nods around the table. “Perhaps we might keep an eye on things, though. If one of us were to pop in once a week or so?” More nods in response, and a note in the record.

Anyway, we concluded our business, and parted company. I found Vicky talking to the librarian, who smiled as I approached.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Just collecting my driver, um, May?” May being the name on her badge.

“Oh! Then perhaps you might be willing to sign for her to have a library card, Chairman Turnhouse.”

I frowned. “Cannot Victoria sign for herself?”

“Is she not an IS?”

I shook my head. “No. Her contract expired a few days ago. I’ve been remiss in not negotiating an employment contract. However, I’m perfectly willing to sign for her.”

The formalities took only a few minutes – the librarian had, in fact, completed the membership process right up to the signature. Vicky accepted the little piece of plastic, wide-eyed. In front of the librarian, she grabbed me and laid a kiss on me that would, if we were in private, have led me to dragging her to the nearest bed – or even table, armchair, rug, pile of leaves etc. – but I restrained myself with some difficulty. As we walked out to the car, she spoke.

“I don’t want to leave. I’d stay for just what I have now – bed, board, and you.”

“Nonetheless, Vicky, you should have a salary. We’ll talk about it, okay?”

She smiled. “Okay, sir. Home?”

“Yes, please.”

When we arrived home, Missus Peterson met me in the hall. “Sir, Lobelia and Verity have something to ask you. Will you see them in your study?”

“Is that your recommendation, Missus Peterson?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like a drink? Tea? Wine? Beer? Whisky?”

“Might I need alcohol?”

“I don’t think so, sir. But you might enjoy it.”

“Very well. I would enjoy a dark beer. Perhaps the girls could bring it when they come? And bring something for themselves, if they wish?”

“Very good, sir. Oh, there was one other thing. Vicky asked if I minded swapping nights. If it’s okay with you, it’ll be Vicky tonight rather than me. I’ll take her turn tomorrow.”

“Edith, whatever you ladies arrange between yourselves is fine with me. Just know that I don’t ... That is, I don’t want you, or any of the girls, to think you are less than any of the others. I enjoy every one of you.”

“It’s taken a while, but I think I’ve accepted that. Let me go and fetch Lobelia and Verity.” She smiled and left me. I settled into my office chair. It’s a very comfortable chair, but the arms lift out of the way. I expect you can work out why.

An unnecessary knock on the door was followed by the door opening. Lobelia and Verity walked in, Verity was carrying a tray bearing three glasses. Lobelia then turned to close the door behind them. I stood.

“Come in, girls! Have a seat.” I have comfortable seats for visitors, all of them padded to some extent, and a two-seater sofa, a low table in front of it. “Would you put that tray on the table, please?” As they did so, and sat together on the sofa, I trundled my office chair round to sit the other side of the coffee table. Once we were all settled, I reached for the mug of beer – the other two glasses contained something cold and a pale greenish colour.

As I picked up the beer, they reached out to collect a glass each. We sipped. It was good beer, rich and slightly fruity. “So, what can I do for you, ladies?” I sat back, relishing the bite and richness of the beer. There was a long silence.

Then Lobelia spoke. “Sir, it’s a bit difficult for Verity, but I want to say I’m completely in favour.”

There was another pause. “Sir,” Verity began, tentatively, “I’m not sure how to say what I need.”

I smiled. “Well, just talk and we’ll worry about getting the words in the right order later, shall we?”

That made her chuckle. “Okay. I might have expected something like that. First of all, I wanted to say you’re only the second man I’ve felt I could trust. You and Vicky saved my life and gave me hope for the future, and a home.” She sighed. “So, thank you for that. It’s not enough: but thank you. The second thing, is I’d like a baby.”

“Well, you know I approve of that, Verity.”

“I want you to be the father, and, if you’re willing, I want you to make me pregnant. The old fashioned way.”

“It would be a privilege, Verity, if you’re sure about it?” I glanced at Lobelia, who was smiling and gave me a little nod.

“Lobelia says you can make it good for me, and I’d like to think I’d be giving you a gift in exchange. I don’t have a hymen, because the doctor removed it when she fitted my IUD. That was all because of Lobelia’s advice, in case I was trapped and unable to avoid a rape.”

“It’s sad we’ve been reduced to that,” I commented. “Verity, it would be both a privilege and a joy to make love to you and be the father of your child. You are a beautiful young woman.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so very much.”

“If having Lobelia with you would help, I don’t mind that.”

“Thank you. I’ll think about it while I’m getting the IUD removed.”

Well, so much for that. The girls left and I went on with the admin work I couldn’t avoid. I wondered if perhaps I could find a Personal Assistant who could help me stay on top of it. Surely there must be someone out there with some training in that area? Once the idea was in my head, it wouldn’t go away.

It took a week for Verity to get an appointment with the gynaecologist, and it would have been longer but for Sara’s use of my name, then she had a period, so it was a few days after that finished that she came back to me. In the meantime, I’d been busy, of course. Quite apart from my normal responsibilities, Sara came up with a suggestion for a possible PA. It turned out that she’d been friendly (very friendly, apparently) with a girl at College. Charlotte Hewitt, though, was owned by a man I knew slightly and didn’t much like. I overcame my dislike and approached him. He didn’t permit me to interview the girl, and demanded a steep price for her, but I decided she ought to be out of there anyway, and paid it.

Charlotte was shorter and plumper than Sara, with dark brown hair – and clearly at least part oriental. When we collected her she was subdued and her posture suggested a fatalist despondency. We, or, rather, Vicky, got her into the car, the front seat, so she was sitting next to Vicky, and we took her home. There, Sara took her in hand as she showed her to an empty room, but she said she would prefer to bunk with Sara, despite the baby and crib.