Chapter 39

“Honi soit qui mal y pense.” - the motto of the Order of the Garter, meaning “evil be to him who evil thinks.”

1845 hours, local time
Wednesday, 18 February, 2015
Former Southern Baptist Church
Kenosha, Wisconsin

“So, my brothers and sisters, please understand this. As we prepare to leave you and go west to Iowa, we are leaving you with a better community, one that is truly melded and fused with one identity. You are Havenites. You are one church. You are one faith. You are one community. You are one family. You are one tribe. This is the place that we leave behind us, one that is united, in full harmony with itself, ready to stand tall and proud for what it believes. Do you see what I see?” Charles Tremaine, the Prophet, ended his sermon, even as the congregation rose in a standing ovation.

“We are one! We are one! We are one!” the locals roared in approval, all of them naked as jaybirds, with the angels watching the youngsters in another room.

“Excellent. Now, in celebration of this growing sense of unity, let us bond again by sharing our bodily fluids with each other. Brothers and sisters, let us mate with each other, let us bond, let us commune with one another. Let us embrace each other in the nude, in the state of nature,” Charles cried out, even as the pianist bent over the bench of her piano and offered up her holes to him.

“Take me, Prophet! Breed me in front of my husband and everyone else! I have given him sons and daughters, and he has recently given both of my sisters unborn babies. Now, let me please him and honor him with the chance to raise the Prophet’s spawn. Just ask him. He will gladly, proudly raise your seed as his own! It will bring our community closer! You’ve already bred them, too!” the pianist encouraged the Prophet, who indeed entered her from behind to fuck and breed her.

“Let me do this as proof, too! Let me prove that I approve deeply of this and I want this to happen!” the husband demonstrated by spreading his wife’s cheeks and licking her sweet ass while Charles pumped in and out of her.

“Oh, fuck, honey, I can’t wait to think of ways to thank you for this! You’re an amazing husband, Magnus! Stick that Norse tongue of yours up my hot, tight German ass and plunder me like I’m a town on the Baltic coast! Fuck, that feels ... amazing ... you in my butt and the Prophet in my twat! I can’t wait to have his baby and know that you’ll raise him with us ... my sisters want to be your other ... wives ... God, yes!” the plump pianist moaned with delight, not joking around, either.

Her sisters indeed both opted to become Magnus’s other wives, so he would soon go from just a polyamorist and swinger like others to being a polygamist as well. They were pregnant to him, though they were also knocked up by the Prophet, among others. Magnus could well end up breeding her again, too, though so could others.

Most of the ladies in the community were already pregnant, but anyone who wasn’t would be, and even those who were pregnant could have more seed planted in them. It was far from impossible in this hyper-fertile bubble, with Schumacher Syndrome and the miraculous edicts of the King of Heaven involved in this. The baby boom in Kenosha, Wisconsin would take a while to complete, given the sizable population, but the job would be done. Even more impressive was how mixed the population would be, genetically speaking. God, angels, demons, men and women of various races, all in a predominantly white state. The genetic variety would be totally maximized.

“It’s a beautiful thing, dear,” Justine told her husband while joining Magnus in rimming the man’s wife, “what was your name again, my dear?”