Contents
Copyright
The Blonde Plague
Submitting Herself to Her New Master
Serving Madame
Jenny Gets Her First Rings
Copyright @ 2015 Alex Carlsbad All rights reserved.
No part of this text may be reproduced, in part or in full, without express written consent from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote short passages in a review. All characters depicted are above the age of eighteen. This is a work of fiction and in no way condones acts of violence, sexual or otherwise.
Adult Reading Material
The material contained within this book is for mature audiences only. It contains graphic sexual content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and above. This book does not portray sexual intercourse between blood relatives.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
The Blonde Plague
Nobody knew exactly where the virus originated or how it had mutated into the awful and perverse form it had acquired. Conspiracy theories pointed fingers at the CIA, and said it was the result of an American plan to sterilize and eradicate the Muslims of the world. Some folks would quote scripture and point out how the evil Western scientists had succumbed to their own apocalyptic device that had gone amok.
But President Ismailov scoffed at the idea. Not that the Americans weren't devious, but nature was plenty more dangerous than they could ever be.
A global pandemic had been bound to strike sooner or later. Overpopulation, open borders and cheap airplane travel, vaccine deniers… All things considered, it was amazing a pandemic hadn't struck earlier.
That it struck not long after the economy crashed was only logical. That it sickened his wife, his beautiful soul mate, the apple of his eye was tragic.
Aisha struggled through it and survived just like most other people. It were the side effects that rendered their lives asunder.
*
The more time passed, the more things got darker. The president shook his head in dismay. Instead of the situation improving, everything across the board was getting bleaker by the day.
He watched through the double armor-plated windows of his limousine as the heavy vehicle made its way into the presidential courtyard. Lines upon lines of grim-faced people in awkward ill-fitting clothes stood patiently waiting by the gate. He could see many of them had brought their wives and daughters, all of them made up in what people obviously considered to be the most appealing manner to attract the attention of the most powerful man in the land.
A deep shudder made his entire body constrict in a sudden attack of revulsion. He was becoming a vile dictator, a Sultan of times happily gone by and forgotten. Slowly, with inexorable relentlessness Nursultan Ismailov was being forced to play the part of a medieval satrap in his own beloved country. His mind flitted back to a scene from a movie he had seen a long time ago.
In it a rich German businessman was asked to take in and shelter scores upon scores of women attempting to hide from the Holocaust. Most of them did not shy away from playing upon the natural male proclivities of the main character for female company.
How was he supposed to resist temptations such as these?
Finally the heavy limousine pulled in by the gate and with uncharacteristic shyness the president opened the door and hastened to enter the relative calm of his own home. He couldn't wait to join his wife for a quiet supper and some much-needed time away from the craziness that had descended like a pall over the world outside.
He smiled broadly as he entered his office and seated himself behind the desk. His wife, Aisha was already there at work and he caught himself wondering what time she had woken up today. Had she been able to catch any rest?
“Come closer girl,” Aisha said.
He watched the brown-haired servant scurry over to kneel on a cushion by his wife's side. Yes, things had deteriorated immensely since the great financial crash that had shaken the western world a couple of years ago. But the calamity that had befallen so many had turned out to have a good size silver lining.
He looked over at his wife and smiled. Seated behind the long table that she had placed in his office and converted to a desk, she was going through the financial report sent over from the Ministry of State Economy. It detailed just how thick that silver lining was.
"Remind me, honey that I don't have to pretend I’m interested next time the American ambassador and his wife come to bore us with tales of their crumbling economy," she said and pushed back the antique-looking horn-rimmed glasses she was wearing. "From the looks of it, right now, our economy is doing vastly better than theirs. Kazakhstan is one of the very few countries actually growing. Regardless of all the pretense and grandstanding, the West has no teeth left to bite."
He nodded in her direction moving his butt forward in his chair. He placed his hands atop the rapidly bobbing blond head of the woman kneeling between his legs.
At the interesting age of forty-four, a veritable old age for a German supermodel, Giselle had been more than eager to accept when they had offered her a job with the household of the President of Kazakhstan. Officially her position was that of a maid, but President Nursultan Ismailov didn't think she had any illusions as to the true nature of her future duties. Very few women could afford the luxury of morals these days, not when life had become a daily struggle for survival.
Oh how the mighty have fallen, thought the president as he felt a familiar tingle start at the base of his scrotum. Soon he started cuming in rapid wet spurts. Giselle, the model from an age recently gone by knelt forward sucking greedily. He could hear her swallow the copious amounts of seed he was ejaculating straight into her throat.
From the corner of his eye he could see the mild look of amusement that had befallen his wife. She shook her head like a parent bemused by her favorite pet’s antics.
She flicked her fingers and immediately the other body-servant in the room, a petite brunette sitting on her heels by her chair, knelt up looking at her mistress for instructions. His wife simply waved at her feet. The girl understood. She crawled over and within seconds was busy licking the expensive black leather boots of her Mistress.
"Use the bottom side of your tongue, please. Will you," Mrs. Ismailov said and resumed reading the spreadsheet.
"Do you really have to be that way?" It was the President's turn to shake his head in dismay. He nodded and smiled at Giselle who was now done worshipping her master’s cock and sat back on her heels smiling radiantly up at him. He loved women of all ages, especially blond ones.
“Like what?" his wife asked.
"Callous," he said.
"I'm not callous," Mrs. Ismailov replied moving in to look more carefully at some fine print on the screen of her laptop. "The underside of her tongue is much softer, and wetter. Much better for polishing an expensive pair of leather boots." Her voice was distant and mechanical. She flicked something on the touchpad and re-crossed her legs almost inadvertently kicking the servant girl in the process.
The President grunted. He knew well why his wife was giving the petite brunette such a hard time.
For a brief moment he considered asking Aisha to be gentle with the house help, but stopped himself. Instead, he sighed deeply and took a long refreshing sip from the glass of ice-cold milk that Giselle had brought in earlier and placed on his desk by him.
A couple of days ago Renee had made the serious mistake of inquiring if she might be granted a leave of absence. When asked why, she had explained it was only that she wanted to go home and spend time with her husband. She said that they were hoping to get their small family going. Now that s
he had saved up some money, many thanks be to the generosity of the kind President and his beautiful wife, they were going to try and get busy and make some little ones.
This had made his wife lapse into a fit of anger.
Had he not intervened, she would have had the poor girl whipped for insolence. President Ismailov had been educated at the best Ivy League schools money could buy. He knew all about the stages of grief and recognized how early in the process his wife apparently was. He tried his best to convince Aisha, to let Renee go, but to no avail.
The servant girl was actually one of the original members of their staff. Somehow, miraculously, she had avoided the sudden and devastating outbreak that had struck soon after the financial crash.
Aisha hadn't been so lucky.
She had suffered the full impact of the horrible disease. And she was clearly intent on not allowing those more fortunate than her to enjoy their luck.
Mr. Ismailov buttoned up his pants and walked over to where Aisha was working at her desk. Since her illness they had become even closer than before. They seldom left each other’s company. They worked together, slept together, and made love together, even if not always with one another.
His wife looked up at him and he smiled.
"My Love," he said placing his hands gently along her shoulders. He started to rub them slowly. He felt knots of stress and tension slowly ease beneath his touch.
"My Love," she echoed relaxing into his touch.
She had survived the disease but did not manage to avoid its side effects. Very few people did.
For some bizarre reason the virus struck only women. After a bout of weeklong nausea and high fever almost all recovered. It was soon discovered however, that every woman who happened to be younger than forty years of age was now rendered infertile.
When the news of women unable to conceive first made the rounds, almost nobody took it seriously. Surely it was a fluke. Surely, this horrible side effect couldn’t have impacted every single woman infected with the virus.
But it had. When Aisha Ismailova discovered the grim fact for herself, her husband was worried that she might commit suicide.
They had always wanted a large family. The goal of raising kids had been the force guiding their efforts to become rich and gain power all these years.
No matter how much they tried, no matter how much money they promised to allocate towards research, there was no avoiding the reality. Almost all women that had succumbed to the disease had lost all their egg cells. Their ovaries had been damaged beyond anything modern medicine could fix.
Almost all women.
It was soon discovered that the infertility aspect of the disease only affected women who were naturally blond and also had blue eyes.
Somehow through some vagary of fate what had once been a hallmark of beauty had become a true curse.
"I saw you drinking milk earlier," his wife said.
"Yes I was," he replied.
"Is it from her?" She inquired.
"It is indeed," the president answered.
"Do you have much left?" His wife asked him and he could discern a genuine undertone of concern in her voice.
"I am going through my last batch right now. Unfortunately, I do not think I will be able to procure any new shipments once this one is gone," he added.
As far as he was concerned, there was definitely something to be said about the quality and taste of a young blond mother's milk. Too bad his favorite supplier in England had apparently gone bankrupt and the shipments had stopped. He had gone to serious lengths to discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Jenny Smith. Perhaps he might have been able to convince her to just produce for him. He had even contacted the owner of the company in London. Unfortunately the only information he got was that she had given up on selling her breast milk online and had last been seen somewhere in Africa.
When the virus struck and the world spiraled out of control, Mr. Ismailov gave up all hope of finding the woman. Even if he did, he suspected she would have stopped nursing by now and having most probably suffered the after effects of the virus, would not be able to conceive again.
The president noticed his wife lean back in her chair looking up at him with a mischievous twinkle in her beautiful doe-like brown eyes. She pensively placed a hand on the thick manila folder resting by her laptop on the desk.
"I might know where she is," she said and smiled.
Nursultan Ismailov, or Nouri as his wife affectionately called him, was well past being shy about his private life. He simply had no secrets from his wife. He knew she was well aware of his taste for human milk. But still, he was shocked that she had gone so far as to search for the favorite source of his precious beverage.
"Oh, really? Last I heard she vanished somewhere in Africa," he said.
"She did in fact go to Africa," Aisha said. "But I wouldn't say she vanished. This folder contains the entire and up-to-date story of a certain Jennifer Smith née Brown. The twenty-three-year-old mother of a beautiful baby daughter called Melody is doing fine in the company of a certain Mr. Inoukoue. She is in Zimbabwe right now," his wife added and Nouri Ismailov couldn't help but admire the glee in her voice.
"Remarkable, dear Aisha!" He exclaimed and bent forward to kiss her on the lips. "But how did you come upon this information. I assigned the best of my intelligence services to track her down, and they failed."
"You should fire them all, is what I think," she laughed. "It only took one phone call for me to get the information I needed." I called her husband and told him I am a long lost friend of hers from Harvard. He was only too happy to provide me with the satellite number of her business contact in Africa. Her poor husband is apparently quite clueless," Aisha chuckled. "Apparently he thinks she's doing bona fide business there. I sent a person to see for themselves and what I suspected turned out to be in fact true. Here see for yourself," she motioned for Nouri to look at the folder that she opened and emptied across the table.
Black and white photos, obviously taken from a long distance, covered her desk. In them the president could clearly see a young and very naked blond woman in various states of lovemaking with a gargantuan heavily tattooed black man. Even though he had just come in Giselle's mouth, Nursultan Ismailov felt his loins stir at the images.
"Wow!" He said and realized his voice sounded hoarse.
His wife laughed out loud. "Wow is right, dear husband. I thought you might find this interesting. I must actually admit I don't find it boring myself," she chuckled. Nursultan bent over the table studying the pictures carefully. In some of them the black giant appeared to be naked except for a heavy holster hung around his waist. In one photo it was clearly flapping against his butt while he was clearly pummeling into the delectable and petite Mrs. Smith. The president was quite speechless.
"I spoke with him," his wife added softly and for a moment he thought he had misheard.
"Huh?"
"His name is Mr. Inoukoue. He is a warlord from Nigeria," his wife explained a broad smile spreading across her face. "He's the one that actually provided me with most of the information in this folder. It's not for free, mind you. But something tells me, dear husband, that you wouldn't mind a little extra expense given the news I have for you."
The president felt the need to pinch himself. It was like as if his wife had been reading his mind and discerned his deepest, most cherished wishes and had actually acted to bring them to fruition! He really loved that woman!
"What news?" He asked
"She is healthy," his wife announced winking at him. "She can still have babies. Not like your pretty little Giselle over there, who's cute face and little tits do little to mask the sad reality of her barren womb." A shadow of sadness clouded her features as Aisha looked down. "Just as mine."
"Oh, dear Aisha," the president knelt by his wife and hugged her tightly. "I love you so. Don't worry for an instant about the calamity that befell you. We will find a way around the misfortune, I promise you." He spoke into her
ear as he nuzzled her against his broad chest. "I will not spare resources or money to find a cure, Aisha." He promised. He felt her nod against his chest. Then she pushed at him and looked straight into his face.
"I believe in you, and I know you will," she whispered. "But until you do, I have made arrangements. You should not suffer because God has chosen to test me."
"Arrangements? I do not understand…"
"Don't you see, dear husband," Aisha was now holding both his hands in hers and looking up straight into his eyes. "I want us to have the child, the children," she corrected herself, "that we always wanted to. I know how much you lust for this woman. I want us to make her an offer she cannot refuse," tears had formed in his wife's eyes and now they slowly started making their way down the sides of her beautiful oval face. "She is probably the last fertile blond woman in the world. This Mr. Inoukoue, has been keeping her safe and protected from all human contact in a cottage out in the middle of nowhere in the jungles of Zimbabwe. He promised me that she has not come down with the illness. I have made arrangements to send one of our cargo planes and military escort to collect her from there, and bring her to us. The military will make sure that she stays healthy."
His wife was suddenly breathless with excitement as she spoke. She reminded him of a child waiting in happy anticipation to unwrap a coveted toy.
"But what if she doesn't want to…"
"Oh I know she will want to do it, to be the surrogate mother for our children. In fact if you look at your schedule, you will see you have a meeting in a couple of days with your new financial advisor, a certain Ben Smith. He's her husband. They are dirt poor," Aisha explained, "and living hand to mouth from what money they get from Mr. Inoukoue. Even though Ben does not know it, his wife will be relieved to not have to fuck a stranger away from home just so her daughter and husband can make ends meet."
"Wow! Just wow! I love you, baby," her husband almost felt like crying himself. His wife and him had always been soul mates in the most real of meanings. But it wasn't until this instant that he realized how deep her love for him truly was.
Milked, Volumes Five Through Eight Page 1