11 comments/ 34686 views/ 7 favorites Children of Angels By: janus6988 Paul realized, as the naked, athletic, ample-breasted twenty-three year old guided his cock up and into her well lubricated vagina without so much as a "how do you do", that he had never wanted to be worshipped. Sure, he had had the occasional fantasy when he was a child. But you can't be worshipped and loved. And now that he was worshipped, the thing he missed most was love. Being deified was boring. There had been eight of them on the ISS when it happened. No one could prove it, but Paul had always believed it had been intentional – or if not intentionally released, the virus that had sterilized every higher male primate on the planet had, at a minimum, been designed by a human hand. It was too... specific. The release itself may have been an accident. Paul hoped it was. One of his degrees was in anthropology, and he had never met an orangutan he hadn't liked. But intentional or not, his life had changed when the eight male astronauts on the International Space Station were finally rescued after the chaos that had enveloped the planet finally subsided. The raven-haired beauty straddling his knees, facing his feet, and perched on the soft knob of his engorged penis leaned back once the head of his cock was firmly gripped by the throat of her vulva, released her grip on the base of his shaft, and pressed herself backward firmly onto his flesh. In moments he was deeply inside her, and she began to churn her hips, stirring her quim with his cock. She hadn't said a word to him. Not even hello. It had taken four years. Four long years in zero gravity after the discovery that every man on the planet was sterile. Two of those years had been spent glued to portholes watching a series of regional wars escalate around the globe, accusations flying between governments who needed the merest hint of provocation to renew centuries old conflicts. India and Pakistan had launched first. The Middle East had followed. China tried to repatriate Taiwan, and Taiwan launched its one and only well kept secret – a 20 kiloton nuclear cruise missile into the skyscrapers of downtown Beijing. Two billion had perished while eight horrified astronauts watched from orbit, before the world came to its senses – a pause catalyzed by the finding that frozen sperm had escaped the scourge, that the virus had died out, and that women themselves were unaffected. Dozens of cryogenics facilities were destroyed by frenzied mobs seeking frozen redemption before the UN stepped in and sent peacemakers to guard every facility that contained frozen human sperm. It had taken a massacre of three hundred at the cryolab in Edmonton before the mobs had begun to respect the fences and the minefields that surrounded each laboratory. The nubile stranger whose cleanshaven slit was flared around the girth of his penis changed tactics. Instead of flexing her hips and stirring her cunt with his cock, she leaned backward until she was vertical above him and began to bounce gently on his erection. Reaching down with her right hand, she gently squeezed his testicles as she fucked him. Every couple of bounces the head of his cock would hit her cervix and she released a small gasp. He knew it was pain and not pleasure, no matter how slippery she was or what sounds she made. They never came. Never. Most didn't even bother pretending. The frozen sperm didn't last. Private labs sold their horde for hundreds of millions of dollars. Government facilities used less capitalist means of distribution, but in less than a year, the genetic wealth had been distributed through lottery, and less than four hundred thousand women were pregnant around the globe. Scientists confirmed that although the global population would fall as low as two hundred million at its lowest point, the species would survive with the genetic pool available. That assurance did nothing to satisfy the maternal instincts of a billion childless women who watched with a mixture of envy and horror as only one woman of child-bearing age in ten won or bought the right to fill her womb. And while every living man and boy on the planet had been confirmed sterile – including those who were in vitro at the time of infection – their fertile daughters were quickly coming of age. It was only then that they looked up. Paul looked up. He was going to cum. The sensation was so familiar to him it had lost all higher meaning. He watched the muscles in the small of her back flex as she impaled and lifted herself again and again. He gazed in admiration at the line of her spine, the perfect heart shape that her ass made on his hips, and the way her black hair bounced against her shoulders as she screwed herself down onto his flesh. Such a fine young woman. He hoped she had a good husband. She must if she was here. The eight men on the ISS had been receiving irradiated shipments of virus-free supplies for three-and-a-half years when the first rescue mission was sent by a private European biotech intent on offering them salvation for remuneration – their corporate reward being access to the only living supply of virile sperm on, or in orbit of, the planet. Once the intent of the launch had been determined, the new and much stronger United Nations simply annexed the organization and its assets, and the rescue mission was reorganized into a successful repatriation of eight homesick astronauts – with conditions similar to or tougher than those that their corporate saviors would have imposed. The fertile young woman bouncing on his cock sensed something. Perhaps his cock became slightly harder. Perhaps it throbbed inside her. But something told her he was going to cum. She bounced harder, twisting her hips as she bounced to bend his cock pleasantly inside her vagina. Paul caught a flash of the sight of his thick wet cock under her pert young ass as it was consumed and disgorged by her fine, tender cunt. He felt her cumhole clench on his flesh as she intentionally squeezed his cock with the muscular walls of her cockpurse. He inhaled deeply, moaned once as it crashed over him and, as he admired the dark red leaves on the Japanese maple just off the trail where they were fucking, he began to spurt his semen inside her. One astronaut carried three recessive genes that the UN considered undesirable and was asked to accept sterilization. He had three children already, two of whom were daughters approaching child bearing age themselves, and he honored the request without complaint on the condition that his daughters would receive priority in the queue. Two others removed themselves from the program for religious reasons. Both were sincere monogamists. Both were quickly killed, quite publicly, by small militant mobs of feminists. One died strapped to a dentist's chair. The other died of blood loss when his penis and testicles were removed with a dull knife. She had been speechless until this moment, until she felt the first jet of warm fluid inside her, she moaned once in satisfaction, whispered a single "Oh God, yes" into the brightly sunlit garden, and continued to clench his cock with her cunt until he began to recede inside her. Pausing only for a moment to get her bearings, and before the last whispers of his orgasm were complete, she found the latex plug they had given her at the main house, lifted herself quickly off his flagging and cum-soaked length, and slipped the soft plug into the mouth of her gaping vagina before more than a few drops of semen could escape. Without a word, she began to walk quickly up the trail towards the mansion. He liked the way she walked. She seemed like a nice enough girl. But he wished that just once she would have made eye contact. Just once. Even so, he wished her well. The five astronauts who remained recognized that their participation was not in any real sense voluntary, and joined what was thereafter known only as "The Program". "The Program" was simply, really. A lab technician would visit once every other day to collect a fresh vial of semen. Masturbation would not begin until the technician arrived, and would commence immediately upon arrival. The fresh semen was immediately frozen in the technician's portable liquid nitrogen tank, and was used to inseminate two to three women in various parts of the world. Technicians were all male or post-menopausal women, to minimize the possibility that semen would be "lost" in transit. Recipients were given no choice of donor. Couples or single women who desired same race donors were disqualified from the program – the UN had made it clear that in the interest of genetic diversity most women would receive semen from a donor whose race did not match their own. Most babies would be a beautiful shade of brown. Paul lay for a moment in the sun, her cuntsap drying quickly on his skin. He looked inside himself for the motivation to get up and found none. The motivation itself required a fulcrum – a goal. What goal remained? He watched as her pert asscheeks and long legs vanished around an arbor, and sighed. He was, once again, alone. But, of course, he had been alone even when she was bouncing enthusiastically on his cock. He had trouble remembering a time when he hadn't been alone. Surrounded by people – surrounded by women – but always alone. "The Program" quickly ran into an insurmountable challenge. After four months, successful conception rates using artificial insemination in highly controlled conditions fell from seventy percent to thirty. Sperm counts were decreasing significantly. Constant masturbation was taking its toll. Consultants recommended isolating individual spermatozoa and injecting them directly into eggs. Geneticists reminded consultants that Darwinism applies to fertility, and that natural process should prevail wherever possible. And the United Nations, beginning to tire of the issue politically, and knowing that the long terms solution was already in place with just under two hundred thousand virile male babies in new mothers' arms from frozen sperm, came up with a loose and non-negotiable operational interpretation of "natural process". Paul lay in the sun for a couple more minutes before rolling over and getting to his feet. The fine, sharp gravel of the trail stuck to the wet parts of his penis and testicles. He didn't notice. He thought for a moment of calling Brian to check up on things before remembering that Brian was gone. Four months ago in Oslo. Paul couldn't remember how he had done it, but certainly knew why. They had sent him back into orbit, and into the sun in a steel coffin, pretending it was an honor, calling him "Father of Nations". Paul knew better. They had done the same with Nikolai. Their life had a price. They weren't welcome here anymore. This was no longer "home". They were hated. Even as they fathered nations, they were hated. Twenty ambassadorial residences in major cities were set aside as "fertility clinics". Paris, Hong Kong, Sydney, and Sao Paulo; Atlanta, Toronto, Pretoria, and Moscow; Amsterdam, Mexico City, Dakar, and Madrid; Glasgow, Oslo, Seoul, and Singapore; Edmonton, Istanbul, Harare, and – of all places – Salt Lake City. As it turned out, Mormons were realists of the finest order. Five astronauts were provided with a scheduled rotation between clinics. The rotation was advertised. Candidates were screened months prior to arrival at the clinic, and once again on entering the clinic to ensure they were immediately and urgently fertile. A new appointment was made every second day. The astronaut would remain for a month before flying to a new destination. And, every second day, a woman was inseminated at the clinic. There was no other word for it. Paul remembered his first. She was one of the few he remembered at all. He had drawn Dakar as his first lot. The house matron ushered in a small, robed figure and quickly departed without comment. And Paul was left standing, in the massive foyer of the Dakarian ambassadorial residence, with a tiny Muslim woman in full fundamentalist garb – black hijab hiding her hair, nikab over her face, and her burkha flowing to the floor. Nothing but brown eyes watching him intently from a tiny swath of pretty brown skin that peeked out from her nikab. Paul had been stunned. They stood, facing each other quietly, for more than a minute before Paul offered a perfunctory greeting. "Hello. I'm Paul." She didn't respond. She didn't even blink. "Would you like something to drink?" She slowly shook her head. At least she understood English. Paul shrugged his shoulders in gentle frustration. "I don't know what to do." She did. The details were vivid, even after thirteen years. Her eyes had changed. Narrowed. Paul found it amazing how much was communicated in that simple change, and how he felt so... measured. And how he realized that she felt more contempt for him than fear. She lifted a covered hand and pressed it against his chest, gently backing him up until the heels of his feet stopped at the bottom stair of the grand staircase. He had lifted a foot to mount the stairs, but she pressed him gently down until he was sitting on the third stair. Gently but forcibly pressing on his chest until he lay reclined on the plushly carpeted steps, she paused for a moment to ensure he would stay put before turning her eyes to his thighs. As Paul watched, she flicked open his belt with long, thin fingers, fingernails painted bright red in contrast to her pitch-black burkha. Without pausing, she unclasped the button of his slacks, and unzipped his fly. Reaching quickly inside the hem of his boxers, she deftly lifted his limp member out into the light before lowering her head, flicking up the hem of her nikab, and taking him into the warmth of her mouth before he realized her intent. Paul remembered shouting. He remembered the incredible image as his limp penis vanished under the black hem of sexless fabric that covered her face. He remembered the incredible sensation as the wet heat of her hidden mouth enveloped his cock and closed on it. And he remembered the astonishing efficiency with which she sucked and tongued his limp cock to a raging erection in seconds. She lifted her mouth from his wet, throbbing penis, reached down with both hands to grip the hem of her burkha around her ankles, and lifted the fabric quickly above her waist. She was naked underneath, and Paul remembered the mass of thick, coarse hair on her thighs, so thick he couldn't see the flesh of her vulva. He remembered the sweet smell of her hips. He remembered her stomach –deliciously brown and decorated with a single golden stud through the tender flesh of her bellybutton. He remembered seeing the lower swell of her breasts underneath the fabric of her burkha as she held it aloft and stepped forward onto the stair. He remembered the rush of air as she quickly lowered herself, holding the thick fabric of the burkha between her stomach and his. And he remembered the glorious sensation of her thighs and ass as she sat on his hips. Holding herself on his lap with her left hand gripping the railing beside them, she slid backward a few inches, released her grip on the fabric of the burkha, reached down with her right hand to grip the shaft of his penis, and bent it down sharply until it was parallel to his legs. Moving forward quickly, she trapped the head of his cock directly under the humid warmth of her pussy. Reaching behind and underneath her own body with her right hand, she pressed the head of his cock up through the lips of her vulva, into the warm, wet, mouth of her vagina and then slid forward, twisting his cock up and into the tight channel of her tight, sodden cunt with almost frightening purpose. He came. Instantly. Shouting, moaning, gasping, and leaning backward on the stairs as she pulled herself firmly down onto his flesh. He thrust upward against and into her twice, spewing a remarkable volume of semen into her vagina hidden under the burkha, before shaking his head in both confusion and astonishment, and crumpling underneath her on the stairs. She stood immediately, lowering her burkha around her hips as she stood. Paul remembered watching a thin stream of semen dribble through her thick pubic hair and down the inside of her left thigh as the fabric fell around her knees. He remembered being suddenly and irredeemably in love. And before he could say or do anything of consequence, she turned and walked quickly out of the front entrance of the mansion. And he was alone. It had been that way ever since. They called them "Children of Angels", in all languages and cultures. The sons and daughters of five genetically robust astronauts from on high were the most prized children on the planet. They were immaculately conceived, to a child, and tended to be healthy, intelligent, and beautiful. The circumstances of their conception were never discussed, and never revealed. No matter how crass or vulgar the story of their beginnings, they were treasured beyond measure by their parents. But the angels who fathered them had broken wings and dirty feathers. After all, these angels were, themselves, children of men. And they were despised. Paul walked slowly along the gravel trail towards the mansion. He had eleven more days in Sydney before they flew him to Seoul. Those "in the know" had determined sperm counts stayed higher if "donors" were sequentially exposed to significantly different phenotypes. Five more athletic Australian women – including a tall mahogany-skinned Maori tribeswoman if she proved to be fertile when she arrived – before the first tight, spicy Korean vagina slid over and onto the head of his cock. Tiny pieces of gravel that had adhered to the sticky skin of his penis began to fall off as it grew slightly and involuntarily at the thought of Oriental flesh as he walked. Boredom was the only constant. Variety was the only relief. But after a single enjoyable orgasm inside the petite body of a shy Korean princess, he would be bored and alone once again. There was a time he would have sold his soul to the devil for this life. And now, in deepest irony, his soul was intact and no-one wanted it. They only wanted one thing. And it had nothing to do with his soul. He had come to that realization, finally, in Amsterdam. It was the last time he had left the residences and been in public. Feeling disconnected and alone, he had wandered the streets for hours, hungry for human contact, believing that the anonymity of the masses would preclude recognition. But near dusk, in the middle of Marnixstraat on his way to the Leidseplein to watch the local night life, a young couple stepped in front of him and blocked his path. Without a word of greeting or recognition, the young woman slipped her dress off her shoulders, turned to lean over a bench, spread her legs, and twisted her hips upward to display her engorged and naked vulva in blunt invitation. She had quite obviously disposed of her underwear but had chosen to retain her brassiere, stockings, and heels. Her husband picked up her abandoned dress, walked a few yard down the street to another bench, lit up a perfectly legal blunt, and looked on with nothing more than curiosity. The ebb and flow of human traffic on the street was relatively unaffected by the sight of a pretty brunette exposing herself. Parents with children began crossing the street instead of passing the spectacle, but adults passed by without so much as a curious glance. Paul realized that he had not, not even for a moment, been unrecognized by the citizenry. To a man and woman, they knew who he was. And they were ignoring him. Paul looked at the pretty brunette leaning provocatively on the bench. With her left hand, she reached up and slid her left breast out of her thin brassiere. She held it as she looked back at him, bouncing it in her hand. It was then that he realized he had a sizeable erection. The situation was new. Vibrant. A real change. And the young woman flexing her hips at him was very, very pretty. Children of Angels He stepped towards her, unzipping his fly and flexing the head of his cock quickly through the maze of his shirttail, underwear, and trousers. She sighed once in contentment as he approached, arched her hips even higher, and braced herself as she leaned forward on the bench. Without ceremony or civility, he stepped behind her, lifted the head of his cock to the moist, plush slit of her vulva, and pressed himself up and into her vagina. She gasped, not wet enough to lubricate the passage of his cock through her pussy without some pain, but she adjusted quickly and held herself still while he entered her. He reached forward, grasped her hips with his both hands, and began energetically fucking her while her husband watched and while strangers passed by. She gasped and moaned as his cock moved inside her, but as the abundant sap in her cunt spread to the mouth of her pussy on the skin of his penis the chafing faded, and she began to press herself backward against him. She looked back and licked her lips, encouraging him to cum in a whorish and insincere display of fraudulent lust. Paul knew she wasn't enjoying herself. He knew what she wanted. And he was suddenly in no mood to give it to her. He drove his cock into her cunt with cruel, savage strokes. He watched her eyelids flutter as he mashed the head of his cock into her cervix, but she held her hips high for him, never once flinching. He shouted at her in fluent English and broken French. He called her a whore. He called her a bitch. He called her a slut. He shouted vulgarities at her while senior citizens passed without comment. He fucked her with every ounce of cruelty and humiliation he could muster while the clubs around them began to fill with patrons. But even as he savaged her, another couple sat on a bench not thirty feet away, and the young woman began to remove her clothes. Even as he tried desperately to shame the young woman he was fucking, another was removing her brassiere and underwear to stand naked and ready for him should he have the wherewithal to continue after he was done, while her husband held her purse and looked away. And, suffering from a moment of mental distraction while he continued to thrust inside the pretty young woman leaning on the bench, his testicles betrayed him and with a horrified shout of astonishment and guilt, he came violently and voluminously inside of her. She reached back as he finished and plucked his hands from her hips, holding his wrists with her fingertips like his arms were infected, and pulled herself forward until his still-tumescent cock slid out of her pussy in a slick rush. Without a word she returned to her husband, kissed him softly and lovingly, and stepped proudly back into her dress. He gazed at her adoringly while she made herself presentable, reached for her hand quickly when she was done, and without a backward glance they vanished into the near-dusk gloom of the Leidseplein to reap the rewards of their daring. The slender, naked, small-breasted hopeful twenty feet away realized that he was not fit to continue and slowly began to dress with the help of her husband, without a hint of personal shame or judgement from her neighbours. It was then that Paul realized what he had become. Half syringe, half god. But no longer welcome as a human being among human beings. Had she thanked him, he would have been human. Had she spit on him or slapped him for his cruelty, he would have been human. But they did nothing more than ignore him. He had become a sperm factory, and nothing more. You can't love something that you truly need. You can't love something that you're forced to worship. But you can hate it at the same time as you need it and worship it. And they did. Paul finished his long walk up to the mansion, and retired – naked and filthy – to the study. He took a look at the digital terminal on the desk and scanned the news. Nothing. Every day, of late, he took a quick look. It had been fifteen years. His oldest male children, anonymous and distant, would be old enough by now. And there was enough pressure on governments and lawmakers to set aside the normal rules. One day soon, there would be a story. A headline. A front page, full page banner that would rock the world. One day soon one of his sons – or those of Brian, Nikolai, Pierre, Zhen, or Mgudu, would father a child. And when it happened, Paul knew just what to do. He was going to masturbate once, for old times sake, and as the semen dried on his fingers and thighs, and as the catharsis set in, he was going to shoot himself in the head with his old Air Force service revolver before the mob broke down his door to kill their former god. It was all he had to look forward to.