Chapter 153

1245 hours, local time
Thursday, 7 August, 2014
Refugee Process Facility,
Louisville, KY

The memory of the anal orgy from the night before was rather nice, as was that of the great breakfast that followed at the Switch house that I would never forget. I smiled at that recollection, even as a bunch of us went out to the center which sheltered the refugees from the Rust Belt in order to gather them for my family. Some, though probably not all by any means, would be collected and adopted ... married, in fact, into the tribe. I tried to focus on the good news, as opposed to the additional questions and concerns that must inevitably follow here.

“I count seventeen people, refugees that is, so far who have expressed in joining us on our great trek westward. That seems a tolerable number, but what if we need to add more? Should we add more, for that matter? I want to give you one more opportunity to join us from this situation, so for the record, if any more of you wish to follow and marry me and join my family, this is your chance. Step forward right now, or forever hold your peace!” I invited the gathering throng one last time to attach themselves to me and mine.

I also amused myself by considering how surprisingly clean and well-fed these refugees were. Clearly, the government knew how to treat them, so their future didn’t look bleak without me. That was something positive at least about the current situation. Their situation back home varied, too, as Ohio no longer had a demonic infestation in a menacing sense. Those demons who remained in Ohio were the sort who were wiling, even eager, to coexist with humans instead of devouring them. The rest of the Rust Belt wasn’t as fortunate. The Buckeye State had many challenges on the road back to a functioning community, but the demonic peril wasn’t one of them.

In any case, another seven people stepped forward, all of them somehow connected to the other seventeen. This was it, I realized. This was the last group added en masse to my tribe. Individuals aside, my caravan had expanded to its maximum capacity. I had found my people, my family. They would be with me for the remainder of the journey. I smiled as they introduced themselves formally and we prepared to leave that refugee holding center behind for good.

“I’m Samuel Zola, from Detroit. Am I right, that I must become a futa or woman, that no more men are to be added to the group? How will this work, exactly?” a short, lean, and wiry man whose mixed French and First Nations ancestry was obvious asked me now.

“Yes, that is correct,” I told him as I put the sapphire to him first to change him.

The transformation was powerful and unmistakable, of course. In a rapid metamorphosis, Samuel became a futa lady, as did the six other guys soon afterward in the party. Three of them closely resembled Samuel, which reinforced the sense that I claimed entire families. The other three looked very different from him, but similar to each other. Two of them were black. One had a distinctly Middle Eastern look to her.

“You are Samantha now. This is your wife, am I right?” I kissed her and Samantha both directly on the lips now.

“Yes, Lenore Zola, nee Pitcairn. Originally from Gary, Indiana myself. As you can see, I’m black and he ... she is white. I’m forty-two. Samuel ... Samantha is forty-four. We’ve had an interesting life so far. It’s about to get even more so now. These are our seven ... children, no ... offspring. I forget. They are all fourteen or above, and you’re not considered a child at fourteen anymore. Michel, Eduard, Pierre, Anne-Marie, Mireille, Monique, and Francoise. I can only guess what the lads will be named now that they are futanari.

“This is my brother, Ames Pitcairn ... sorry, my futa sister now ... her wife, Salwa. These are their daughters: Ameena, Urwa, Laila, Hamsa, Nasreen, and Tala. This is their son..., was their son, now their futa daughter. Shahid. I presume that they are now ... Shahida?

“This is Salwa’s ... brother, now futa sister, Hamdi Al-Usman, and her wife, Hujja. These are their daughters: Hikma, Iffat, Nahla, and Jasra. Their family is originally from Mecca, which doesn’t exist anymore. They are Sunni Muslims and descended from an early caliph. Samantha’s family were French colonists and Ojibway. Mine were slaves from the Congo and Scots or Scots-Irish colonists who mingled in a certain Caribbean colony of the British Empire,” the sultry woman who resembled a professor or some kind informed me.

“Well, Hamdi, you are now Hamna. Michel, you are now Michelle. Eduard, you are now Edith. Pierre, you are now Pilar. Ames, you are now Amelia. Shahid, yes, you are now Shahida. I will breed each of you and expect the futanari among you to do some breeding of your own. You understand the implications here, I can imagine. It’s a radical development, but you will learn to adapt to the new way of things. Trust me, you’ll catch on,” I declared as I took them out to brunch at a local cafe, our entourage all present except the little ones and two ladies assigned to nursery duties.

“Hello, welcome, Reverend or Prophet, whatever you prefer. I’m Molly,” the hostess introduced herself, and she tapped a girl with a name saying Angie to serve us.

I could tell that people swarmed around us while we perused the menu and prepared to order. They all wanted to meet the Prophet and his tribe, either for the first or second times. I finally ordered and started to calculate the cost, figuring that I might have to sell something or whatever, but Molly passed me a note that read, “It’s complimentary.” I laughed as I realized how long it had been since I actually had to for my meals. It was a sobering reminder that I really was a celebrity now, as much as anyone might be nowadays. I was every bit the VIP that any survivors of Hollywood might be now.

I sighed and signed multiple autographs, including a few that the recipients vowed to have copied and turned into ink on their skins. I also autographed some breasts and buttocks, even a mons Veneris. How they proposed to not wash those signatures away was their affair, however. I got a rather generous chicken fried steak smothered in a classic white gravy, mashed potatoes with a brown gravy, and green beans that contained bacon bits. I also got some of their shrinking stock of Guinness to wash it down and a New York style cheesecake for dessert. I meant not just a slice, but the whole cheesecake, though I shared it with those in the same booth with me.

“Only the best for the Prophet,” the proprietor and executive chef reassured me, “do you have any idea how many people will pay extra just to sit in the same booth as you? Photo?”

“Works for me,” I answered, even as a young lady approached me with her husband.

As soon as the flash went off, she climbed upon my lap and began riding me while her husband took pictures of us in act. She also flashed her wedding band as she bounced up and down on me, making it clear that she enjoyed the fact that it was brazen adultery. I then directed her hubby to screw Xia Delan in public, making her and the man’s wife both grin as they heard and then watched that plot twist. He needed to acquire Schumacher Syndrome and get some strange booty as well.

“The ASF has been pushed back to only the government district in Salem. That will probably fall some time around dawn. Then their last troops will fight to the death, but with nothing except hate and desperation behind their courage. When the Old Dominion flag flies above Salem’s City Hall, all hopes of victory will be irrevocably dashed. It will fully sink in to those goosestepping bastards that they’ve permanently been defeated, not just for a generation. That will just make them want to inflict as many losses on the coalition forces as possible,” Jeanette now informed me between licks to some ladies’ asses.

“War talk reminds me that the Prophet is a general, too, and that makes me wetter still. Breed me, while my husband humps the hell out of that lovely Asian wife of yours! We’ve been trying for a baby and still want one together, but we also want the honor of our firstborn being of your seed. He or she or both can mate with their siblings and connect our family permanently with yours. I’m Casey Durham, incidentally. My husband’s name is Dr. Ralph Durham. He’s a podiatrist. I’m a receptionist,” the young lady informed me, proudly flashing her ring a bit more, “he’s a bit older than me, but I love that about him.”