Tales Of The New Age Ch 01

[Author's Note: I recently finished a series of books by an author named S.M. Stirling. In that post-apocalyptic series, changes in, as near as I can tell, the basic rules of physics, have resulted in changes in society. Since this is a website about erotica, and as those who follow me know I am fascinated by erotica and sex in all of its forms, I started wondering about how another type of Change (capitalized by design) might affect society. I'm fascinated by this and will continue developing the concept and the characters for publication on Amazon. Still, I'm not sure how much interest folks who come to Literotica will have. So help me out. If you like these stories of The Quiet Death and the New Age it ushers in, leave a comment. If you don't like them, leave a comment. I read every comment. Thanks in advance, Dave.]

Preface

World War III, it turned out, was fought to a standstill without a shot being fired. Unlike every other war in history, there is no clear start date and no peace treaty or force of occupation marked its end. Instead, our new society gradually emerged.

I'm a student. The contents of my testicles are too precious to risk in any kind of manual labor and, well, I find the history of the Quiet Death interesting. Over the years I've added my own research but, if I'm being honest here, we don't really know what happened.

What I

think

happened is this. The Chinese, seeing that their bullshit economy was unsustainable, released another virus. They had the experience with the great COVID-19 pandemic of 2020-2021 and just trotted out that playbook again.

This time, though, it turned out their new toy wasn't quite as targeted as they thought. Who knows, maybe the virus mutated. Or maybe their scientists, afraid to give the Central Committee bad news, just lied.

It's not like it matters now, is it?

The plan was to let the rest of the world die off while the Chinese kept breeding away.

In the end, it didn't work out so well. The bugs had a mind of their own and decided they liked Chinese blood as much as Caucasian blood or Negro blood or Semitic blood.

It was a subtle war. Hell, nobody even knew we were at war.

The first signs were noticed in medical journals of all places. As I researched I found one article from something called

Lancet

which, if you don't pay attention to such things and why would you, was kind of the British version of the

Journal of the American Medical Association

. The article, by a half dozen doctors, had the mind-numbing title -

The Statistical Anomaly of Low Populations in Maternity Sections of UK Hospitals

. Follow-up articles in the aforementioned JAMA and other professional journals were followed pretty quickly by appearances in the popular press, By the June 2038 issue of

National Geographic

the scientific community was in full-blown panic with the full cover taken up with the cry - WHERE ARE THE BABIES?.

The world's population was plummeting and OB/GYN doctors were seeing a vanishingly small number of pregnant women.

Once the virus had raged through the population, the doctors and the statisticians could figure out what happened. And what happened was very close to an extinction event for humanity.

Oh, it wasn't that the bug itself killed everybody off. For many, including me, since the virus is still around, the illness itself was nothing more than a mild cold. I had the sniffles for a few hours and a mild fever that was gone by morning.

The virus had an apocalyptically high mortality rate for most. While a lot of us had only a mild cold, for ninety-two in a hundred it was fatal. There wasn't anything dramatic, none of the general bleeding of Ebola or the dramatic pustules of the Plague. Those victims simply went to sleep and didn't wake up.

With everybody testing positive for the Quiet Death now, all of the resources of the government, the National Institutes of Health, the Centers for Disease Control, and the dozens of hospitals receiving government funding for one project or another, were turned on what was already being called the Quiet Death. The data available to study is almost unlimited. And it

was

everybody that caught it. Only one in ten thousand never had it. So the results affected 99.9999 percent of the population.

But everyone was concerned with the disease, how to prevent it, how to keep those who died from, well, dying. It was years before the real impact of the disease was understood.

First, there was the undeniable fact that once you had the damn disease you had a vanishingly small chance of dying from anything. The changed conditions led to a brief rash of death by accident as people, mainly men, took up extreme sports, and others, mainly women, found suicide to be the easy way out of a world they no longer understood. But if you didn't manage to kill yourself by jumping out of an airplane, driving 150 miles per hour, or taking a fentanyl overdose, you didn't die. There is a school of thought, not one to which I subscribe but one that is plausible, that the Quiet Death virus wasn't really an attack at all. Rather, it was the search for the Fountain of Youth that went wrong.

Oh, you aged. Your skin wrinkled and turned to crepe. Your hair turned white and thinned. Gravity pulled women's breasts and men's testicles toward the earth.

But you didn't die.

And you didn't make babies.

For women, about one in 1,000 remained fertile after they had it. For men, it was more like one in 10,000. In an interesting case of karma, reports from China suggest that it was even worse for them with only one in a million still fertile after surviving the Quiet Death. Some research suggests that from a population of 7,500,000,000 or so when the disease appeared there were less than a hundred thousand Chinese in the world now.

Lack of fertility was only one of the many features of surviving the Quiet Death.

Girls had always matured more quickly than boys. Menarche, that first period, and the budding of breasts was between the ages of 8 and 16 in the world Before, but after the Quiet Death, a girl's first period rarely occurred before age 30. That didn't mean women were limited to one or two pregnancies before menopause. Indeed, I had yet to hear of the first woman going through the Change of Life that women used to fear.

Boys hit puberty before girls now, but not much. 25 was the average age for pubic hair, descended testicles, and beards.

With the population so badly diminished, but automation and vast stores available, the diminished population could live in great luxury.

But as with all things humanity does, in the end, it was sex and procreation that drove the new society as it developed. With those very rare, fertile males so dramatically outnumbered, they became extremely valuable. Households of fertile women combined their resources to attract and then hold a fertile man.

And humankind was slowly coming back.

To come back, it needed pampered Stallions like, well, me.

Chapter One

My Grandmother/Wife stood, offering the toast to fertility as the New Year of Year 112 of the New Age rolled in with the Great Clock chiming its welcome. It was her right, as the matriarch of the Community. She looked terrific, matronly, and beautiful, the glow of pregnancy surrounding her like a halo. Her white hair, uncut as all Ferts proudly announced their fertility, hung like a cascade almost to her ankles. She contrasted, beautifully, her proud nudity stark when compared to the traditional long-sleeved blouses, ankle-length skirts, and shaved heads of the infertile serving staff, the non-fecunds. Even the Nonfecs stopped out of respect when my Grandmother/Wife offered the traditional toast although since she was due to deliver any day now, bringing her twelfth child, the eleventh by me, into the world, her champagne flute contained only apple juice.

We stand tonight and watch,

The old year drift away.

On the tree of years another notch,

Each page of the book a new day.

Let us bring to the world new life,

And relish the joy of its creation

She rubbed her belly here, smiling.

For surely we still face strife,

But bring on a new generation.

Revel in your luck

She paused, dramatically, and seemed to meet every eye

And have a REAL good fuck.

She laughed then, tossed the drink back, and grinned at the gathering.

My Mother/Wife nudged me in the ribs. At 52 her black hair was starting to show streaks of silver, and her heavy breasts dripped her thick sweet milk, evidence of her recent delivery of another girl into the Community. She was smiling and her champagne flute held champagne. In the Community, light drinking while breastfeeding was not frowned on and it had been almost six months since we shared a bed. She wore her menstrual pad proudly and the look she gave me as she smiled and nodded for me to make the Stallion's Toast told me she would be sharing my bed again before long.

I stood, my erection and intact balls showing the world my status as House Stallion, and lifted my glass.

The Stallion knows his worth

Repopulating the earth

With the gift his body holds.

I stand tonight

In naked light

For each of you to behold.

And promise true

To all of you

My pledge I will uphold.

My gift of life is free to all

Your baby soon will bawl.

So come to me

And you will see

You hold me in your thrall.

The pleasure we share

The baby you bare

Surely pays for all.

I finished with a flourish, the silly poem first written by my great-grandfather in those days of chaos before he thought base jumping might be fun and broke his neck sounding, somehow, solemn at this New Year celebration.

I drained the glass, smiled at the revelers in the room, and sat.

My Grandmother/Wife stood and dinged on her glass, quieting the room.

"Before we welcome in the New Year," she intoned, the timbre of her voice showing this was a serious matter, "we have emissaries asking Stallion Service."

The room grew quiet. With fertile males, the Stallions, rare and precious, another Community asking for Service marked a significant debt that would carry through generations.

"Come forth, Jelika of the Desert," Naomi, my Grandmother/Wife, called.

The woman who stepped into the room from the anteroom was straight out of a Tarzan movie, and I don't mean it was Jane. She was tall, a bit over six feet, I guessed her at six-two. But it was her face that I couldn't look away from. Her skin was the color of coffee. Not the stuff you drink, the ground beans from which it is made. You could understand why early Europeans called them Negros, the Spanish or Latin word for black. She was that dark.

She was naked, her pregnant belly big but not making her look any less elegant. Her hair was that silvery grey some Black people's hair goes after a certain age. Her breasts were heavy and swollen, her nipples even darker than the surrounding skin and big, like inch-long bratwursts sagging from their own weight. The delta of her pubic hair, spreading below her belly button and covering the bottom of her distended belly put her fertility on display.

She stopped and nodded her head formally to Naomi.

"You understand the terms of Stallion Service?" my Grandmother/Wife asked.

"I believe I do," Jelika replied.

"To be clear," Naomi said and went on in Gaelic, "

an ceud-ghin againne an còrr is leatsa

," and then translated into English, "Firstborn ours, the rest yours." In our new matriarchal society, the Wiccans, the practitioners of what they called The Craft had risen to prominence. I always thought the use of Gaelic was a bit of an affectation, but, then again, what do I know? The rituals surrounding the craft, both the old and the ones developed since the New Age arrived, did have a certain power and elegance that got to me even though I don't claim to be a believer.

Jelika responded in the proper formula, "

Tha mi a' tuigsinn agus ag aontachadh

," I understand and accept, in an accent that would have done any redheaded Cailin proud.

"And who would you have our Stallion service?" Naomi asked in English.

"My granddaughter M'Hata'a," Jelika responded, and the word "responded" is proper here. This was a formal transaction wreathed in tradition in this 112th year of the New Age.

At the mention of her name, another Black woman stepped into the room. She was as beautiful as her grandmother. She was tall, the first tiny buds that would become her breasts showed as puberty came to her 25-year-old body. She walked with the same grace as her grandmother, her tall body radiating confidence. She was naked, as a Fert should be, and the white pad between her legs, held up by a golden sanitary belt proudly showed her menarche had been achieved and her menses was upon her.

My cock, always pretty hair-triggered, came erect almost instantly.

My Grandmother/Wife giggled, that oddly young sound I enjoyed, and said, "Stand, Cernunnos, and show the Offering your interest."

The name on my birth certificate is David, but when I proved fertile I was given the Community Name, Cernunnos after the Celtic God of Fertility.

I stood, my erection showing my interest.

M'Hata'a's eyes got big and Jelika smiled and turned to her. She said,

sotto voce

but loud enough to be heard, in clear English, "Oh my, if I was half a century younger and not knocked up...." She let the sentence tail off and she and M'Hata'a laughed together softly.

My penis isn't particularly big. I had attended a Gathering of

Torthúlacht

, another Gaelic word that had worked its way into society, literally a Gathering of Fertility when I proved fertile. There had been a dozen Stallions fresh out of puberty and we had looked and joked in the way of boys the world over. I won't deny that I was jealous of the one guy, come early to puberty at 20, whose penis hung swinging free when he stood still, or sort of flopped from side to side when he walked. But I was strictly average.

My penis isn't particularly big, then, but my testicles are the size of two lemons hanging in the skin sack of my scrotum. The testicles, along with what I have been told, I have no way of confirming this of course, a prostate gland the size and shape of a pear, are another result of the Quiet Death. The males who survive and remain fertile produce semen in prodigious quantities, all the better to ensure success in impregnating a fertile female.

So I stood, my average dick hard, pointing straight up my body, and my oversized balls on display.

"M'Hata'a," my Grandmother/Wife intoned, "do you offer yourself as your Community's Vessel to our Stallion?"

My soon-to-be Offering/Wife smiled and said, "I so offer," making the proper ritual response.

"Cernunnos," Naomi intoned, turning to face me, "do you accept this offering to service and help bring forth a new generation?"

I smiled at M'Hata'a and completed the transaction with, "I so accept."

My Grandmother/Wife turned to face the gathering. I had the irreverent thought that she probably enjoyed this sort of theater more than she should, but I held my face serious. You don't want to get on the bad side of her.

"I am Naomi, Priestess, Goddess, Mother of Eleven, Grandmother of our Stallion. You know me, now hear my words. From this day forward, M'Hata'a of the Desert, is a member of my household, the Offering/Wife of Cernunnos. She will be treated with all of the dignity to which that position entitles her. This is my word. So mote it be," she intoned, reveling in her role.

"So mote it be," came the response, almost like the

preces

of a Catholic liturgy.

"Blessed be," Naomi intoned, completing the transaction.

That completed the formalities and, technically, I didn't have to do anything further. Hell, I was

expected

to do nothing further since my current Broodmare was awaiting me in my bedroom. But my Grandmother/Wife had taught me that being a Stallion is more than just being a sperm donor. A proper Stallion makes his mare happy. He gives her pleasure as he receives it. And, if I do say so myself, I'm very good at fulfilling all of my duties, the formal as well as the informal.

Rather than leaving the gathering to do my duty, then, I stood, walked around the head table, and joined Jelika and M'Hata'a at their small guest table.

They stood as I approached, one of those little courtesies afforded every Stallion.

I smiled, sat, and tried to make conversation, to get to know the new Fert who would share my bed from time to time in the future.

I say "tried," advisedly. While Jelika was willing to converse, M'Hata'a limited her responses to my conversational gambits to monosyllables or clipped one- or two-word sentences.

I admired Jelika's body, as a Stallion should. She smiled as I rubbed her swollen belly and traced the stretch marks, her badge of fertility, and said something like, "Maybe sometime you can plant a baby in me." I grinned and replied, "I would be honored."

M'Hata'a sat silent, working hard at ignoring me.

Now, I am always mindful of my Grandmother/Wife's admonition to make my partner happy, meaning to make her smile and be happy, not just sexually satisfied, but there are limits to my patience and this sort of girlish pouting was not something I was prepared for. I am used to Ferts, especially Ferts who have been pledged to me, working to make a good impression.

And yes, I have an ego, just like everyone else.

So I stood, my penis soft now, shook hands with Jelika, and said, "I trust you will school your granddaughter," and left.

My Mother/Wife caught me as I headed for the door.

"What was that about?" she asked.

I smiled and kissed her.

"Elizabeth," I said, "That one is going to take patience, but I am patient. But for now, well, duty calls and I'm kind of frustrated."

She smiled, patted my oversized balls gently, and said, "Can't have that. Go on, Dear. I'll make your excuses."

I made my way to my suite, a single Nonfec guard accompanying me. It had been years since a Stallion had been kidnapped, but traditions formed in the Chaos Years remained and I was always accompanied by an armed guard.

In my room, the Broody waited, standing beside the bed. I was so irritated by my encounter with my new Offering/Wife that I couldn't, for a few seconds, think of her name.

Ah, there it was.

"God, you are beautiful, Moira," I said, slowly closing the distance between us and enjoying the way she smiled at my compliment.

She giggled a pleasant, almost girlish sound, out of place from her 60-year-old face and the grey streaks in her red hair. "You say that to all the Broodies," she said.

"Only to my favorite," I said, laying my hands on her shoulders and kissing her.

"Am I your favorite, then?" she asked, smiling as we broke the kiss. This was my fourth time servicing her so we knew each other pretty well.

"You are now," I said.

She laughed, a happy sound, a true belly laugh making her jiggle all over.

"And when I'm knocked up?" she asked.

I just smiled and pulled her to me.

Moira is one of those women who never lose the baby fat and after four healthy babies, she was delightfully soft and round. I felt the pads of fat on her back, those storehouses of energy dating back to when our distant ancestors were still living in trees, and squeezed them gently.

"You are beautiful," I said.

"You called me 'beautiful' twice in one night," she said, "You are in a mood. May I have your mouth tonight, Cernunnos, before you give me the Gift?"

I smiled, kissed her lips, said, "Of course," and started kissing my way down her body.

This was something my Grandmother/Wife had taught me when she was my first Broody.

"Ferts," she had said, using the casual vernacular when we were alone together, "know our role, Cernunnos," she had told me, "but if you would make your Broodmares truly happy, show them how much you want to please them."