Chapter 13 – Party on, Pocahontas

At the Unassigned Concubine Quarters, organized chaos reigned. Most of the newly arrived concubines had no dependants, but all too many were fluttery, fluffy-headed fourteen-year-olds. They were settling in, but in so doing they were driving the straw bosses nuts.

One who was taking it all calmly and in stride was Colonel Deschenes' concubine, Penny, giving out instructions, suggestions and hugs. She was dressed considerably more comfortably than any time that Samantha had seen her before: a pair of leather sandals of the kind known as JC Waterwalkers, and her concubine collar. Samantha reflected that she'd never seen the straw boss of the highest-ranking officer on Thule wearing anything more than shoes, makeup and concubine collar, usually high-heeled dancing shoes which to Samantha's mind must be at least somewhat uncomfortable. “Is my sponsor-husband still losing it up there?” she demanded.

“Oh, you heard...” ventured the young Civil Service cadet.

“The whole damned colony heard. I need to talk to my sponsor, and that silly AI won't allow me to unless you give the order. It says this is your territory, and you set the rules here.”

“AI, in the future, if a concubine wants something that is outside the parameters of what I've already allowed, find me and ask me. Right now, the whole brigade needs Penny to calm the Colonel down. Let her try.”

“Aye aye, Optio Redburn.” The feminine voice of the AI, deliberately chosen by Samantha as much more soothing to disoriented newly-arrived concubines than the masculine version, calmly cut through the hubbub of the almost-full quarters. Suddenly they could hear the Colonel, still expostulating explosively to Lieutenant-Colonel Desrocher.

“Mon cherie,” Penny called, her amplified voice oozing sex appeal, “you really should calm down now.”

The voice that came back was still tinged with outrage. “You should see what that black-hearted bastard has done.”

“I know, I heard,” she assured the angry officer. “And who sent whom a get-well stripogram when he was in the hospital recovering from gall bladder surgery, almost causing him to tear his stitches out laughing? And who sent whom a package containing a fifty-year-old copy of the Compendium of Pharmaceuticals and Specialities, Volume Nine of the 1938 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, the 1894 Pentecostal Missionary Society Annual General Report and a very large rock to his cottage one summer, postage due?”

“He'd had the local Fish and Game officer come over to my cottage and accuse me of poaching fish...” ventured a much more subdued, apparently embarrassed Michael.

“Just remember that the next time you're tempted to send a fire truck over to his place, siren blaring and with five firefighters on board in full turnout gear, just to water his flowers.”

“Hey, that was funny!” protested Michael, as his anger drained away. “How was I supposed to know the basement window was open?”

Penny rolled her eyes. To Samantha, she explained, “Mike and Bill have been trying to get each other's goat for years, since they met at college. You'd never know it, but they're the best of friends.” She then added, “Bill did manage to get Mike's goat one year, but when it started to eat his pickup truck's seat covers, he decided he had to give it back.”

Samantha decided it was safest to not ask if Penny was pulling her leg with that last remark, and merely instructed the AI to broadcast her next speech to the entire colony.

“Tonight at twenty hundred hours, we'll have a party to welcome the newly-arrived concubines to Thule, at the Beauty Saloon. The theme will be 'Western', and the ladies from the Aurora will be dressed up as Indian princesses, in buckskin vests, loincloths and moccasins, and with an eagle's feather in their hair. Come dressed up or dressed down or undressed, but please do come to enjoy the dining and dancing.”

She then had the AI switch her to the Unassigned Concubine Quarters' PA system. “You heard the announcement. You're the guests of honour at the ball tonight. I'm Optio Samantha Redburn, I'm the ranking – and only – Civil Service officer for Thule. You're my responsibility until you start getting taken up by the new sponsors we've got hitting their fourteenth birthdays over the next few months.”

One of the girls turned to her. “Fourteen? I'm fourteen myself. I hope they're not expecting us to set up housekeeping.”

“Honey,” she advised the well-stacked brunette, “get him to choose a mother figure. She can keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“That's no fun,” protested a grinning girl from across the room. “What if I happen to like girls?”

Monica sidled up to the girl and breathed into her ear, “Get the nice young Civil Service officer to bring you home. Three tongues, no waiting...”

The girl giggled at the thought as Samantha gave her mother a grateful hug and kiss.

As the girls prepared for battle, they discovered that the outfits that Samantha had designed were most charitably described as “a trifle revealing”. That was akin to describing Olympus Mons as “a trifle high”.

“Where's the rest of it?” one girl pleaded, holding a few scraps of buckskin in her hands.

“You are the rest of it,” Penny advised, turning back to help apply war paint to the cheeks of another young teen.

The outfit proved to be exactly as advertised: soft, comfortable moccasins adorned the girls' feet. A band around each girl's head held a single feather at the back. The loincloth was less than three inches wide and only knee-length, which left the wearer's loins exposed when leaning forward, and had no back panel to cover the buttocks. The two front panels of the vest were not merely far apart, they practically held restraining orders against each other, barely covering the areolae. As each girl walked, her nipples would flirt with the boys, playing peek-a-boo with every step. Dancing threatened to prove even more revealing.

“Now ladies,” Samantha advised, “if you find a young man or woman you'd like to fuck, and I have to emphasize 'man or woman' as they must be at least 14 years of age, and you'd like to do it somewhere more private than down in the restaurant, you can take them up here.”

“More private?” Cassie, Commander Walker's 13-year-old daughter, was assisting her mother and the other officers' straw bosses in getting the Filles du Roi ready for their grand welcoming soirée. She glanced around the party room, which occupied the front two-thirds of the second floor over the Beauty Saloon: ten rows of 20 beds, arranged in military precision, with a line of toilets running along the back wall. The back wall itself was only marble for half its height, and glass the rest of the way to the ceiling. The other three sides boasted floor-to-ceiling windows looking down over the expanse of the dome. On the other side of the wall of toilets was a shower room, likewise glass on three sides, and close to and even with the slidewalk and ring road that girdled the base. Grand Central Station promised more privacy.

The children, who were also invited, wanted to know what they would be wearing. Samantha didn't permit the young ones to wear the vest. The scanty garb titillated and aroused, so having the flat-chested children go without meant they wouldn't have the same impact on the adults as the teens' flashing of hidden delights would. At least that was the theory she was operating under.

It was now just before eight. The families with thirteen-year-old sponsor-track offspring had started to arrive, many of the mothers dressed in gingham or as Annie Oakley. Considering that Annie Oakley was born of Quaker stock, Samantha wasn't terribly sure the Ohio-born sharpshooter would feel much in common with her modern imitators.

The room was decorated in Lalique glass, chrome fittings and black lacquered wood, from the same Streamline Moderne design palette as the Officers' Club dining room but much more artistic. In the frosted glass of the windows 1928 flappers danced, and throughout the interior stylized black alabaster sculptures of nude females held lights aloft. In addition to the already somewhat bacchanalian ordinary decor of the Saloon, party streamers stretched across the ceiling from the perimeter of the room to the ornate streamlined chandelier, and from behind a fancy glass panel, Kenji sat and spun tunes to keep the crowd hopping.

Behind the ornate mirrored bar a pair of skilled female mixologists wearing nothing more than bowties on their collars and sandals on their feet kept a steady stream of cocktails flowing. As they shook the cocktails, marvellous things were happening with their breasts, to the fascination of all the men and not a few of the women – including Samantha.

She and her classmates had decided during discussions that afternoon to dress in homage to those delicious fashion plates, Colonel Deschene's Penny and Lieutenant Carruthers' ladies. She felt quite exposed wearing mid-calf-high cowboy boots, a cowgirl hat and glittery imitations of famous Old West cattle ranch brands on her thighs and torso, but was backed up by all her identically-clad (or was that unclad?) 13-year-old female classmates. It wasn't long before Samantha started having a wonderful time.

As the naked teens and their slightly older, and only a smidgen more covered, King's Daughters started monopolizing the dance floor, shimmying and swaying to the driving dance beat of the Demeter Digital Equipment, one of the privates from the second draft buttonholed Bob Redburn, resplendent in fake handlebar moustache, checked shirt and vest, right on his deputy's star. “How come,” the still-slightly-sober private demanded, “we got so many kids becoming sponsors?”

Bob set the man in a chair and tried to ignore the scene of a near-naked Indian Princess enthusiastically lapping at his daughter's clitoris up on the dance floor as the DDE sang about how “My concubines love their sixty-nines!” Two other Indian princesses held the young Civil Service cadet upright with their arms around her shoulders as she screamed her orgasm to the assembled throng.

“It's like this,” Bob began as his daughter advised the girl giving cunnilingus that “Yes! You're good! Yes, yes, yes, YES! OOOOH!” Gulping, he tried to focus on the man in front of him. “At most pickups, the average guy isn't thinking with his big head and tends to pick up teenagers, who don't tend to have kids themselves in this age range – they're too young. He himself either has kids too young or too old, if he has any at all. So the average draft contains a fairly low percentage of 10 to 13-year-olds.” His daughter chose that particular moment to yell out, “My turn!” and start working her way down the front of the princess. The two were soon lying prone on the dance floor, Samantha on top. Again, Bob had to drag himself unwillingly back to the conversation at hand. “But at my pickup, at a hockey tournament, we had a ratio of about one sponsor-level parent for every kid playing a game that rewarded those kids with high levels of aggressiveness, willingness to work hard, teamwork and quick thinking, and the kids were all close to the same age. So you have this high number of kids hitting 14 at about the same time, and a monstrously high percentage of them hitting at least 6.5 on their CAP scores. Sam tells me the next drafts don't include anything like this number of kids in that age range, nor this high a percentage of probable sponsors.”

The explanation seemed to make sense to the man, who made his excuses and staggered off to find one of his concubines. Bob looked around for his own two, and soon spotted them getting drinks at the bar, dressed like his daughter and bearing the brand of the Lazy W in glitter paint on their left buttocks. As the light show from the dance floor played over the bar area, the glitter shone brightly. The shine from the glitter was nothing compared to the shine on Monica's face as she turned and beheld her lover and owner. With lust in her eyes, she walked toward Bob, ready to prove to all present that she was indeed as much in love with her sponsor as Penny was in love with the Colonel.

Behind Bob as he hustled off to join his lover, Samantha had spotted Vickie and was in the process of dragging the mother off to meet someone. Vickie wasn't reluctant – she was finding it difficult to walk, what with Samantha's fingers busily massaging her labia and clitoris under the loincloth. She was far too gone in the bliss of her rising arousal to notice two youngsters trailing the pair.

“Carruthers!” Samantha called out to a cadaverous cowboy with an Irish filly on his lap. The heavily pregnant redhead bore the N-bar-N brand on her right shoulder blade, occasionally occluded by her luxuriously thick curly hair that ran halfway down her spine. “Future Sponsor” was written across her bulging belly, with an arrow pointing down across her belly button. “We need to switch concubines for a second. This one needs to be bred, and I need to practise my prenatal tongue technique.”

Carruthers had almost finished foreplay, and was ready to spear his concubine. Instead, as Vickie more by instinct than planning swung her leg over his lap and sat down facing the man, he speared Vickie instead.

Samantha got a good look at his equipment: perfect for a young lady to lose her cherry on. Long and lean, like the man who possessed it, she'd feel it well enough but wouldn't need any enhancements to take it. It might even be what she needed to lose that annoying anal cherry.

Carruthers' concubine knew what she wanted and needed from another girl, and led Samantha on a merry tour of her crotch. Samantha soon had the woman's legs wrapped around her head, almost drowning in her secretions.

Vickie's two kids stared in rapt fascination as their mother danced and bounced on the organ. With Carruthers' enhancement, he was able to go a long while before he finally emptied into Vickie's willing sex. As she came down from orbit, she noticed her two rug rats waiting admiringly by the runway for her shuttle to land.

“Mom, wow, that was hot!” exclaimed Michelle.

“Yes,” agreed Michelle's five-year-old cousin Allison. “Is that what sex looks like?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, able to move only weakly. “I don't think you should have seen that...”

“Why not?” asked several people simultaneously, including Samantha, Carruthers, and his concubine. “Nothing wrong with it at all,” Samantha added. “They'll see lots more before they're allowed to do anything.” She smiled and French kissed the veterinarian. Vickie could taste the red-headed concubine's spendings in her mouth. “Welcome to the Diaspora.”