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I’m a member of what used to be called the 1%.
Why “used to be”?
You’ve seen “Surviving The Game”, right? Remember Mason’s line, “Never underestimate a man who has nothing to lose”?
As conditions got worse and worse for the 99%, they became more and more uncaring of their own lives, feeling that dying while fighting to change things was better than “living” by barely surviving.
Organizers secretly prepped them for war. It was launched simultaneously everywhere there were members of the 1%. They achieved complete strategic surprise.
We fought back, of course. We had huge advantages in technology, but they tried to overwhelm us with sheer numbers.
They almost did. The climax was the Battle of Santa Barbara, just six weeks after war had erupted. The last of us – and the last few million of them – fought to the death.
We won. Barely. When the very last member of the 99% lay dead on the battlefield, there were 180 of us left alive.
And a few hours later, we realized it had been a Pyrrhic victory. The stark reality set in. 180 people wasn’t enough to even form a commune and survive – let alone live the way we had been living, in the lap of luxury. Most of us didn’t even have any useful skills.
There was one hope. One country had been left completely untouched by the war. Iceland.
They had taken actions to eliminate the 1% from their country well before the war began. So there was no battle there.
Leaving the 7.8 billion corpses to lie on the lands that had formerly housed thriving civilizations, we piled into a plane. Luckily, one of us had been a pilot before moving up in the financial world. After checking to see that the plane was fully fueled and all the required parts were operational, the pilot flew us to Reykjavik airport and landed.
Because what used to be the United States had a navy base very close to Reykjavik – Keflavik Naval Air Station – for an extended stretch of time, virtually every Icelander in the area was fluent in English. All of us also spoke it, so communication ka─č─▒thane escort was easy.
I was selected as negotiator. A city official approached the plane.
“Good morning, sir. We are the last survivors. The war is over.”
“The last survivors?”
“Yes, sir. There was a final battle, and everyone else on the planet, except us and you Icelanders, is dead.”
“Yes, sir. We humbly beg for asylum and integration into Iceland.”
I could see him taking it all in.
“So the world now has… 360,000 living people.”
“And maybe a few thousand Inuit to add to that. Yes, sir.”
“I knew things were bad, but not THIS bad. Have your people come to our city jail until we can locate suitable families to place you all with. It shouldn’t take more than the rest of today.”
He was right. Six hours later, we had all been assigned a family – a farming one – to join. No individual family took in more than one of us. I was still young – 28 years old – and figured I could learn to be a farmer.
I was assigned to a family with middle-aged parents – Magnus and Freyja – and a 24-year-old daughter, Katrin Magnusdottir.
Since my first name is Frank and my father’s name was Jonathan – “Jon” is the equivalent Icelandic first name – I became Frank Jonsson. The family were nice people and informal: Katrin called her parents by their first names and they insisted I do so as well.
Katrin was of typical Icelandic stock. Tall, blonde, with blue eyes, she was toned and fit because of a lifetime of farm work. Her clothes were made for practicality, not for fashion. Even so, she had a pretty good-size bust and a perfectly shaped rear. She was instructed by her parents to teach me how to farm, and with circumstances forcing me to learn, I picked up what I needed to know quickly. My own body got leaner and more muscular by the day, and I noticed Katrin sneaking glances at it. I’d been told in the past I had a ruggedly handsome face, and my short brown hair kartal escort (I kept it neat with a scissors I carried on my person, and I had preserved a supply of razor blades and a straight razor so I could shave daily) had always made me an object of feminine interest.
One evening, Magnus opened the conversation at the dinner table with a statement directed at Katrin and I.
“Given the circumstances, you two have to produce two children. You’d better get started.”
I looked at Katrin. She looked back at me. We turned to face Magnus.
“Yes, sir,” we replied in unison.
Freyja joined in. “I am too old to produce more offspring. And the practicalities of the situation humans now are in mean you young people are literally the only hope our species has of having a future.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Katrin and I like each other.”
“Even if you didn’t,” Magnus intoned, “you wouldn’t have a choice.”
That night, Magnus and Freyja instructed Katrin to start sleeping in my bed with me.
“I guess we’d better get on with it,” I said, holding Katrin’s naked body against my own. “What position should we use?”
“Missionary is the best for getting a woman pregnant,” she told me. “But let’s warm each other up first.”
I moved my lips to hers and we kissed. Softly at first, then more intensely, twining tongues.
“Is there somewhere else on my body you’d like to kiss?” Katrin grinned.
I moved my lips down to her chest, which was even more massive than I had thought. She could easily smother me with her breasts.
“D cups,” Katrin whispered.
I kissed slowly through her cleavage, enjoying being next to her. The skin-to-skin contact was wonderful. Then I traced a helix with my tongue up to her nipple and took it in my mouth.
I repeated the procedure with her other orb, and suckled on that one. Katrin held my head in place. I switched back and forth between her fine breasts.
“Let’s see what you’re working with.”
Katrin’s k├╝├ž├╝k├žekmece escort hand found my cock, already hard. She slowly began stroking it. Her touch felt wonderful. I moaned, my voice muffled by her tit-flesh.
“That should fill me up nicely.”
I groped her beautifully firm, perfectly round ass and suckled harder on her nipple. She slid a hand down to my swollen balls.
“Perfect. There’s a lot in there. And I’m at the right time in my cycle.”
“You don’t need to speak, Frank. Just let me get in position. I’m already wet.”
She disengaged my mouth from her chest and lay on her back, spreading her legs. I positioned myself appropriately, rubbed my pole against her slit, then slid on in. She wrapped her legs around my waist immediately.
“Fuck me hard.”
“Yes, dear.” I took a moment to build a rhythm, then began thrusting hard and deep with a steady rhythm. Katrin moaned and her pussy squeezed my pole pleasantly.
“That’s the way.”
I leaned down to kiss her. She shivered beneath me as our lips met again. We moaned into each other’s mouths as we moved our bodies in unison.
Katrin’s legs tightened around my waist as she climaxed violently, her pussy actively squeezing my cock. I kept thrusting into her. She quivered and her arms reached up to hold me against her.
I wrapped my arms around her as I lay on top of her luscious body. Groping her marvelous butt, I thrust in and out with greater intensity. She was now consciously working to try and drain my balls. I sped up and moaned as I approached.
Her legs and arms locked around me and she climaxed again. i blasted every drop of my cum into her willing and fertile womb. We both shuddered and our screams of lust were muffled by our kiss. I lay on top of her for a long moment while we regained control of our bodies, then pulled out.
We repeated the process every night until we were sure. About 40 weeks later, Einar Katrinson was born.
We waited a couple of years for Katrin’s body to recover fully, then tried again. That produced Sigrid Katrindottir.
It’s not the life I had before all of this happened. There are far fewer material things and a lot more hard physical work than there was. Yet somehow, I feel a lot happier and more satisfied than when I was living in luxury.
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