


Codes: MF+(g*) ped inc bd ws




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*        WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING    WARNING        *
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*                                                                              *
* For the love of SPOONS no one under the age of twenty-one (21) or the age of *
* consent for their geographical location (whichever is HIGHER) needs to be    *
* anywhere near this.  This is a story meant for legally-adult readers.  Don't *
* let your kids read this.  Don't let your dog read this.  Don't let your      *
* religious leader within the same postal code as this.  You know, really, YOU *
* probably shouldn't even read this horrible, nasty, terrible story.           *
*                                                                              *
* Hopefully it goes without saying, but if you ever even vaguely ponder the    *
* SLIGHT idea that MAYBE you would CONSIDER doing anything even REMOTELY like  *
* anything depicted herein--GET HELP.  NOW.  Therapy is a wonderful thing.     *
*                                                                              *
* This story can (and probably does) contain one or more of the following (bet *
* your last nickel on "more"): Incest, pedophilia, watersports, extreme female *
* domination, bestiality, psychological torture, and who knows WHAT other      *
* sick, perverted, dirty, terrible, and disgusting things I can come up with.  *
* Really, you ought to stop reading.  Right now.  I'm serious.                 *
*                                                                              *
* ...still here?  You sure?  This is bad-bad mojo.  Last chance...             *
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                               THE DELPHI PROJECT
                                     Act One
                                       by
                          Forbidden Fantasy Storyteller




        The golf cart's electric engine hummed as the driver took it through the
two security check-points, the sun still high in the sky at mid-morning.

        "Technically, we're classified as a 'nudist commune'," he told his
passenger.  "This lets us fly surprisingly low under the government's radar.
We get reporters and various child protection agencies through here now and
then, but as long as everyone does what they're supposed to do, we always come
out just fine."

        The cart was driven down a dirt path barely wider than it was.  On
either side were thick woods, but the passenger caught glimpses of men with dogs
on leashes.

        The driver noticed where the other man was looking and chuckled.  "For
every guard/dog team you see, we have, honestly, about four more you don't.  THE
most important things are, of course, secrecy and impenetrability, and our main
physical lines of defense are the guards.  In tandem is the thick woods.  We get
people scaling the fences now and then, but they usually get lost before a guard
and dog find them.  The few who don't are still picked up long before they see
anything they shouldn't."

        "Wow..." is all the passenger can think to say, craning his neck to try
and find more guards.  The driver was right--the woods were so thick, he could
easily imagine a seasoned hiker getting lost.

	"The only time we really came close to a problem was about three years
ago," said the driver, glancing to the passenger.  "A trio of experienced
survivalists got in.  Luckily they were spotted, but they led the guards on a
merry chase.  The last of the three was taken down only a few dozen yards before
he would have seen anything."

        He whistled lowly and shook his head, the grin still on his face.

        The passenger suddenly remembered something, and looked to his
companion, saying, "You said I'd be expected to help out, right?  So I could
keep my family here."

        "That's right.  Every man is expected to help.  What he does with his
girls--whether he shares them or not, how much work they do around the Project,
that sort of thing--is up to him.  No one, not even the founders, are allowed to
say what a man will do with his chattel.  However, he most definitely is
expected to help the Project, himself.  You'll likely be passed around from job
to job at first, say helping tend the fields, then doing a stint as an inner
guard, and such other tasks.  You can choose to stay a 'floater', or see if
there's room for you in one area."

        "What do you mean by 'inner guard'?"

        "The guard-and-dog teams are unique--those men raise their dogs from
puppies, so they can be an effective team.  A man who was just handed a canine
partner generally doesn't make an effective outer guard.  That said, there are
security-related tasks that don't require you to walk the woods.  Patrolling the
Project at night, say, or manning the stations at the entrance."

        "Mmph.  Well, I'll certainly do it, though I hope I don't spend much
time as a guard.  I only say this because I have no real experience in
security."

        "That's right, that's right.  You're a trained nurse, aren't you?" asked
the driver, glancing back at the passenger again.  At the other man's nod, he
continued.  "Good, good.  We can always use more help in the clinic.  Honestly,
clinic duty is the hardest task, since most people only know basic first aid, if
even that.  We have a full staff of doctors, but they ARE in the clinic all day,
every day.  They hardly get to spend any time with their own families."  He
chuckled softly, adding, "With that in mind, you'll probably never see the
fields; you'll probably get shunted right off to the clinic."

        "I can also swim, if you need me for it.  I was told something about a
lake...?"

        "Ah, yes.  Lake Castalia, we call it.  And it's good you can swim; that
and your nursing knowledge will probably mean you'll play lifeguard now and
then."

        The driver went on to describe Lake Castalia, how it was fed by a few
freshwater rivers, how the entirety of the lake was within their property
boundry.  There were always people in the lake, either enjoying themselves near
the shore or fishing further out.  The rivers that ran off of the lake were also
diverted for irrigation to the crop fields, themselves growing nearly everything
the Project needed.  Aside from the many and varied food crops, the main plant
grown was cotton.  Not every man preferred his family naked, and there were
times someone needed to leave the Project anyway.  Plus, there was usually
enough to make into extra clothing to sell, so a bit more money came in.

        The Delphi Project was the vision of a man more than a hundred years
ago, when communes were all the rage.  He gathered together like-minded men and
set up the first incarnation--but as is implied, it ended.  In less than ten
years, actually.  There were very many reasons, but suffice to say that the
original founder learned his lessons well, and sixty years ago, after careful
preparation and work, brought the Project back to life.

        Due to the original founder's interest in mythological history, the
Project was themed around it; it actually made sense, more or less, due to the
Project's make-up.  There would be one girl, raised literally from birth to hold
the title of Pythia.  She would be not only the main breeder for the founder and
his family, she would be the official greeter to new families, and be the first
girl to take part in any ceremonies.

        The driver and passenger fell into conversation about mythology, which
lasted the rest of the rather long trip.  By golf cart, it took over forty-five
minutes to finally see something besides trees and the occasional glimpse of
a guard-and-dog team.

        Rounding a curve, the trees finally thinned out.  They were still
somewhat ubiquitous, providing shade and visual cover for the Project, though
they were definitely fewer than the rest of the forest.  The driver remarked
that it had taken years and years of painstaking landscaping to keep the trees
numerous enough for the cover, but few enough to not simply be in the way.

        As they headed to the clinic, the passenger took a good look around.
The homes were mostly cabins, looking to be built by hand.  None he could see
were more than one story tall, though their width more than made up for it.
Most were open, with two or more sides wall-to-ceiling sliding-glass doors.
There were other buildings, though he couldn't immediately discern their use.

        When they got to the clinic, the driver led the passenger inside, where
he met with the general physician on-duty.  As he performed a routine check-up
and took blood and urine samples, the man was positively thrilled to find out
the passenger was a registered nurse.  He actually called over the obstetrician
and dermatologist, who were equally thrilled.

        The stay in the clinic took a good half-hour longer than necessary, as
nearly overjoyed as the men were to get another helping hand.  They couldn't
resist taking him on a tour of the place, and the newcomer had to admit to being
rather surprised.  He'd expected some one-room glorified shack, but the place
was the model of clinical efficiency, even having two sterile rooms for births,
surgeries, whatever else.  Plus the building was on its own power supply, having
access to its own solar panels, wind turbines, and geothermal electriciy
generators.  On top of that, there were back-up generators, on the off-chance
a disaster happened.

        There were also rooms that two or more semi-related fields of study
shared--the ophthalmologists shared a room with the otolaryngologists, the
dermatologist shared a room with the podiatrist-slash-chiropractor, and so on
and so on and so on.  Every square inch of the two-story building was put to
efficient use; it really did surprise the newcomer.

        When asked about the samples taken, he was told that they had over a
thousand individual members (counting both the men as well as the chattel), more
than enough for genetic sustainability.  That said, they had to carefully map
out relations whenever possible, including keeping genetic records.  All that is
on top of the expected reasons of screening for disease and other such things.
His own girls would be expected to have similar check-ups, but that could wait
a little bit.

        The next stop was the "welcome center", a small cabin close to the
center of the Project.  There he spent a few hours going through "orientation",
where he watched videos and read about the history of the place, the few rules
that were expected to be adhered to, and so on.  The rules, he found, were
surprisingly fewer and more straightforward than he had expected.

        They were, in fact, rather basic.  The more relevant ones were that the
men wouldn't be allowed to touch the chattel that didn't belong to them without
express permission of their owner; if one is allowed to borrow the use of
chattel, they were to follow the guidelines of the owner as strictly as
possible; every family has different ways it lives, with no family's views more
important than any others', so there will not be allowed any acts or speeches
relating to superiority, or another man being "wrong"; the public facilities are
just that--public, and as such are for all to use, with fair sharing kept in
mind.

        There were others, but they were mostly clarifications, or things like
each man being expected to help in the upkeep and perpetuation of the Delphi
Project.  The main thing, and the part where the reading was witnessed, was
the section on punishments.  By and large, the punishments were light;
temporary restriction from public facilities, temporary restriction from Project
ceremonies, and so on.  There was, however, one permanent punishment.

        A man who threatened the very existence of the Project was not banned--
as a matter of course, he couldn't be expected to honor the secrecy inherent in
the Project.  Such a man would, put bluntly, be slain, his chattel divided up
as the founders saw fit.  The witness--in this case, the man who drove him in
the golf cart--was very, very quick to mention that such a punishment was only
necessary once in the entire history of the Project, nearly thirty years
previous.  New Project members are very, very, very carefully selected, so even
the hasher temporary punishments were rarely brought out.  Some of the men even
forgot they existed.

        "This," said the driver, "is the most important aspect.  We, as Delphi
members, need--and I must stress this--NEED to co-operate in everything.  Some
may prefer more solitude, and that is happily allowed.  However, what threatens
the Project as a whole cannot be tolerated.  This even goes beyond the men here.
We have affiliated men on the outside, all across the world.  If the Project
dies--government officials, law enforcement personnel, school teachers, and ever
so much more--they all would be affected."

        The last example caught the man's attention.  Having gotten the point
(and fully agreeing with the "at worst, live and let live" philosophy), he
asked about that, about school teachers.  This shift made the driver smile and
relax once more.

        "That's how we found you, actually.  Miss Johnson, your daughter's
kindergarten teacher?  She's a product of Delphi.  One of the ones sent out into
the world to look out for potential members.  We actually try to send mostly
chattel out into the world, since they're more often overlooked.  Around
nineteen out of twenty we send out into the world are female, actually."

        While the concept rather made sense, finding out that his daughter's
teacher, of all things, was from the Project and had apparently been
instrumental in his being asked to join was rather shocking.  He had known few
women as funny, as self-reliant, and as confident as her.  When he asked the
driver about it, he laughed, though in genuinely good humor.

        "Like that, do you?" asked the driver, still grinning widely.  "The
chattel we choose are very, very specially trained.  They have to fit into
the outside world well enough to blend in, but too MUCH blending would make them
seem so bland they would stick out that way.  And they have to be more
perceptive than a psychologist and detective put together, so they can discern
who potential Project members may be."

        They talked about that for a little while, then the driver led him back
outside and into the golf cart.  On the way to the next stop, the passenger
asked about the "founders."  He was told that, technically, there obviously
were no "founders", though there weren't any official "leaders", either, in the
sense of someone being the "chief" of the Project, or telling everyone what they
can and can't do.

        There were descendents of the original founders, and though they did
have important roles, roles handed down through the generations, they were, at
absolute best, mere guides for the Project.  People who offered advice, but the
advice did not HAVE to be taken.

        "So," said the passenger with a lopsided smile, "You're basically saying
that this place is Heaven on Earth."

        That earned a short, mirthful laugh, then the driver said, "Yeah,
actually.  You know, a recent and popular movement as sprung up.  People have
taken to unofficially calling The Delphi Project 'Paraíso', Spanish for
'Paradise'."

        "I can definitely see why..."


                                     THAT EVENING...


        The newcomer sat in the communual bath-house, relaxing as his girls
tended to him.  Though each home did have moderate bathing facilities, the bath-
house was most often used, as a place for a friendly social atmosphere.

        He'd talked to more people than he could remember, seen the day-care
that was used by those who wanted the youngest girls taught more general things,
the schoolhouse, and more.  So much more.  He couldn't easily keep it all
straight, but his companion had just laughed and told him to not worry, that he
would learn the geography soon enough.  Then there was taking his chattel to the
clinic for their own tests, which didn't help his memory any.  So he was told to
just go relax in the bath-house and to not worry.

        His eldest girl washed his back while the next-eldest washed his front.
The two young teens hummed softly as they worked, well-used to such activities.
They managed quite well, even though both were obviously pregnant; the thirteen-
year-old was at least five months along, and the fifteen-year-old wasn't much
behind her.

        He had just leaned back to start to doze, when footsteps on the wood
flooring caught his attention.  A woman covered in tattoos and leading a four-
year-old girl by the hand, carrying an infant girl in the other, was headed his
way.  All were naked, as a matter of course.  As she got closer, he realized
that, no, those weren't tattoos--those were brands.  They were intricate, too,
and they ran up both legs, covered her hips, and even decorated her stomach.  He
could only imagine that they must have been applied over most of her life.

        The brands were accentuated by the jewelry.  The piercings themselves,
mostly rings, were all over the woman--both ears were pierced, from the lobe all
the way up to the top; both nipples were pierced; the navel; her clitoris; the
labia majora and minora both were individually pierced; there was even one in
the perineum--and had thin chains strung throughout.  A few rows dangled between
the nipples, one ran from each nipple to the navel and from there through the
piercings in her pussy.  They were all silver, striking a contrast to the bright
red of the brand-work.

        Like, to presume by similar facial features and over-all bone structure,
her mother the child was pierced, though, as yet, far more simply.  One in each
ear, one in each nipple, and one through her clitoris.  Notably, there were no
chains strung through them.

        When they stopped and bowed, he could see that the infant and the four-
year-old had plugs between their legs, stretching out their holes.  Realizing
who they were, his cock started to swell in anticipation.

        "Good eve, sire," said the woman.  "I am the Pythia, here to officially
welcome you to Delphi.  I bring myself and my calves as your gifts.  We are
yours for the rest of the evening."

        With a gesture, he sent his two girls aside and hauled himself out of
water.  The four-year-old immediately came over to him, grinning up at him as
she reached for his cock.  He grinned back, though that look was softened at the
feel of the tiny hands wrapping around his shaft and moving with definite
talent.  She'd been trained well, that much was clear.

        He beckoned the Pythia over, and he couldn't help but run his fingers
over the grooves caused by the brands.  They were elegant in the way they curved
around her, looking to have been meticulously maintained.  He knew only a little
about the process, but knew at least that they had to be constantly monitored
and occasionally touched up.  There wasn't an errant mark over the whole of the
work.

        Having her turn around, he whistled as he saw that the work went up her
back, too.  More obvious skill--the brands obviously couldn't go as deep on the
back as on the ass and thighs, yet still "flowing" from the rest of the work.

        "Wow," he said appreciatively.  "That--is insane.  It's wonderful-
looking."

        "I am glad you are pleased, sire," she said, smiling a little.  "They
were first started when I was five summers old, and continue to this day.  The
more I am used in ceremonies, the more my body is added to by my Master."

        He would have said more, but he felt the young child suddenly swallow
his cock.  Hissing softly, he looked down, watching with amazement as the child
took most of his length.  Certainly more than his own daughters did at her age.
In moments the thought of the artistic nature of the brands, and pretty much
anything else, were lost in the feel of the child's wet and warm mouth on his
cock.

        She was exquisitely talented, too, taking him into her throat and
massaging him with swallowing motions.  In surprisingly few moments, he was
barely able to stand, so had to stop the girl and almost hobble over to a bench.
It was padded, and wide enough to be laid on with comfort, so he did just that.
Laying back, he gestured for the woman to come to him.

        "Just--wow.  She--" he pointed at the four-year-old, "--is wonderful.
And I was told your line were trained since birth, right?"  At the nod, he
continued.  "Let's see how she is, then."  He grinned and nodded to the baby
held in the Pythia's arm.

        With the child engaged to help spread the baby's legs, the plug in her 
tiny pussy was removed, and his cock slipped in before it could retract much.
The infant was raised and lowered onto him, and he was surprised at how much she
could take.  Her cries were stifled by the woman, though he barely paid any
attention.  His eyes were locked onto where his cock disappeared into the tiny
pussy, making it swell in a most vulgar yet enticing way.

        Hissing through gritted teeth, he watched--stared, really--as the
infant's tiny cunt took a good couple inches of his cock.  Definitely more than
he would have expected; their training must be in-depth, certainly.  The other
females moved the infant quicker and quicker, gauging what to do based on his
increasingly-shortened breathing, and he finally had to raise a hand, telling
them to stop.  He didn't REALLY want to--but if he was allowed to fully enjoy
them, he was going to do just that.

        As the plug was replaced in her cunt, they were told to remove the one
in her ass.  This time he took the child, himself, in his hands, while the child
spread the baby's ass and the Pythia positioned his cock.  Pulling the infant
onto him, he couldn't hlp but thrust upward into that tight, tiny asshole.  He
was really going to wait, here, too, but he just couldn't.  The infant was just
too damn tight; he could almost feel every single nerve in the child's ass slide
along him. Pulling the infant faster, harder, onto him while he thrust upward
quicker, his orgasm overwhelmed him and soon rivulets of his own cum ran down
his shaft.

        He let the Pythia pull the infant off of him, and he lay gasping, eyes
closing.  A smile crept onto his face as he felt the small tongue and lips of
the child work over his cock, balls, and thighs, doing a very, very thorough job
of cleaning him.  He laid there for a good few minutes, recapturing his breath
and enjoying the child's oral talents.  He glanced through his lashes, watching
the woman reinsert the plugs into the baby, disregarding the child's struggling
and fussing.

        It wasn't until those small, talented lips had started to get him hard
again that he finally motioned for her to stop.  She settled back on her heels,
watching him expectedly, smiling, from her kneeling position.  Beckoning her
closer, he ran a hand over the child, stroking the flat chest, the stomach still
showing traces of baby fat.  Those nipple piercings were lightly tugged, and he
took the opportunity to study the rings themselves.  They were surprisingly
high-quality; sterling silver that was obviously well taken care-of.  There were
no scratches or tarnish marks anywhere.

        "Beautiful works on beautiful cunts," he said quietly, smiling a touch
lopsidedly.

        "The rings denote worth, insofar as chattel may have worth in the line
of the Pythia," said the woman, smiling from the man's pleasure.  "I am lucky
enough to have been deemed worthy to fulfill the tradition; this cunt will take
my place one day."

        He realized that meant the child would soon start the life-long branding
process, and looked forward to watching.  It was pleasant to see a girl in a
properly-placed brand.

        His hand slid down the child's body, eliciting a giggle when he
momentarily toyed with her navel, and slipped his fingers between her thighs.
Automatically, they parted, allowing him to feel her hairless cunt, after
slipping the plug out and setting it aside.  Massaging and exploring it with his
fingers, he could tell she was well-used, and had been for likely all of her
life.

        Glancing at the woman, he said, "Ride me," and looked back to the child.
She arched her back to rut against the invading fingers, sliding the ring-
pierced lips along them.  The Pythia grasped his cock in her free hand, the
other used to cradle the baby again.  She stroked him until he was fully hard,
then swung a leg over him and wasted no time in filling her cunt with him.

        It was such an--odd--feeling, at first, the pussy lips pierced so fully
with rings.  Once he got used to it, it actually felt surprisingly good.  The
metal, warmed by such close proximity to the skin, were warmer than he had
expected.

        Looking over to his girls, he said, "Remind me to see about getting you
sluts pierced, too."  Silently, they nodded their obediance.  He knew they would
remind him at regular intervals until and unless he did so or told them to stop,
so thoroughly-trained were they.

        Smiling, he laid his head back on the bench, immersing himself in
fingering the child while the Pythia rode him.  She was quite an expert at using
her cunt muscles, too, swiftly learning how to please him.  Those muscles almost
seemed to flutter just perfectly along his cock, squeezing him as if to milk him
of his cum.  As expertly as she rode him, it was a surprisingly short time
before he started grunting, breaths shortened and making his chest heave.  He
barely managed to squeak out a, "Holy shit..." before he came, eyes squeezed
shut as she rode him faster and faster.

        He had to finally wave her off, and she slipped off of him obediently.
Proving her skill and the depth of her training, she needed no instruction, no
warning that he would be sore after orgasming almost back-to-back like that.
She took far greater care than he imagined a female capable of in bringing his
cock to her lips for a proper cleaning.  He could only watch in pleasure as she
expertly suckled on him, so skilled he actually felt he soreness quickly start
to fade.  With skills like that, it was going to be a very short, but incredibly
fun, evening.


                                     THE NEXT DAY...


        Late morning, not long before the mid-day meal.  Though, like so many
other things, there are provisions for those who wish to eat in the privacy of
their homes, he's taken to sharing the meals with the rest of the Project.  He
had grown to love the social atmosphere when almost every moment was a moment
shared with the other men.

        They were at the blacksmith's, watching the older man train his son.
The blacksmith was responsible for everything from keeping the horses shod and
keeping them changed out as needed, to making brands, and everything in between.
Along with the piercings, he'd decided to get his chattel branded as well, so he
watched as the older smith made the brand, using the opportunity to teach his
teenaged son.

        When two prepubescent girls were bringing packages of food for the smith
and his son, the sight made his stomach rumble.  Heading to the area known
informally as the Gathering Lawn, he got into line for the food.  The Gathering
Lawn served numerous roles--stage productions were put on there, Project-wide
announcements were made, meals shared, and so much more.

        Blankets were on the ground here and there, so the men could eat
wherever they wanted.  There were buffets for various items, the relevant ones
heated by propane tanks, the others cooled as necessary with ice.  He decided on
sticking to salad, today, since he'd been bad with eating heathy the day before.
Though even fried fish wasn't the worst thing around, especially since he'd
voluntarily come in just before dawn at the clinic, and he was hardly even
stationary enough to even think about sitting down.

        He found his friend, the man who had driven him through the Project the
previous day, and sat on the blanket next to him.

        "What's going on?" he asked as he speared a cherry tomato.

        "I'm going to be gone most of the day, I'm afraid.  Likely won't be back
for a week."

        "Oh?"

        "Another potential recruit.  Charming man, by the sound of him.  Unusual
in that we rarely get recruits this close together, but such are the joyous
surprises of life."  The driver grinned and cut a chunk from his baked fish.

        They chatted on, and he was told about the potential recruit.  An
honorably-discharged Marine veteran, with an as-yet small herd of chattel.
Wife, sister, and their daughters, one each.  The youngest daughter, age twelve,
was expecting her first child.  The Marine lived in a suburban house, and as yet
had kept secrecy but it wouldn't last long.

        When asked how he knew all that, the driver referred to what he had
talked about the previous day, women being sent out into the world.  In this
case, the woman was one of three who reported in about the Marine.  The daughter
was pulled from school about six months previous, which would put her at about
the right age.  Then there was the chattel being hardly seen outside the home.
Being suburbia, this wouldn't go unnoticed forever, so he was being dispatched
to talk with the Marine as soon as possible.

        The driver stopped and looked at him for a moment, as if studying him.
"Would you like to accompany me?" he asked suddenly.

        "Umm--sure, of course.  I--I mean I didn't expect it.  I'm--I just got
here yesterday."

        "That's why I ask.  Your--your 'newness', as it were, would help, and
you have a girl young enough.  I generally prefer to use my second-youngest.
Seeing them and offering them to the potential recruit go a long way.  And no
one, as yet, has refused my second-youngest.  She's all of five--no, six--
summers old, now."  He grinned at that one.  "So, yes, you have one about the
same age, yes?"

        "Yeah, my youngest."

        "Perfect, perfect.  Get ready and we'll leave, say, just after the
evening meal?"

        The man grinned back.  "Sounds good."


                                    FIVE DAYS LATER...


        The station wagon was parked a house away from the Marine's.  The
children lay on the back seat which was laid flat for them, snuggled together
under a blanket, both snoring softly.  They were allowed this rest since it was
likely they'd need it.  The newcomer had his own seat reclined some, so he could
prop his legs on the window, feet resting comfortably between the passenger
mirror and the door.  They were playing the Movie Game.

        "Gone with the Wind," he said quietly to the driver, watching his lap.
The Marine had come home an hour and a half ago, and what he was watching was
the feed from cameras surreptitiously placed in the house a little over a month
previous.  Darn cable inexplicably going out.

        "Dances with Wolves," replied the driver, reclining as well, though
with his eyes closed.  He was relaxing and letting his friend monitor the feed,
a boring task he usually had to do.  He didn't mind in the slightest letting
his friend use the laptop for that job.

        "Some Like it Hot."

        "Terminator."

        They'd been going at this for over an hour by this point, so the
newcomer was momentarily at a loss.  "Ummm.  R.  Road Tr--no, used that one.
Roboc--damn it.  Oh, I know.  Radio Flyer."

        The driver grinned, and without missing a beat, he said, "Rent."

        "That's a play, not a movie."

        "Made in 'Oh-Five, directed by Chris Columbus, written by Stephen
Chbosky, based on the novel by Jonathan Larson."

        The man just shook his head, grinning.  "You bastard."  Suddenly there
was noteworthy activity on the feed.  Up until then, the Marine had been using
the girls one after the other for his pleasure, but he was finally done and was
relaxing on the couch.  His youngest was just getting him a soda pop and had
returned to her spot, kneeling on the floor next to him.

        "Hey, he's finally done."

        The driver opened one eye.  "Fully done, or just resting before round
twelve?"

        "He's laying on the couch--oh, he just turned on the television."

        The driver sat up and straightened his seat.  "Good enough.  Let's rock
and roll."

        The girls were awoken and allowed a moment to stretch before they
followed the men.  When the men arrived on the doorstep, they had their girls
kneel at their feet.  The driver pressed the button for the doorbell, and the
chimes sounded softly from behind the door.

        The Marine opened the door, holding onto the towel hurriedly wrapped
around his waist.  The newcomer noticed his eyes flicked automatically to the
girls, the suspicion in them lessened a little, replaced with curiosity.

        After introducing himself, the driver said, "Good evening, my good man.
My friend and I represent a group that, we think, you would be most interested
in learning about."  Just a beat, then he grinned and added, "And no, we have
no scripture to shove in your face, no religious tracts to throw at you.  If we
we may have just a moment of your time?"

        After a few moments, the Marine finally nodded, stepping back and
saying, "Well--alright."

        The living room was conspicuously free of the Marine's chattel, though
the newcomer realized that was to be expected.  He certainly didn't react any
differently when his now-friend had first introduced himself--was it barely
two weeks ago?

        The men were offered seats on the couch, and the girls automatically
knelt on the floor next to them.

        "Let us not beat around the bush," said the driver pleasantly, as he
crossed his legs, calf resting on knee.  "We represent the Delphi Project, a
group of men with similar beliefs as yourself."

        "What--what beliefs do you mean?" asked the Marine, and though his voice
was perfectly calm, the newcomer could see the rising curiosity in those eyes.
This man was no fool, and it seemed he wanted to see if these visitors would be
open, even blunt.

        "If I may speak plain," said the driver with a respectful nod of his
head, "The female form--it is beautiful, isn't it?"  He smiled and looked down
to the girls.  "Just look at them.  That flesh, begging for a man's firm hand to
mold it, shape it."  He looked back to the Marine.  "The female form is--
wonderful.  Delightful, even.  But it NEEDS a man's hand, doesn't it?  And the
feel of their flesh--like no other I know.  The sight when your own daughter is
lucky enough to carry your child.  Wonderful things, they are."

        The Marine was quickly--for a Marine, anyway--losing his caution.  There
was still quite a bit in his demeanor, but it was slowly fading.

        Lightly, he nudged his girl, and the newcomer did the same.  When the
driver said, "Show him how well-trained you are, little calf," the newcomer
nodded his agreement to his own girl.  Together, the pair got to their feet and
headed over to the man, pushing aside his towel and lightly taking his cock in
both sets of hands.

        The Marine looked surprised, but the driver said, "Consider it incentive
to hear us out, as well as all the proof you should need that, at least, we come
to you honestly."

        With the girls' well-trained skill, the Marine swiftly started to become
hard, and they bathed his cock with their lips and tongues.  The newness and the
surprise of it helped him get past the tiredness and even soreness.  In less
than five minutes, he became fully erect again.

        "They are each yours, for this moment," said the driver, smiling wider.
"Have one of them, both of them, one hole, all holes--up to you."  The newcomer
smiled as well.  This was the first time he'd let one of his girls be used by
another man, but--it actually felt alright.  More than alright, even--it felt
good.  He was helping to bring someone else into the Project, and that was
obviously more important than his mere chattel.

        The Marine lifted his brows, unable to keep from looking at the girls.
"Any hole?"

        "Any," assured the driver.

        The Marine pointed to the newcomer's, and she hopped up with a grin.
This, as she had been told earlier, was a test.  She needed to please this man
no less than her Master.  She climbed up onto the recliner, grabbing the man's
cock and positioning it under her, looking expectantly at the Marine.

        He pulled her, just a little, so the head of his cock nestled against
her asshole, and without any hesitation, the girl impaled herself on him.  The
Marine gasped from the feel; his own girls hadn't yet been able to take him so
swiftly with their asses.  He had to grip the arms of the chair tightly as the
little slut started to ride him, hands on his shoulders for support.

        She carefully monitored him, very quickly learning when to squeeze her
ass to make it feel the best for him, learning how fast to speed up the pumping
for him.  He hadn't had talent like this, that was obvious, and it made the man
only barely hide the beaming grin that threatened to spread on his face.

        In a surprisingly short amount of time, the Marine soon gasped and
grabbed the child, shoving her down on his cock so her ass pressed against his
thighs.  Trickles of his cum slipped out and ran down his shaft, as the girl
closed her eyes, squeezing as tightly as she could.

        When the Marine finally let go, she eased off of him and, after a tired
wave from the man, the girls returned to their kneeling positions next to their
respective Masters.

        The newcomer leaned down, to whisper, "Be good and get him a drink,"
here he paused to look at the Marine and ask, "Water?  Perhaps a pop?"

        "Water..." murmured the man, and the newcomer nodded tp the girl, who
immediately scampering to the kitchen, the cum leaking from her asshole and
running down her legs.

        A half-hour later, the Marine had recovered, half-finished tunbler in
hand.  "So--this Delphi Project, this is legit?"  The driver nodded to his
friend, who took over.

        "Yeah, it is.  Trust me--I didn't believe it, myself.  I just moved in
the other day, right, and--oh, let me tell you.  A library, a recreation
building, communal bath, and more--and if you like privacy, each place is fully
stocked for it."

        "And I'd just be expected to lend my own services--no expectations from
my family?"

        "None.  Seriously, they won't even ask you to, and they drive that point
home whenever they get the chance.  Only you, as the man, are expected to work
for the Project.  Me, I work in the clinic mostly, but there are also fishermen,
harvesters, and more.  Some men do have their women help out, too, though not
all do."

        The Marine arched a brow, but finally smiled.  It was the first time
he'd done so since the two walked through his door.  "Well--I must say, it does
sound fantastic.  Would I have to move in right away?"

        Here the driver resumed.  "Oh, no, of course not.  We would expect you
to be cautious still, of course.  So we would offer a tour of the place.  After
which, you would be free to return here, and if you decide to join, you'll be
welcomed with open arms, but if you decline, you will only hear from us if you
want it."

        "...but--how would you know I'd keep your secret?"

        "For one thing, we believe in honor, duty, loyalty--just like you do.
And I know you do because I know you're a fine soldier.  For another, you'd be
revealing yourself, too.  Scruitiny would, as a matter of course, be focused on
you sooner or later, and with your daughter's--condition--you would be found out
soon."

        "How do you know so much about me, anyway?"

        Here the driver, for once, looked almost embarrassed.  Almost.  Getting
to his feet, he went to the television--specifically the cable box beside it--
and deftly pressed the plate that covered the L.C.D. screen.  With a click, it
popped out, much to the Marine's surprise.

        "This is just one, you understand," said the driver, pointing out a
miniature camera.  The smoked glass had all but ensured it would never have been
discovered.

        Setting the box back down, he lifted a hand as he returned to the couch,
saying, "Please understand--we have over a thousand lives to worry about.  We
HAD to ensure you were everything we believed you to be.  But, I can attest that
nothing those cameras saw was recorded.  Everything was encrypted and viewed by
our--shall we say--'field operatives'."

        The Marine looked, well--for the briefest of moments he looked
absolutely pissed; if the newcomer hadn't been studying him carefully, he'd have
missed it.  That flash left, replaced, more slowly, by understanding and even
acceptance.  It DID make sense, as much as it invaded his privacy.

        Finally, the Marine stood, and the other men did likewise.
  Grinning, he shook the hand of them both firmly, saying, "Alright, you guys
have me at least for a tour."

        Three days later, he saw everything he needed to and moved his family in
that night.  A month after that he was put in charge of helping train the
security teams.  The not-so-newcomer had a sense of pride ever since helping the
Marine move in that lasted for two weeks; he'd helped someone else move into a
place that was accepting and friendly.  That sense of pride returned, and stayed
much longer, when he helped deliver the man's son, who named the baby after him.



                                     END OF ACT ONE



