What happens a few months from now?

Mrs. Agatha Johnson bounced up and down on your penis. It had been a little over four months since you first ravished her in anger after she and her husband arrived to talk you out of marrying her stepdaughter. Now, she was your mother-in-law and soon-to-be mother of one of your many children.

She was never aroused and you were bored of fornicating with the same women, especially now that they were beginning to show. You had just deflowered a factory worker who had been sent here upon her eighteenth birthday, so the virginal blood helped you lubricate Mrs. Johnson's opening.

This was the main bedroom of Mason Manor. Your father had been moved to an apartment above the Gazette and only your harem, as Dr. Schultz put it, as well as visitors, lived on the grounds.

The weather had gone cold, but the house was kept warm for your pleasure, as warm as it could be. Still the days of seeing all the women parade naked in the house was over. You acquiesced when they complained about the chill and, more importantly, was not a fan of insertion into a very cool orifice.

Earlier that month, the presidential election had occurred. One Ohioan had beat another Ohioan, and you had taken the opportunity of the first woman vote to snag and ravish some suffragettes. Your sister, Eloise, was one of the women you had taken. You had impregnated her months back, but she had gone back to school and was still an enjoyable time in the voting booth, as you inserted a hard-on as she voted for Harding.

Thoughts on that Harding hard-on percolated as Mrs. Johnson began speaking. She treated sex like a chore - a problem with many of these housewives - and a time to chit-chat. "So, I was thinking, with Nadine no longer living here, you could maybe seek a divorce? My husband can procure a more beautiful woman, a virgin untouched by man... or a whore more highly qualified than any of us?"

"Nope," you say, before slapping her on the rear. "Turn around."

She exits you and faces away, as you roughly insert into her rear entrance. She and you both wince at the unlubricated act, although it certainly isn't the first time you'd visited. She continued prattling on but you weren't listening. After finally expelling some of your deadly built-up fluids, you order Mrs. Johnson to arise, and ordered the deflowered factory girl, who had been awkwardly sitting nearby the entire time, to clean you off. Mrs. Johnson took some time to explain to the girl what you meant.

After a thorough tongue-bath from both ladies, you arise and slapped Mrs. Johnson as hard as you can. "Don't ever discuss divorce with your stepdaughter ever again! You, girl, take her into the cellar and chain her up for a couple days."

You stormed off naked into the hallway, not bothering if the girl who's name you never learned, understood your meaning.

The hallway was frigid, it was late November afterall, and you were met by Henrietta, who had removed her fur jacket to wrap around you. You smirked at her erect nipples.

"Was the virgin to your liking, John? How was Mrs. Johnson?"

It was the problem with this disease that every woman was asking about your sexual conquests, constantly. You tended to ignore the questions, choosing instead to wrap your coat around Henrietta, sharing its warmth as you made it to the nearest fireplace.

Everyone wanted to have sex with you, but Henrietta, you felt, was the most genuine. Nadine had grown distant after the **** marriage, and after several frustrating weeks, you had sent her to manage your financial affairs in New York. Dr. Schultz had published articles about you, and was working on books.

"Ride me, as I think," you say to Henrietta, as she smiles wide and shrugs herself out of the coat. You squeeze her pert breasts, and smile at their growth, as well as that of her growing belly. Her orifice wraps around your protuberance as she slowly fucks you. Your mother, in an open robe showcasing her readily apparent pregnancy, smiles at the scene before her.

"Johnnie, you have a telegram. From your wife." Her smile dissipates, which worries. "Just read it, Ma."

"Dear Husband. Your affairs are in order Stop. You have several hundred thousand to your name. Stop. The brothel in Manhattan has been purchased. Stop. I have taken a small loan, and will be in Europe. Stop. Father will repay you. I will not return. Stop. Please do not follow. Signed Mrs. John Mason."

You rage came within Henrietta and pushed her off. She may have had a faint smile, as she slammed into the ground, but you arose and ripped the paper out of your mother's hand. "Who does that whore think she is?! Europe!"

You read the telegram again, and throw into the fire. "Stop. Stop. Stop. I'll fucking stop her. God damn her."

Your mother is aghast at your obscenity, and you pull her to the fire. Gripping her face in your hand. "Go downstairs and **** Mrs. Johnson. Grab the whip and give her at least seventy lashings. I want to hear her blood-curdling screams echo through the house."

Mother just nodded at this request, fearful at your behavior. You look down at Henrietta. "I need you to find out if Stephen Granholm has gone to Europe as well. We may need to take a holiday. I need to save my marriage."