THE RICHEST MAN IN THE WORLD

Richie, bag slung over his shoulder, stepped off the moving walkway and entered the Cuba West Air terminal. His gate was near the back. The two women behind the counter, one a blonde, the other a redhead, were gorgeous and dressed in Cuba Air's blue retro-styled uniform, complete with little caps perched atop their heads. They looked just like stewardesses from the 1960's, which had been the goal.

There were two guys in line ahead of him and when it was his turn Richie handed over his ID. He watched the two guys, dressed in 'casual' clothes that cost more than his car, being led away by the redhead.

"Good morning!" the blonde said cheerfully. Her short uniform jacket was straining at the buttons over her healthy chest. She swiped his ID card and as his personal info filled her computer screen her eyes lit up.

"Very nice to see you Mr. Palmer!" she gushed. "Are you checking any luggage? Just the bag? Splendid." She typed for a few seconds, then a small box next to the keyboard spit out a silver-edged plastic card. The blonde punched a hole in it and threaded a red cord through the hole.

"This'll be all you need on the island," she told him cheerfully, handing the card over. He draped the cord around his neck as he'd seen the other men do. The redhead returned and smiled at him. Her eyes went from the card around his neck to the young man's sloppy attire and back to the card. She blinked twice, but her smile never wavered.

"You can wait in the VIP Lounge," the blonde told him. "Suzy'll escort you. We'll be boarding in just a few minutes."

"Thanks." Richie followed the redhead toward an unmarked door. Her short skirt was so tight she had to take tiny steps, not that she was likely to break into a trot in her four-inch heels.

The VIP Lounge was all leather and dark stained wood and chrome. He guessed there were twenty-plus guys in there, average age fifty, drinking whisky and smoking cigars. They were all dressed like they were about to hit the links of their favorite country club, and he caught more than a few curious stares. Then one of them caught sight of the card around his neck with its silver borders and suddenly they were all smiles and questions. Who was he, what did he do for a living, was this his first trip to the island. Richie noticed all of their cards had red borders.

He muttered a few vague responses, found a leather chair in the corner, and sunk into it, hoping to be left alone. He kept himself occupied while waiting to board by surreptitiously ogling the lounge's hostesses as they served drinks. They were in ridiculous French maid outfits complete with teetering high-heels, fishnet stockings, push-up bras, and frilly skirts so short their white satin panties showed every time they bent to set a drink on a table. Richie saw more than one of the erotically-clad women being groped by the increasingly boisterous men without complaint.

"C'mon, whaddaya do?"

"What?" Richie looked up to see one of the country club types standing nearby, weaving slightly.

"Internet? Actor? You don't look familiar," the rosy-cheeked man said, squinting at Richie, slurring his words slightly. "Inheritance?'

"What are you talking about?"

The man grabbed the plastic card hanging around his neck and waved it. "Cost me a hunnerd grand just to get a red package," the man said defiantly. "Gold's a quarter mil. How much it cost for a platinum?"

"I don't know. It was a gift," Richie told him honestly.

The man blew a raspberry through juicy lips, clearly not believing him, but just then the door at the far end of the room opened and it was announced that they could board. The men lined up and filed through the doorway, the pretty stew checking all of their ID cards around their necks before allowing them past.

The airplane was like none Richie had ever been on. It was a small passenger jet, maybe a 737 originally designed to hold 150 passengers or so, but had been converted. Instead of thirty rows of narrow seats crammed together, the jet featured fifteen rows with just one seat on each side of the aisle. And the seats! They were full-size leather recliners, each facing its own flatscreen monitor, with its own wet bar and a curtain that could be pulled all the way around for privacy.

Richie was given the first seat on the right. Next to him was an elderly gentleman sporting a gold-edged card who couldn't seem to stop smiling. Richie's bag was stored in the overhead compartment for him and a beautiful blonde stew who smelled like peaches helped him with his seatbelt. He stared down into her impressive cleavage as she snugged the belt around his waist and patted the buckle affectionately, which was positioned right above his crotch. Richie cleared his throat nervously as she smiled at him warmly and moved on.

He counted over half a dozen flight attendants for their small group, every single one of them a beautiful woman. Their uniforms had to be individually tailored – they fit each woman perfectly, snug but not too tight, the skirts just above the knee, their stockings the old-fashioned kind with the line up the back.

The screen in front of him lit up as a brunette flight attendant with sensuous lips stood in the aisle near the front of the cabin. She demonstrated the use of the seatbelt and oxygen masks and pointed out the emergency exits as a corresponding video played on all their screens. Halfway down the fuselage another stew was doing the same for the men in the back of the plane.

"Gentlemen, this is your captain," a warm voice said overhead. "If you'll take your seats we're next in line to takeoff. Seat-belt light is on, and please no smoking until that lamp goes out. Flight time will be three hours and twenty-one minutes, maybe less if the jet stream cooperates. Flight crew please prepare for takeoff." The captain clicked off.

Ten minutes after wheels up the airplane leveled off and the captain extinguished the no-smoking and seatbelt lights. The all female crew stood up and Richie watched four of them at the front of the plane. As a group the flight attendants unzipped their skirts and tugged them down over their hips. Even when the airplane swayed they didn't lose their balance as they stepped out of their skirts, folded them, and put them away in a cabinet. Underneath they all wore black g-strings over the stockings. Their uniform jackets came off next, revealing their white button-down blouses. The blouses turned out not only to be midriff-baring, but nearly see-through as well, and not one of the flight attendants seemed to be wearing a bra.

No drink carts for this plane; the stews emerged carrying waitress trays. Many of the men hooted when they saw their new attire.

"I'll be your flight attendant, sir, unless you'd prefer another girl."

Richie blinked at the blonde in front of him. Her tits were huge, straining the front of her shirt. "Uhhh, my . . ?" he began.

"Platinum package guests get their own flight attendant," she told him, guessing from his appearance that this was his first Pleasure Package trip to Cuba. "My name's Tiffany."

Sure it is , he thought. "No, you're fine," he told her.

"Something to drink, sir?"

"Uhhh . . . " Richie tried not to stare at the stews big nipples visible through her shirt. "Diet Coke, please."

Maneuvering through an airplane in flight in four-inch heels was no mean feat but the flight attendants never once stumbled. In less than twenty minutes they had every passenger aboard stocked with a beverage and snack of his choosing, and were comfortably over international waters.

Richie had brought a book to read and was twenty pages in when he saw shapely legs in front of him once more. He looked up to see Tiffany, this time without her tray. She squatted down in front of him so that they were nose to nose.

"What would you like now, Mr. Palmer?"

"Uhhh." Was there a meal on the flight?

"A striptease? A handjob, or blowjob, some sort of sex? I can service you while you read, if you like," she told him softly with a smile.

"Ummmm . . . ." Richie looked around. A redheaded flight attendant was just pulling the privacy curtain closed around the elderly man's chair across the aisle. The other six attendants were moving into the passenger compartment, and everyone but him seemed to have known this was part of the package. He was in so far over his head it wasn't funny. "Surprise me," he told her finally.

Tiffany grinned and stood up, grabbing the edge of the curtain. They'd told her to take special care of him, and she knew what that meant. "Oh, I will," she assured him.

Two and a half hours later Richie was staring out his window at the coast of Cuba. He was exhausted, but he was too excited to fall asleep.

His balls ached. He'd come three times in seventy minutes, once in each of Tiffany's orifices. Her ability to deepthroat was truly amazing, but his favorite part had come when she'd reclined his seat, sat on his lap facing away from him, and laid back against his chest. He played with her huge tits and hard clit while she worked her hips up and down like a piston. Her ass was slick and tight as a fist and if he hadn't come twice already he wouldn't have lasted more than three minutes. He was pretty sure she came twice, although he always had trouble telling. She'd cleaned him up first with her tongue and then a hot towel before putting her abbreviated uniform back on and serving him another Diet Coke.

As the plane descended in a lazy turn toward Havana International Richie stared in awe at the massive, spectacular casinos and clubs with their neon and holos visible even in broad daylight from a thousand feet.

Cuba's recent history was legendary. Fidel Castro was one hundred and three years old -- weak, suffering from the early stages of Alzheimers, but still in control -- when the privately funded mercenary army six thousand strong invaded from Costa Rica, where they'd been training for six months.

The shooting was over in two weeks, and that's when billionaire Lawrence Cross, bio-pharmaceutical visionary, proposed a deal with the Cuban people. He had the might to rule Cuba by force, but had other plans. He asked for ten years. Ten years to turn Cuba into what it had been, the jewel of the Caribbean.

If any other man had asked for such a thing he would have been burned at the stake, but Lawrence Cross had earned his billions in such a way as to make his a household name.

A decade before anyone thought it could be done Cross' bio-technology mega-conglomerate came out with Bountifull. The synthetic hormone derivatives inside that little yellow pill safely and permanently increased the size and firmness of a woman's breasts. As it was prescription only, the dosage could be adjusted to produce the desired cup size within three weeks. No more implants or cosmetic breast lift surgery.

He first marketed the pill overseas, where he knew he could get it on the shelves quicker. The FDA dragged its feet, as usual, but after a documentary described how fifty-thousand American women a month were traveling to Canada to get a prescription for the drug they saw the writing on the wall. Four years later, when he came out with Bonus, a pill that did the same thing for penises, the FDA was a little quicker with their approval. After Bonus had been on the market for six years it was official – Cross was the world's third richest man.

Next was Meta-Life, which prevented the user's body from turning any of the food they ate into fat. Definitely prescription-only, this little blue miracle made fat people thin and kept them that way.

Two years later one of his companies came out with Arouse – the first effective, legitimate aphrodisiac. It worked on both men and women and was almost frighteningly effective. Richie more than suspected Tiffany had taken her share of yellow pills to get her chest, and wouldn't have been surprised to learn she was a regular user of Arouse, she'd certainly been wet enough. It was rumored to be addictive but Richie had never seen anything substantive on that. He himself had tasted a few Bonus pills, just enough to get him where he didn't feel undergunned in the locker room. The makers of Bonus had discovered there was a genetic-level line in men that couldn't be crossed when it came to penis size – they could only get it so big, no matter how many pills were swallowed, because any larger and there wouldn't be enough blood in the body to get it erect. That was still damn big, though, and at first many a man had found to his surprise he was too big to get a proper blowjob anymore. Women didn't have the same problem, however, and Richie had seen a number of girls his age or younger who'd gone crazy and made Tiffany look flat-chested.

By most estimates it actually took him fourteen, but by the end of his ten asked-for years the votes were in. Americans alone were spending thirty-five million dollars every day in the new casinos, not to mention the restaurants, clubs, and brothels. Every Cuban was guaranteed health care, and high-paying jobs were found for every man, woman, and child willing to work. Hundreds of multi-national corporations, including Cross' own pharmaceutical enterprises, attracted to the island's almost non-existent legal restrictions and amenable tax-rates, built there. The Cubans loved him, and called him El Rey, the king. No one seemed to care anymore about his army, which hadn't disbanded, the legalized but strictly regulated prostitution which brought in as much cash as the gambling, or that he was, for all intents and purposes, the King of Cuba, taking ten percent off the top.

Now Cross' story was the thing of legends. He'd killed Castro thirty-five years before and Cuba's GNP was now larger than California's. Between Bountifull and Bonus, Meta-Life and Arouse, Cross was soon the undisputed Richest Man in the World.

Ten years after taking over, after receiving the blessing of the Cuban people, Cross had disappeared from the public eye. Just like Howard Hughes had a century before him, Cross had become a recluse, a hermit, that hadn't been seen in public in fourteen years. Some people wondered if he was still alive.

By the time the wheels touched down the flight crew had their skirts and jackets back on, their hair and makeup fixed, and looked nothing less than the professionals they were. The captain thanked everybody over the PA, hoping they had an enjoyable flight, and rolled the airplane to a perfect stop at their gate. The crew lined up at the door to greet the passengers as they deplaned. Richie saw the men tipping the flight attendants with big wads of bills and felt like an asshole because he had no cash. Tiffany didn't seem to mind, she just kissed him on the cheek and shook his hand. In the concourse he checked out the card she'd put in his palm. A business card, with her name and phone number and one word, ENTERTAINMENT.

RICHEST MAN--CHAPTER 2

Just inside the terminal Richie spotted his name on an illuminated placard. He approached the man holding it, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a chauffeur's uniform.

"That's me," he said, a little sheepishly. A chauffeur? What next?

"Yes Sir, it certainly is," said the man, who'd been given a picture of Richie. "I'm Alexander, Sir. Today I'll be your driver. Is that your only bag?"

Richie looked down at it. "Yep."

"I'll take that Sir, if you'll follow me."

Alexander led Richie through a series of corridors, using a swipe card to go through several AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY doors, bypassing security. He led Richie to a huge limo idling by the curb at the front of Havana International.

Alexander set Richie's bag in the trunk and then held open the rear door for him. Richie peered into the dim space, big enough to fit a party of twelve, then looked at the driver.

"I do not feel comfortable sitting in back being driven around," he told Alexander. "Would you mind if I rode up front with you?"

"Not at all Sir. Perhaps I could give you a quick tour of Havana before we head to the Presidential Palace?"

"I'd like that."

Alexander's knowledge of the capital was encyclopedic and went back over two hundred years. He showed Richie the casinos, of course, and the brothels, but also the forts and garrisons and narrow calles that gave Havana its soul.

Richie took a moment from the sights out the windshield to take a look at the luxurious interior of the limo. He shook his head.

"Is there a problem Sir?" the chauffeur asked kindly.

"I keep waiting to wake up," Richie said. "For someone to pinch me. Or for someone to say that it's all been a big joke, go home."

Alexander had apparently been a chauffeur long enough to know he wasn't supposed to ask questions, but he appeared interested.

"I got out of college six months ago," Richie told the chauffeur. "Degree in Journalism. Couldn't find a job to save my life. Probably because my grades were barely mediocre. So I went to a counselor, and he suggested I try a little freelance work. Write something and try to sell it. Like what? Interview somebody famous or somebody that should be famous and try to sell that, is what he told me.

"So I wrote about a hundred letters to people. Actors, politicians, rock stars, and just for the hell of it, one night when I was a little too tired for my own good, I typed up one to the Richest Man in the World, who hasn't given an interview in almost twenty years, hasn't been seen in over ten."

"The craziest thing is that Cross was the only person who said yes. I don't get it. I'm nobody." He looked at the chauffeur. "You work for him?"

"Indirectly, yes."

"You ever see him? What's he like? He's what, pushing seventy-five?"

Alexander laughed. "Oh, I see him quite often. I'm sure you'll have quite a few interesting conversations with him." The older man paused. "You really don't know why he picked you?"

Richie shook his head. "Not a clue."

"You're family's not famous?"

Richie laughed.

"Where did you grow up? Mr. Cross is from Louisiana, originally, then moved to Texas."

"Indiana."

"Hmmm. And you received mediocre grades?"

"To put it kindly."

"You went into college straight out of high school?"

"No, I went into the Marines first, for a couple years."

"The Marines. Were you involved in that nasty business in Egypt, by any chance?"

"Unfortunately."

"Did you see 'action', as they say?"

"Some. I didn't get any medals or anything, if that's what you're thinking. I just went over there and did my job."

"Really. Well, I guess you'll just have to put it to Mr. Cross, if you're that curious. We should be there presently."

Cross had taken for his own ten square miles of land an hour and a half from downtown Havana, and built a fabulous palace on the land with his own money. The building had been designed to look like something out of the fertile crescent half a millennia ago. Giant columns of peach-colored polished marble supported a stone awning over massive front steps.

The palace driveway seemed a mile long at least, and turned into a traffic circle in front of the massive staircase. There was a fountain in the middle of the circle spraying water from a thousand jets into the afternoon sun. A rainbow formed in the mist drifting across the circle.

Alexander parked at the foot of the steps and nodded at the palace. There wasn't a soul to be seen. "Just go on up," he told the young man, in an extreme breach of chauffeur etiquette (not that Richie would ever have known), and popped the trunk.

Richie got his overnight bag out of the trunk and started up the giant steps. They reminded him of the steps at the Lincoln memorial in Washington D.C., they had their scale. At the top of the stairs, set back between the pillars, were the huge front doors. They were flanked by two equally huge, massively muscled men. They didn't have any visible weapons, but Richie had no doubts as to why they were there. They nodded to him, and he did a doubletake. They weren't men, they were women! Women more muscular than any he'd ever seen, even in those bodybuilder magazines. Before he could ask them anything one of the doors opened and Barbara Eden stepped out.

Richie blinked, then looked at the woman again. Okay, she wasn't Barbara Eden, but she was dressed just like the actress had when playing that genie in that old TV show, like she'd just come from the harem. Only this woman was younger and bustier. She wore what amounted to a blue push-up bra with attached sleeves made out of some pink gauzy material. Matching blue bottoms had blousy leggings attached made of the same see through pink material. Her bare stomach was flat, her abdominal muscles well defined. Some small silver bauble pierced her navel.

"HI! You must be Richie," she gushed. "I'm Veronica. Come on in, Larry's been waiting for you."

"Larry?" Richie said. Veronica turned, revealing a thong bottom to her harem pants television censors of that bygone era would never have approved. She marched off barefooted into the house. Richie had to hurry to catch up.

The palace was even larger than it looked from the outside. The corridor Veronica led him down was twenty feet across and thirty high, floored in polished marble covered with Persian rugs. He saw great rooms to either side but before he had a chance to really study them Veronica darted through a narrow doorway and was headed down a circular staircase. Richie hurried to keep up, trying hard not to fall.

At the bottom was another corridor, this one narrower, and decidedly humid. Fifty yards down it opened out onto a large room, most of which was taken up by a pool. Far above the water was an arched ceiling fitted with stained glass panels, lit up by the afternoon sun. Richie could only stare.

The big room, paved and walled with exotic, veined marble, was a huge echo chamber. The shouts and screams and laughter of the women playing in the water ricocheted back and forth off the walls until what words there were became indecipherable.

A woman climbed out of the water beside Richie, dripping water all over the stone floor. She bent over to grab the ball rolling around on the floor, then noticed Richie as she stood up. She brushed her brown hair back from her head and looked at him appraisingly.

"Hi," she said, with a big, inviting smile. She was very attractive, with an athletic build, and looked about seven months pregnant. She threw the ball back into the pool and then jumped back in to rejoin the water polo game. There were at least a dozen women in the water, most of them tanned brown by long hours in the sun, and another dozen on chaise lounges around its circumference. On the far side of the pool the floor was elevated and covered with big, vibrantly-colored pillows. They were lit up by tall, narrow, beveled-glass windows that looked out on a rolling lawn roughly half the size of Rhode Island. There were more women amidst the pillows, and a man.

"Richie!" he shouted, standing up. Every single woman there stopped what she was doing and looked at Richie as the man who'd yelled his name jumped over some pillows and started his way.

"Grandpa?" Richie said incredulously, using the man's nickname. "George?" he said again, using his given name. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

He hadn't seen George in five years, since they'd left the Corps and gone their separate ways. To see his former squadmate here, in the Cuban Presidential Palace, surrounded by more than two dozen mostly nude women, was . . . .

"How've you been?" George asked him. "You look good." George gave him a big smile, and when he got close Richie shook his hand and slapped him on the back. All he had on was a swimsuit, something none of the women in the pool had apparently thought they'd needed. George was an inch shorter than Richie, and a little stockier. He was twenty-eight when he'd joined the Corps, to 'try something different' as he'd put it. The next oldest man in the squad was nineteen and they'd promptly christened George Grandpa. He'd had a tough time of it at first, but he'd ground on and never quit. As Veronica excused herself Richie noticed there were a handful of other women around the room dressed in identical outfits. They seemed to be serving as waitresses.

"What the hell?" Richie said. "What are you doing here? Is that how I got the invite? Do you know Cross somehow?"

George had a big, mischievous smile on his face, and he laughed long and hard.

"Richie, my boy," the swim-trunk clad man said, peering into Richie's eyes, "I am Cross."

Richie blinked stupidly at the man before him for nearly a minute, the eight months they'd spent together in Charlie Company, first in North Carolina, then in Egypt, flashing through his head. George's grin grew wider and wider as he watched the wheels turning in his friend's head.

Finally, Richie stopped blinking and looked the man before him in the eye. He shook his head slightly. "You motherfucker," he said in disbelief and admiration to the richest man in the world.

"I'm never going to be able to sell it," George – Cross – told Richie as they stood looking out one of the tall windows.

"Why not?'

"A drug that reverses most of the signs of aging and then slows the natural aging process to a crawl? Do you know what kind of overpopulation problems we'd have? I started taking it when I was sixty and I'll probably live another hundred years if I don't get hit by a car. You start taking it now and you'd probably see two hundred. The Chinese are still killing off babies. What do you think would happen if all of their old people got young and healthy and stopped dying? Forget it, let's not talk about that, that's too depressing. Too bad I couldn't afford to invade China." Cross looked around the palace. "You met Alexander, right? What'd you think?"

"About what? Seemed like a nice guy."

Cross smiled. "He's my father. He'll be a hundred and six next month. He took care of things for me here while I was in the Corps."

"He looks . . . fifty-five."

"Yeah. Not as youthful as I was hoping, but he was happy as hell. He just was too old to regenerate as much tissue as you or I could. So?" he said to Richie. "You like the flight in?" He smiled. "What do you think? You glad you saved my life now?"

Richie was shaking his head. "I still can't believe you're him, Cross. Lawrence Cross? Richest Man in the World? You gave Wesner a wedgie! And you decked Harmon when he called you an asshole."

"Guys are still guys, whether they're old or young, rich or poor," Cross told him. "If I didn't punch out Harmon he would've been riding my ass for a year. And wedgies never go out of style."

"I still can't believe it. Anti-aging?"

"That's just the tip of the iceberg," Cross told him. "We're doing stuff now you wouldn't believe. Bountifull and Bonus were like banging keys on a piano with your elbow, trying to find a note you like. We're mainlining Mozart and Beethoven now. You name it, we can do it."

"Like what?"

Cross smiled evilly. "Come on, take a load off."

He led Richie to the raised platform covered in overstuffed pillows. There were close to a dozen women up there, lounging around, as well as a harem-clad waitress or serving girl or whatever the hell she was. Richie was having a hard time adjusting.

"You want something to drink?" Cross waved over the harem girl.

"Water." The girl disappeared.

"You like the view?" On the raised platform they had a better view out the tall, skinny windows. Just outside was a big garden filled with a dazzling display of flowers. Past the garden a green lawn stretched away into the distance, half a mile or more.

"Not bad if you can afford it."

Richie heard something and looked down. On the floor near his feet a woman lay curled up on her side, turning the page of a magazine. She was girl-next-door pretty and wore black-rimmed cats-eye glasses, which had come back into fashion. The glasses were all she wore, but what grabbed Richie's attention were her eight small breasts and the six or more squirming puppies nursing from them.

"Hi," she said, glancing up at him, then turned another page. The puppies were grunting as they sucked from her milk-swollen teats, which ran in two rows down her chest and stomach. Her breasts were small but firm, about the size of peaches, with large, dark nipples that looked like they could (and probably had) take a lot of abuse. Puppy teeth were needle sharp. Richie looked back at Cross, who was smiling widely as he sat down on a low divan.

"That's Mary," he said. "When she was a little girl she wanted to be a veterinarian. And a mommy."

"Oh my God," was all Richie could say. He was sweating, and it wasn't from the humid air. "Jesus, George. I mean—"

"That's okay," Cross said with a smile "I liked being George. It was a nice break from being Lawrence Cross, Master of the Universe."

Richie had to force himself to stop staring at the eight-titted freak. She just kept on reading, ignoring them and the wiggling pile of puppies sucking milk from her breasts. He glanced over at the nude woman he'd seen sitting nearby, reclined on a pile of pillows. For the first time he noticed her legs were spread wide and another woman was kneeling between them, her face buried in the first woman's pussy. The seated woman looked about thirty-five and – except for the fact that she was nude and being eaten out, of course – looked rather refined and sophisticated. She looked over at Richie, her eyes half hooded in pleasure, and when she saw him staring at her stuck her tongue out right back at him. Her tongue protruded from her mouth at least four inches.

"Fuck!" Richie exclaimed in surprise. He glanced around at the other nearby women, most of them nude or nearly so, and saw at least half of them were pleasuring themselves or each other.

"Do you know how much fucking money I have?" Cross asked him, talking more like the Marine Corps veteran Richie knew him as. "I could spend or give away a million dollars a day every day until I died and I'd still be richer then than I am now because of the interest. But you know what? I can't get enough of this." He waved a hand around at the women. "No matter how much I get, I want more. And the more I get, the more I want, and the less satisfied I am by straight, vanilla, missionary-style-in-the-dark sex." Across from them, laying buried in a pile of pillows, Richie noticed another woman. Blonde, with short, spiky hair, she had a big thick silver rings through the nipples of her cantaloupe-sized breasts. She was on her back, legs spread wide, masturbating furiously. Cross looked over at her.

"You've probably never seen tits like hers," Cross told him. "With Bountifull they stopped doing breasts implants about the time you got out of diapers. However, Bountifull just increases the natural size of a woman's breasts. There's an increase in firmness, but not a lot, usually less than a woman gets when she's lactating. If she's normally got small saggers, with Bountifull a woman will have big droopers. They won't suddenly get high and hard." He nodded at the reclining woman, whose breasts were both high and very firm-looking, not to mention as large-or larger-than cantaloupes. "Not only can we do that now," he said, "without surgery, we can do it with a pill. A fucking pill! That's it! Although," he made sure to correct himself, " they won't look quite like those. Her tits are . . . . special order," he said with a thin smile.

Cross had to smile at himself. "I've had a reputation for a couple decades now. Rumors, mostly, which is all I allow out. Just enough rumors to stir the pot. I don't even have to go looking, the freaks come find me. Hardly anything's off limits in Havana since I legalized prostitution. Whores and gambling – we're the number one tourist destination in the world, period. I make the girls get licenses and pay taxes, but they make great money even without the tips and get free health care. There's a waiting list of girls who want to get licensed –hell, the age of consent's down to twelve, now, and some people want me to drop it even lower. A lot of them mothers, if you can believe it. There's an organization, Madres de Putas, or something like it, its unbelievable. They don't want prostitution abolished, or the age of consent raised, they want the younger girls to get paid more. Fresher goods, I guess. Some of these women with three or four daughters are making a million bucks a year. Cuba was hooker central long before I took it over, because it was the only way to make money. Hell, they perfected the donkey show here. Now whoring is just the quickest way to get rich.

"I don't even have to go looking, the freaks come find me. First they come to Cuba because of the stories they've heard about the money or the sex. Then they migrate to Havana, because none of the brothels and casinos in the smaller towns can compare, although most of them still kick Vegas' ass. Then they come find me – I've had a reputation for a couple decades now, always looking for something new and different, and everybody's looking to make me happy. I can't tell you how many full time people I've got, all they do is hand-pick the superfreaks for me." He nodded at the roomful of women. "Half these twisted, oversexed sluts came to Havana to be whores. The competition's so fierce a lot of them just can't make it into the A-list clubs, but our backroom clubs are as good or better than what anyplace else can offer. I like visiting the low-end brothels anonymously from time to time, see what new talent they have. A-List girls are gorgeous, but sometimes all they know how to do is look good, and you wouldn't believe the egos on them. High-maintenance nightmares. The B- and C-grade whores may not be covergirl material, but they can be some of the most twisted sluts you'll find on the planet." He smiled. "Once they know who I am, what kind of power, and money I've got? They try to impress me, show me something I've never seen before. Sometimes they're successful. The other ones, who are just quiet uber-sluts, come from all over the world hoping to get close to the great and all-powerful Oz, hoping I'll use them, do something twisted to them. Most of them have fantasies about what they want, how they want to be used, what they want done to their bodies, but usually we can do much more than they imagine. Once they find out the sky's the limit, their whole wish list changes." He smiled. "I like giving them what they want, and more. They're never the same afterwards, and they like it that way. Most of the time I can't get them to leave."

The harem girl returned with a large glass of icewater and set it on a small table near Richie's elbow.

"Thanks," he said. His eyes went from her abundant, pushed-up cleavage to her face as she lifted her gaze to his. He involuntarily jerked back when he saw her yellow cat's eyes. She purred at him, a low, throttling sound from deep in her chest, then walked away smiling.

Cross laughed. "You like that, she's got fur on her pussy. Golden orange, and soft as mink. Better yet?" Cross leaned forward and pretended to whisper. "She can lick it herself, too." He sat back, laughing. Richie couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

Richie shook his head. "George, man, my brain's starting to smoke." He took a big slug of his water and watched the women in the pool as they played polo. The water came up to or past their breasts, for the most part, so he couldn't tell too much about them other than they were all nude and none of them was ugly. One of the women was completely bald, and another was huge, not fat but stocky and probably six and a half feet tall. They were laughing and shouting and splashing water everywhere.

At least two of the women reclining on lounges poolside were visibly pregnant, and none of them was the expectant woman Richie had seen chasing the ball out of the pool. "Are you going to be a father?" Richie asked, nodding at them.

Cross looked, then chuckled. "Not quite. Well, sort of. Every woman wants a healthy baby. Not just a healthy baby, they want the perfect baby. She wants a six-foot three, blonde, blue-eyed, well-hung right-handed son who's naturally athletic and has a one-sixty IQ, and you know what? I can give it to her, even if no one in her family's over five-two and they all have black hair. I don't use my sperm, I don't want the inheritance issues coming up, but in a way they are all my kids. Of course, the women who come all the way to me for this are not your average suburban soccer moms. They've all got a bit of a taste for the dark side, shall we say, and some decide to stay for awhile."

"You can do that? I mean the right-handed, six-three . . . ."

"Richie!" Cross shook his head, and pointed past him. "I wasn't joking when I said the girl who served you your water has fur on her pussy and could lick it herself, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. Hell, the stuff I've done accidentally . . . ."

"Like what?"

"Like if you take enough Arouse, the effects become permanent. Its active ingredients become part of you at the cellular level." Cross made a face. "Didn't know that was going to happen. Don't really care that it does, but still. Or this." He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. "Oholibah! Come over here."

The large breasted masturbating blonde climbed off the pillows and walked over.

"Oholibah? That's an unusual name."

"She told me to pick something," Cross said. "Oholibah's the biggest whore in the bible. Ezekiel 23."

Oholibah stood beside Cross meekly, eyes downcast. Richie could only stare at her. Her breasts were even larger than he'd thought, each the size of her head, with irregularly-shaped wrinkled nipples. Thick silver rings pierced the tips of her dark pink flesh. Above each of those rings was a smaller silver ring, and above that another. The line of rings put some sort of odd crease or fold into her nipples which, now that she was standing up, began to leak drops of clear fluid.

Richie looked up at her face, and was stunned to see half a dozen small silver rings through her lips, both of them. She couldn't open her mouth. There was a big ring through her septum, which laid across her lip rings, but that wasn't all. There was another, between her legs. Richie was astonished.

"I never thought of it, but Oholibah here and a bunch of other twisted little sluts like her did."

"Thought of what?"

"What would happen if a woman took Bonus. A lot of it."

Oholibah's clit was enormous, massive, almost four inches long and as thick as a man's thumb. It stuck out at a forty-five-degree down angle. A pink fleshy hood covered all of it but the tip, which to Richie looked disturbingly like the head of a penis. The hood swept down into meaty labia which from a distance might have been mistaken for a scrotum.

"Not every woman responds the same way to Bonus," Cross told him. "We did a little experimentation with some willing subjects after we heard rumors about lesbians taking it. Oholibah's clit is a little bigger than average, but some of our female test subjects, usually dykes that looked like men to begin with, are hung like guys now."

Richie had seen pierced women before, but what this woman had had done to her big labia was something he'd never even heard of. Each of her fat lips had been pierced four times, but instead of rings she'd had brass eyelets installed. Big ones, the holes in the center a quarter inch across. And they were laced tightly together with a thin silver chain. Her labia looked like the top of a tennis shoe.

"Show him how you play with it," Cross encouraged her.

Oholibah took an overhand grip on it, around the fleshy hood, and began to stroke her clit just as if it were a penis, working the hood like a foreskin. There was a large, matching silver ring vertically through the end of her clit, just as large as the ones in her nipples and septum, and it wiggled as the young woman pumped her shaft.

"It takes a woman with a big clit to appreciate just how good handjobs feel," Cross said appreciatively. "Oholibah here can't seem to stop stroking it, but then she's got enough Arouse in her to give a horse a heart attack." He smiled. "She'd tell you herself, but she's got this 'plugging up the holes' fetish, as you can see. Turn around, show him your ass," Cross told her. She did, revealing to Richie the black rubber base of perhaps the largest butt-plug he'd ever seen.

Even though Richie found the woman more scary than arousing he found he had a raging hard-on. As Cross had her kneel on a pillow next to him – instructing her firmly not to play with herself anymore – Richie looked around the room once again. He drank some more of his water, finishing the glass. It sure was humid in there with the pool. Sweat was dripping off his nose. Cross watched him, a smile on his face.

"Do you remember that night in the barracks when we got to talking about who or what we'd like to bang? Our ultimate?" he asked Richie.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Jordan said he'd always wanted to make it with twins, and Benedetto – Benny – said he wanted to do Marilyn Monroe, even though we said no celebrities. I said I wanted to see a hot mother/daughter team do each other. T.B. said he wanted big tits and a shaved pussy. Pony liked cheerleaders, and Mac said he wanted to do a hot young nun in her habit. Do you remember what you said?"

"Nope. Don't have a clue. I can barely even remember the conversation."

"I remember. Midget sluts and huge female bodybuilders is what you said. Did you mean it or were you just trying to come up with something outrageous?"

"Fuck, I don't know, I was drunk. Yeah, I guess I meant it. They're sort of exact opposites, you know?"

Cross laughed. "Christ, that was a lot of fun. I loved being in the Corps. Except for the getting shot part. Well, why don't I have one of the girls show you to your room. You can get cleaned up. We'll have a lot of time to talk."

He waved and one of the women hopped out of the pool and walked over, still dripping. She was nude, of course, with short dark hair slicked back on her head and a trim, muscular body. Her hips were narrow and she had no breasts to speak of. There was something else she lacked as well.

"Haven't seen much hair on these girls," Richie mentioned, as the woman walked toward them.

Cross laughed. "You haven't seen any. They want to stay here, they get laser hair removal. Everything below the neck. That's my fetish. Well, one of them."

The dripping young woman stopped beside Cross. Cross slapped one of her muscular buttocks playfully and pointed at Richie. Richie still wasn't sure if he was supposed to stare at her nakedness or not. He had to stand, even though he would have preferred to remain seated. His hard-on was like a steel rod in his pants, and he thought it was quite obvious through his jeans, although no one seemed to notice.

He followed the girl off the pillow-covered platform, his eyes glued to her musclebound buttocks, and through a doorway. Cross watched him go with a smile on his face. Richie's water had been laced with an obscene amount of triple-strength Arouse, plus his company's much-improved version of Viagra. Between the drugs now coursing through his veins and what was awaiting him in his room, they wouldn't be seeing Richie until late the next morning.

Cross looked down at Oholibah kneeling at his feet. The tips of her breasts were leaking quite a bit of fluid now. It ran in streaks down her big globes and across her slender ribcage. She was breathing hard, almost panting, and one glance between her legs was all he needed to see how hot she was. Her clit stuck out like throbbing pink thumb. The lithium batteries in the cordless vibrator laced inside her vagina wouldn't wear out for another day, and he'd given her enough Arouse (liquid suspension, administered orally via straw) to make a nun fuck a troop of Boy Scouts and finish up on a donkey. Which reminded him of the secret trials they'd done on Arouse….

He ran a finger up the glistening slope of her nearest breast to the knot of pink flesh at its tip, held together by the silver ring. Her tits were big; their tips were a good six or seven inches from her ribcage. Cross slid the tip of his finger up, following the wetness, to the pink wrinkled skin just underneath the big ring. Oholibah's eyes stared at him longingly, and he could feel her quivering. He pushed his finger into her flesh, just a tiny bit of pressure, and she groaned. He just smiled and pulled his finger back, sucking the wet end.

"Not yet," he told her. "Soon." She quivered and whimpered. He had her on a special muscle relaxant that prevented her body from having the contractions required for orgasm, although he had to keep upping her dose. It made her sphincter so loose the beer-can sized buttplug was ready to fall out. He doubted she'd even be able to muster up a gag reflex with all the muscle relaxant in her system, not that he'd be able to find out until her liprings were removed.

He found her leash underneath a nearby pillow. He clipped the hook to her clit ring, then fed the thin chain through her left large nipple ring, then her right, then up to and through the ring in her septum. He let the remaining length of chain and the leather hand-loop dangle in front of her chest, then stood up and surveyed his domain.

The woman who'd stuck her long tongue out at Richie and her companion – who also had one hell of a custom licker – were locked in a fierce 69. Behind him on pillows, one slender woman sat astride another, rocking gently. The one on the bottom had the second-largest Bonus-enlarged clit Cross had ever seen. The largest belonged to a middleaged butch dyke in Philadelphia that had become quite famous – and popular – among her local lesbians. She'd appeared in two homemade porn movies, wielding her ten-inch clit with great skill. Even though she was overweight and had a flattop haircut, she was something to see. Cross had acquired copies of the movies. He had copies of just about every porn movie ever made, mainstream or homemade, legal or otherwise, although he rarely had time to watch any of them.

On the back side of the pillowed area he found one of his expectant mothers. Neither she nor any of the other pregnant women had stretchmarks on their bulging stomachs, thanks to a dermal elastomer one of his companies had developed. This particular woman – he couldn't remember her name at the moment – was three days past due and her belly was enormous. The weight of it made her fat pussy bulge and gape obscenely as was common with pregnant women. She'd been voluptuous and her tits had been double-D's before she'd ever stepped foot on the island. Now they'd doubled in size and puddled atop her swollen belly as she reclined on pillows, thighs splayed wide unconcernedly.

Cross tugged his shorts down and stepped out of them, revealing his two hard nine-inch cocks, stacked one atop the other, above a scrotum nearly twice the normal size. She eyed them for a second, then with a grunt the expectant mother heaved herself off the cushions and got down on her hands and knees, ass pointed toward the billionaire. He smiled.

"Let's see if we can't induce labor," he said, kneeling behind her. He squeezed his two cockheads together in his fist and pushed them hard against her fat slit, expecting a tight fit. Instead, he found her wet and ready. He looked over his shoulder and saw Oholibah watching breathlessly. "Stick a finger in my ass," he told the laced-shut slut, then turned back to the kneeling pregnant woman and began thrusting.

It's good to be the King , he thought.