‘In his first year, he impregnated 102 women. As the son of a bitch wasn’t too exceptionally fertile back then, he managed an average of ‘only’ 1.8 kids per woman. Still, in a single year… he had 184 children.’
The woman’s heart jolted in her chest.
‘A hundred… and eighty!…’
‘Oh, my dear, now’s when the math starts getting interesting. Our male doesn’t impregnate our ladies just once; in reality, as soon as he senses they’re fertile again after giving birth to his kids…’
‘Oh!’
‘…he knocks them up again —every year, year after year, nonstop!’
The woman suddenly spread her legs open, making the dark spot on her pants… squiiiiiiissh… grow.
‘What did you say?’
‘The man is a bull.’ Another soldier continued. ‘Actually… a literal bull, wild in state of nature, wouldn’t be able to match his numbers.’
And another soldier:
‘He’s one of the most fertile beings in all the mammalian family. Even rats or rabbits can’t compare to his legendary fecundity.’
The general cut them both:
‘As soon as a woman gives birth to his children… as soon as possible, he goes back to fecundating her. The same works for every single lady in his harem —which, I must remind you, never stops growing.’
The poor journalist only swallowed up dryly, barely believing what she heard, but also barely avoiding the temptation of asking, nearly begging for more juicy information:
‘What else… what else does he…?’
The general continued:
‘From his second year of breeding onwards, his fertility became… truly scary.’ His face sunk into darkness. ‘That second year, his harem had 250 women… all of whom were impregnated! At year’s end, an average of 2.4 kids was registered. If you’re keeping track, my dear, that’s 544 sons and daughters.’
‘544!!’
‘Yeah, that’s right. In his second year of coitus, he had already become one of the most fertile men in history.’
The reporter’s heart couldn’t keep still in one place, much like her enormous, extraordinarily thick legs couldn’t stop stretching the fabric of her pants after crossing so many times.
Cold sweat began to appear on her face, yet the general pressed on without mercy:
‘You should get a calculator, dear, because the math is going to get insanely complex from now on.’
«By God!!»
The general breathed in deep and kept narrating the biblical fecundity of his soldier.
‘On his third year, if I recall it well… our guy’s harem had reached 800 women, hadn’t it?’
‘798, sir.’
‘798… oh. Please, lend me these papers. It’s impossible to keep track of his performance just on the head.’
‘Yes, sir.’
While the soldiers organized themselves, the reporter prepared her body for the… avalanche of sexuality… that mythical soldier would present to her!
‘Here it is. Third year of harem. 798 women… all of which he knocked up handsomely. That year, his fecundity was of 2.8 kids per woman, which totals about…’
‘Excuse me, excuse me! What did you say?!’
The officer looked down severely at her.
‘Dear, if you keep interrupting me at every word…’
‘But, sir, please, I… I’ve got to understand: what do you mean his fecundity was 2.8?’
‘I mean that, for every woman he slept with, he had an average of almost three kids.’
‘Every woman??’
‘That’s right.’ The journalist pressed her immense thighs against one another, making the cunt blast off numerous jets of love juices on her pink panties.
Gigi Potemkin 