Young Justice: We Bought A Harem

They arrived early morning, over two dozen women clad in voluminous burqas, all of their bodies covered except for their eyes, which were almost feline in their striking liveliness.

Kon wasn’t one for keeping women veiled up head to toe, but he admitted that if eyes were the only things that could go uncovered, these were the eyes. Just the right amount of eyeliner, glowing irises, and an impression of sultriness that he was sure Tim would say he was imagining, but screw that guy. Dude knew so little about women that he could ace a gay quiz.

The moment Red Tornado opened the door to Mount Justice, they were on their way in, quiet and obsequious, gesturing apologies to Reddy as they pushed past him, but not stopping for an instant. And Reddy might be a robot, but he was still a gentleman. About all he could do was be jostled around as they made their way inside.

“Oh, Reddy?” Tim called, tossing aside his hand of gin rummy. “What’s with all the ghosts?”

“They are not ghosts,” Red Tornado corrected. “They are Muslim women, wearing hijab as a measure of modesty and religious obedience.”

Now that they were all inside, the last woman through closed the door behind them and the ladies started divesting themselves of their burqas. Underneath, they wore poofy, translucent pants
 bandeau tops of the same clear silk
 veils and bedlahs that were so skimpy as to barely be there. And the bodies they displayed under such intangible raiment hardly needed the accentuation.

Whether red, blonde, or black, their hair was shiny and luscious. Full round breasts heaved on virtually every slender frame. Toned legs strutted about, whether pale as winter or bronze as the sands of an exotic beach. A strip club, the Playboy Mansion, the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders—these were distant seconds to the collective eroticism that had suddenly found a home in Mount Justice.

“Shoot,” Bart said, “why would anyone want to make ghosts out of those gals?”

The oldest—although she was only in her mid-thirties—and most confident—although all of them seemed to take great pride in preening and flaunting themselves in whatever they were almost wearing—took up position at the head of the gaggle.

“I am Farah. We are the harem of Sheik Ali Ben Styn. As requested, we are here to repay the great Sheik’s debt to you for saving his life.”

Even Tim couldn’t muster up his usual chiropteran poise. “The Sheik let you guys go?”

“He said that we take too much time in the shower.”

Tim realized what must’ve happened. He turned to Kon. “You asked for women?”

“Every night!” Kon replied cheerily.

“You cannot own women,” Red Tornado said sonorously.

A wail of dismay and a great deal of chatter went up amongst the harem as they fiercely debated amongst themselves.

Farah put her hands on her hips. “You asked for us to be your harem, Young Justice. We’re here. We’re a harem. Now, where’s your garden?”

“Errrr
”

“And the fountains? And you don’t have nearly enough cushions
 this place looks like a cave!”

Tim jumped down from the gantry where he’d been gaming with Kon and Bart to land before Farah, to prevent her from penetrating any deeper into the Mount. “Look, Farah, I know Kon asked the Sheik for you guys, but here’s the thing
 he’s an idiot.”

“Not that much of an idiot,” Kon said, flying down. “You guys got any rituals you need to do? Potty break? Healthy snack?”

The ladies demurred as he looked from one of them to another, back to their tittering enjoyment of being fawned over with such boyish stares. One arched her back, running her hands slowly down the smooth caramel skin of her throat to her luscious breasts with their stiffening brown peaks, then down to the ribs that ghosted through her slender flesh. Down her taut stomach and finally onto her nubile hips. Her playfulness was all but autoerotic.

She pulled aside her already scant loincloth to display the thicket of black hair that nested between her thighs. Then, with her other hand, she parted her pubic hair to display the glistening lips that led inside her, to a wetness that showed how eager she was to fulfill her duties.

“Sheik Ali Ben Styn never spends enough time with us,” she moaned. “When we heard that the Teen Titans wanted us, we knew we’d finally be well cared for. And we’ll take care of you as well.”

All she wore was a sort of crop top—gossamer fabric running from a collar around her neck to a golden ring under her breasts, with her thick bosom taking up nearly all the folds of cloth. Another ring ran about her narrow belly and from it spooled the swaths of silk that might conceivably hide her groin and ass, but so far hadn’t and didn’t seem likely to.

More fabric tailed from rings on her forearms and thighs; they concealed her supple body about as much as all the rest. Kon took hold of the length of fabric that led to her left arm. “Let me show you to my room,” he said, then eyed the other women. “Don’t go anywhere. In fact, you might want to form a line.”

“Kon, we can’t just have sex with these women! They’re sex slaves!” Tim pointed out.

Kon looked them all over. “Any of you girls not want to be sex slaves?”

A chorus of Nos and shaking heads went through the gathering.

“See? They want to be sex slaves! And if they want to be sex slaves, then they’re not sex slaves!”

“My logic circuits are telling me that makes sense,” Red Tornado said. “Which I hate.”

“Bart, get the girls situated. For starters, let’s get a lot of Persian rugs in here. And maybe a hookah.”

“Aren’t they all hookahs?” Bart asked in confusion.

Tim tried one last time. “Kon, these girls can’t consent to this.”

“Yes we can,” said the girl Kon had chosen, and pushed Kon to keep him moving.

***

The moment he’d gotten her to his room, Kon went to his minifridge. “Can I get you something? Bottled water? Mountain Dew? Mountain Dew Code Red? Mountain Dew Glacial Fury? They don’t make those anymore
”

The girl—she’d said her name was Aisha on the way over—stood with her hands perched on her bare hips, offering herself simply by how she stood. “I’m wet all on my own.”

Kon couldn’t contain himself any longer. He reached out and grabbed the loincloth that so inadequately graced her hips. “More women have got to wear these things,” he said, pulling on it to crush her body to his, bringing his lips to hers in a hungry kiss.

Aisha more than responded, kissing him as if voracious for his very hunger. Her kisses moved onto his chin, then his chest, while her hands ripped open his shirt to clear the way for her lips. Down they went, lower and lower, as if counting each rippling ab on his bare belly. Her hands remained in motion too: undoing his belt, unzipping his fly.

Kon’s erection was under pressure. Smiling smugly, he planted his hands on his hips and let his tactile telekinesis do the rest. It shooed Aisha’s hands away, then opened his fly and cleared his boxers away from his endowment, which sprung out irrepressibly.

Aisha let out a gasp as she saw that the most important muscle of all was the hardest of all. She looked up at Kon with a wicked gleam in her eyes, then ducked her head and ran her tongue along his glans, next down his stiffened length.

Kon reached down to pet the lush black hair that was all he could see of Aisha, now that her head was bowed to his cock. She ran her tongue over his balls and up his shaft, looking him in the eye while her face was upturned, tongue sticking out until it licked the underside of his cockhead.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” she asked.

“Maybe once or twice,” Kon hemmed, feeling that even a harem girl didn’t like to be told about groupies.

“Those girls fucked you. I’m here to be used by you.” Aisha undid her collar, letting the two halves of it drop down to unveil her swollen breasts. “My greatest pleasure is to please my master.”

With her delectable tits bared, she reared up, pressing herself to Kon’s body, burying his cock in her cleavage. Then she swayed, dragging her breasts against Kon’s six-pack until his prick was slotted between the two sweaty mounds. She pressed them together, sandwiching his erection in soft, warm decadence.

Kon could only groan, acutely aware of how his arousal throbbed in all that luscious flesh. With a wink, Aisha bowed her head again, this time licking Kon’s precum from the tip of his cock—his endowment pulsed harder than ever into the gentle receptiveness of her surrounding bosom.

“My other greatest pleasure is how big cocks taste,” Aisha said, and wrapped her lips around what little of Kon’s length emerged from her cleavage.

Kon’s head drifted back. And Cassie always said he didn’t care about women’s pleasure