We Bought A Harem preview (Patreon)

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 fuck 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 Red as they pushed past him, but not stopping for an instant. And Red 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 before she penetrated 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.