by Adrian Amos
The pain in his voice is evident, and I hug him closer, not wanting to let him go. “I'm sorry, daddy. I didn't know.”
He smiles in a falsely comforting way. “It's not a fun school lesson, is it?”
I look up at him. “You said people have had it reversed. How?”
“Well, you either have the money to do it, and it's ridiculously expensive, or there are the games where you can win the chance to have it removed.”
“What?” I ask, sitting up on my elbow. “I've never heard of anything like that.”
He laughs. “Yeah, of course. It's not exactly a place for a young girl. The things that go on there are not entirely wholesome.”
I shake my head. “Why haven't you tried it?”
He tempers my excitement. “Whoa, whoa, hold your horses. I don't have a choice in it. Men aren't allowed to decide that for themselves. It's a women's competition. They compete, and if they win, they can have the implant removed on any man of their choosing.”
“So you're saying I can join and have your implant removed?”
He stares at me, knitting his brow. “Yeah, but babygirl, that's crazy. Like I said, the competition requires the women to”—he clears his throat—“debase themselves.”
I don't feel even an ounce of hesitation. “Daddy, I want to do it.”
“Why? I'll be fine if I can't orgasm. We can still be happy.”
“I know we'll be happy, but don't you wish we could have a baby together?”
There's a spark in his eyes, a slow realization creeping through his brain. He clearly hadn't thought about it because it was physically impossible for him. “Well, I—yeah, I think so.”
“I know we only just started being intimate, but ever since last night—or really for longer than that—I've been thinking about getting pregnant. The thought of life growing inside me? It's like this urge in me I can't quiet—and I know you'll be a great father because you were with me. The thought of a happy home with you, me, and the baby is a dream come true.”
He swallows. “It sounds very enticing, but I don't want you rushing into something or getting your hopes up. The chance of winning is small, and I would never ask you to do something like that for me.”
I take his hand in mine. “Daddy, I'd do anything for you. I'm doing it for myself, but I want you to feel whole again, too. And I know you don't want to get your hopes up, but I'd never be happy with myself if I didn't try to start our family.”
He blows air out his nose. “I don't know.”
I nod, not wanting to push him too hard. “It's okay, we can talk about it later.”
I rest my head on his chest, and we lie together, our breathing rhythmic as we settle into our comfort.
But the anxiety of not being able to start a family with daddy is eating away at me. He may not want to put me at risk, but I know daddy's not the person he could be. Something is missing, something that doesn't quite match the man of my dreams.
He's kind, gentle, caring, but he's missing a valuable spark in him. I can tell the difference after the boys in school got it done. He's not wrong. It's like they slowly become different people until they're all plain and boring, indifferent to girls. If he could only get his ejaculations back, he might regain the edge he lost.
I close my eyes, but it's a good while before I can rest comfortably again.
The feelings of blissful perfection this morning are lost. Instead, all I feel now is uncertainty. I will love the man, but will we truly be happy if we can't have our own family? Will I be happy with a man who doesn't even want to be intimate with me unless it's for my own pleasure?
It's hard to think about, but I have to think about it. I want both daddy's love and his desire. I will convince daddy it's what needs to be done.
I will compete. I must win. We will have our family, no matter the costs.
GAME 1
I smile, breathing deeply as I envision kissing daddy. It just happened a few minutes ago, but for some reason, his good luck kiss sticks with me. It's like the calm before the storm, settling my nerves most satisfactorily.
“Before every game,” he told me. “I want to kiss those lips and wish you good luck.”
It just reminds me I'm doing this all for the man I want to be with forever. It makes all the turmoil worth it.
“Megan, my dear, you seem distracted,” she says, her hands coupled together at her waist as she eyes me.
I open my eyes. “I'm sorry, I'm just nervous.”
The elderly woman gives me a furrowed brow, but smiles in the least charming way possible. “My dear,” she says, the red of her kimono-like outfit swaying as her arm comes out to my face, “it'll be all right. Many girls get to this point and doubt themselves more than anything.”
I shake my head. “I'm not doubting myself.”
Her cheeks are a ghastly white as if the woman has never blushed in her life. “We'll see about that.”
The Matron nods her head and turns off toward the stage in the small auditorium. It's more like a communal pit, a dirt floor in a tiny hut off from the Coliseum. The grass is beaten to nothing as feet from years of games have trampled it to nothing but dust.
I sip my cool aid, trying to look inconspicuous as I stand off at the side of the tent, watching all the girls talking to each other in conspiratorial whispers. It's like they don't want anyone to know what their plans are for the games, even though every game is pretty straight forward.
Win. Outright win and you gain a point closer to claiming the ultimate prize: the right for the man you love to procreate. In such a progressive society, it seems bizarrely archaic.
Especially the uniforms. They have me in a white t-shirt—emblazoned with my name in big, bold letters—and a pair of small shorts, so small my ass is on the verge of hanging out from the bottom.
“Ah, she's not that bad.” A tiny voice signals to me I've been compromised, my position no longer safe from all the strange women. “That old bat... well, no wait, she is pretty bad. What's your name?”
“Uh, Megan? Yours?”
The petite girl smiles, her auburn hair a stark contrast against her pale skin. Her teeth are perfect, two rows of leveled chompers someone took a straightedge to.
“Ellen. This your first time?”
I nod, a question that ties a knot in my mind.
“My third time,” she says, prouder of it than I would have admitted if it were my own truth.
God, three times? The thought of being in this place three times—having failed twice before—to stand before the judges seems gruesome. I never thought there would be girls here who've tried multiple times, or that I could end up being one of them, stuck in a cycle of trying to expand outside of my small life, never quite reaching my desired goal.
Ellen is a harbinger of the worst kind of thoughts
But the girl has lighter energy than her implied failures would suggest. “Who are you here with?”
I don't mean to, but I blush, the realization that the relationship with my stepfather would be out in the open striking me as taboo. “My stepfather. It'd be nice to start a family with him.”
She chuckles. “Me too. You don't have to be embarrassed by it, you know? Most of the girls here are the same story.” She points to a dark-skinned girl in the corner. “Tamera's here with her stepfather. Avie over there is with hers. Michelle as well. It's a joke, but a lot of the girls over the years have been calling this 'The Daddy Games' because so many—maybe ninety percent—are here for one man in their lives.”
I glance over at the one girl I've been eyeing ever since I walked into the tent. “What about her?”
Ellen sighs. “She's new. Darcy. Not a pleasant girl, her. But, yeah, her stepdad as well.”
“Why do you sound unhappy?”
She rolls her eyes toward me in an exaggerated fashion. “You know why. Look at her. None of us stand a chance this year with her in the games. I'm already resigned, thinking about how nice the number four sounds.”
That's exactly why she draws my attention. The girl is probably my age, but she's big, probably six feet tall and built sturdy. She actually has a defined set of muscles in her arms and thighs, and it looks like any game that has to do with physical prowess is hers to lose.
She's somewhere in between pretty and plain. Her nose is large and her lips are small, but they seem to work on her, and brown hair that barely reaches her shoulders. At first, I thought she was a man in disguise, but studying her long enough, it's clear she's as much woman as anyone else here.
Just a lot more intimidating.
Her eyes flick my way, and the only way I can describe her face is that of a beast snarling, a marking of territory I ventured too deep into.
For a moment, the inevitability of defeat flashes across my mind. I have to shake it loose to overcome the paralyzing thoughts, not so willing to give into them as Ellen is.
“Will you stop staring at her?” Ellen says, sipping her drink and pretending to examine the floor. “She's going to come over here and knock your block off.”
But it was too late. Her length and bulk carried her through the crowd of girls easily, striding with the elegance of prey and the determination of predator.
“What is it, stick? You got a problem?”
I shake my head, pinching my lips as I look off into the distance. “Nope.”
Her finger jabs into my chest and the digit has a lot more strength to it than even her frame would suggest. I actually stumble back a step when the brute establishes her dominance. “I think you do. But it won't matter when we get out on that field, because I'm going to make you look like a sad little bitch to your daddy.”
I grit my teeth, my cheeks burning, but I say nothing, only staring her down as she glances at Ellen. “And you, midget, I don't even know why you're here. You don't stand a goddamn chance.”
Ellen chuckles nervously, but we both stand there frozen, unable to move against a force so primal. Darcy shakes her head, but she turns away as she eyes a man approaching us.
“Jesus,” Ellen whispers before he arrives, “I have to talk to the one girl who gets me in trouble with the sociopath.”
“Welcome girls,” the man says, his tone regal. “And you are?”
Ellen introduces herself, and I have to clear the dryness from my throat before speaking. “Megan,” I say, extending my hand to him. He takes it, his touch gentle and welcoming.
“What a beautiful name for such an amazing young woman. I would wish for another chance to talk to you, outside of this dirty tent.”
His compliment strikes me, and I blush. “Thank you.”
His blond hair is blindingly light, giving him a much more youthful appearance. But it's clear he's considerably older than his softer features and rounder face, holding himself with confidence both out of place and refreshing.
He's different than other men I've met. I don't know if it's the bravado or something else, but his behavior is direct and disarming.
The Matron takes her place at the front of the hut, and the man takes his leave, nodding to me with a kind smile. He heads to stand next to the elderly woman.
“Girls, please,” the Matron says, her hands at her waist as before. She waits for silence to come over the crowd of twenty girls. “Now, I'd like to welcome you all the Games.”
Her voice is maternal, but the way she speaks and presents herself seems more like that of a business person. She's selling it as much as communicating it.
“It's important we go over everything required. Since these Games are open to all who wish to enter, some of you may be unaware of what's required of you, and the consequences of joining us over the next week.”
“There is one winner. Only one of you will walk away from this competition having gained something, the chance to mother your own child, but a lot of you may walk away from here having lost something.”
“What do I mean by that?” The Matron calls to one of the men to grab her a chair, and when they bring it, she sits down, her red kimono billowing down to the dirt floor. “We live in a society—some of you might be unaware of this—but we live in a society where everyone has equal rights. But a long time ago, it was necessary to tamp down the ambitions of men so everyone could have a chance to succeed in this world.”
She raises her hand, offering the answer. “It's the whole reason why you're here today, girls. These might be called games, but the reward is no game. You must understand that if you do win this game, what comes out of it will be something you may not be ready to contend with.”
Ellen speaks out the side of her mouth. “Third time I've heard this. The old woman still makes me shiver at the thought.”
“What's that?” one of the girls asks.
“I want you to understand the man you love will change in ways that seem impossible today. He will regain the male ego that has been restricted for so long. He will become aggressive, domineering, commanding, in fear of losing his power. He will gain that, and will not wish to cede it easily.”
“If you are not ready for it,” the Matron says, “it is something to fear.”
A murmur passes through the crowd of girls. The idea does seem frightening, like a monster being released to destroy the world. But there's a part of me, deep down, that finds the idea tantalizing. I imagine what my stepfather would be like with those traits, traits nearly antithetical to his current behavior, and instead of transforming him into an unlovable beast, he seems more attractive in the conjured flesh.
It shouldn't make sense, right? The loving, caring, gentle man is the man I fell in love with. He'd do anything for me, and for the past few months—since the first time we had sex—our lives have been so entwined as to make it all seem so lovely. But I know something's missing, some fire in my stepfather that leaves him not the man he's supposed to be.
Just the man society wants.
And I can clearly imagine daddy's personality now hurting us in the long run, rather than saving us as so many have claimed.
So I don't fear the change. I actually desire it. I don't know why, but it's like my body's telling me something it wants, some nutrient or mineral it's missing, and the craving to satisfy it revolves around a more dominant man.
It's an urge in me I cannot place because I have no experience of it, but it's as much a part of me as any other desire. I don't need to understand it to know I want it.
What she's saying is his personality could change, and as odd as it is, I think I'd welcome it even if he turned out to be someone entirely different.
“So, this is what the Games are about. There are as many as eight total games with multiple purposes. They aren't meant to only teach you how to be a mother, to love a child, they're to teach you how to submit to your man's new desires, his new inclinations. You will lose a part of your independence. Not only that, but these Games will be humiliating—“
That word sparks a flurry of words between girls. Something in it causes a vocal rise in a number of contestants, whose whispers become full-fledged complaints.
“Girls, please, this is why we need to have this conversation. You will be humiliated. Not just in front of the judge, but in front of each other, and in front of the crowds in the Coliseum.”
We look around at each other, getting a good look at the people who'll be part of the judgment.
“So even if you lose the game, getting far enough along might still cause you to lose a sense of self-worth, so I beseech you to consider your choices carefully. If the reward does not justify the attack on your independence, feel free to leave the tent.”
The Matron gestures to the flap leading back out to the parking lot, and before I can even contemplate the choices, a number of girls are already leaving back home.
I would have thought not a single girl would consider the offer, but I guess they're not as interested in the rewards as I am. The thought of losing their independence weighs harder on them, and I can't fault them. It's a big deal for so many people to not be seen as weak or beneath th
e rest of humanity. Motherhood is not as important as pure independence.
What I want is a family, more than anything. I feel like I can pay any price to make that happen.
Of course, though, how much independence am I really going to have when I have my child at my breast? I'm not so naive to think I wouldn't have lost some whether daddy gets the procedure or I adopt a baby.
“Okay, girls,” the Matron says, clapping her hands. “Onto the first game. This one is straightforward. Do you have the endurance to be a mother, and to serve the man in your life?”
She points to a large map on the wall, detailing the routes of the race. “At the end will be your partner, and there—after your workout—the first person of a couple to orgasm is the winner of the race.”
Depraved. I swallow. Just as daddy said it would be. I don't even want to think about it. I know there's a crowd out there watching, but I have to take it one step at a time. It makes my nerves tingle, but I can worry about the humiliation when I get to that part and I'm on my way to winning.
She leads us out of the flap, and as I pass by the tall blond man, he gives me the smallest of smiles, a devious little signal that unsettles me.
I turn away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my embarrassment.
Out on the track, the starting point is a solid white line in the dirt, and the surrounding area is nearly empty aside from the contestants and the referees. We're in a desolate field outside the Coliseum, and the pathway leads us around the outside of the building, up and around an obstacle course.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
Ellen shakes her head. “Really? You think anyone wants to watch this part of the race? They're all going to be at the finish line.”
I can feel the sweat already forming on my hands. I set myself up at the line with the rest of the girls. It's a messy blob of contestants, all undisciplined and unsure of what to do next. There's a concentrated sense of unease flowing through us.
