by Adrian Amos
The next baby stumps us both, or maybe since the score is tied, we both choose not to answer. Darcy out of ignorance, and me out of fear. For some reason, I feel like I have more to lose, and it leaves me frozen with indecision.
The buzzer rings, but this time the automated voice says, “Out of time. The answer was Human Connection.”
The speakers sing, “It looks like we have a couple of chickens here. It's the conservative game, folks, hoping the other makes a mistake first!”
The next video is back to crying, the normal state of babies. Closing my eyes, I listen to it, trying to decipher what it might it want. The pitch seems strange, choked almost, the baby clearly struggling with something.
It has to be sick this time, so I click the green baby again. “Illness,” the automated voice repeats.
“Wrong! Bahaha,” the announcer lets out with glee. “Is this girl serious? What, you think every baby's on the verge of death? What do you think, folks? You think she's the problem today with our overly-taxed medical system? She has to be sick in the head to give up the lead for that answer!”
The board drops half a point, 1 – 1.5.
The crowd cheers, and the announcer says, “Darcy, please, take this one for me. I'm dying over here!”
But Darcy doesn't move, her arms folded, and the buzzer rings out, the automated voice saying, “Out of time. The answer was burped.”
“My, my, my. Darcy's just going to play the waiting game and let Megan bury herself!”
I drop my head. I could see the baby's discomfort, but, come on, I would've tried to burp the baby before I took it to the hospital! This isn't fair at all.
But Darcy's hesitance to answer keeps me in the game.
The next baby is whining, tossing about in its crib.
And suddenly, the game changes in a brief moment. We both see at once—the tiniest of shivers in the baby—and Darcy's arms fly loose as she dives at the board. We both rapidly search the buttons, trying desperately to find the correct one.
But my console goes blank, and the automated voice says: “Blanket.”
“Correct!” the announcer shouts. “Darcy played the fake out game, going conservative until she could land the killing blow! Megan's in the ditch, and there are only two more questions left!”
The board changes, 1 – 2.5, Darcy's lead expanding at the last moment, and the crowd voices their pleasure in watching me suffer.
The next baby is... is crying! They're always crying, bawling or stressed about some stupid thing or another. Why would I even want one of these little bastards?!
My hands shake as my adrenaline picks up, and when I glance over at Darcy, she smirks at me, this evil little smile knowing she's close to victory. She sits back on her stool, putting her hands behind her head, ready to let me lose the game on my own.
I can't even think, the sound of the baby bawling the only thing I can focus on. It's like the echo of a tortured soul clawing at my mind.
His voice is choked up, he's rolling on his side a lot, he looks pale.
It's the only choice really, and I can't even imagine the ridicule I'll get if I'm wrong once more. I press the button for a third time, the automated voice saying: “Illness.”
“That's...” the announcer shouts, seemingly perplexed. “Correct! For once, the girl knows what she's talking about!”
The score is 2 – 2.5.
Okay, okay. One more question. I can do this, I can do this.
The video comes on, and Darcy leans forward, glancing at me as she decides to take it seriously.
The baby is exhibiting the only emotion these babies know: sadness. It cries, and just like every other expulsion of tears, it's a goddamn mystery what this one means.
And it doesn't help I can't just pick it up and test out a ton of answers.
No, no, this game has to be about some magical property called maternal instinct, where I just emphatically connect and read the baby's mind. I call bullshit. No one knows what to do, you just throw things at the wall until they stick.
I'm not the only one confused: Darcy sits back on her stool, clearly unsure of what to do. She could shut me out if she knows the answer, but she doesn't have to act. As long as I don't get it right, she wins, but if she guesses wrong, then we'll tie.
She's better off waiting to let me sink myself.
The audience is also quiet, the barrage of answers trickling to nothing. The air is tense, the silence bizarre, and all I can hear is crying, and my heartbeat.
I need to do something, I can't just guess. I'm not pressing the sickness button a fourth time, even if it is the right answer.
Time's running out.
Think, Megan, think. I study every little nuance of the baby, trying to figure out what's making it tick. It could be hungry, it could be sick, it could be gassy. Goddamnit, it could be creatively unfulfilled!
Who the hell knows?
And then it clicks, the baby itself uninteresting.
What is interesting, though, is all the plastic toys scattered about—in the crib and out—every single one of them with the same marks.
What does that mean?
And then I notice the toy in the corner of the crib and realize I saw that on the console already.
Searching the buttons, I find it and press it, hoping my luck would step up and help me one last time. The automated voice says, “Teething ring.”
The entire stadium holds its breath, waiting for the champion to be known, one way or the other.
A long pause, and then an emphatic, “Correct!”
My heart leaps into my throat, nearly blacking me out in a burst of adrenaline.
“Three to two point five, which means we have a winner, ladies and gentleman! This Games champion is Megan Sternach!”
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” I repeat incessantly, unable to process anything. What's going on? What's going on?
Daddy runs up to me, grabbing me in his arms and lifting me in the air. “You did it, babygirl! You did it!”
“I did it?” The realization hits me, the last person in the entire arena. “I did it! I did it! Oh my god, I did it!” I kiss daddy, lost in the jubilation as the crowd chants my name.
The frustrations of crying, insufferable babies fade from my mind.
“We're going to have a family!”
THE COPULATION CEREMONY
Sitting in the waiting room, I rub my hands over my thighs, trying to start a fire with my anxiety. I wanted to go in with him, but they told me it was all part of the ceremony for the winner to wait.
You'd think I'd be excited I won. But I'm not. I'm highly nervous, the anticipation sparking adrenaline through my system. It's been a nonstop roller coaster over the past few hours, going from one game to the next to the operating room. My nerves are crackling all up and down my body, and when I push on them, they burn into a comfortable numbness.
That's what I've been doing for the last half an hour: pushing my hands into my thighs and stoking the flames. I need something to distract myself from my impatient thoughts.
It's finally here. We're so close to being together again but in a whole new way. For real, it feels like. Everything else was a mirage of romance, whereas now, on the edge of a new experience, it seems like we're finally going to be able to live our lives.
Daddy won't be partial anymore.
He'll be one of the rare men in the world to actually exist within his natural state.
To say it makes me apprehensive is an understatement. I can't imagine daddy changing all that much, but all the years of school, this entire scenario of games focused on establishing submission, meeting the problem face to face in Mr. Morris, makes me hesitant to ignore the warnings.
Testosterone can turn men into beasts. That's what has always been taught. Day in and day out, the excess male chemical is the marker of a deficient society. Letting it run wild is the preface to aggressive competition, suffering, and war.
And no matter how much I want to ignore
it, it's been burned into my brain since day one. It's as real and as scary as Fascism and malaria.
I just have to knead my exhausted thighs to keep the thoughts at bay.
I can hear footsteps in the distance, traveling down a long hall, getting louder and louder with an easy gait.
Come on, people! Hurry it up. I need more assurance than a casual stroll through the surgical wing.
But when the door swings open, I'm caught by surprise, daddy walking in with a big grin on his face.
“Daddy!” I call out, rushing over and throwing my arms around him. “You can walk already?”
He shakes his head. “It was a bizarrely simple procedure. They just needed some local anesthetic, and after five minutes, they were able to remove it. See?”
He holds a small plastic bag up, marked bio-hazardous. Inside is a small chip, no bigger than a fingernail.
He examines it with me. “It's so strange such a little thing could be such a problem for us.”
I laugh, “Yeah, and it's strange that if I was adventurous with a knife, I could've cut it out myself.”
He winces, squeezing his legs together. “I wouldn't have gone that far. It took a little more than a knife to set things right in there. But it didn't take long, that's for sure.”
I bite my lip, hopping on my feet. “Are you excited, daddy? God, you can actually come now!”
He smiles, hugging me in his broad shoulders. “I was so... blah about it when you brought it up. I couldn't muster enough energy to care. But, now, now that I can see the little bastard in my hand, I'm actually pumped about it.”
I pout, “So you weren't into it when I was getting fucked into the dirt to bring you your orgasm back?” It seems strange to joke about something that felt so traumatic not so long ago, but winning makes the trials seem minor in comparison.
“No, of course, I was. I mean, that definitely turned me on, but I knew you were giving all you could to make me a happy man. I wanted you to win because I love you, and nothing else.”
He takes my chin in his hand, bringing his lips to mine. His kiss is soft and sensuous, and all the nerves I had before about the dangers of testosterone settle with one touch from daddy. “I can't even explain to you what this means to me,” he says. “You did something for me I will never forget.”
I blush. “So, how do you feel?”
His eyes are wide. “Ah, instantly, like a new man. Like I actually have some life in these bones.”
He isn't wrong. It's almost like his lifeblood was tamped down his entire existence, and once released, it's put this masculine glow all over him. It doesn't necessarily look like happiness. How do I explain it? It looks like fierce determination.
The door swings open again, and this time the elderly Matron slides through in her kimono. “Congratulation, Megan, and you too, Mr. Sternach. I hope everything seems in order?”
Daddy raises his hands. “Never felt better.”
“Good,” she says, glad and indifferent simultaneously. “I know you may still be sore after the surgery, but the public demands its ceremony.”
He nods, “I understand. I think it's the least we could do.”
The withered woman smiles, “Most of these people in the arena haven't seen semen ever in their life. This is what they've all been waiting for.”
Daddy turns toward me, holding his elbow out. “Shall we?”
I smirk, threading my arm through his. “What's one humiliating act in the scheme of things?”
We saunter through the doors, following the Matron as she leads us through the makeshift hospital wing out into the center pit of the arena.
Before we're even in view, the crowd is already in a stable chant of, “Megan! Megan! Megan!” The pride of being a winner is enough to at least stifle the embarrassment I feel as the center of attention again.
In the middle of the arena is a gurney-like table, inclined, sterile, and white, with stirrups. It mimics a gynecological table perfectly. Surrounding it is a bevy of cameramen, set up to record the act in all its glory.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the announcer calls out, “your winners!”
A wave of excitement runs through the crowd, and again, I feel a little better about what I'm going to do. It isn't optimal, giving up my first time to the voyeuristic need of the crowd, but I can't be selfish now, can I?
I have the rarest luxury in the world all to my own, and the sacrifice of our first time together will mean very little in the end.
On the ground is a plush mat, which daddy leads me to, helping me down on my knees.
The Matron is handed a microphone. “We're here today to experience copulation with our lucky lovebirds. Keep your eyes peeled for the finale. You won't want to miss it.”
She turns toward me. “Megan, if you don't mind. For all the women out in the audience today who wish they could be you, will you please show us how much this means to you and worship your stepfather's cock?”
I bow my head. “Of course, Matron.”
Grabbing the band of daddy's shorts, I pull down, dragging it and his underwear to his feet. An employee walks over to me and holds a microphone out for me to speak into.
I recite the traditional lines of the ceremony. “Thank you, daddy, for giving me the gift of your seed.”
He combs his hand through my hair. “You're welcome, babygirl.”
Cupping his balls, I gently massage the loose skin, taking his shaft in my hand. Tugging it up and toward his belly, I pull the foreskin taut. Pumping it down, I feel the first injection of blood into his cock, strengthening and thickening his rod.
Masturbating daddy to the hum of the crowd's appreciation, I pick up my strokes, beating his cock. Eventually, daddy grows to an expansive width, engorged to near capacity.
I lick my lips. “You're dick looks so good, daddy. Is it okay if your little slut sucks on it?” My question echoes through the speaker system into the entire stadium, a strange sense of held breath as the audience waits for a response.
“Is that what you want, babygirl?” he coos, sexy confidence in his voice. I can already see ways in which daddy is changing.
I nod. “I want to suck your dick, daddy. I want to show you how much I love pleasing you.”
“Then do it,” he commands.
I open my mouth and lean forward, taking his tumescent pole between my lips.
The crowd lets out a gasp of satisfaction, playing to the performance with rapture.
I move slowly on daddy's cock, taking my time to engulf him from inch to inch. I start with his head, lightly licking around the edge of his mushroom, cleaning him like a good little whore. I push down with my mouth open wide, riding under his shaft with a flat tongue, coating his entire meat is saliva. Licking his cock, I wrap my lips around him, devouring his salty flavor.
His musky scent hits my taste buds, and I moan, delighted to be back to normal. Delighted to be having sex like every other normal girl in the world. Well, almost normal, other than the massive crowd watching my every move.
I suck with my lips, giving daddy long draws of my mouth, pulling his foreskin back and forth. This isn't just a ceremony for me. I actually want to worship daddy's cock. I know what's going to come out of it is going to make me one of rarest women in the world:
A cum-filled slut!
I bob my head back and forth, sucking furiously as I force daddy's cock to full mast. He reaches a powerful thickness, his cock bending upward as it strains from the amount of blood pumping through it.
“We're ready, Megan,” the Matron says. “The audience wants to see you in the throes of ecstasy.”
“Yes, Matron,” I groan.
I stand, slowly lower my shorts to the ground. Climbing up to the table, I prepare myself for the next stage of the ceremony: the male form of appreciation.
Daddy approaches and grabs under my ass, pulling my panties down and up, sliding them up my thighs as I lift my legs.
“Please, daddy,” I beg, keeping to my role of submi
ssion, “will you eat my pussy?” I open my thighs, setting my feet in the stirrups, giving daddy—and the cameras—a perfect view to my open slit.
Daddy lowers himself between my thighs, his fingers running the length of my pink flesh. It makes my ass jolt on the table, ushering a giggle from me. Daddy circles a finger around, caressing the outer edges and crossing over my clit repeatedly, sending fire through my loins.
I moan, and daddy dives in, his face planting in my slickness. His tongue flicks through my opening, long enough to beat my inner walls with masterful strokes. He circles with his tongue this time, gathering my flavor before suctioning his lips to my clit.
Daddy knows exactly how to get my small body going, his hands immediately going to my ass because he knows I'm going to try and pull away from the pleasure. But he catches me beforehand and forces me to face my torture head-on.
His lips pucker on my bundle of nerves, sending heavy vibrations through it with smacks of his lips. He then purses his lips and blows a tongueless raspberry on my clit, shocking my entire cunt with spastic motion. His hands pin my hips down, keeping me from bucking them and lifting off the table.
His hands rise up under my shirt, cupping my breasts, squeezing them delicately as he flicks my nipples with his fingertips. His tongue moves in sync with his fingers, stimulating both erotic points as one, connecting the two fires to meld at my stomach.
It burns, my lower back curving hard as I fight back the overwhelming tension of my muscles. They just want to give in, to release it all in a ridiculous burst of energy.
But I have to hold back for the conclusion. Who would have known all the orgasm control from the games would come in handy?
He groans into my cunt, mouthing his pleasure from eating me directly through my body. His lips clamp on my clit, massaging it as he sucks it in, flaring my walls and swelling me with intense arousal.
As my moans pick up, daddy doesn't want me finishing without him.
“You ready, babygirl?” he asks, his fingers clutching my flesh roughly.
“Yes, daddy,” I moan, “I'm ready. Please, fuck me.”
