by Isaac Byrne
Rather than reach for his phone, though, Bart simply bellowed the command at the top of his lungs. “ Krystal! KNOCK IT OFF! ” He cleared his throat. “There. Satisfied?”
She waited to make sure he’d been heard, and was soon satisfied that it had stopped. Chanda’s feet didn’t want to move, but with effort, she summoned the force of will to make herself shuffle around until she was facing the smirking prick on his recliner. To her horror, she saw his cock was out now, erect and angrily red, gripped in his right fist.
“Bart! What the hell!”
“What the hell indeed,” he said irritably. “Get your fucking hands out of the way.”
But Chanda kept them in place. Her boobs were much too big to be concealed entirely with only the two hands, but they covered the nipples and most of the naughtiest parts. It was still humiliating. “No. I didn’t say you could jerk off while you ogle me.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t. But hey, look at us negotiating again.” Bart sat up straight, and in that position he was able to pull his shirt down to conceal his erection. Most of it, at least. His balls were still partially visible in all their wrinkly fuzzy horribleness.
“Negotiating? I told you, this is all I’m going to do. You’re dreaming if you think I’m taking off one more stitch of clothes to stop you from this psycho tantrum. In fact–”
She shifted her grip to block his view with one arm, freeing the other to reach down and pick up her bra. He spoke quickly though. “No – I won’t punish her any more, OK? You win. Shit, I honestly feel bad about it as it is. You’re just so insanely hot and I panicked and it was the first thing I could think of to get you to… yeah.”
“Says a lot about you, doesn’t it, that your first instinct was to abuse an innocent woman.” It was surprisingly hard to get those clasps done one-handed, especially when she was flustered like this.
“Probably. But I’m new to being a winner, see? So look. I know that right now, all of your friends are out being fucked like twenty-dollar whores, and I also know that most of them aren’t going to be the same people they used to be. Most of the guys I talked to had some really, let’s say, ‘creative’ ideas for what they wanted to turn their losers into. Shit, let me tell you about Lacie Steiger!”
“I heard. What’s your point.”
“My point is, it means your friends are basically all gone. But I tell you what. I’ll let you and Krystal hang out – clothes and all, without me – any time you want. If…”
She provided the obvious conclusion. “If… I watch you masturbate, topless, to me.”
“See, and you were griping about usage. Fits perfectly, see?” He smiled. “But think about it. I mean, I left her pretty much normal. I hadn’t really figured that she’d be bored of me so easily, or miss her old life so much. Maybe that’s why the other guys were more heavy-handed about stuff. But I liked her the way she is, so I didn’t do that. And now I think she could really use a friend to help her get through this.”
Chanda stopped working at her bra, though was annoyed that every word he’d said was delivered to her obstructing forearm, like he thought if he stared hard enough he’d get X-ray vision. “So let me get this straight. You’ll let me be friends with Krystal, without getting in the way, whenever we want, if this once and only once I let you… do that.”
“Yes. Hell, you’d be doing me two favors. I don’t want a mopey, lonely loser hanging around the house all the time.” She noticed that his cock hadn’t lost any interest, tenting up the hem of his shirt.
Was she insane to be considering this? What he was asking, it was humiliating. Orders of magnitude more degrading than anything else she’d ever let herself get talked into. Not that she’d been the most sexually adventurous girl, but still.
On the other hand, she’d already been panicking about the death of her social life. And Krystal! Poor Krystal, she was bound to him for almost twice the amount of time she’d been alive. How much did she have to need a friend herself? If the tables were turned, how desperate would Chanda be for somebody to help relieve her boredom and give her some respite from her wretched circumstances?
Besides, it wasn’t like there wasn’t something in this for her, she conceded guiltily. It could mean a lot of time spent around a very naked, very vulnerable Krystal. That wasn’t a reason to capitulate, but it was certainly a nice bonus should she choose to go that route. She’d never actually gotten to be with a girl beyond a little kissing in some party games, which hardly counted. But it had always left her wanting more. Women seemed at least as appealing as boys, with the added benefit of not involving a boy.
Chanda dropped her bra, and finally, Bart got to see her topless, unobstructed. “How long do you usually take?”
She didn’t leave her room the following day. Facing her parents was too daunting. Forty-eight hours ago she had been their baby girl, then they’d all been traumatized by the prospect of losing her on Drawing Day, and now, she was some skank who stripped out of her top and bounced and jiggled her tits for sketchy guys while they jerked off.
She didn’t like that word, “tits.” It was vulgar. But then, like the bouncing and jiggling, using it had seemed to help Bart get off faster, so it was “you like my big bouncy titties” for her. Anything to get out of there faster.
Bart came so hard he sprayed across the room, some of it landing on her pants and, she found out as she re-dressed herself, inside her discarded bra. Disgusting. Krystal, however, had been nothing but gratitude when he released her from his basement dungeon, giving Chanda a firm and uncomfortably long hug. If Bart hadn’t been watching and stroking his flaccid penis that way, “uncomfortable” might not have been the way she’d have described it.
Replies eventually came from two of her other friends. The response from Mya clearly wasn’t actually from Mya, as it read, simply, wanna come over and have a 3some? will pay or trade ur winner! Kelsey’s response was a simple URL; nervously, Chanda clicked to find it redirected her to a site where you could hire girls by the hour as “escorts.” Kelsey was dressed in a form-fitting red dress that might have merely been sexy if she were not curled up in a hotel room bed, crooking her finger suggestively at the camera. That bridged the gap from sexy right to slutty. Chanda had to concede that her makeup job and the photography were both top notch. This Kelsey looked like a model. Except really, she was simply a well-dressed hooker, now paying her winner’s way through college and beyond with her pussy.
These escort businesses had ballooned in the Lottery era, bolstered by opportunistic winners who didn’t care to be waited on hand and foot all day every day and preferred to monetize their gains. It was one more reason the boys who didn’t win anyone took their plight so well; there were still plenty of opportunities to have sex with women who’d been previously unattainable.
Chanda closed the browser window with a sigh. After a moment, she reconsidered, opening it again and adding it to her bookmarks. Kelsey was gone now, but maybe the site would update her profile picture from time to time. It might be nice now and again to see her, if only in this sad venue. Or maybe once she stopped thinking of her as Kelsey her friend and accepted that she was now Kelsey the whore, the pics might provide a little stimulation. Or maybe just make her cry. She’d have decades to discover how her brain would sort all this out.
As the weekend grinded on, Chanda’s parents’ efforts to get her out of her room intensified. Saturday it was offerings of food, invitations to spend time with them. She mumbled excuses, snuck out to use the bathroom and grab a bite to eat only when she could hear their snoring from down the hall. But by Sunday afternoon, the worry in her father’s voice was no longer possible to ignore.
“Honey? Are you OK in there?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Come on, let me see you. You don’t even have to smile.”
“I’m not decent.” Ever since she’d slipped out of her pants to see how it felt to masturbate, grudgingly spurred on by lingering images of Krystal’s naked bo
dy, there had seemed little point in getting dressed again. (And it had felt a little weird, but not so weird she didn’t finish.)
“Lucky for you, I don’t mind waiting. Got nothing on my plate for the rest of the night.”
She sighed. “Dad, I’m fine. Really.”
“Great. But I still want to see you.”
Her intent to outwait him was thwarted when, ten minutes later, she still hadn’t heard that telltale creak of his weight pressing on the floorboard at the top of the stairs. That board had been her saving grace more than once. She’d been a good kid, but not perfect.
If she had to get dressed, all she wanted was to throw on her favorite sweatpants and her CHS volleyball hoodie, her comfiest one. But she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing that she was in need of comfort garb. She’d been weak with Bart and Krystal; she would be strong for her dad. So instead, she put on some black leggings and the cashmere sweater she’d gotten for Christmas. She thought back to that night when she’d heard her parents’ voices carrying from down the hall, her mom wondering if there was any point to getting her new clothes when, a few months later, Drawing Day would negate any need for them. This was the first time she’d been able to choke down that thought and let herself put it on. It had been in her closet long enough that the new sweater smell was sadly gone, but it was comfortable. Not as comfortable as her hoodie, but comfortable, and much more flattering.
Then she took a moment to smear on some lip gloss and do a quick touch-up on her lashes, run a brush through her hair, and finally begin to feel like herself again. With a resurgence in confidence, she made for the door and opened it to find her father leaning against the banister.
Chanda summoned all the casual teenage disinterest she could and thrust it into her voice. “What did you want, Dad?”
But he only smiled and stepped across the hall, then wrapped her in his big arms. “Nothing any more.”
She tried her best to direct the sobs that soon burst forth into her father’s shoulder, but soon her mother had emerged in response to her daughter’s cries and the three of them huddled together, comforting one another. She couldn’t even make sense of it. She’d escaped the Lottery. She was a survivor . So why was she crying? Why were they?
Maybe it would take some time to make sense of this strange circumstance she had unexpectedly inherited. A hearty home-cooked meal was a good start, an early dinner that passed in welcomed silence. Chanda might be ready to leave her room, but the spectre of what had befallen her friends had not subsided.
“Hey Dad, wanna take a girl to the movies?”
Since she could remember, that had always been his way of trying to take her mind off of her troubles. As a child Chanda had relished it. As she’d grown older, it had come to be more of something she tolerated in the name of tradition, not wanting to snatch away his little girl any sooner than the Lottery would force her to. For tonight, though, she was eager to be his little girl again.
Her dad smiled broadly, and his wife’s face radiated the same pleasure at this familiar exchange. “Sure. What’s showing?”
After some discussion, she ultimately went with some superhero movie she thought her dad would enjoy. Chanda knew her brain wasn’t about to let her switch it off and enjoy entertainment, so she figured at least one of them ought to have some fun. She only wanted to get out of the house and away from her thoughts. Hopefully a public place with lots of loud noises would be a good start.
The Grand River 16 Cinema was a Clark institution. In a town where it could be a challenge to buy food after 8 PM, it was one of only a few businesses that gave young people a place to be after sundown. It had grown to consume the business next door, too, allowing it to affix a small eatery and poolhall, with a number of arcade games rimming the walls. Once upon a time, Chanda and Tiffany had grown pretty good and very competitive at DDR until they’d tired of guys showing up to stare. Chanda had, at least.
On any normal Sunday, half past eight was not exactly a busy hour here. It was a school night, adults worked the next day, and anything people were desperate to see had already been out for several days. It was the night you went to a movie if it was something you’d be embarrassed to have your friends know you went to.
What Chanda had failed to take into consideration, however, was that it was the Sunday after Drawing Day.
The lobby was thronged with young people, and the poolhall was audible from the parking lot. Half the losers of CHS’s senior class – most of them now merely former members – were present, a dizzying array of scantily clad young women preening and posing for the amusement of lookers-on. Hands and lips were free, scandalously so. The winners were readily identifiable by the smug grins on their faces, though they were a minority of males present. All those boys whose tickets had not been pulled were lined up, in some cases literally, to admire the eye candy, and no doubt to make offers on getting some alone time with some of the women whose pots they’d unsuccessfully seeded.
Every guy said they’d be too busy availing themselves of their loser to have time left in her day to rent her out, but once people started waving stacks of cash in their face, they were perfectly happy to rearrange their nap schedule to accommodate. Heck, Chanda had read stories of guys who made agreements to pool their tickets and equitably divvy up the time with any losers netted. Not legally binding – it wasn’t lawful to share custody, since it raised too many questions of who was to be unsterilized – and she suspected most such gentlemen’s agreements disintegrated soon after the first so-called devil’s threesome. But still. Boys tried.
“Well, look who it is! Chanda and her silver fox!” cried someone off to the right. She couldn’t whip her head around fast enough to see who.
“Who’s that lucky fucker?” said someone to the left, who likewise maintained anonymity.
Her father was fast realizing his mistake, too. “Honey… maybe we should go. We can rent something back at home.”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “Why don’t you go on in and save us some seats, and I’ll get the popcorn.”
He looked around, clearly dismayed by the way some of these boys, newly relieved of their inhibitions, were eyeing his daughter. “I don’t know…”
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Dad, the rule of law still applies. We’re talking about popcorn here. I can do it. Really. I’m a survivor now. Gotta start dealing with it sometime.”
He made a face but conceded, giving a sweeping stern look around the lobby before heading back toward the theater area. The look did nothing, of course. These boys had already stolen daughters from men like Jon Brighton. They had shed their fear of their elders.
Chanda did indeed get in line for concessions, but in truth, she’d sent him ahead because she wanted to do some people-watching, trying not to let the guys watching her ruin it. Though really, she was far from the center of attention. Even in this environment, easily a 4:1 male to female ratio, there might not be many women near her level of attractiveness, but there were a lot of them trying a lot harder to command that attention.
As the line crawled forward, she panned the gathering, trying to match winners with losers. In some cases it was obvious. Imani Manning was nestled beneath the arm of Kyle Davis, gazing up at him adoringly as he fondled her ass. Stacy Allen was wearing a dog collar, the attached leash resting firmly in the hand of some older guy Chanda didn’t recognize, a twenty-something winner who still seemed to want to show off to the kiddies. At first she thought Janesa Ramirez must have been won by Jared Romatelli from the way he was poking around inside her neckline, but then she pranced over to Chris Henschel and he fished out a twenty dollar bill and gave Jared a nod.
If Chanda hadn’t frozen all of her accounts in anticipation of Drawing Day, she could have learned a lot of this on social media. They wouldn’t unfreeze for thirty years, and there was no appeal process. Or could survivors, maybe? She hadn’t bothered to learn. It might have been considered a magnanimous protection for
losers from the social media giants if they didn’t also rake in billions monetizing the photos of the new accounts many of their winners had them create. She could still browse public posts, she supposed, but like in real life, she was all out of friends.
“Large popcorn, light butter, light salt,” she told the guy behind the counter, a chubby, slovenly fellow who’d gotten way too comfortable leering at customers for her liking.
As if to double down on her assessment of him, he gave her a yellow grin. “Tell you what, sexy. Your winner has you flash me them titties and it’s half off.”
“Yeah, no thanks. I can afford some popcorn, I think.” Half off? Half ? For Chanda freaking Brighton? She was almost as insulted as she was grossed out.
The guy shrugged, and after taking a moment to appreciate one of her classmates twerking in a miniskirt on a pool table for a small crowd, he saw to her order. Chanda resumed her people-watching. She saw Bart talking to some of what must be his friends, but no sign of Krystal. She was probably nearby. Chanda fished her phone out of her purse to text her when suddenly, from the front entrance, in walked none other than Brandy.
It took Chanda’s breath away how her friend could look so similar and yet so different. Her hair was the same, long and straight and golden honey brown, adorned only with a simple pearl white barrett. Her makeup too, minimalist save for a little blush to help make her dimples pop when she smiled. Not that she was smiling. No, her lips were twisted decidedly downward, frowning at the goings-on around her in a fashion that was as austere as the rest of her.
She looked like she was on her way to brunch at a rich relative’s house. The ensemble was sleeveless, but her bare arms were the only part of her aside from her face that wasn’t covered. The rest of her was decked in a royal blue with no frills aside from a double row of white buttons up the front of it. Chanda couldn’t even see her shoes, the dress was so long. Although as Chanda studied her, she realized it might not be quite grandma-approved after all.
