Lottery Syndrome


Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Consensual, NonConsensual, Heterosexual, Incest, Father, Daughter, MaleDom, Caution, Cannibalism, .

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: As the weekly cull approaches in a Dolcett world, an everyday, regular butcher waits with his wife, son and three eccentric teenage daughters in front of the live TV show, ready for the lottery balls to jingle and someone to fall... Whose numbers will come up tonight? A story of ordinary folk living in a Dolcett world.

It was the night of the cull and I was at home with the family. The doors were locked and I felt restless and on edge. It was raining outside: cool, dark. The curtains were drawn. The heating was on and everyone was on tenterhooks awaiting the lottery.

The women were particularly tense. Jane was out in the hallway pacing the threadbare carpet between the front door and the stairs; Georgia was glued to her seat, chomping gum and staring wretchedly at her short, bitten nails; Angie was squatting on her knees, anxious and uncomfortable, taking long, deep breaths and trying not to vomit, because she had a bucket at her side and my cock buried in her small, tight mouth. She was praying. I could feel the words because her lips were moving reverentially on my stalk mouthing her mantra. Even Janice – my wife – was unusually nervous and strained. She was pale, drawn, and she's survived more of these shouts than I care to remember.

If you've lived with a woman you'll know how this feels: the mood swings, the sickening gut-wrenching lurches of emotion, the highs, the lows, the depths of depression; and then finally – as the clock heads to 7:30PM precisely - the nerve-shattering silence as the balls start to jingle and everyone waits for someone to fall.

No one can doubt that lottery night is a paralytic, frightening scramble of unreasoning fear, and for a man it's ecstatic! On the other hand, for a woman, it's the worst kind of hell. The professors in the learned schools describe its effect on the ladies as 'lottery syndrome'. They say it drives womenfolk into psychological and sexual meltdown, and that's the reason gentlemen love it so much.

I think it's a gift from above. "Do you believe in God?" I sometimes wonder rhetorically, hugging my cushion. My question is met by four pairs of incredulous, accusatory eyes - even Angie's as she continues to suckle my stick.

Janice, Georgia and Angie – at this moment they all wanted to hit me in their own separate ways, and their annoyance fuelled a mad sense of lust that rushed to my groin and made me grind my cock into the roof of Angie's mouth so violently that I felt the tip punching at her palette and stabbing her uvula. She coughed and spluttered and fought to contain me. "Perhaps not," I sighed, noticing that she was choking and preparing to disgorge clear phlegm into the bucket. "But it makes you wonder. People talk about chance and statistics and all that mad mathematical bullshit – but it's weird. Every weekend, the cull passes us by."

"It's destiny," Kevin affirmed with the abstract dogmatic authority of youth. He's my son and as ignorant and as crass as anyone I know. And right now, he was stuffing a homemade girl-ass sandwich into his mouth and cranking his boyish dick like his mother and sisters weren't in the same room with us and in danger of losing their clothes and their lives. "What else can it be?" he spluttered, spitting fragments across the room and glancing hopefully at his huge pregnant cock. "When Lady Luck opens her legs and shows you her pussy, it's stupid to refuse it."

The girls ignored him because it's unlucky to be talking about fate, luck, God and that occult malarkey with the finger of fate pointing and preparing to obliterate you from the planet. Kevin doesn't care though because he's a guy and it gives him a perverted buzz to have the girls flustered and nervous. His talk drives them rigid and brain-dead and because of it they give blow jobs to die for.

"There's no such female as Lady Luck," I countered miserably, staring at Angie until she shivered and gulped at my knob. "If there were, she would have been dispatched like everyone else - or hanged or electrocuted, whatever her poison – because how can chance have intelligence and keep one specific woman safe while killing another? Wouldn't that be cruel?"

Kevin didn't answer. Instead, he took a further unwieldy bite of his sandwich, chewing lengthily on his bit of ass. He pulled back on his craggy foreskin with his other, free hand before eventually deigning to comment: "Maybe chance has a sense of humour. Maybe she likes to play games. Maybe she's a bitch, a whore and a slut."

He was heading at speed into "the zone." Georgie sensed it and got down on her knees. She pinned back her hair, rubbed lipstick onto her lips and lifted her face, opening her mouth and presenting this to him as his target.

"I don't know why the Gods do it," Kevin groaned, straining under the stress of the impending explosion and aiming his dick as Georgie's pink open gob. "But I know that chance isn't blind."

He believes that Destiny delights in tormenting our girls with the prospect of death.

Take Georgia, for example. With her red lips pursed so prettily open and her tongue outwardly extended, facing her brother and waiting to catch his jism in her eager mouth, you'd think she was super cool. But nine months ago her exams were looming and she was complaining about headaches and nausea and telling us how boys at school were making lewd sexual demands. She was stressed out and exhausted, and so I agreed to take her out of the lottery for four weeks. That's all it was: a month. I don't know why I consented because Janice was opposed. Looking back, it was one of those decisions you take that doesn't seem important at the time, but afterwards assumes deeper, almost religious significance.

Three boys in her class were turning themselves into a self appointed Mafia, forcing girls in her year to perform sexy stripteases in the school canteen after lunch, before ordering them to masturbate to orgasm.

There was a rota, one girl per day, ordered alphabetically according to a schedule published on the notice board. Any girl who refused to comply or who performed badly was marked for "special attention".

I didn't see any harm in it. "What's your problem?" I frowned when Georgie told me one evening.

Janice was similarly confused. "Babe, you're a woman and this is what we do. We strip. We remove our clothes and do sexy things for the benefit of men. It's why we exist."

"But it's gross!" Georgie complained. "Roger, Jonathan and Ivan stand in front of the girls as they do it and they jeer and mock! They tell them that they're flat-chested, ugly, and fat. How can I do it and try to be professional when they talk like that?"

"How can you do what?" I asked her, somewhat confused. "The sexy striptease or the subsequent masturbation? Which of them is your problem?"

"All of it! It's horrible! We shouldn't be asked to endure it!"

I put my hands to my lips, demanding that Georgie be quiet. "What are you saying, Georgia? Are you saying that after ten years of sex education you can't even strip?"

"No, daddy. Of course I can strip. I learned how to do that in first grade. It's easy. But this isn't a class room exercise, it's for those nerds. My hands go clammy whenever they gurn at me."

"But that's part of the game," I protested. "Can't you see that? Every time a girl strips the guys will tease and taunt her because they're trying to get her upset and flustered. That's their first goal. You mustn't give them that victory."

"Of course, daddy. I know what they're doing, but this goes further than that. This is cruel. Horrible. Help me! I beg you!"

Janice put her hand on my shoulder and told me to wait. "Before you get angry with her, love, let me talk to her."

She took Georgie out for a quiet motherly chat. "Listen, Georgie," she said. "Your father and I understand that it's difficult, but you have to understand, a girl can't allow herself to be seen refusing to strip. It's bad for her reputation."

"I know that, mummy."

"Maybe it would be prudent if we speak to your teacher."

"Mr. Philips? Please! No! I'd be so embarrassed if you did that. You can't discuss any of this with Mr Phillips!"

"Why ever not?"

"Because ... it's ... it's ... you just can't!"

"Okay, but you have to understand that if you won't let us talk to him, you have no choice but to comply and do as they ask you. Unless you allow us to help you, you have to take your turn in the canteen and undress."

"Mummy! I can't!"

"You have to, Georgie. Stop this bitching. Stripping is hardly going to kill you. These boys are only going to look at your tits and your cunt. What's the matter with that?"

Janice was patently outraged by Georgie's rebellious attitude and when the two of them returned neither was talking. They were sulking.

Janice sat next to me and Georgie slumped herself into a seat with her body averted. She was wearing a black top, leggings and a golden belt around her waist.

"So, I suppose Mr Philips has watched you strip?" I asked her.

She scowled.

"Answer the question, Georgie! Don't be impertinent!"

There was another overly melodramatic scowl. "He's my teacher. Don't be silly, daddy! He sees all of my strips."

"And so I suppose he chooses your clothes?"

"Of course."

"Including your underwear?"

She leaned back in her chair and started swinging her leg up and down in long, loopy arcs. "Yes. Of course. Why?"

I shrugged. "No reason. I was just wondering. What kind of underwear does he like you to wear?"

She frowned at me and scowled. It was becoming a pattern. "What do you mean? It's underwear. Underwear is underwear."

"Of course, but does he prefer you to wear sexy red thongs and racy lace bras, or does he prefer you in white corsets and suspenders? He must have a preference. And what about hosiery? Does he like you in luxury bondage tights or traditional fishnets?"

"Daddy. Stop it! This is obscene! He's my teacher!"

.... There is more of this story ...

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