Assistant Professor John Bresnahan was in his first year teaching at Wellesley College. It was a good position, and he felt lucky to have landed it. He had had qualms about teaching at an all-girls school, but the Wellesley students were very sharp, even more interesting than he had expected. It made teaching so much more rewarding. It was fifteen minutes into the class of his first-year seminar on introductory psychology.

"So what other examples do we have of the self-serving bias?" he asked.

"People think other people think about them a lot more than they actually do."

"Good, what else?"

"Everyone thinks they're above average."

"Right. What else?"

No one jumped in.

"Anyone?"

There were no hands up. A couple of the girls had troubled expressions on their faces; one rubbed her forehead.

"Jenny? ... Rachel?"

Later John remembered that he had heard some shrieks and shouts outside his classroom, but at the moment his attention was on his own class.

"Hello! Is anyone here?"

There was no answer.

"We need an ambulance!" came a shout from the corridor. It was Frank Rozin, a fellow instructor.

"What's wrong?" asked John, walking briskly out into the hallway.

"Two of my students collapsed in class."

"None of mine collapsed, but they don't answer questions any more."

"Um, yeah, the other girls are all silent."

The 911 dispatcher did not answer. They ran into one other male professor in the corridors, and among them they discovered an extremely disturbing situation: The women faculty members and a few of the older students had all collapsed and were unconscious. The younger students were not exactly catatonic, but they were unnaturally calm and unresponsive. None of them spoke or answered questions.

As the tweets and news headlines came in, the horrifying picture became clearer.

What became known as the Calamity occurred at 1:41 on a beautiful October afternoon. 'Calamity' was not really a strong enough word to capture the full horror of what happened. All the grown women in the world died. The cutoff was around age 20. Only a handful over the age of 22 survived, and only a handful under the age of 18 died. The women experienced a monstrous pain in their heads and within a minute they were dead.

The girls who survived became severely retarded, losing among other things the ability to speak or understand and losing their initiative. It took time for the exact nature of their deficits to become apparent.

Men and older boys had to deal with the carnage. They had to think of every place where women had been the only adults present and rescue the children or elderly or sick men in their care. They had millions of dead women's bodies to deal with.

Later, many men reflected that what surprised them most was that they had to cook dinner. In the midst of the chaos food was not on the top of anyone's mind, but the men and children got hungry soon enough. And there were no women to prepare the food. So the men had to. After a day, they discovered that the sink was fully of dirty dishes. Clothes hampers filled rapidly. Never before had they realized just how much work women did.

Nursing mothers above the age of 20 died along with all the other women, and emergency formula was needed for infants. Men discovered the joys of changing diapers -- not just once, to give their wives a break, but over and over again, several times a day.

Everyone mourned the loss of the beloved women in their lives, but young boys were naturally devastated by the deaths of their mothers. The young girls were upset at being hungry, but became content once they had enough to eat. As long as someone was meeting their needs, they didn't seem to miss their mothers. In fact, studies soon revealed that they didn't have any memory to speak of, and couldn't really tell people apart.

John's wife Rhonda had died in front of her third grade class. His 16-year-old daughter Amy was eventually brought home from high school, dull but content.

That the Wellesley students were no longer capable of college-level work was an understatement. Wellesley had dorms full of girls who were incapable of taking care of themselves. The vast majority of people who had seen to their needs were women, now dead of course. So in the first few days, John spent his days at Wellesley, managing to help prepare simple meals from the food reserves in the dining hall storerooms. Male professors and staff without children stayed over in the dorms to take care of the girls around the clock. But within a couple days the girls had mostly been shipped home to their fathers. John was out of a job.

The fathers of the girls in Amy's class at her school were soon in touch with each other. There was no point in taking their girls to school, but the girls needed someone to look after them. They acted pretty much like docile lumps, and in the chaos of the first few days, that was a godsend. They managed to go to the bathroom themselves, and when food and drink were put in front of them, they ate and drank their fill. Otherwise they mostly just sat.

After a couple days of dropping Amy at other fathers' houses, they were due at John's the next day. It was his turn to care for them. Because he no longer had any other job, he had suggested he look after all the girls for the indefinite future. Getting the right men matched to the right jobs would take time, but in the chaos of the early days, any solution was better than none. John was out of a job and there was a bunch of girls who needed caring for, so he took care of them.

That evening he ran around getting his house in some semblance of order.

John realized he hadn't even gotten Amy out of her clothes at night since the Calamity, as there was so much other vital work that needed doing.

Now he couldn't escape the fact that Amy stank. He might have noticed a little odor from her that morning, but that wasn't on the top of anyone's priority list. But now it was unmistakable and needed attention.

He had had nothing to do with her clothing or personal care for years, but now there was no one else to do it. "Let's get your clothes off," he said to her in her room. She didn't respond to his verbal request. When he tugged her tan dress up in preparation for pulling it up over her head she didn't understand his plan well enough to lift her arms -- which she could have easily done at age two if not earlier. But when he held her arms up in the air she kept them there long enough for him to get the dress up and over. Was that the way it was supposed to come off, or was she supposed to step out of it? He realized he didn't know. At least his way worked.

There was his daughter in bra and panties. "Take your underwear off?" he asked.

But she just looked at him pleasantly. He unfastened her bra. Unfastening a bra was something he had never done except in a sexual context, and he felt a little shame that his penis started swelling in his pants. He found himself taking surreptitious peeks at her lovely young breasts, which he had never seen before, of course. At some level he knew he might just as well stare -- she wouldn't know the difference -- but he tried not to. He then tugged down her panties, and the source of the worst smell became apparent. She hadn't been wiping herself, or else not doing a good job of it. Why hadn't the other fathers checked? Well, on a second's thought it was understandable. He was glad they hadn't been pawing around his daughter's private parts, at least not without asking. And there hadn't been time to ask.

His sexual arousal was dampened momentarily by her dirty panties. But dirty or not, his naked, sexually mature daughter was standing looking at him pleasantly.

"Um, you need a shower, Amy."

He didn't expect a reply, but somehow still felt the need to talk to her.

He sighed. Leading her to the bathroom, he turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature, then pulled back the shower curtain and helped her in.

"Mmmmm," she said as the warm water hit her.

"OK, can you wash yourself?"

No reply.

He took off his own shirt and tossed it aside so he wouldn't get too wet as he reached in, then took the washcloth and soaped it up, handing it to her.

"Here," he said.

She looked at it and looked at him with a blank expression, but didn't do anything.

His heart sank as the severity of his daughter's limitations hit home in another way.

"Here," he said, and taking her hand with the washcloth he rubbed up and down her belly. "Now you do it."

When he let go, she rubbed up and down on the same spot idly for a few seconds, then stopped.

What to do? He could strip and join her in the shower, but his cock was already hard and he had the feeling it would get harder if he did that. No, it was time for his daughter to regress to "bath time."

He flipped the lever to send the water down into the tub and closed the bath drain.

"Sit down, honey," he said. "No, wait..." He ought to get her crotch cleaned a little before he drew the bath.

So as she stood, he nudged her legs apart a little, and reached up between her legs with the washcloth. This kind of intimate care is what nurses and nurses' aides must do all the time, he reflected, but he had never had such a job. He thought better of the washcloth and just used his bare hand to rinse the worst of the dried crud from around her anus and outer vulva. He then rinsed his hand and opened the drain long enough to let that water go. Then he shut the drain again and drew her bath.

His daughter's mind might be gone, but her body was still vibrant and healthy. As he cleaned it, he tried to connect it to the 5-year-old's body he had washed so many years before. She was fully grown now, of course, and had developed sexually. Breasts, curves, pubic hair -- it was all there. She wasn't sexy to him, not really, but she was still sexy.

Her breasts needed cleaning, and it was pretty straightforward: just soap and rinse all the skin. She seemed to thrust her chest out a little when he gently washed her nipples. Cleaning her pubic hair and the outer parts of her vulva was easy enough, but what should he do about the inside? He and Rhonda had never bathed together, but he had bathed with one college girlfriend. She had been happy to have him clean her vulva, and he remembered exactly what he had done. He kind of doubted that everything had been necessary just for cleanliness, but she certainly hadn't minded -- not at all.

"Legs apart, Amy," he whispered. She didn't respond to the suggestion but let him tug them apart. Part of him was astonished she wasn't screaming for her privacy, but that concept was far beyond the new Amy. She needed to be bathed, and there was no one else to do it. Abandoning the washcloth, he used only his fingers for this delicate part of her. Reaching into the water, he gently spread her outer lips with one hand and started gently rubbing inside with the other. He felt around the edges of her vaginal opening, rubbing gently to make sure there was no foreign matter. When he peeked, he didn't see any hymen -- had his daughter lost her virginity already? He guessed he'd never find out. He was able to open her up farther with the one hand and reach in an inch. He couldn't detect any foreign matter or skin irritation.

When his fingers began their explorations within her outer lips, Amy moaned softly, shutting her eyes. He gently slid his fingers up to her clitoris, which he supposed needed cleaning too, maybe. He rubbed very, very gently, the way Rhonda had liked. "Do you like that, Amy?" he asked.

The girl didn't answer, but she sighed and smiled.

After a minute, he said, "OK, I guess you're very clean there," and reluctantly withdrew his hand.

Amy's eyes shot open and she gave a squawk of distress, so he slid it back between her legs and resumed his "cleaning."

As he started rubbing again, Amy moaned again and smiled broadly -- the strongest reaction he'd gotten out of her in the past few days. He had things to do, however, so after a couple minutes he stopped despite her protests.

As he patted her dry between the legs, he noted a pang of desire, which made him feel guilty.

When he finally got to bed that night, he couldn't sleep. His cock rose as he thought of his sexy daughter whose organs he had cleaned so attentively. Where should his sexual energies be directed? Rhonda was dead. There were no women in the world anywhere near his age. And for some reason the immense tragedy of the Calamity didn't extinguish his sex drive -- it made him horny. He had masturbated quickly and guiltily two nights before.

Amy enjoyed the sexual stimulation he had given her more than anything else since she lost her intelligence, and didn't seem to mind in the least that her father was providing it -- indeed, she didn't know he was her father. And something about that weakened his incest guilt.

He would like nothing better than to sink his cock into that nubile girl's pussy. Would she mind? He was almost certain she wouldn't mind it if he buried his head between her legs and licked. What would she think of his cock? He hadn't seen any hymen. It seemed pretty likely she wouldn't mind, and he could press in bit by bit and stop if she showed distress. Not quite believing what he was doing, he grabbed a pack of condoms from the bedside table and went to his daughter's room.

Her face was beautiful as she slept. He pulled off the covers and nudged her onto her back. She stirred but kept sleeping. He reached under her nightgown and found the soft fabric of her panties where her legs joined. As he gently stroked the humid cloth, her legs spread apart a little. He worked his fingers inside the elastic leg band and stroked a little more.

Amy stirred and moaned, then woke up, looking down with a smile. Once again he half-expected her to shriek and cry bloody murder at his advances, but of course she didn't.

"Come on, honey, let's get these clothes off," he said. First he removed his own pajamas and underpants, and was excited when he saw Amy looking at his hard cock with interest. She seemed to recognize it at some level.

She offered no resistance when he tugged her nightgown off and panties down, and of her own accord she lay back on the bed.

He pulled her legs apart with his hands, and Amy didn't complain. Next he dove between her legs and inhaled deeply of her aroma, then began loving her with his tongue.

Amy sighed, moaned and squirmed. She was more physically responsive than any other woman or girl he had been with -- including her mother, even as a young woman. She gushed fluids. The fundamental reason her body got so wet was to ease the passage of a penis -- so why not?

Reluctantly he unrolled a condom onto his organ -- he disliked condoms. He and Rhonda mostly had used the diaphragm, but kept condoms for certain times when she found the diaphragm irritating. He let himself down onto his beautiful daughter, his twitching latex-sheathed organ pointing to its goal.

"Do you mind?" he asked. She just looked at him and smiled. "Let me know if anything hurts, OK?" he said. He didn't expect an answer, but felt he had to ask. He was pretty sure she'd let him know in some fashion if it hurt. Would she? Just to be sure, he pinched her forearm hard. She yelped and drew it back.

"Sorry," he said, and Amy went back to looking at him with interest, the minor insult quickly forgotten.

He had loved Rhonda's body even as it aged, but his daughter's fresh 16-year-old version of the female form was fantastic to see, feel and smell.

The hot, wet embrace he felt as his tip first poked into her vagina felt so incredibly right. There was no physical resistance from her vagina and nothing but sighs of pleasure from Amy. Slowly he pressed his stiff member inside, Amy's tissues yielding alluringly before his advance. Her vagina gripped him tightly along his entire shaft as he oozed his way further and further into the girl. She took in his entire length, his inward progress stopped only when their pubic bones bumped.

Then he began his in and out motion. Amy's sighs escalated to groans of passion. They were intense and very erotic, making him want to thrust faster andharder. Amy's excitement rose and rose. He was sure she was about to come, only to find her moving up to a plane of greater excitement. He was mad with frenzied passion, trying to hold his orgasm back but realizing he would soon reach his limit.

Then Amy's whole body seized up. Her vagina clenched him tighter than any woman in his life, making his cock tip bulge and overloading him with the pleasure of her raw, nubile feminine demand. The semen injection she demanded would be thwarted by the condom, he realized with a touch of disappointment -- but, no! Stressed by her incredibly tight grip, the condom broke! The immediate wetness of her vaginal innards on his overstretched glans trebled his physical pleasure, and then it sharpened further from the psychological: he knew he was not going to pull out, knew he would cream her inner vaginal tissues with sperm. Her body would get what it wanted after all, and his would too. He might even be fathering his second child -- and his first grandchild at the same time! His body spat the first shot of semen deep into her cunt, the second and third following quickly as his tip rammed in and out frantically, pushing the shredded latex aside. He felt a sexual ecstasy surpassing any he had experienced before.

Spent, he carefully withdrew and flopped down beside his daughter. Her chest was heaving and her face a mask of pure pleasure.

The next day all the girls arrived at his house.

Given his experience with Amy, John decided he should check on each girl personally after she used the toilet to make sure she was wiping herself properly. As he suspected, several of them obviously weren't. Using toilet paper wasn't ideal, he decided, since he was afraid of abrading the girls' tender parts. They would have known just how hard to rub, but he didn't. He ran the tap to very warm and applied the warm water with his hand, over and over until the girl was clean. He discovered in this way that one girl was just starting her period, so he was able to get one of Amy's pads in place before her underwear got stained. As he inspected another girl, he realized that he was detecting the faint but distinct odor of semen, which made him smile.

The girls didn't mind being cleaned this way. In fact, most of them reacted more positively than to anything else that day. One girl seemed to like it so much he took some extra time getting her clitoris very clean and she came, sitting right on the toilet, in under a minute.

Late in the afternoon he discovered that the girl with the period had filled her pad with blood. Time for a tampon, he guessed. He had heard that girls sometimes struggled with tampons at first, unclear on the exact position and angle. He wondered idly if in this one respect he knew more than young girls did about their own bodies. He knew most intimately the exact position and angle for inserting a tube into a girl's vagina. It was both a little gross and a little erotic as he nestled the applicator into her bloody vagina and pushed the plunger. He'd have to remember to tell the girl's father so he'd be sure to change it before she went to sleep.

Primed by his fantastic experience with Amy, John found he was strongly attracted to the other girls. They had all responded with noticeable pleasure when he was cleaning them between the legs. He had a strong urge to do it to them. If he had sex with a girl, she would love it and he would love it. Still, he didn't dare to just do it without getting permission from her father first.

He made a plan.

"Hey, Dale, you have a minute?" Dale had come to pick up his daughter Veronica, and had just finished settling her in the car and fastening her seat belt. He was going around to get in his side.

"I guess, what's up?"

"Um, yeah, this is such a tragedy, what we've been through."

"Yeah."

"I miss Rhonda."

"Yeah, I miss Sarah too," Dale said, without a great deal of emotion.

"But do you realize that there are no women older than 23 anywhere on this planet?"

Dale sighed. "I don't think I can quite get my mind around that."

"And Amy -- I always assumed she'd grow up and marry a nice young man. But have you heard about the girls that are dying in their sleep?"

"I heard a rumor."

"It's definite, as of this morning. The older girls are dying -- one morning they just don't wake up. It looks like we won't ever have women in the world again, just older girls."

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah. So Amy's not going to grow up and get married. How am I going to have grandchildren? How is anyone?"

Dale held quite still and looked at John. "Good question. Assuming we still want grandchildren..."

"I know I do. Something about this makes me determined to keep society going."

He couldn't seem to find an elegant way to get the conversation to flow into the heart of his plan. He hoped he wasn't going to get an indignant reaction. At least Dale was smiling a little.

"You know my daughter Amy? Do you think she's attractive?"

"Um, yeah, that's for sure."

"Well, how'd you like to try to make her pregnant?"

"Oh! Oh, man."

"And maybe you wouldn't mind if I, at least, you know, did it with Veronica?"

"A daughter swap."

"Yup."

"At least Veronica's on the pill. But what's she going to think? She won't really get it, will she? She won't be really understanding what's going on? And Amy?"

"Well," John said. "I found this problem with the girls not wiping themselves properly, so I've been making sure to wash them down there after they go. And I've been doing some experiments. They all like a little stimulation. I mean, I just experimented a little bit, and only kept rubbing if they clearly liked it. And they all did. And you know the girls don't really respond to people as individuals, right? Does Veronica really know who you are?"

"No, I guess not." Dale's face was troubled, then brightened. "Deal! When? Like tomorrow?"

"OK, unless, maybe, right now would work."

"Oh! Hmmm."

"You can go first."

"You watch Veronica?" he said, looking at the car.

"Sure, I'll bring her back inside."

"So, Amy, if Veronica's dad does anything you don't like, just tell him to stop, OK?" John said. He knew she didn't understand, but it still felt important to say it.

"You want me to do her without a condom, then?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

"No, that will not be a problem."

"Just make sure she's warmed up. I think she'll respond pretty quickly."

John felt a slight twinge of guilt. But he was pretty sure that Amy would not only not mind, she'd have a great time. And then there was Veronica.

As he shut the door on them, he returned his attention to the remaining girl whose father had not come to pick her up. He was late. He had a brief exciting thought about a fanciful new rule. The penalty for late pick-up would be implicit permission to have sex with the girl...

He mostly hoped that he hadn't already impregnated his own daughter Amy the night before -- though part of him desperately hoped he had. He and Dale looked pretty similar, at least, so if he had it would be easy for everyone to assume Dale was the father.

Within a couple minutes he could hear faint sounds of Amy's excitement coming from her bedroom, then she gave a lusty shout.

A couple minutes later, Dale emerged from Amy's room with a smile of profound satisfaction on his face.

"Whew!" he said.

"Satisfactory?" asked John.

Dale just smiled and shook his head.

"So, you mind if I take Veronica back to my room now?"

Dale's face darkened momentarily, then he said, "Sure, that was the deal."

It had occurred to John to say he would take his pleasure with her the next day, but he didn't want Dale changing his mind -- perhaps suddenly making some new arrangement for Veronica's care.

Veronica warmed up almost as quickly as Amy under John's caress. He made sure she was getting good stimulation for a reasonable time and she gave clear signs of pleasure, but she didn't seem close to coming. The excitement of her hot, tight vagina, flesh on flesh, built quickly for John and he reached ecstasy, gooping the innards of her pussy with his seed. After he had recovered for a minute, he found he wanted to try to give her an orgasm too, and began working her clitoris with his fingers. He watched her happy, straining face with satisfaction. Soon she came with a series of loud breaths, satisfied and seemingly delighted with the entire experience.

And so began the father swaps. A few of the dads didn't want anything to do with the new arrangement. The other fathers relented when the reward was the chance to make love to another hot teen girl, also realizing that their daughters had no marriageability to protect and that they would have a good time. But three didn't feel right about their daughters getting pregnant right away, and so those girls went on the pill -- or like Veronica, stayed on it. The fathers who did not consent to sex also put their girls on the pill, realizing they were very vulnerable to the advances of any male they came in contact with.

John realized guiltily that being a "teacher" for high school girls in their present condition was more rewarding, deep down, than being a professor at Wellesley. At Wellesley, a top priority was not to make the girls uncomfortable in any way on account of their sexuality. He realized he had put quite a bit of energy into not being affected by the young coeds' fabulous bodies. Now it was a different world, and he had tasted the pleasures of sex with nubile teens. There was one girl from his freshman seminar whose beauty haunted him. Her name was Jenny, and he couldn't get her out of his mind. She lived locally, and he got her father on the phone.

"Hello, Mr. McCarthy?"

"Speaking."

"My name is John Bresnahan; I was your daughter Jenny's psychology teacher at Wellesley."

"Yes, hello, what can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry for the change that's come over Jenny, and all the rest of them, of course. I have a daughter of my own, 16 years old, so I have some idea. You were married, too?"

"Divorced. I was delighted to hear that the evil hag had croaked."

"Your wife?"

"Ex-wife."

"Yes, well, I guess there is a silver lining sometimes." John waited a moment but Mr. McCarthy said nothing. "Anyway, I have to confess, I found Jenny very attractive."

"You and everyone else."

"Oh."

"First I offered her for $100 a pop, but found I was flooded with requests."

"You have her working as a prostitute?" he said, unable to keep some anger out of his voice. Jenny had had such promise -- but then he had to remind himself that the promise of her mind was all gone.

"Well, she's not going to be a lawyer any more. She enjoys it. Is your daughter still a dainty virgin?"

"Um, no, she does have some partners."

"I started with $100, but now she's at $400 for a half hour and I think I'm going to raise the price again. Her cunt starts to get sore when she's doing it 20 times a day. Are you interested?"

"Um, not at that price, no."

"Well, suit yourself. Or -- say, you said you've got a daughter too. Is she cute? I might give you a special price if I could get a piece of yours."

"Nah, I don't think so. Best wishes."

He didn't really want to be the 20th prick of the day on an assembly line squirting into poor Jenny while her father gloated over the cash haul his private "cunt" had earned him that day.

Fathers of high school and college-age girls could barter their own daughters for sex with the daughters of other men. But instincts die hard, and one strong instinct fathers have is to protect their daughters' virginity. Many fathers found it more important than having sex themselves. When the time comes, a man wants to hand his daughter off to another man as his one and only wife. A man who could land a teen bride felt even more strongly the instinct not to share his girl.

Some men gave up sex. For them, the fact that the girls didn't have the mental capability to relate as equals spoiled the whole experience. They got by with old-style porn, their own fantasies, or just forgot about sex.

But for most men, the effect was the opposite. Many of the older men who had been single before lacked the skills or interest to actually develop a relationship in the old days -- that takes hard work! They hadn't felt right about visiting prostitutes for a variety of reasons. There was a stigma to it and some risk of getting caught. For many it had been unappealing because it was fundamentally an exploitative relationship. Prostitutes knew they were violating their natures for economic reasons -- their nature, like that of almost all women, being to settle down with a single man. Prostitutes usually developed a hard, cynical persona. But in the new world, girls were guileless. And while prostitutes spanned a range of ages, few of the surviving girls were over 20.