Lottery Syndrome

by Grim Williams

Copyright© 2012 by Grim Williams

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.

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   .

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!"

"Of course I'll stop it, but first answer the question. Does he choose clothing, including your underwear?"

"Yes, I've already said that he does, haven't I? What of it? He dresses all of the girls."

"And what type of underwear does he choose? Is it sexy?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"Kinky even?"

"I don't know what you mean! Daddy! This is so embarrassing!"

"And what about punishments? Does he spank you? Whip your tits with a cane and apply the flogger to your pussy?"

"Daddy! Stop it. You're as bad as those boys!"

"I need to know, Georgie. Does he put you over his lap and spank your behind until you think you can't stand it and you'd do anything to get him to stop? Yes or no?"


"And does he feel between your legs and touch your fanny as he does it? Does he make you cum?"

"No, daddy. Of course not!"

"Then that sounds like it's part of the problem. I guess these boys haven't beaten you either."

"No, daddy. Of course not. I would die if they did that!"

"Of course you wouldn't die! It's just a bit of a whipping. You'd be sore for a few days but fine after that. So, in which case, we must ask these guys round for a party, provide plenty of booze, and then you can entertain them. They can watch you strip out on the patio and afterwards you can take them upstairs and ask them to punish you for your various misdeeds, and you can provide them with a variety of whips, canes and paddles. Then maybe they can fuck you."

Georgia lowered her head and blushed a brilliant pink. "No."


"You're not serious! I couldn't do that! I'd be so mortified!"

"Stop complaining, Georgie. I'm totally serious. As your mother said earlier, as a girl gets older she has a responsibility to do more than tease. She has to be a woman. It's about growing up. I want you to be nice to these boys. Let them see that you're a decent sport."

"But I'm not ready for that. Please, daddy. I don't want to grow up, and I'm not a sporty person!"

Janice smiled wanly. "I understand, Georgie, but everyone grows up, and you're seventeen years old. You're not a child." She was clearly irritated by Georgie's recalcitrance. "You may find it hard, my love, but you'll do it because if you refuse, the persecution will become relentless. The boys will view the refusal as a sign of weakness and your life will become hell."

"Listen, mum! It was Annie's turn today and those guys had a tube full of ants, spiders, everything you can think of. They dropped them onto her chest after she'd stripped off and as she was beginning to masturbate and you should have heard her scream. She was petrified, frantic, and it put her off. Don't you see? They were deliberately trying to unnerve her."

"Babe, of course they were trying to unnerve her. They're boys. They're impossible to deal with. They're terrible, but even so, a girl has to do it. Trust me. When I was your age, your father was the biggest nerd of them all: cruel, arrogant, but I always had to do as he told me because I knew what would happen if I didn't. But you have to understand that he did it because he liked me, because my pain turned him on, and once I understood that as well, it was easier to take, although no less painful. I endured a lot to get to that point."

I grinned at her, remembering how badly I once used to hurt her. I remember how I tied her to the climbing bars attached to gym wall so that her arms were outstretched and bound from wrist to her shoulder. Her legs were parted as far as they'd go, and her ankles were tied so that her toes were two feet from the floor.

"I was a scoundrel," I recalled with a smile, recollecting how I'd attached wires and clips and transformers that I'd brought from the physics department to her pussy and tits. I enjoyed an entire evening zapping her with current, and it brought the two of us closer. "I was a monster. I admit it."

"I hated you," she sighed. "At times I imagined biting your cock off and what your reaction would be. But if I'd have done it, of course, I'd have been toast. You once hurt a girl so badly that afterwards, I was a rabbit. That's why I married you, because you asked me and I didn't dare refuse."


She pulled a face. "Really."

"So why isn't daddy horrible like that, anymore?" Georgie interrupted, looking at us both. "What happened?"

I shrugged. "I grew up," I said. "And those boys will grow up too. But until then, you must learn from your mother and do as they ask. If they want you to strip, then strip. Spread you legs as wide as you can and show them your pussy and pretend that you like it. Pretend you're immune because unless you succeed in making them think you're one of them, it'll become worse, and Georgie - you don't need the stress."

Indeed: she didn't need the stress. The problem for Georgia was that although she did her best and gave them a good sexy strip when her turn came round eight days later; and she obediently played with herself in the way they expected, she couldn't pretend to be indifferent, and the guys saw the weakness at once. They made her strip twice more the following week, and during the second of these impromptu reprises, one of them gave her a length of electric flex and told her that she had to present it to each guy there and ask him to use it, one stroke across her tits and a second across her pussy, as hard as he could hit her.

That did it for Georgie. She was crying and sullen and barely able to walk by the time she got home. Her mum bandaged her tits and her groin and sent her to bed, and not after a pretty foul tantrum.

I went up to her room when I got home and we had a quiet heart to heart. I told her that she needed to grow up, be brave, and that I'd whipped a few girls in my time, and that it was nothing personal, just male hormones, but Georgie was having none of it. She showed me a picture that one of her classmates had taken on his phone and had sent to his mates, and she told me that the picture felt bloody personal.

I was in awe.

The picture showed Georgia's pussy and there were so many lines going through it that you couldn't count them. She showed me another one of her tits, thighs and tummy. I looked at them both and decided that I needed copies of those photos and so I shrugged, and demanded that she send the pictures to me so that I could complain to the school.

I didn't complain, of course, although I did withdraw Georgie from the cull. I may have been a nerd once but even nerds have their limits, although Janice argued that I was being short-sighted and that I wasn't acting in Georgie's long term interests. She said that she should take Georgie to the Doctor and get some painkillers and let that be that. She reasoned that I couldn't withdraw Georgie from the cull every time she was bothered by boys.

Attacking and torturing girls was what boys did, she said, looking angrily at me. "They pull legs off of spiders and stick pins into butterflies, and they do the same to young girls. You did it to me and Georgie will never complete her lotteries if you withdraw her on every pretext. I can't look after her forever!"

"No one's asking you to look after her," I protested. "She's grown up. She can look after herself."

At this, Janice bit her lip and we agreed to differ.

So, ignoring all of Janice's protests, I had Georgia deregistered - which I did to prove to Janice that I could and because Georgie drives a hard bargain and a four week deregistration was the cost of getting her to send me the pictures of her hard-beaten body.

Of course, having done it, the next Saturday, her numbers came up in a way I could almost have predicted. Georgie saw them sitting at the bottom of the screen and she immediately went hysterical because the coincidence was too awesome to absorb.

Then came the guilt.

She ran upstairs and curled up in bed and after that, I didn't see her for days. Janice went up there and reasoned with her and even Angie reassured her by telling her that she shouldn't feel bad, because, so what? I'd deregistered her. It wasn't as if someone else was getting dispatched in her place. It's life: fate. Some women win; other women lose. Georgie had been incredibly lucky.

Fortunately, she did recover slowly - at least, she did on the surface - but deep down the pressure was continuing to build. I couldn't see it, because, you know, a guy can't possibly comprehend what the lottery does to a female mind. A guy thinks about it, but afterwards he has the luxury of dismissing it to the back of his thoughts and he forgets it, whereas a woman endures the nightmare week after week. For her, it's the doomsday reality, and although the anxiety reveals itself in a multitude of ways, I'm convinced that no female goes through the same weekly grind forever and comes off unscathed, and I should know.

I've got a wife and three daughters, and they know as everybody does that numbers mean life and death, no middle ground. The women whose numbers come up are slaughtered, the others have their life commuted by one extra week, that's all they can be sure of, another week. By the time a woman's endured several years of that, she's bound to be psychotic. They all are. Every fucking one of them.

Take Janice. I think the world of her, but even I know that she's gaga. At the beginning we were at school together and she'd do anything I told her. She was confident and impudent, a saucy piece of crumpet who'd lay her life on the line every time I asked her.

Now, she just laughs derisively at me.

I remember how surprised I was when she took a week off after I got her the job at the factory - maybe she wasn't ready for it; maybe it unnerved her – but soon she wanted another week off, and then it was a month, and soon the timeouts became a habit. She took six months off when we married and a year off for each of the kids. After that she got a transfer to what they call "lead carcass". It's a role where someone accompanies the girls as they go through the processing plant to be culled. She walks with them into the stripping rooms and pretends that she's one of them. She undresses and talks to them and calms them and reassures them while they all wait in line shivering to be processed. Then, once they've all been cleaned out and they get to the knifing room, she's the one who volunteers to walk onto the conveyer. The others watch her as she steps docilely and bravely to the frame. The stevedores strap her to the supports and take liberties, pinching her tits and probing between her legs and kissing, and she lets them. One or two of them fuck her, and again she lets them. Of course after that none of the other girls wants to appear weak, cowardly or disunited and so they follow her into the frame to show their support. They take their indignities too, and more besides, and they grin and bear it, because they're all in it together. It's the war time spirit and you can count on it every bloody time, Janice says.

But then, once the group are strapped in and hanging naked from their hooks, they all watch as Janice is pushed off into a quiet siding where she's unfastened whilst the others head screaming for the knives.

Janice did that job for five years before she was then promoted to head office where she works as an administrative assistant offering "professional management services". It's a job with plenty of perks. They always approve time off, for instance, for what she calls her "private time". I don't know what it's for or on what basis she deserves it, or even what services she supplies, but sometimes, she has to go in overnight and she takes three weeks off after that. Before she goes, she's irritable and takes ages getting ready, bathing, shaving and doing her hair in the bathroom, and when she leaves she's wearing nothing at all.

"You'll get cold," I complain, pecking her meekly on the cheek. She makes a sarcastic retort, kisses me, says goodbye to the girls, and then she stands outside shivering in the moonlight wearing only a pair of impossibly tall stilettos and a tiny leather handbag tucked discretely under her arm. After ten minutes of being the salacious scandal of the neighbourhood, with every male in the street looking out at her perky tits and her smooth, silky slit, a spacious limousine arrives and she slides into the back and is whisked off to an unknown location, only to return in the morning wearing a bruised face and a blanket. She's walking stiffly and it looks to me as though something inside of her has died.

Anyhow. The important thing is that she's thirty-eight and not free of the cull – and at this rate she'll never be free. She's almost ancient in comparison to the kids, but when it comes to the girls - she refuses to let them take time off at all.

Hypocritical, eh?

Even so, after her four week break, Georgia found it tough returning to school, especially as her mini mafia were hit by a lottery wipe-out the following week. They were gutted because the rule for wipe-outs is that you have to surrender your five closest female associates to the cull – whether girlfriend, wife or relatives – so hey, they were in tears. Lady Luck was on our side and she broke them. She hit the three of them at once, one wipe-out after another, one the first week, and the other two a week later.

That's what you call an unlikely coincidence! Kevin calculated that the chances of it happening to the same bunch of guys so close together were ten quadrillion to one and then some.

All I know is that it was the busiest two weeks I've had for years, and the pleasure was entirely mine since I got to cull them. I particularly enjoyed doing their girlfriends. I revelled in it. Each time, I made the guy sit facing the girl watching her get done. You should have seen their faces as slowly I undressed the girls, teased them, and then put them into the Dispatcher. Then, with the boys all watching, I squeezed each girl's nipples, slipped a finger into her pussy and whispered into her ear that I was Georgia's dad. I did each of them with a silk scarf around her neck –slowly – very, very slowly. I fucked them two or three times as they suffocated for breath. I looked into their eyes with my cock up their ass and enjoyed every moment of their agony.

Georgia had no trouble at school after that. Her mafia were broken and everyone else stood in awe. People said it was divine intervention and although that's ridiculous; as Kevin says, it's a reminder of how lucky we are to have Lady Luck smiling down on our family.

I mean. I visited a guy just the other week who's lost four of his five daughters and he was fretting about the final one because she's turned eighteen and she's a stunner to look at. We had a couple of drinks together and he reflected on how the cull takes the pretty ones first.

"It's all right for you," he seemed to be saying. "The cull's passed you by – and always has - so what have I have to do with you?"

I didn't tell Janice about that. I don't even tell Janice what I do – although she knows.

I don't tell anyone except Angie, because she's stronger than the others and for the last two years she's been working as my apprentice. It's easier when there's a woman there. She can calm the situation and talk sweetly, and yet when it's all ready and I want to get my oats away, being my daughter she can conveniently make herself scarce and doesn't cause mischief.

Even so, despite the fact that I don't go around telling anyone, it's an open secret. Everyone knows. You can't hide that kind of thing.

So what can I say? How do I appear sympathetic without seeming crass? I don't want to upset my neighbours and friends and be set apart, kept separate from their misery and pain, but I'm torn, because neither could I bear losing my girls and I can't imagine what it would be like to tie them, strip them, look them in the eyes and fasten them into the Dispatcher. I mean – Jesus – what must that be like!

Even so, I yearn to be an ordinary guy.

I squeeze Janice's hand and prepare to fill Angie's mouth with my spunk, while outside I hear Jane yelling at me from the hall. "How much longer?" she cries. Up and down she paces, doing so again and again. All the time, she's bouncing a rubber ball against the door and the ball is irritating me because it echoes, but even so, I don't stop her. No one does. The cull's a terrifying experience and Jane's only fourteen and not properly a woman. To cope, she paces in the hallway and bounces her ball.

And as I listen to the bouncing ball, I begin to cum, several long spurts that spray into Angie's throat. She takes them without gagging, and she sucks me throughout, and once I'm done, she cleans me in the way that I've trained her and turns to Kevin. "Okay, brother. Your turn now."

Georgie closes her mouth having already taken him once. She snorts, swallows and makes way.

Meanwhile, Jane calls again, irritated and almost crying because beneath the surface the psychology is complicated. "How much longer?" she wails.

"Fifteen minutes," I yell back, checking the clock on the wall. "It's seven fifteen."

She knows this because she's wearing a wrist watch, but even so, she asks me because it eats up seconds and eases her tension.

I know Angie has told her things that she oughtn't about what happens to girls when we dispatch them, because girls do that, right? However much you tell them they shouldn't, they talk. And because of it Jane imagines herself being stripped, raped and then being taken across to the dispatching machine and fastened into it. She imagines the spit in her ass sliding through her body and filling and impaling her. She imagines twitching as the steel penetrates her body and pops out of her mouth.

I've told Angie off for telling her the ways that it's done, but the cat's out of the bag now and we have to live with it. Jane's stress starts before the others, usually about Wednesday or Thursday. She has mood swings and headaches. By Friday she's having bouts of depression and she's unwilling to talk, and by Saturday I daren't go near her.

It doesn't help that she's flat-chested and waiflike and that her clothes don't fit. She wonders how she'll look hung up dangling on the spit. Boyish, she thinks. She told me a couple of months ago just after she filled in her census form that she put on it that she doesn't want to be dispatched, but that she'd prefer for her body to be given to Science. She explained to me that she'd rather be a naked rat in a cage in a lab than be given to a gyno-taverna because she's frightened that if she goes to one and she's eaten, the cannibals won't appreciate her figure. She's skinny, she says, flat-chested, and in any case, the thought gives her shivers.

"But you'd be dead," I protested. "What does it matter what gets done to your body?"

"I know daddy, but I'm not dead now, and I'd hate guys to see me naked and think how flat-chested and skinny I am. They might even possibly want their money back!"

I laughed, because this was nonsense, of course. Can you imagine a red blooded cannibal wanting his money back? I've seen Chinks eating putrid Essex shit and still not complaining!

Fifteen minutes to go, I thought. Fifteen minutes before it was time to start work.

Until then, my job was to offer plenty of reassurance, to be kind, because women feel inadequate in the face of the cull, knowing that once they're meat men will be examining their bits and there'll have nothing they can hide. As a butcher, I've sat down with women of all shapes, ages and backgrounds after they've been stripped and prepared, wrapping my consoling arm around their shivering shoulders while offering them my sweet lascivious support.

I let them cry while I furtively ogle them and then I compliment them on their good bits, and as for the rest, I hedge and tell them that the odd roll of fat doesn't matter, and that guys won't notice the sag of their tits or the cellulite on their thighs.

In Jane's case, I lied like a trooper because she is flat-chested and skinny, and then when she'd ridden the emotion, I get out the family albums and we work through the pictures, including those of some of the women I've culled. We laugh at a few and regard others in awe, until I steer her back towards family photographs I've taken of her sisters. "That was Angie when she was twelve," I said, coming to a shot and stubbing my finger onto a gawky, self-conscious, naked adolescent. "Okay, so she was younger than you, but see how flat-chested she was. Nobody thought she'd blossom, not even your mother. Now look at her. And even Georgie hasn't always been buxom."

I found a suitable picture that I'd taken of Georgia posing in her birthday suit on her thirteenth birthday, and then I found another more recent one, and placed them side by side. I sat quietly and observed Jane gawping at them both. The message sank in that her tits would grow and her curves would form, and that eventually a day would dawn when the boys would drool over her in the way that she craved.

She gave me a hug, and we kissed, and then she went contentedly off to bed, leaving me to worry in the way that parents do because I knew that offering her body to science wouldn't be good for her. If her numbers came up and she went to a lab, it wouldn't be straightforward. One of those dodgy pee-dee university groups you sometimes see advertising in the seedy advertisement sections of tabloid newspapers would trade for her. Jane's just the kind of wide-eyed innocent they'd target for their awful naked cull-the-teen parties, because she's young, naive and scatterbrained.

She'd be taken to a beach or a park and stripped naked. Maybe they'd force her to dance and tease them with her flat tits and her smooth slit. Then she'd be tied down and raped by lawless colonies of perverted college deviants turned on by her adolescent lankiness. They'd take her to their "academically approved scientific experiment" set up in a damp basement on some university campus where they'd reinvent various medieval tortures. Only then – too late - as Jane was forced to endure multiple foreign objects and electrical wires attached to every anatomical crevice, and white hot coals and hideous ropes, while they recorded her screams on their clip boards for the "benefit of science", would she realize the culinary attractiveness of ordinary, right-minded cannibals.

I said to her: do you want to end up raped at some college boy's naked cull-the-teen party? To which she said no, of course, but then also said that she didn't want to be roasted either, and she certainly didn't want to be taken on a ride in a Dispatcher.

In fact, she was adamant that she'd rather be sold to a pee-dee than be dispatched or go to a Meat Factory, and, so, noble, devoted father that I am, I promised to honour her wishes even if it meant enduring the most terrible row with Janice.

"It's probably nothing you'll ever have to worry about," I sighed, thinking the diametrical opposite.

Eleven minutes to go. I tried to keep the mood light by handing snacks to the girls, but no one was hungry. Angie was swallowing yet more of Kevin's juice while Georgie was scowling at me like a scarecrow and pretending to ignore me. "The odds are stacked up the same as they've always been," I said. "Three hundred and sixty five to four. They're balanced in your favour."

That isn't true, of course, due to the weighting system they use to avoid having repeats too soon. But Janice angled me with a tired wooden smile because I had my hand up her skirt, and she finds it painful on weeks she's been working. Even so, I left it there resting it on her thigh, caressing her skin. She was inhibited, far more so than in those jaunty, carefree days of yore. My fingers slid along her thigh and pushed back her panty gusset so that I could attack her slit, but she pulled away because the bruises and cuts meant that it was far too painful.

Not that I know anything officially about those bruises, of course. She doesn't let me see them and she doesn't talk about her work, but I'm not stupid, and I can see when she's in pain.

I like it this way. It means that I can slide my finger inside her hole and squeeze her lips while watching her tortured eyes, both of us knowing that she daren't ask me to stop, and she can't admit how badly it hurts.

"You can't cheat destiny," she once told me, with tears streaming down her cheek. "I don't want to be culled but I will be. My numbers will come up. I know. I've been told."

"You've been told?"

She nodded. "Well, not precisely, but there's a limit to how much I can take..."

"Take of what?"

She hesitated. "The lottery. I'm talking about the lottery, of course. Everybody's numbers come up eventually. But the worst of it is that after I'm gone, who'll look after the girls?"

I held her hand calmly because it's the only way I can help her when the paranoia gets this bad; and no wonder it does. She's so close to the end that she can smell the handshake. She can touch it, sense it, and yet each passing week raises the psychological bar even higher because everyone's heard myths and stories about women who've graduated and got to the end of their term, but nobody knows anybody who's done it – not personally, and so Janice naturally assumes that one of her remaining registrations will get her.

I sighed, absorbing her tension, while reflecting that so much has changed since those crazy days when she was a schoolgirl and I was a monster, I used to dream about Janice getting snuffed. Back then, it was a mad adolescent fantasy, and given that Janice understood that her destiny was to be culled and she accepted it without qualms, it didn't seem cruel.

We did it on a Saturday with the clock ticking down. I'd invent a story about a butcher who would knock on her door and explain that he was going to do it by electrocution - because I was into electrocution back then.

It was my fetish.

There'd be a party with lots of people invited to watch – Janice's dad and her brothers and all the guys from school and especially my friends - and Janice would kiss me - a sharp, painful kiss, full of tongue and plenty of whimpering – and then the executioner would interrupt us. He'd strip her naked and he'd strap her to a table – spread-eagle with her arms and legs spread out and everything on show. She'd be embarrassed but he would connect the wires to her pussy and her breasts - always to those places.

Then she'd lie there while we partied, danced, played music, smoked, got sizzled. Everyone would come by and touch her, boys, girls. They'd kiss her, fondle her tits, whisper how much they were looking forward to the show.

Then, with the lottery clock still counting down it would start. A dial would be turned and I'd hear the power screaming through the wires and I'd see the smoke and smell the acrid stench. Janice would writhe on the table and kick and her tits would quiver. Her head would jerk and her legs would splay out. Her struggles would grow less, and in the end she'd succumb.

At which point I'd kiss and caress her broken, sweaty body, and I'd cum. It was as a direct result of those Saturday afternoon stories that I decided to become a butcher, and it was in one of those stories that I theorized that the flavour of a woman's meat would be favourably impacted by her being culled at the moment of her greatest ecstasy. I figured that even if the theory was nonsense and rubbish, no one could disprove it, and that's why I invented the Dispatcher.

It's like a Jessica on steroids!

"Hey, look at you! What's this?" Janice inquired, the tips of her fingers tapping against the tent in my trousers. "Is Angie losing her touch or are you imagining my tits being cut up and eaten?"

"Neither," I blushed, mumbling a hurried apology to Angie.

"What then?" she murmured, leaning over and nuzzling my neck while her fingers slid into my pants. "Are you imagining me inside a Dispatcher?"

I couldn't deny it. The problem is that Janice reads me like a book. Sometimes she catches me thinking about work and in the middle of a wet dream, and that's when Janice reminds me that I'm being disloyal.

"Well as long as it doesn't happen again," she declares, at which Angie throws me a glare of contempt, because she sees me at work when I'm dispatching a client and she's as unforgiving as hell.

According to Angie, I'm the antithesis of perfection. According to her I'm evil, I'm the Devil, Hitler, Saddam and Pol Pot and Osama rolled into one.

On the other hand, I don't take her to my culls without reason. I take her because she's a minx and has spunk. She wears leather tops that criss-cross her boobs while leaving them uncovered and exposed. "You can't go out like that!" I shout as a right-minded parent does when seeing his teenage daughter essentially half naked – although I'm not a right minded parent.

"Like what, daddy?" she returns playfully, placing her hands on her hips.

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