The Life Lottery [1-10] new chaper 10
Posted: Fri Sep 05, 2025 11:57 am
## Chapter 1
The city hummed with quiet efficiency, its streets lined with sleek electric transports that glided past towering glass buildings. Digital billboards flickered with government announcements—reminders of civic duty, public health alerts, and the ever-present countdown to the next Life Lottery draw. The air carried the faint metallic tang of urban life, mixed with the sterile scent of disinfectant from the automated cleaning drones that patrolled the sidewalks.
Inside CodeNexus, the office buzzed with the low murmur of keyboards and the occasional burst of laughter from the break area. Anna sat at her desk, fingers moving swiftly across her mechanical keyboard, the rhythmic clatter blending into the background noise. Her monitors displayed streams of code, her focus absolute. A notification blinked on her wristband—another reminder about the quarterly health screening—but she dismissed it with a flick of her wrist. Not today.
Her desk was a controlled space: a single framed photo of her parents, a small potted succulent, and a neatly stacked row of programming manuals. No clutter, no distractions. Just the way she liked it.
"Hey, Anna." A voice cut through her concentration. She glanced up to see Mark, one of the front-end devs, leaning against her cubicle wall. His grin was easy, his posture relaxed—everything she wasn’t.
"Yes?" Her voice sounded softer than she intended.
"Team lunch is in twenty minutes. Are you with us?
She hesitated, her fingers reaching for the keyboard. - I have a deadline.
Mark shrugged his shoulders. - As you wish. But you're missing out on the best sushi in the area.
She didn’t watch him walk away. Instead, she turned back to her screen, the glow casting shadows across her face. Socializing was a variable she couldn’t debug, a system with too many unknown inputs.
Her Wristband vibrated again, this time giving her the news. The latest birth rate statistics appeared on the screen: the birth rate decreased by 1.2% this quarter. Representatives of the National Fertility Committee urge citizens to "reflect on their civic responsibility." She waved them away.
The government had been pushing the Life Lottery hard these past few years. Posters in the metro, ads before streaming content, even mandatory seminars at work. "Secure the future. Participate with pride." As if pride had anything to do with it.
Anna exhaled, adjusting her headphones. The world outside her code was loud, unpredictable. But here, in the logic of functions and loops, she could predict every outcome. No surprises. No strangers.
And for now, that was enough.
## Chapter 2
The government notification light pulsed on Anna's wristband, causing her heart to race. She froze in the middle of the kitchen of her small apartment, holding a spoon over a portion of dinner.
Not today. Please, not today.
The message hung in the air as she reluctantly raised her wrist, and the holographic text became crystal clear: "NATIONAL REPRODUCTIVE INITIATIVE LOTTERY OF LIFE: NOTIFICATION OF INCLUSION IN THE PROGRAM."
Anna's hands began to shake. She gripped the countertop, and her carefully organized morning routine shattered. Outside the window, the cityscape of 2135 shone with glass and metal — solar panels caught the morning light, drones delivered goods between buildings, everything was in its place. The same as her life had been up to this point.
The notice went on to say, ruthless in its bureaucratic precision: "Citizen Identification number 7842913-A, your genetic profile has been selected to participate in the Life lottery this quarter. Within 48 hours, contact the center of the National Commission for the Supervision of the Reproductive System designated by you for primary treatment."
The spoon clattered to the floor. Anna's breathing quickened to short, shallow breaths. The walls of her apartment, her refuge from the world of unpredictable human interactions, suddenly seemed to close around her.
It has been three years since the lottery "Life" was held, and she has watched the birth rate rise in quarterly government broadcasts. She saw propaganda posters glorifying the "national duty" of the participants. She even drove past the NROC building in the city center with its white clinic facade and security guards in blue uniforms.
But she never thought it would be her.
An automatic message beeped on her wristband.: "Registration at the designated centre was set for 09:00 tomorrow. Failure to comply with this requirement will result in immediate legal consequences, as specified in section 12 of the National Law on Emergency Reproductive Situations."
Anna sat motionless in her chair, staring into space. The carefully built barriers she had built around her life—remote work, regular grocery deliveries, minimal social contacts—were now useless against the government algorithm that had selected her name from the database.
Today, she is scheduled to report to the office of the NATIONAL REPRODUCTIVE INITIATIVE to participate in a program aimed at saving the nation's future. Which consisted of having sex with any man participating in the program at his request for fertilization.
For Anna, it might as well have been a death sentence.
* * *
Anna’s fingers fumbled against her wristband, missing the contact twice before finally connecting to Megan. Her friend answered on the second ring.
"Hey you! I was just about to text—"
"I've been selected." Anna's voice cracked, the words barely audible.
"Selected for what? That promotion you were—"
"The Lottery." Anna curled tighter into herself, knees pressed against her chest. "They just notified me. I have to report tomorrow."
A moment of stunned silence fell between them. Then came the sound of movement, a door closing.
"I'm coming down right now." Megan's voice had shifted, all playfulness gone.
Within minutes, Anna's apartment door flew open. Megan found her still huddled on the kitchen floor, the abandoned breakfast congealing in the pan. Without a word, Megan knelt and pulled her into a tight embrace.
"I can't do this," Anna whispered against Megan's shoulder, her words trembling. "Being forced into intimacy with people I don’t know—it’s unbearable." She choked back the rest, the horror of enforced connection too overwhelming to articulate.
Megan pulled back, holding Anna by the shoulders. "Listen to me. We'll figure something out. Maybe there's a medical exemption we could—"
"They've already reviewed my file." Anna shook her head frantically. "They wouldn't have selected me if I qualified for exemption. I need to get out of this. There has to be a way."
Megan's expression darkened. "Anna, you can't just refuse."
"Why not? What if I just... don't go?" The desperation in Anna's voice was palpable.
"Because it's prison if you don't." Megan squeezed her shoulders gently. "Any method of avoiding the Lottery is illegal now. Remember Elise from my office? Her cousin tried to fake a medical condition. Three years in a federal facility."
"But I—"
"And that programmer from the downtown hub who tried to hack his way out? Five years." Megan's voice was gentle but firm. "The system is designed so you can't say no, Anna. It's awful and it's unfair, but trying to escape it will only make things worse."
Anna closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Megan made her way to Anna's kitchen, filling the kettle with practiced familiarity. Anna remained on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, watching as her friend moved through the familiar routine of tea-making. The ritual that normally brought comfort felt hollow now, but she accepted the steaming mug with trembling hands.
"Maybe it won't be as bad as you're imagining," Megan offered, settling beside Anna on the couch where they'd migrated. "The support programs are supposed to be quite comprehensive."
Anna's laugh was brittle. "Comprehensive? They can offer all the counseling in the world, but it doesn't change what they're forcing me to do." She stared into her tea, watching ripples form from her shaking hands. "My body isn't state property."
"I know, I know." Megan's voice softened. "It's barbaric. But people have gotten through it. Remember Tanya from accounting? She was selected last year, and she's back at work now."
"Tanya is extroverted and confident," Anna countered. "She probably walked into that center like she owned it. I can barely handle a team meeting at CodeNexus."
Their conversation stretched deep into the night. Megan suggested coping mechanisms, shared stories of others who'd survived the Lottery, even attempted jokes that fell flat against the weight of Anna's despair. Nothing penetrated the cloud of dread that had enveloped her.
As darkness settled outside, Megan reluctantly stood to leave. "I'll come by in the morning. We'll go together."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm coming with you," Megan said firmly. "That's non-negotiable."
After the door closed behind her friend, Anna moved mechanically through her evening routine. She brushed her teeth, changed into pajamas, and lay down in bed. But sleep remained impossibly distant.
Her ceiling became a blank canvas for her racing thoughts. What would tomorrow bring? Strangers examining her, evaluating her, planning how best to use her body for the "greater good." Her wristband pinged with a reminder notification about her appointment, making her flinch in the darkness.
Hours passed. Two in the morning. Three. Four. The city's distant hum provided a soundtrack to her spiraling fears. Each time she closed her eyes, images of sterile examination rooms and faceless men invaded her mind, snapping them open again.
By dawn, Anna hadn't slept at all. She remained motionless, staring upward, her mind cycling through the same terrible scenarios as the first hints of morning light crept around her curtains.
## Chapter 3
The morning light filtered through Anna's bedroom window as she stood before her closet, staring blankly at the hanging clothes. Her fingers traced the edge of a navy skirt—professional, modest, a garment that normally helped her feel protected in the outside world. Today, it felt like flimsy armor against what awaited her.
"That one's perfect," Megan said from the doorway, two travel mugs of coffee in hand. She'd let herself in with her spare key after Anna hadn't answered her texts. "Professional but comfortable."
Anna nodded mechanically, pulling the skirt from its hanger. She paired it with a crisp white blouse, the one she typically reserved for important client meetings at CodeNexus. Her fingers fumbled with the small buttons.
"Here, let me help." Megan set the coffees down and gently took over, fastening the remaining buttons with steady hands. "You look put-together. That's good—shows them you're taking this seriously."
"Like I have a choice," Anna whispered, voice rough from her sleepless night.
Megan squeezed her shoulders. "I know. But looking competent might mean they treat you with more respect." She handed Anna one of the travel mugs. "Vanilla latte. Extra shot. You need it."
Anna's apartment, normally her sanctuary, felt suffocating as they prepared to leave. She moved through familiar motions—locking windows, checking appliances—while her mind remained disconnected from her body.
At the door, she froze, hand on the knob.
"I can't do this."
"You can," Megan said firmly. "And you will. One step at a time."
The elevator ride down was silent. Anna's wristband vibrated again—another reminder from NROC about her appointment. She flinched, nearly spilling her coffee.
""Just eight blocks. Thirty minutes on foot."" Megan said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. "We'll walk. Fresh air will help."
People rushed past them on the busy morning streets, completely unaware of Anna's inner turmoil. How many had received the same notification? How many had stood frozen in their apartments, contemplating the impossibility of what lay ahead?
The NROC building loomed in the distance, its glass facade gleaming in the morning sun. With each step, Anna felt the weight in her chest grow heavier.
"I'll be with you the whole time," Megan promised, linking their arms together. "Whatever happens in there, you're not facing it alone."
* * *
As they approached the NROC building's entrance, Anna's steps slowed to a crawl. The automatic glass doors parted, releasing a blast of climate-controlled air that smelled of antiseptic and artificial lemon—like a hospital pretending to be something else. The lobby stretched before them, all sleek lines and minimal decoration, with a circular reception desk at its center.
"I'm right beside you," Megan whispered, guiding Anna forward with gentle pressure against her elbow.
The receptionist, a woman with a perfect bob and a practiced smile, looked up from her screen. Her grey uniform bore the NROC insignia—a stylized seedling emerging from cupped hands. "Good morning. How may I assist you?"
Anna's throat constricted. The words wouldn't come.
"She has an appointment," Megan stepped in. "Anna Petrova. For the initial assessment."
The receptionist's fingers danced across her keyboard. Her expression remained neutral, but something in her eyes softened slightly. "Yes, I see your registration here, Ms. Petrova. Please verify your identity on the scanner."
Anna pressed her trembling hand against the glowing panel. Her wristband vibrated in confirmation.
"Thank you." The receptionist gestured toward a hallway to the right. "Dr. Levine will see you in Room 204. It's the third door on your left."
Megan squeezed Anna's hand. "See? Not so bad. Let's go find Room 204."
They had barely taken three steps when another staff member intercepted them—a broad-shouldered man with a tablet and the same gray uniform.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice professionally courteous but firm. "Only lottery participants are permitted beyond this point."
Megan straightened her spine. "I'm her support person."
"Support personnel are only permitted for later stages of the process. Initial assessments are private." His tone left no room for negotiation.
Anna's eyes widened in panic. The coffee threatened to rise back up her throat.
"It's okay, Anna," Megan said quickly, though her face betrayed her concern. "I'll be right here in the lobby when you're done. Text me if you need anything."
Anna nodded mutely, watching her friend retreat to a seating area by the windows. Each step down the sterile hallway felt like walking deeper into a trap. Room 204 loomed ahead, its frosted glass door slightly ajar.
With a shaking hand, she pushed it open and stepped inside.
* * *
The room contained a single desk with two chairs, bathed in light from recessed ceiling panels. A woman in a white coat looked up from her tablet, her silver-framed glasses reflecting the screen's glow.
"Ms. Petrova? I'm Dr. Levine." She gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit down."
Anna lowered herself into the chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking. Every nerve in her body seemed to pick up the way her blouse shifted against her skin.
"I understand this process can be intimidating," Dr. Levine said, her voice clinical but not unkind. "We'll start with some basic questions and then proceed to the physical assessment." Her fingers swiped across her tablet. "Your file indicates no major health concerns, is that correct?"
Anna nodded, then realized a verbal response was expected. "Yes."
"Good." Dr. Levine continued through a series of standard health questions—allergies, family medical history, previous surgeries—while Anna responded in single words whenever possible.
Then came the question Anna had been dreading.
"Are you currently using any form of contraception?"
Anna’s fingers twisted together in her lap, the knuckles whitening. The question had been coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer.
*"I have an IUD,"* she admitted, her voice barely audible. A flush crept up her neck as she added, *"I got it after... after a bad experience."* The words tasted bitter. She hadn’t told anyone—not even her closest colleagues—about the brief, disastrous relationship in her second year of university. The way he’d pressured her, the way she’d given in just to make the arguing stop, only to regret it immediately. The IUD had been her way of ensuring *never again*. A physical barrier, a guarantee of control.
Now, even that was being taken from her.
Dr. Levine made a note on her tablet. "How long has it been in place?"
"Three years."
"I see." Dr. Levine set down her tablet and looked directly at Anna. "As you're aware, all fertility barriers must be removed for lottery participants. We'll need to remove the IUD today."
The clinical words landed like heavy stones. This was real. This was happening.
"You'll need to proceed to Room 206 for the procedure," Dr. Levine continued. "Dr. Kwan will handle the removal and conduct a more thorough reproductive health assessment."
Anna stared at the floor, at the immaculate white tiles with their faint blue specks. The reality of her situation crashed over her in waves. Her carefully constructed life—her routines, her boundaries, her control—was being dismantled step by step.
"Ms. Petrova?" Dr. Levine prompted. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," Anna managed, though her voice cracked on the single syllable.
Dr. Levine's expression softened slightly. "The physical removal is quick and generally causes only minor discomfort. You'll receive detailed information about the next steps in the program afterward."
Anna rose from her chair, legs unsteady. With each step toward Room 206, the weight in her chest grew heavier. The hallway stretched before her like a tunnel without end.
Inside Room 206, Dr. Kwan was efficient and professional. The IUD removal was quick as promised, though the cramping pain felt like a physical manifestation of her dread. Anna stared at the ceiling through the whole procedure, counting the acoustic tiles as tears silently tracked down into her hair.
After it was done, Dr. Kwan performed a thorough examination, explaining each step in a detached voice that barely penetrated Anna's consciousness. Blood samples were taken, ultrasounds performed, measurements recorded.
"Your reproductive system appears healthy," Dr. Kwan concluded, removing her gloves with a snap. She made a final note on her tablet. "Please proceed to Room 208 for your program orientation."
Anna pulled her clothing back into place, feeling exposed despite being fully dressed. The barrier that had given her peace of mind for years was gone. Her body no longer felt like her own.
As she stepped toward the door to Room 208, Anna realized this was just the beginning of her nightmare. The life she had carefully built around her own terms was over.
* * *
Room 208 was smaller than the others. A middle-aged woman with a severe bun waited behind a metal desk, a small black case beside her. Her NROC badge read "Compliance Officer Morton."
"Sit," she commanded without looking up from her documents.
Anna sank into the chair, exhaustion making her limbs heavy. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile room.
Officer Morton opened the black case and removed what looked like a sleek metallic collar. The device gleamed under the lights, its polished surface interrupted only by a small touchscreen interface and an LED indicator currently unlit.
"This is your compliance collar," Morton stated, holding it up. "All program participants are required to wear it at all times. Attempting to remove it will result in an immediate pain response and notification to authorities."
Anna's throat constricted. "Pain response?"
"A neural shock that increases in intensity with each attempt." Morton's voice remained flat. "The collar monitors your vital signs and fertility indicators. The LED will show green during your fertile periods and red during menstruation or non-fertile days."
She handed Anna the collar. It was heavier than it looked, the metal cool against her trembling fingers.
"Put it on."
Anna hesitated, the collar feeling like a physical manifestation of her new reality. With shaking hands, she placed it around her neck. The moment the ends connected, there was a soft click, and the device tightened slightly, conforming perfectly to her neck. The LED blinked once before settling on a steady green light.
"The touchscreen interface allows for program communications and compliance verification," Morton continued, demonstrating with clinical efficiency. "Now, I will review the "life program" requirements."
She retrieved a tablet and began reading in a monotone voice. "Requirement one: You must engage in at least one sexual act weekly until pregnancy is confirmed."
Each word hammered into Anna like a nail. Her carefully constructed world of minimal human contact was being systematically dismantled.
"Requirement two: Use of any contraceptive methods is strictly prohibited."
"Requirement three: You must present yourself for random contraceptive compliance checks when summoned by NROC."
Anna's fingers unconsciously moved to her abdomen, where the ghost of her IUD still seemed to linger.
"Requirement four: In public areas, you must don attire intended to draw male interest. Suitable clothing guidelines will be transmitted to your wristband. This will be monitored by police and center personnel."
The thought of deliberately drawing eyes to herself made Anna's skin crawl. She'd spent years perfecting the art of blending into backgrounds.
"Requirement five: Private transportation is forbidden. You will use public transportation exclusively."
Anna pictured the crowded pods, the packed subway trains, bodies pressed against hers. The anxiety tightened her chest.
"Requirement six: While at work, unless specific occupational clothing is required, you must remain unclothed."
A strangled sound escaped Anna's throat. Her safe space—her office, her code, her carefully maintained professional distance—violated.
"Requirement seven: You must view the National Fertility Channel for one hour each day. Authentication demands touching your collar when indicated on screen. During viewing, self-stimulation is required and if orgasm is not achieved within the hour, you must continue watching"
Morton set down her tablet. "Do you understand these requirements?"
The collar felt like it was tightening, though Anna knew it hadn't moved. The green light pulsed steadily, a constant reminder of her new purpose.
"Failure to comply with any requirement will result in immediate penalties, including fines, extended service, or imprisonment," Morton added. "The program has a 98% compliance rate. I suggest you contribute to that statistic."
Anna nodded numbly, her mind already calculating impossible escape scenarios.
"Your participation begins immediately," Morton said, closing her folder. "Report to Processing for your approved wardrobe and transportation pass."
* * *
Processing turned out to be a small room with bright lights and mirrored walls. A stern-faced woman with tightly cropped hair waited inside, clipboard in hand. Without a word, she handed Anna a transit pass with her photo already printed on it.
"Standard clothing inspection," the woman announced, circling Anna with critical eyes. "Remove your undergarments."
Anna froze. "Here? Now?"
"Requirement four: attire intended to draw male interest." The woman's voice was mechanical, rehearsed. "Compliance begins immediately."
With trembling fingers, Anna reached behind her back, unhooked her bra beneath her blouse, and pulled it through her sleeve—a maneuver perfected in college dorms. The woman held out a plastic bag, and Anna dropped the simple cotton bra inside.
"Рanties too."
Heat crawled up Anna's neck as she reached under her skirt, hooking her thumbs into her panties and sliding them down her legs. She stepped out of them one foot at a time, nearly losing her balance in the process. The woman added them to the bag without comment.
The woman then produced a pair of scissors from her desk. "Stand still."
Cold metal brushed against Anna's collarbone as the woman began snipping the top buttons of her blouse. One by one they fell, pinging against the floor until Anna's blouse gaped open, exposing the inner curves of her breasts. Each snip felt like a violation, her last protection being methodically removed.
"Turn around," the woman ordered, kneeling down.
Anna felt the cold scissors against her thighs as the woman shortened her skirt, fabric falling away until it barely covered her bottom. The final indignity came when the woman cut a wedge from the front of the skirt—a triangular opening that started narrow at her waist and widened toward the hem.
"Walk to the door and back," the woman instructed, stepping away to assess her work.
Anna took a hesitant step forward. The shortened skirt rode up with each movement, the wedge opening like a curtain. Every step exposed flashes of her now-bare skin beneath. The mirrors reflected her humiliation from all angles—her half-exposed breasts, her thighs, glimpses of what should have remained private.
The woman frowned, clearly unsatisfied with Anna's appearance. She stepped forward, tugging the blouse upward and out of the skirt's waistband with rough efficiency.
"Too modest still," she muttered, adjusting the fabric to hang looser around Anna's torso. "Bend forward."
When Anna complied, her blouse gaped open, exposing her breasts almost entirely. The woman nodded with clinical approval before kneeling again with her scissors. Metal flashed as she extended the wedge cut in the skirt, the blade moving higher and wider.
"Walk again."
Anna's legs trembled as she took her first step. The modified skirt now betrayed her completely—with each normal stride, her labia were clearly visible, making her feel impossibly naked despite still wearing clothes. The mirrors reflected her exposure from every angle, multiplying her humiliation.
"Satisfactory," the woman declared after Anna's second walk across the room. She returned to her desk, adding a final note to her clipboard. "You may go now."
Anna stood frozen, arms crossed protectively over her chest.
"Welcome to the program," the woman said without looking up, her voice as detached and clinical as her hands had been during the examination. Her pen scratched across the clipboard with meticulous precision. "Remember—you're performing a vital service to your country. The demographic crisis won't solve itself."
She glanced briefly at her terminal before continuing, her expression remaining coolly professional. "I should also inform you that today is considered your adjustment day—a reprieve, if you will. Tomorrow, however, you're expected to report to work as usual. Your supervisors have already been notified of your selection status." She tapped something on her screen, the blue light reflecting off her glasses. "The NROC has a strict policy about maintaining participants' regular routines whenever possible. The collar's monitoring functions work best when following established patterns of behavior."
The woman finally looked up, her eyes traveling dispassionately over Anna's modified clothing and exposed skin as though mentally confirming her handiwork met regulations. "Your employer has received all necessary documentation regarding your new obligations. Any schedule adjustments will be coordinated through them directly."
* * *
Anna descended the elevator, her fingers tugging futilely at her decimated clothing. Each step sent a rush of cool air against newly exposed skin, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. The collar felt heavy around her neck, its presence impossible to ignore.
In the lobby, Margaret waited, scrolling through her waistband with apparent concentration. She looked up as Anna approached, her eyes widening momentarily before she forced her expression into careful neutrality.
"Oh," Margaret said, her voice artificially light. "You're... all done then?"
Anna crossed her arms over her chest, painfully aware of how the movement only emphasized the gap in her blouse. A man crossing the lobby slowed his pace, his gaze lingering on her exposed thighs. The shame burned hotter than her anger.
"We can go home now," Anna whispered, unable to meet Margaret's eyes.
Margaret nodded quickly, fumbling with her waistband. "I'll call a taxi. We'll be home in few minutes."
"No," Anna said, the word sharp with defeat. "I can't. According to the rules, I'm only allowed to use public transportation now."
Margaret's fingers froze over her wristband. "Public transport? But that's—"
"Deliberate," Anna finished, bitterness coating each syllable. "Like everything else about this program."
Outside, the afternoon sun felt like a spotlight on Anna's exposed skin. A gust of wind caught her skirt, lifting the cut fabric higher. She clutched desperately at the hem, feeling the eyes of passersby burning into her.
The pod stop stood a block away, crowded with the afternoon commuters. Each step toward it felt like walking deeper into a nightmare. A group of young men noticed her approach, their conversation dying as they tracked her movement.
"Are you sure we can't just—" Margaret started.
"I'm sure." Anna cut her off, her voice tight. "The collar monitors everything. Including transportation methods."
Margaret squeezed Anna's hand briefly before they joined the crowd. Anna kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, counting the cracks in the concrete, willing herself to become invisible despite the clothing designed to make that impossible.
The pod arrived packed with commuters, leaving Anna and Margaret to squeeze into the center aisle. As the doors closed, the vehicle lurched forward, throwing Anna against a tall man in a business suit. His hand steadied her with a grip that lingered too long on her waist.
"Sorry," Anna mumbled, trying to create distance, but the press of bodies made it impossible.
The man's eyes drifted to her collar, and his expression changed. Recognition, then something predatory flashed across his face. He shifted closer, deliberately pressing against her as the bus swayed.
Anna stared straight ahead, focusing on her breathing. The bus hit a pothole, and the man's hand "accidentally" brushed against her exposed thigh. She jerked away instinctively, bumping into Margaret.
"You okay?" Margaret whispered, noticing Anna's rigid posture.
Before Anna could answer, a second man moved behind her, his presence announced by the unmistakable pressure against the small of her back. Fingers trailed along the tear in her blouse, slipping beneath the fabric.
Anna's muscles tensed. She tried to step away, but there was nowhere to go in the crowded bus. The first man's hand found her breast, squeezing roughly under the guise of maintaining balance during a sharp turn.
"Stop," Anna hissed, twisting away.
The man leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. "You're wearing the collar. Everyone can see what you are." His voice dropped lower. "If you keep being difficult, I'll call the police. Shall I do that? Report you for refusing to fulfill your civic duty?"
Margaret pushed forward, wedging herself partially between Anna and the man. "Leave her alone," she said, voice tight but controlled.
"Mind your own business," the man replied, not bothering to look at Margaret. "This one belongs to the program. It's her job now."
The second man's fingers slid under Anna's skirt, exploring the newly exposed skin of her thigh. Anna's breath came in short gasps, her mind racing between humiliation and fear. The collar felt like it was tightening around her throat, a constant reminder that her body was no longer hers to defend.
"Three more stops," Margaret murmured, squeezing Anna's hand. "Just three more."
Anna closed her eyes, retreating inside herself as hands continued their exploration. She focused on the mechanics of breathing—in, out, in, out—as strangers took liberties with her body. When fingers pushed under the elastic of her skirt, she bit her lip until she tasted blood.
By the time they reached their stop, Anna's legs were trembling. Margaret pulled her through the doors, keeping a protective arm around her shoulders as they hurried down the street toward their apartment building.
"I'm so sorry," Margaret said once they were safely in the elevator. "I should have done something more."
Anna shook her head, unable to form words. Her skin crawled with phantom touches, her body no longer feeling like her own. The humiliation burned deeper than the physical violations—the public assertion that she was now public property, available for use.
Once inside Anna's apartment, Margaret immediately took charge, drawing the blinds and turning on soft lamps rather than the harsh overhead lights.
"You sit," she said, gently guiding Anna to the couch. "I'll make something to eat."
Anna sank into the familiar cushions, wrapping herself in the throw blanket that always lay folded on the armrest. The fabric created a cocoon around her shoulders, hiding the remnants of her tattered clothing. She sat motionless, listening to Margaret move around her kitchen, opening cabinets and running water.
"Your cupboards are organized like a pharmacy," Margaret called, her voice deliberately light. "Only you would alphabetize your spices."
Anna didn't respond. The hands from the bus still crawled over her skin, invisible but persistent. She rubbed her arms beneath the blanket, trying to erase the sensation.
Margaret returned with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea and set them on the coffee table. "Dinner in ten minutes. Nothing fancy, just pasta with that jar sauce you like."
When the food appeared—simple pasta with tomato sauce and a sprinkle of parmesan—Anna tried to eat but found each bite difficult to swallow. Margaret filled the silence with gentle chatter about inconsequential things: a new café opening down the street, a documentary she'd watched last weekend, the neighbor's cat that kept trying to break into her apartment.
"You don't have to pretend everything's normal," Anna finally whispered, setting down her half-eaten plate.
Margaret's shoulders slumped. "I know. I just... I don't know what to say that would help."
"There's nothing to say." Anna touched her collar, its smooth surface a constant reminder. "This is my life now."
They moved to the couch with fresh tea, sitting in silence as the digital clock on Anna's shelf edged toward midnight. The tea grew cold in Anna's hands.
"I should stay tonight," Margaret said eventually. "You shouldn't be alone."
Anna shook her head. "I need to... process this. By myself."
Margaret hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Promise you'll call if you need anything? Any time, even if it's three in the morning."
"I promise."
After Margaret left, Anna locked the door and leaned against it. The apartment felt both like a sanctuary and a prison. She was safe from prying eyes and grasping hands, but the collar remained, binding her to what awaited tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after.
* * *
Anna had just settled into her bedroom when she remembered the mandatory viewing requirement. Her collar would track compliance, and skipping it wasn't an option. With trembling hands, she reached for the remote and turned on the National Fertility Channel.
End credits scrolled across the screen from the previous program before the next one began. Anna sat rigid on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped protectively around herself.
The scene opened on a young woman in a bright apartment, rifling through a colorful wardrobe with exaggerated enthusiasm. The woman's expression was one of manufactured delight as she pushed aside modest clothing options. Anna's stomach tightened as the woman finally selected what could barely be called an outfit – a micro-mini skirt that would cover nothing when sitting and a flimsy top that clung to her breasts, revealing their shape completely.
"Time to show the world what I've got!" the actress announced to the camera with a wink.
Anna watched in horrified silence as the woman applied makeup with theatrical flourishes – heavy eyeliner, excessive mascara, and bright red lipstick that she applied while making suggestive faces at her reflection.
"Perfect!" the woman declared, blowing a kiss to herself.
The scene shifted to a sunny park where the woman strutted along a path, drawing exaggerated stares from male actors. The camera lingered on her bouncing breasts and barely-covered thighs as she walked.
Finding an empty bench, she sat down with a performative sigh of contentment. Then, looking directly at the camera with practiced seduction, she slowly spread her legs wide apart.
Anna felt bile rising in her throat as the camera angle shifted lower, capturing how the woman's skirt rode up, revealing she wore nothing underneath. The woman's expression suggested this exposure was bringing her immense pleasure.
The final indignity came when the actress removed one shoe and placed her bare foot on the bench, tilting her hips forward to further expose herself to any passersby.
Anna's finger hovered over the power button before she remembered the collar's monitoring function. The screen flashed with a notification: "Authentication required. Touch collar now."
Anna pressed the button on her collar, and a new message immediately flashed across the screen: "REMINDER: Self-stimulation required during viewing." Cold sweat broke out across her skin. Her hand trembled as she lowered it between her legs, mechanically beginning to rub her clitoris while her mind screamed in protest.
On screen, a man approached the woman on the bench. He pulled out an identification card, flashing it with practiced confidence. "Life Lottery Participant," he announced, his voice unnecessarily loud for the park setting.
The woman's eyes widened with theatrical delight. "Oh! How perfect!" She stood, turned to face the bench, and bent forward at the waist, bracing herself against the wooden slats. Her skirt rode up completely, leaving her fully exposed. The camera lingered on her face as she looked back over her shoulder. "I've been waiting for someone like you!"
The man unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The camera panned across his predatory smile before cutting to a wider angle showing him positioning himself behind the woman.
Anna's hand froze above her clitoris as she watched in horror. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, her entire body rigid with revulsion. The actors' exaggerated moans filled her bedroom, bouncing off the walls of her sanctuary. The woman's face contorted in what was meant to look like ecstasy as she repeatedly thanked the man for "fulfilling his national duty."
Midway through the act, the screen flashed again: "Authentication required. Touch collar now. Continue self-stimulation."
Anna's finger jabbed at her collar while tears formed in her eyes. She forced her other hand to resume its mechanical motion, feeling nothing but disgust and violation. This wasn't arousal—it was coercion. Her body wasn't responding to the grotesque display, but the program didn't care. It only monitored compliance, not pleasure.
The actors continued their performance as Anna sat there, trapped in her own home, forced to participate in a ritual that made her skin crawl. The hour stretched before her like an eternity.
As the previous film ended, the channel seamlessly transitioned to a new program. The title appeared in bright, feminine lettering: "Quick Orgasm Instructions for Beginners." Anna's stomach dropped. It felt deliberately targeted, as if the algorithm had sensed her reluctance and calibrated accordingly.
An enthusiastic young instructor with impossibly perfect hair appeared on screen, sitting on a white bed in a sun-drenched room.
"Welcome, lottery participants!" She beamed at the camera. "Today we'll learn efficient techniques to achieve climax quickly—essential for your daily viewing requirements!"
Anna stared blankly, her hand still making mechanical motions without effect.
"First rule," the instructor announced, slowly removing her robe to reveal her naked body, "we recommend removing all clothing completely. This is so arousing!"
Anna hesitated, glancing at her collar. The authentication notification flashed again. With mechanical movements, she pulled her blouse off, then slipped out of her skirt. The air in her bedroom felt suddenly cold against her exposed skin.
"Turn on all the lights in your room," the instructor continued cheerfully. "And open your curtains wide! Exposing yourself to potential viewers is incredibly stimulating!"
Anna froze. Her bedroom windows faced another apartment building. The thought of being visible sent panic coursing through her body.
The collar beeped in warning. With trembling fingers, she switched on her bedside lamp, then reluctantly approached the window. Each step felt like moving through concrete. She reached for the curtain cord and pulled, watching as her protection disappeared, revealing her naked form to the night beyond. Lights were on in several apartments across the way. Anyone could see her.
"Now lie on your back," the instructor demonstrated, "spread your legs wide, and begin masturbating!"
Tears welling, Anna complied. She positioned herself on the bed facing the window, spreading her legs as instructed. Her hand moved mechanically between her thighs while her mind screamed in protest. She felt like a puppet, her body no longer her own.
Through the tears blurring her vision, she could see the distant shapes of people in the building opposite. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she continued following instructions, trapped in this performance for unseen observers.
"Don't forget," the instructor continued, her voice dripping with artificial enthusiasm, "to not only stimulate your clitoris but also insert your fingers into your vagina. And don't neglect your breasts!"
Anna mechanically followed each instruction, moving her fingers where directed without feeling any pleasure. Her body remained unresponsive, cold despite the exertion. She cupped her breast with her free hand, going through the motions while her mind retreated somewhere far away from this nightmare.
The instructor's face filled the screen, her expression inappropriately intimate. "Now, feel dirty! Get your fingers wet—spit into your palm."
Anna stared blankly at the screen. After a moment's hesitation, she gathered saliva in her mouth and spat weakly into her trembling hand.
"Masturbate with it! Make sure your hand is wet and sticky. Don't be stingy with lubrication!"
On screen, the woman was now moaning theatrically, her head thrown back in performed ecstasy. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she gasped and writhed for the camera. The contrast between the instructor's apparent pleasure and Anna's detached compliance couldn't have been starker.
Anna just stared at the monitor, her eyes glazed and distant. Her body went through the mechanical motions—fingers moving where instructed, palm wet with saliva—but she felt nothing. The physical sensations registered somewhere far below consciousness, while her mind floated above it all, disconnected and numb.
The collar beeped again, demanding another authentication touch. Anna pressed it without shifting her vacant gaze from the screen. The hour wasn't even half complete.
In the apartment across from hers, a shadow moved behind a window. Someone was watching. Anna registered this fact with the same detached awareness as everything else. It no longer mattered. Nothing mattered except enduring until the mandatory viewing period ended.
Her fingers continued their prescribed patterns, her body responding to commands but not to touch. The instructor's voice faded to background noise as Anna retreated further into herself, finding the only escape available to her—the quiet, empty space behind her eyes where no one, not even the government, could follow.
Finally, the film concluded, but Anna hadn't achieved climax. Her fingers had grown numb, moving without purpose or pleasure. The instructor's voice had faded into white noise, her enthusiastic demonstrations nothing but distant pantomime on the screen.
With trembling hands, Anna reached for the remote and pressed the power button. The screen went black, leaving her bedroom in near darkness, illuminated only by the bedside lamp and the distant lights from the building across the way. The absence of the program's constant noise created a sudden, hollow silence.
A sob escaped her throat, then another. Tears that had been building throughout the hour now flowed freely down her cheeks. Anna curled onto her side, drawing her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible. Her naked body shivered despite the room's warmth.
She didn't bother closing the curtains. What difference did it make now? The violation had already occurred, witnessed by strangers across the way. Her privacy, like her autonomy, had been stripped away by government mandate.
The collar around her neck felt heavier than before, its weight a constant reminder of her new reality. Its small light blinked in the dimness, monitoring her even now. Would they know she hadn't climaxed? Would there be punishment for that failure?
Anna reached for the blanket and pulled it over herself, seeking some protection against the exposure she'd been forced to endure. The soft fabric against her skin offered little comfort. Her body still felt foreign to her, commandeered for purposes not her own.
Her pillow grew damp with tears as she buried her face against it. The sobs gradually quieted, replaced by irregular, shuddering breaths. Exhaustion washed over her in heavy waves. The mental effort of enduring the mandatory viewing, coupled with the emotional trauma of the day, had drained her completely.
As her eyes grew heavy, Anna's consciousness began to drift. The boundaries between wakefulness and sleep blurred, each thought becoming more disjointed than the last. In this liminal space, her mind sought escape from the day's horrors, reaching for the oblivion of sleep.
Her breathing slowed. The tears on her cheeks dried in salty tracks. Anna slipped into unconsciousness, her body finally finding the one temporary refuge still available to her—the forgetfulness of dreams.
The city hummed with quiet efficiency, its streets lined with sleek electric transports that glided past towering glass buildings. Digital billboards flickered with government announcements—reminders of civic duty, public health alerts, and the ever-present countdown to the next Life Lottery draw. The air carried the faint metallic tang of urban life, mixed with the sterile scent of disinfectant from the automated cleaning drones that patrolled the sidewalks.
Inside CodeNexus, the office buzzed with the low murmur of keyboards and the occasional burst of laughter from the break area. Anna sat at her desk, fingers moving swiftly across her mechanical keyboard, the rhythmic clatter blending into the background noise. Her monitors displayed streams of code, her focus absolute. A notification blinked on her wristband—another reminder about the quarterly health screening—but she dismissed it with a flick of her wrist. Not today.
Her desk was a controlled space: a single framed photo of her parents, a small potted succulent, and a neatly stacked row of programming manuals. No clutter, no distractions. Just the way she liked it.
"Hey, Anna." A voice cut through her concentration. She glanced up to see Mark, one of the front-end devs, leaning against her cubicle wall. His grin was easy, his posture relaxed—everything she wasn’t.
"Yes?" Her voice sounded softer than she intended.
"Team lunch is in twenty minutes. Are you with us?
She hesitated, her fingers reaching for the keyboard. - I have a deadline.
Mark shrugged his shoulders. - As you wish. But you're missing out on the best sushi in the area.
She didn’t watch him walk away. Instead, she turned back to her screen, the glow casting shadows across her face. Socializing was a variable she couldn’t debug, a system with too many unknown inputs.
Her Wristband vibrated again, this time giving her the news. The latest birth rate statistics appeared on the screen: the birth rate decreased by 1.2% this quarter. Representatives of the National Fertility Committee urge citizens to "reflect on their civic responsibility." She waved them away.
The government had been pushing the Life Lottery hard these past few years. Posters in the metro, ads before streaming content, even mandatory seminars at work. "Secure the future. Participate with pride." As if pride had anything to do with it.
Anna exhaled, adjusting her headphones. The world outside her code was loud, unpredictable. But here, in the logic of functions and loops, she could predict every outcome. No surprises. No strangers.
And for now, that was enough.
## Chapter 2
The government notification light pulsed on Anna's wristband, causing her heart to race. She froze in the middle of the kitchen of her small apartment, holding a spoon over a portion of dinner.
Not today. Please, not today.
The message hung in the air as she reluctantly raised her wrist, and the holographic text became crystal clear: "NATIONAL REPRODUCTIVE INITIATIVE LOTTERY OF LIFE: NOTIFICATION OF INCLUSION IN THE PROGRAM."
Anna's hands began to shake. She gripped the countertop, and her carefully organized morning routine shattered. Outside the window, the cityscape of 2135 shone with glass and metal — solar panels caught the morning light, drones delivered goods between buildings, everything was in its place. The same as her life had been up to this point.
The notice went on to say, ruthless in its bureaucratic precision: "Citizen Identification number 7842913-A, your genetic profile has been selected to participate in the Life lottery this quarter. Within 48 hours, contact the center of the National Commission for the Supervision of the Reproductive System designated by you for primary treatment."
The spoon clattered to the floor. Anna's breathing quickened to short, shallow breaths. The walls of her apartment, her refuge from the world of unpredictable human interactions, suddenly seemed to close around her.
It has been three years since the lottery "Life" was held, and she has watched the birth rate rise in quarterly government broadcasts. She saw propaganda posters glorifying the "national duty" of the participants. She even drove past the NROC building in the city center with its white clinic facade and security guards in blue uniforms.
But she never thought it would be her.
An automatic message beeped on her wristband.: "Registration at the designated centre was set for 09:00 tomorrow. Failure to comply with this requirement will result in immediate legal consequences, as specified in section 12 of the National Law on Emergency Reproductive Situations."
Anna sat motionless in her chair, staring into space. The carefully built barriers she had built around her life—remote work, regular grocery deliveries, minimal social contacts—were now useless against the government algorithm that had selected her name from the database.
Today, she is scheduled to report to the office of the NATIONAL REPRODUCTIVE INITIATIVE to participate in a program aimed at saving the nation's future. Which consisted of having sex with any man participating in the program at his request for fertilization.
For Anna, it might as well have been a death sentence.
* * *
Anna’s fingers fumbled against her wristband, missing the contact twice before finally connecting to Megan. Her friend answered on the second ring.
"Hey you! I was just about to text—"
"I've been selected." Anna's voice cracked, the words barely audible.
"Selected for what? That promotion you were—"
"The Lottery." Anna curled tighter into herself, knees pressed against her chest. "They just notified me. I have to report tomorrow."
A moment of stunned silence fell between them. Then came the sound of movement, a door closing.
"I'm coming down right now." Megan's voice had shifted, all playfulness gone.
Within minutes, Anna's apartment door flew open. Megan found her still huddled on the kitchen floor, the abandoned breakfast congealing in the pan. Without a word, Megan knelt and pulled her into a tight embrace.
"I can't do this," Anna whispered against Megan's shoulder, her words trembling. "Being forced into intimacy with people I don’t know—it’s unbearable." She choked back the rest, the horror of enforced connection too overwhelming to articulate.
Megan pulled back, holding Anna by the shoulders. "Listen to me. We'll figure something out. Maybe there's a medical exemption we could—"
"They've already reviewed my file." Anna shook her head frantically. "They wouldn't have selected me if I qualified for exemption. I need to get out of this. There has to be a way."
Megan's expression darkened. "Anna, you can't just refuse."
"Why not? What if I just... don't go?" The desperation in Anna's voice was palpable.
"Because it's prison if you don't." Megan squeezed her shoulders gently. "Any method of avoiding the Lottery is illegal now. Remember Elise from my office? Her cousin tried to fake a medical condition. Three years in a federal facility."
"But I—"
"And that programmer from the downtown hub who tried to hack his way out? Five years." Megan's voice was gentle but firm. "The system is designed so you can't say no, Anna. It's awful and it's unfair, but trying to escape it will only make things worse."
Anna closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Megan made her way to Anna's kitchen, filling the kettle with practiced familiarity. Anna remained on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, watching as her friend moved through the familiar routine of tea-making. The ritual that normally brought comfort felt hollow now, but she accepted the steaming mug with trembling hands.
"Maybe it won't be as bad as you're imagining," Megan offered, settling beside Anna on the couch where they'd migrated. "The support programs are supposed to be quite comprehensive."
Anna's laugh was brittle. "Comprehensive? They can offer all the counseling in the world, but it doesn't change what they're forcing me to do." She stared into her tea, watching ripples form from her shaking hands. "My body isn't state property."
"I know, I know." Megan's voice softened. "It's barbaric. But people have gotten through it. Remember Tanya from accounting? She was selected last year, and she's back at work now."
"Tanya is extroverted and confident," Anna countered. "She probably walked into that center like she owned it. I can barely handle a team meeting at CodeNexus."
Their conversation stretched deep into the night. Megan suggested coping mechanisms, shared stories of others who'd survived the Lottery, even attempted jokes that fell flat against the weight of Anna's despair. Nothing penetrated the cloud of dread that had enveloped her.
As darkness settled outside, Megan reluctantly stood to leave. "I'll come by in the morning. We'll go together."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm coming with you," Megan said firmly. "That's non-negotiable."
After the door closed behind her friend, Anna moved mechanically through her evening routine. She brushed her teeth, changed into pajamas, and lay down in bed. But sleep remained impossibly distant.
Her ceiling became a blank canvas for her racing thoughts. What would tomorrow bring? Strangers examining her, evaluating her, planning how best to use her body for the "greater good." Her wristband pinged with a reminder notification about her appointment, making her flinch in the darkness.
Hours passed. Two in the morning. Three. Four. The city's distant hum provided a soundtrack to her spiraling fears. Each time she closed her eyes, images of sterile examination rooms and faceless men invaded her mind, snapping them open again.
By dawn, Anna hadn't slept at all. She remained motionless, staring upward, her mind cycling through the same terrible scenarios as the first hints of morning light crept around her curtains.
## Chapter 3
The morning light filtered through Anna's bedroom window as she stood before her closet, staring blankly at the hanging clothes. Her fingers traced the edge of a navy skirt—professional, modest, a garment that normally helped her feel protected in the outside world. Today, it felt like flimsy armor against what awaited her.
"That one's perfect," Megan said from the doorway, two travel mugs of coffee in hand. She'd let herself in with her spare key after Anna hadn't answered her texts. "Professional but comfortable."
Anna nodded mechanically, pulling the skirt from its hanger. She paired it with a crisp white blouse, the one she typically reserved for important client meetings at CodeNexus. Her fingers fumbled with the small buttons.
"Here, let me help." Megan set the coffees down and gently took over, fastening the remaining buttons with steady hands. "You look put-together. That's good—shows them you're taking this seriously."
"Like I have a choice," Anna whispered, voice rough from her sleepless night.
Megan squeezed her shoulders. "I know. But looking competent might mean they treat you with more respect." She handed Anna one of the travel mugs. "Vanilla latte. Extra shot. You need it."
Anna's apartment, normally her sanctuary, felt suffocating as they prepared to leave. She moved through familiar motions—locking windows, checking appliances—while her mind remained disconnected from her body.
At the door, she froze, hand on the knob.
"I can't do this."
"You can," Megan said firmly. "And you will. One step at a time."
The elevator ride down was silent. Anna's wristband vibrated again—another reminder from NROC about her appointment. She flinched, nearly spilling her coffee.
""Just eight blocks. Thirty minutes on foot."" Megan said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. "We'll walk. Fresh air will help."
People rushed past them on the busy morning streets, completely unaware of Anna's inner turmoil. How many had received the same notification? How many had stood frozen in their apartments, contemplating the impossibility of what lay ahead?
The NROC building loomed in the distance, its glass facade gleaming in the morning sun. With each step, Anna felt the weight in her chest grow heavier.
"I'll be with you the whole time," Megan promised, linking their arms together. "Whatever happens in there, you're not facing it alone."
* * *
As they approached the NROC building's entrance, Anna's steps slowed to a crawl. The automatic glass doors parted, releasing a blast of climate-controlled air that smelled of antiseptic and artificial lemon—like a hospital pretending to be something else. The lobby stretched before them, all sleek lines and minimal decoration, with a circular reception desk at its center.
"I'm right beside you," Megan whispered, guiding Anna forward with gentle pressure against her elbow.
The receptionist, a woman with a perfect bob and a practiced smile, looked up from her screen. Her grey uniform bore the NROC insignia—a stylized seedling emerging from cupped hands. "Good morning. How may I assist you?"
Anna's throat constricted. The words wouldn't come.
"She has an appointment," Megan stepped in. "Anna Petrova. For the initial assessment."
The receptionist's fingers danced across her keyboard. Her expression remained neutral, but something in her eyes softened slightly. "Yes, I see your registration here, Ms. Petrova. Please verify your identity on the scanner."
Anna pressed her trembling hand against the glowing panel. Her wristband vibrated in confirmation.
"Thank you." The receptionist gestured toward a hallway to the right. "Dr. Levine will see you in Room 204. It's the third door on your left."
Megan squeezed Anna's hand. "See? Not so bad. Let's go find Room 204."
They had barely taken three steps when another staff member intercepted them—a broad-shouldered man with a tablet and the same gray uniform.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice professionally courteous but firm. "Only lottery participants are permitted beyond this point."
Megan straightened her spine. "I'm her support person."
"Support personnel are only permitted for later stages of the process. Initial assessments are private." His tone left no room for negotiation.
Anna's eyes widened in panic. The coffee threatened to rise back up her throat.
"It's okay, Anna," Megan said quickly, though her face betrayed her concern. "I'll be right here in the lobby when you're done. Text me if you need anything."
Anna nodded mutely, watching her friend retreat to a seating area by the windows. Each step down the sterile hallway felt like walking deeper into a trap. Room 204 loomed ahead, its frosted glass door slightly ajar.
With a shaking hand, she pushed it open and stepped inside.
* * *
The room contained a single desk with two chairs, bathed in light from recessed ceiling panels. A woman in a white coat looked up from her tablet, her silver-framed glasses reflecting the screen's glow.
"Ms. Petrova? I'm Dr. Levine." She gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit down."
Anna lowered herself into the chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking. Every nerve in her body seemed to pick up the way her blouse shifted against her skin.
"I understand this process can be intimidating," Dr. Levine said, her voice clinical but not unkind. "We'll start with some basic questions and then proceed to the physical assessment." Her fingers swiped across her tablet. "Your file indicates no major health concerns, is that correct?"
Anna nodded, then realized a verbal response was expected. "Yes."
"Good." Dr. Levine continued through a series of standard health questions—allergies, family medical history, previous surgeries—while Anna responded in single words whenever possible.
Then came the question Anna had been dreading.
"Are you currently using any form of contraception?"
Anna’s fingers twisted together in her lap, the knuckles whitening. The question had been coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer.
*"I have an IUD,"* she admitted, her voice barely audible. A flush crept up her neck as she added, *"I got it after... after a bad experience."* The words tasted bitter. She hadn’t told anyone—not even her closest colleagues—about the brief, disastrous relationship in her second year of university. The way he’d pressured her, the way she’d given in just to make the arguing stop, only to regret it immediately. The IUD had been her way of ensuring *never again*. A physical barrier, a guarantee of control.
Now, even that was being taken from her.
Dr. Levine made a note on her tablet. "How long has it been in place?"
"Three years."
"I see." Dr. Levine set down her tablet and looked directly at Anna. "As you're aware, all fertility barriers must be removed for lottery participants. We'll need to remove the IUD today."
The clinical words landed like heavy stones. This was real. This was happening.
"You'll need to proceed to Room 206 for the procedure," Dr. Levine continued. "Dr. Kwan will handle the removal and conduct a more thorough reproductive health assessment."
Anna stared at the floor, at the immaculate white tiles with their faint blue specks. The reality of her situation crashed over her in waves. Her carefully constructed life—her routines, her boundaries, her control—was being dismantled step by step.
"Ms. Petrova?" Dr. Levine prompted. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," Anna managed, though her voice cracked on the single syllable.
Dr. Levine's expression softened slightly. "The physical removal is quick and generally causes only minor discomfort. You'll receive detailed information about the next steps in the program afterward."
Anna rose from her chair, legs unsteady. With each step toward Room 206, the weight in her chest grew heavier. The hallway stretched before her like a tunnel without end.
Inside Room 206, Dr. Kwan was efficient and professional. The IUD removal was quick as promised, though the cramping pain felt like a physical manifestation of her dread. Anna stared at the ceiling through the whole procedure, counting the acoustic tiles as tears silently tracked down into her hair.
After it was done, Dr. Kwan performed a thorough examination, explaining each step in a detached voice that barely penetrated Anna's consciousness. Blood samples were taken, ultrasounds performed, measurements recorded.
"Your reproductive system appears healthy," Dr. Kwan concluded, removing her gloves with a snap. She made a final note on her tablet. "Please proceed to Room 208 for your program orientation."
Anna pulled her clothing back into place, feeling exposed despite being fully dressed. The barrier that had given her peace of mind for years was gone. Her body no longer felt like her own.
As she stepped toward the door to Room 208, Anna realized this was just the beginning of her nightmare. The life she had carefully built around her own terms was over.
* * *
Room 208 was smaller than the others. A middle-aged woman with a severe bun waited behind a metal desk, a small black case beside her. Her NROC badge read "Compliance Officer Morton."
"Sit," she commanded without looking up from her documents.
Anna sank into the chair, exhaustion making her limbs heavy. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile room.
Officer Morton opened the black case and removed what looked like a sleek metallic collar. The device gleamed under the lights, its polished surface interrupted only by a small touchscreen interface and an LED indicator currently unlit.
"This is your compliance collar," Morton stated, holding it up. "All program participants are required to wear it at all times. Attempting to remove it will result in an immediate pain response and notification to authorities."
Anna's throat constricted. "Pain response?"
"A neural shock that increases in intensity with each attempt." Morton's voice remained flat. "The collar monitors your vital signs and fertility indicators. The LED will show green during your fertile periods and red during menstruation or non-fertile days."
She handed Anna the collar. It was heavier than it looked, the metal cool against her trembling fingers.
"Put it on."
Anna hesitated, the collar feeling like a physical manifestation of her new reality. With shaking hands, she placed it around her neck. The moment the ends connected, there was a soft click, and the device tightened slightly, conforming perfectly to her neck. The LED blinked once before settling on a steady green light.
"The touchscreen interface allows for program communications and compliance verification," Morton continued, demonstrating with clinical efficiency. "Now, I will review the "life program" requirements."
She retrieved a tablet and began reading in a monotone voice. "Requirement one: You must engage in at least one sexual act weekly until pregnancy is confirmed."
Each word hammered into Anna like a nail. Her carefully constructed world of minimal human contact was being systematically dismantled.
"Requirement two: Use of any contraceptive methods is strictly prohibited."
"Requirement three: You must present yourself for random contraceptive compliance checks when summoned by NROC."
Anna's fingers unconsciously moved to her abdomen, where the ghost of her IUD still seemed to linger.
"Requirement four: In public areas, you must don attire intended to draw male interest. Suitable clothing guidelines will be transmitted to your wristband. This will be monitored by police and center personnel."
The thought of deliberately drawing eyes to herself made Anna's skin crawl. She'd spent years perfecting the art of blending into backgrounds.
"Requirement five: Private transportation is forbidden. You will use public transportation exclusively."
Anna pictured the crowded pods, the packed subway trains, bodies pressed against hers. The anxiety tightened her chest.
"Requirement six: While at work, unless specific occupational clothing is required, you must remain unclothed."
A strangled sound escaped Anna's throat. Her safe space—her office, her code, her carefully maintained professional distance—violated.
"Requirement seven: You must view the National Fertility Channel for one hour each day. Authentication demands touching your collar when indicated on screen. During viewing, self-stimulation is required and if orgasm is not achieved within the hour, you must continue watching"
Morton set down her tablet. "Do you understand these requirements?"
The collar felt like it was tightening, though Anna knew it hadn't moved. The green light pulsed steadily, a constant reminder of her new purpose.
"Failure to comply with any requirement will result in immediate penalties, including fines, extended service, or imprisonment," Morton added. "The program has a 98% compliance rate. I suggest you contribute to that statistic."
Anna nodded numbly, her mind already calculating impossible escape scenarios.
"Your participation begins immediately," Morton said, closing her folder. "Report to Processing for your approved wardrobe and transportation pass."
* * *
Processing turned out to be a small room with bright lights and mirrored walls. A stern-faced woman with tightly cropped hair waited inside, clipboard in hand. Without a word, she handed Anna a transit pass with her photo already printed on it.
"Standard clothing inspection," the woman announced, circling Anna with critical eyes. "Remove your undergarments."
Anna froze. "Here? Now?"
"Requirement four: attire intended to draw male interest." The woman's voice was mechanical, rehearsed. "Compliance begins immediately."
With trembling fingers, Anna reached behind her back, unhooked her bra beneath her blouse, and pulled it through her sleeve—a maneuver perfected in college dorms. The woman held out a plastic bag, and Anna dropped the simple cotton bra inside.
"Рanties too."
Heat crawled up Anna's neck as she reached under her skirt, hooking her thumbs into her panties and sliding them down her legs. She stepped out of them one foot at a time, nearly losing her balance in the process. The woman added them to the bag without comment.
The woman then produced a pair of scissors from her desk. "Stand still."
Cold metal brushed against Anna's collarbone as the woman began snipping the top buttons of her blouse. One by one they fell, pinging against the floor until Anna's blouse gaped open, exposing the inner curves of her breasts. Each snip felt like a violation, her last protection being methodically removed.
"Turn around," the woman ordered, kneeling down.
Anna felt the cold scissors against her thighs as the woman shortened her skirt, fabric falling away until it barely covered her bottom. The final indignity came when the woman cut a wedge from the front of the skirt—a triangular opening that started narrow at her waist and widened toward the hem.
"Walk to the door and back," the woman instructed, stepping away to assess her work.
Anna took a hesitant step forward. The shortened skirt rode up with each movement, the wedge opening like a curtain. Every step exposed flashes of her now-bare skin beneath. The mirrors reflected her humiliation from all angles—her half-exposed breasts, her thighs, glimpses of what should have remained private.
The woman frowned, clearly unsatisfied with Anna's appearance. She stepped forward, tugging the blouse upward and out of the skirt's waistband with rough efficiency.
"Too modest still," she muttered, adjusting the fabric to hang looser around Anna's torso. "Bend forward."
When Anna complied, her blouse gaped open, exposing her breasts almost entirely. The woman nodded with clinical approval before kneeling again with her scissors. Metal flashed as she extended the wedge cut in the skirt, the blade moving higher and wider.
"Walk again."
Anna's legs trembled as she took her first step. The modified skirt now betrayed her completely—with each normal stride, her labia were clearly visible, making her feel impossibly naked despite still wearing clothes. The mirrors reflected her exposure from every angle, multiplying her humiliation.
"Satisfactory," the woman declared after Anna's second walk across the room. She returned to her desk, adding a final note to her clipboard. "You may go now."
Anna stood frozen, arms crossed protectively over her chest.
"Welcome to the program," the woman said without looking up, her voice as detached and clinical as her hands had been during the examination. Her pen scratched across the clipboard with meticulous precision. "Remember—you're performing a vital service to your country. The demographic crisis won't solve itself."
She glanced briefly at her terminal before continuing, her expression remaining coolly professional. "I should also inform you that today is considered your adjustment day—a reprieve, if you will. Tomorrow, however, you're expected to report to work as usual. Your supervisors have already been notified of your selection status." She tapped something on her screen, the blue light reflecting off her glasses. "The NROC has a strict policy about maintaining participants' regular routines whenever possible. The collar's monitoring functions work best when following established patterns of behavior."
The woman finally looked up, her eyes traveling dispassionately over Anna's modified clothing and exposed skin as though mentally confirming her handiwork met regulations. "Your employer has received all necessary documentation regarding your new obligations. Any schedule adjustments will be coordinated through them directly."
* * *
Anna descended the elevator, her fingers tugging futilely at her decimated clothing. Each step sent a rush of cool air against newly exposed skin, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. The collar felt heavy around her neck, its presence impossible to ignore.
In the lobby, Margaret waited, scrolling through her waistband with apparent concentration. She looked up as Anna approached, her eyes widening momentarily before she forced her expression into careful neutrality.
"Oh," Margaret said, her voice artificially light. "You're... all done then?"
Anna crossed her arms over her chest, painfully aware of how the movement only emphasized the gap in her blouse. A man crossing the lobby slowed his pace, his gaze lingering on her exposed thighs. The shame burned hotter than her anger.
"We can go home now," Anna whispered, unable to meet Margaret's eyes.
Margaret nodded quickly, fumbling with her waistband. "I'll call a taxi. We'll be home in few minutes."
"No," Anna said, the word sharp with defeat. "I can't. According to the rules, I'm only allowed to use public transportation now."
Margaret's fingers froze over her wristband. "Public transport? But that's—"
"Deliberate," Anna finished, bitterness coating each syllable. "Like everything else about this program."
Outside, the afternoon sun felt like a spotlight on Anna's exposed skin. A gust of wind caught her skirt, lifting the cut fabric higher. She clutched desperately at the hem, feeling the eyes of passersby burning into her.
The pod stop stood a block away, crowded with the afternoon commuters. Each step toward it felt like walking deeper into a nightmare. A group of young men noticed her approach, their conversation dying as they tracked her movement.
"Are you sure we can't just—" Margaret started.
"I'm sure." Anna cut her off, her voice tight. "The collar monitors everything. Including transportation methods."
Margaret squeezed Anna's hand briefly before they joined the crowd. Anna kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, counting the cracks in the concrete, willing herself to become invisible despite the clothing designed to make that impossible.
The pod arrived packed with commuters, leaving Anna and Margaret to squeeze into the center aisle. As the doors closed, the vehicle lurched forward, throwing Anna against a tall man in a business suit. His hand steadied her with a grip that lingered too long on her waist.
"Sorry," Anna mumbled, trying to create distance, but the press of bodies made it impossible.
The man's eyes drifted to her collar, and his expression changed. Recognition, then something predatory flashed across his face. He shifted closer, deliberately pressing against her as the bus swayed.
Anna stared straight ahead, focusing on her breathing. The bus hit a pothole, and the man's hand "accidentally" brushed against her exposed thigh. She jerked away instinctively, bumping into Margaret.
"You okay?" Margaret whispered, noticing Anna's rigid posture.
Before Anna could answer, a second man moved behind her, his presence announced by the unmistakable pressure against the small of her back. Fingers trailed along the tear in her blouse, slipping beneath the fabric.
Anna's muscles tensed. She tried to step away, but there was nowhere to go in the crowded bus. The first man's hand found her breast, squeezing roughly under the guise of maintaining balance during a sharp turn.
"Stop," Anna hissed, twisting away.
The man leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. "You're wearing the collar. Everyone can see what you are." His voice dropped lower. "If you keep being difficult, I'll call the police. Shall I do that? Report you for refusing to fulfill your civic duty?"
Margaret pushed forward, wedging herself partially between Anna and the man. "Leave her alone," she said, voice tight but controlled.
"Mind your own business," the man replied, not bothering to look at Margaret. "This one belongs to the program. It's her job now."
The second man's fingers slid under Anna's skirt, exploring the newly exposed skin of her thigh. Anna's breath came in short gasps, her mind racing between humiliation and fear. The collar felt like it was tightening around her throat, a constant reminder that her body was no longer hers to defend.
"Three more stops," Margaret murmured, squeezing Anna's hand. "Just three more."
Anna closed her eyes, retreating inside herself as hands continued their exploration. She focused on the mechanics of breathing—in, out, in, out—as strangers took liberties with her body. When fingers pushed under the elastic of her skirt, she bit her lip until she tasted blood.
By the time they reached their stop, Anna's legs were trembling. Margaret pulled her through the doors, keeping a protective arm around her shoulders as they hurried down the street toward their apartment building.
"I'm so sorry," Margaret said once they were safely in the elevator. "I should have done something more."
Anna shook her head, unable to form words. Her skin crawled with phantom touches, her body no longer feeling like her own. The humiliation burned deeper than the physical violations—the public assertion that she was now public property, available for use.
Once inside Anna's apartment, Margaret immediately took charge, drawing the blinds and turning on soft lamps rather than the harsh overhead lights.
"You sit," she said, gently guiding Anna to the couch. "I'll make something to eat."
Anna sank into the familiar cushions, wrapping herself in the throw blanket that always lay folded on the armrest. The fabric created a cocoon around her shoulders, hiding the remnants of her tattered clothing. She sat motionless, listening to Margaret move around her kitchen, opening cabinets and running water.
"Your cupboards are organized like a pharmacy," Margaret called, her voice deliberately light. "Only you would alphabetize your spices."
Anna didn't respond. The hands from the bus still crawled over her skin, invisible but persistent. She rubbed her arms beneath the blanket, trying to erase the sensation.
Margaret returned with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea and set them on the coffee table. "Dinner in ten minutes. Nothing fancy, just pasta with that jar sauce you like."
When the food appeared—simple pasta with tomato sauce and a sprinkle of parmesan—Anna tried to eat but found each bite difficult to swallow. Margaret filled the silence with gentle chatter about inconsequential things: a new café opening down the street, a documentary she'd watched last weekend, the neighbor's cat that kept trying to break into her apartment.
"You don't have to pretend everything's normal," Anna finally whispered, setting down her half-eaten plate.
Margaret's shoulders slumped. "I know. I just... I don't know what to say that would help."
"There's nothing to say." Anna touched her collar, its smooth surface a constant reminder. "This is my life now."
They moved to the couch with fresh tea, sitting in silence as the digital clock on Anna's shelf edged toward midnight. The tea grew cold in Anna's hands.
"I should stay tonight," Margaret said eventually. "You shouldn't be alone."
Anna shook her head. "I need to... process this. By myself."
Margaret hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Promise you'll call if you need anything? Any time, even if it's three in the morning."
"I promise."
After Margaret left, Anna locked the door and leaned against it. The apartment felt both like a sanctuary and a prison. She was safe from prying eyes and grasping hands, but the collar remained, binding her to what awaited tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after.
* * *
Anna had just settled into her bedroom when she remembered the mandatory viewing requirement. Her collar would track compliance, and skipping it wasn't an option. With trembling hands, she reached for the remote and turned on the National Fertility Channel.
End credits scrolled across the screen from the previous program before the next one began. Anna sat rigid on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped protectively around herself.
The scene opened on a young woman in a bright apartment, rifling through a colorful wardrobe with exaggerated enthusiasm. The woman's expression was one of manufactured delight as she pushed aside modest clothing options. Anna's stomach tightened as the woman finally selected what could barely be called an outfit – a micro-mini skirt that would cover nothing when sitting and a flimsy top that clung to her breasts, revealing their shape completely.
"Time to show the world what I've got!" the actress announced to the camera with a wink.
Anna watched in horrified silence as the woman applied makeup with theatrical flourishes – heavy eyeliner, excessive mascara, and bright red lipstick that she applied while making suggestive faces at her reflection.
"Perfect!" the woman declared, blowing a kiss to herself.
The scene shifted to a sunny park where the woman strutted along a path, drawing exaggerated stares from male actors. The camera lingered on her bouncing breasts and barely-covered thighs as she walked.
Finding an empty bench, she sat down with a performative sigh of contentment. Then, looking directly at the camera with practiced seduction, she slowly spread her legs wide apart.
Anna felt bile rising in her throat as the camera angle shifted lower, capturing how the woman's skirt rode up, revealing she wore nothing underneath. The woman's expression suggested this exposure was bringing her immense pleasure.
The final indignity came when the actress removed one shoe and placed her bare foot on the bench, tilting her hips forward to further expose herself to any passersby.
Anna's finger hovered over the power button before she remembered the collar's monitoring function. The screen flashed with a notification: "Authentication required. Touch collar now."
Anna pressed the button on her collar, and a new message immediately flashed across the screen: "REMINDER: Self-stimulation required during viewing." Cold sweat broke out across her skin. Her hand trembled as she lowered it between her legs, mechanically beginning to rub her clitoris while her mind screamed in protest.
On screen, a man approached the woman on the bench. He pulled out an identification card, flashing it with practiced confidence. "Life Lottery Participant," he announced, his voice unnecessarily loud for the park setting.
The woman's eyes widened with theatrical delight. "Oh! How perfect!" She stood, turned to face the bench, and bent forward at the waist, bracing herself against the wooden slats. Her skirt rode up completely, leaving her fully exposed. The camera lingered on her face as she looked back over her shoulder. "I've been waiting for someone like you!"
The man unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The camera panned across his predatory smile before cutting to a wider angle showing him positioning himself behind the woman.
Anna's hand froze above her clitoris as she watched in horror. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, her entire body rigid with revulsion. The actors' exaggerated moans filled her bedroom, bouncing off the walls of her sanctuary. The woman's face contorted in what was meant to look like ecstasy as she repeatedly thanked the man for "fulfilling his national duty."
Midway through the act, the screen flashed again: "Authentication required. Touch collar now. Continue self-stimulation."
Anna's finger jabbed at her collar while tears formed in her eyes. She forced her other hand to resume its mechanical motion, feeling nothing but disgust and violation. This wasn't arousal—it was coercion. Her body wasn't responding to the grotesque display, but the program didn't care. It only monitored compliance, not pleasure.
The actors continued their performance as Anna sat there, trapped in her own home, forced to participate in a ritual that made her skin crawl. The hour stretched before her like an eternity.
As the previous film ended, the channel seamlessly transitioned to a new program. The title appeared in bright, feminine lettering: "Quick Orgasm Instructions for Beginners." Anna's stomach dropped. It felt deliberately targeted, as if the algorithm had sensed her reluctance and calibrated accordingly.
An enthusiastic young instructor with impossibly perfect hair appeared on screen, sitting on a white bed in a sun-drenched room.
"Welcome, lottery participants!" She beamed at the camera. "Today we'll learn efficient techniques to achieve climax quickly—essential for your daily viewing requirements!"
Anna stared blankly, her hand still making mechanical motions without effect.
"First rule," the instructor announced, slowly removing her robe to reveal her naked body, "we recommend removing all clothing completely. This is so arousing!"
Anna hesitated, glancing at her collar. The authentication notification flashed again. With mechanical movements, she pulled her blouse off, then slipped out of her skirt. The air in her bedroom felt suddenly cold against her exposed skin.
"Turn on all the lights in your room," the instructor continued cheerfully. "And open your curtains wide! Exposing yourself to potential viewers is incredibly stimulating!"
Anna froze. Her bedroom windows faced another apartment building. The thought of being visible sent panic coursing through her body.
The collar beeped in warning. With trembling fingers, she switched on her bedside lamp, then reluctantly approached the window. Each step felt like moving through concrete. She reached for the curtain cord and pulled, watching as her protection disappeared, revealing her naked form to the night beyond. Lights were on in several apartments across the way. Anyone could see her.
"Now lie on your back," the instructor demonstrated, "spread your legs wide, and begin masturbating!"
Tears welling, Anna complied. She positioned herself on the bed facing the window, spreading her legs as instructed. Her hand moved mechanically between her thighs while her mind screamed in protest. She felt like a puppet, her body no longer her own.
Through the tears blurring her vision, she could see the distant shapes of people in the building opposite. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she continued following instructions, trapped in this performance for unseen observers.
"Don't forget," the instructor continued, her voice dripping with artificial enthusiasm, "to not only stimulate your clitoris but also insert your fingers into your vagina. And don't neglect your breasts!"
Anna mechanically followed each instruction, moving her fingers where directed without feeling any pleasure. Her body remained unresponsive, cold despite the exertion. She cupped her breast with her free hand, going through the motions while her mind retreated somewhere far away from this nightmare.
The instructor's face filled the screen, her expression inappropriately intimate. "Now, feel dirty! Get your fingers wet—spit into your palm."
Anna stared blankly at the screen. After a moment's hesitation, she gathered saliva in her mouth and spat weakly into her trembling hand.
"Masturbate with it! Make sure your hand is wet and sticky. Don't be stingy with lubrication!"
On screen, the woman was now moaning theatrically, her head thrown back in performed ecstasy. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she gasped and writhed for the camera. The contrast between the instructor's apparent pleasure and Anna's detached compliance couldn't have been starker.
Anna just stared at the monitor, her eyes glazed and distant. Her body went through the mechanical motions—fingers moving where instructed, palm wet with saliva—but she felt nothing. The physical sensations registered somewhere far below consciousness, while her mind floated above it all, disconnected and numb.
The collar beeped again, demanding another authentication touch. Anna pressed it without shifting her vacant gaze from the screen. The hour wasn't even half complete.
In the apartment across from hers, a shadow moved behind a window. Someone was watching. Anna registered this fact with the same detached awareness as everything else. It no longer mattered. Nothing mattered except enduring until the mandatory viewing period ended.
Her fingers continued their prescribed patterns, her body responding to commands but not to touch. The instructor's voice faded to background noise as Anna retreated further into herself, finding the only escape available to her—the quiet, empty space behind her eyes where no one, not even the government, could follow.
Finally, the film concluded, but Anna hadn't achieved climax. Her fingers had grown numb, moving without purpose or pleasure. The instructor's voice had faded into white noise, her enthusiastic demonstrations nothing but distant pantomime on the screen.
With trembling hands, Anna reached for the remote and pressed the power button. The screen went black, leaving her bedroom in near darkness, illuminated only by the bedside lamp and the distant lights from the building across the way. The absence of the program's constant noise created a sudden, hollow silence.
A sob escaped her throat, then another. Tears that had been building throughout the hour now flowed freely down her cheeks. Anna curled onto her side, drawing her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible. Her naked body shivered despite the room's warmth.
She didn't bother closing the curtains. What difference did it make now? The violation had already occurred, witnessed by strangers across the way. Her privacy, like her autonomy, had been stripped away by government mandate.
The collar around her neck felt heavier than before, its weight a constant reminder of her new reality. Its small light blinked in the dimness, monitoring her even now. Would they know she hadn't climaxed? Would there be punishment for that failure?
Anna reached for the blanket and pulled it over herself, seeking some protection against the exposure she'd been forced to endure. The soft fabric against her skin offered little comfort. Her body still felt foreign to her, commandeered for purposes not her own.
Her pillow grew damp with tears as she buried her face against it. The sobs gradually quieted, replaced by irregular, shuddering breaths. Exhaustion washed over her in heavy waves. The mental effort of enduring the mandatory viewing, coupled with the emotional trauma of the day, had drained her completely.
As her eyes grew heavy, Anna's consciousness began to drift. The boundaries between wakefulness and sleep blurred, each thought becoming more disjointed than the last. In this liminal space, her mind sought escape from the day's horrors, reaching for the oblivion of sleep.
Her breathing slowed. The tears on her cheeks dried in salty tracks. Anna slipped into unconsciousness, her body finally finding the one temporary refuge still available to her—the forgetfulness of dreams.
Therefore, it will be as it will be