A Union of Convenience

You stare up at Isabella, spread eagle on the toilet and naked per your orders. You have a tickle in your nose from the acrid stench of urine, but you ignore it. You have to keep your face as stoic and somber as you can manage as you look up at her. She looks back down at you, her eyes full of fear and sadness. What has she done? What foolishness did she allow to pass, to ruin her own life like this? You both let your gazes disconnect, to hover back down to what sits on the rim of the seat, pointing (as if in accusation) at her cunt: a slim, pink-white bit of plastic, filled with some kind of foam and, on the top-facing side, two ports.

Two lines.

Isabella is pregnant. You're going to be a father... in reality, this time. You didn't think your previous excitement could achieve higher peaks, but it's at its maximum now: a thrill makes you leap up and stomp away from her in mock anger, if only to hide your gleeful grin as you look around your bedroom. Your bedroom; both of yours. She's the mother of your child now, and-... "We have to keep Penelope safe," you whisper, rushing back to your petrified fucktoy. "We have to keep... everyone safe now, sweetie."

She looks up to you with yet more questions mixing into those magnificent brown pools of torment. "You said... you said you gave her a warding metaphor, one that would make sure she couldn't realize what was going on." What a goofball solution that was, but it doesn't matter if Isabella believes absurd things: she has no legal guardians left who would bother to ask. "Why... daddy, I'm preg.... I'm pr..." Her voice raises with every attempted sentence until it's shrill. "Why does anyone else matter right now?!" She shrieks her last words and slams balled-up fists on her own thighs, as if damning them for opening in the name of parental love.

"You're my daughter," you reaffirm. She looks up to you, thick streams of tears finally traveling down her wrenching, sobbing face. "People will realize you don't ever leave the house... they'll know how you got pregnant. They'll realize what father-daughter secret things we've done, and everyone who hears about it will die." You grip her face and **** her to look up at you as she sinks deeper into despair. "It wouldn't be a metaphor of ****... it would be very real, very dangerous ****. We could accidentally wipe out the country if we don't do what must be done, now."

"Wh...wuh... wuht can we dooooo?"

You press your lips against hers, flicking your tongue against her sobbing mouth, and taking one lick of her salty tears. You revel in this moment, and do everything you can to etch it into your memory as you stare into her eyes, her tears and spittle still on your tongue. "We have to do what's right for others, not what's right for us... honey, the state doesn't know we're related yet." You scoop your hands into her armpits and lift her body - she's gotten a bit heavier, you notice - so that she stands, and you begin to lead her out of the bathroom by the hand. The pregnancy test clatters to the floor in the silence between your words. "I was going to fill out the paperwork to admit that I was your father, for when you finally met someone... but we can't do that anymore. If anyone realizes we're really father and daughter - like poor Penelope, or Penelope's parents, or any of our family members - they'll connect the dots... and we'll all die. When people see what transpired, everyone who hears about the chain of deaths will suffer the same brain cancer and die shortly after. It's... Honey, for the sake of America, we have to make sure no one doubts that we're not related by blood."

You sit her down on the bed, and kneel before her naked form. She wipes her face, though her continuing, stifled sobbing just pours fresh tears down her face. For a moment her hand comes to rest on her belly... and then leaps away, as if repulsed by what she now knows grows within. "How can we do that when we're really father and daughter? I mean, a blood test, or too many questions, daddy I-"

"We have to get married."

"... Married?"

"If we get married, no one will doubt why you're pregnant... we'll be husband and wife. The doubts about our blood relationship will go away, especially since we're having a child."

"... Married?" She repeats the words, and her body goes limp before you as she stares off into the void, struck dumb by this new situation. "But... it would be..."

"Marriage between father and daughter is fine, as long as no one knows the truth," you add. "But don't worry: we won't tell Penelope until she's already gone to live with her parents."

Her eyes jump up as she realizes what else she's going to lose: not only her body, to this parasite - unwanted and life-ruining - but her lover as well. "I-I could get an abortion!" she stammers.

Indeed she could... if you hadn't the answer to that over a month ago. "Baby... incestuous babies can't be aborted. The placenta around such an unborn baby is filled with a fluid that's poisonous to the mother. You would die."

"I..." She locks in the facts... and her eyes are cold as she makes a drastic call. "I'd rather be dead..."

"Honey, I would die too."

"What?!"

"Think about it sweetie: that's not a condition that happens except in cases of ****. They would know we were blood-related... and everyone dies, again." Thinking better than to let her build towards a truly murderous suicide, you add, "... and you love people and life too much to ever get an abortion, or risk anyone's life, especially your own, for any reason."

"... Of course," she whispers slowly. "I just mean, if I had to die by some tragic accident, now would be a... better time than any other..." The tears start to roll down her face, her ****-wish so strong that, despite your guidance, it remains partially intact. You have brought her to an absolute low, a point of self-loathing and fear almost powerful enough to overcome her mental dysfunction... and you have to stand up and walk away just to keep from throwing her back on the bed and celebrating with her body. That would come later tonight, you decide.

"C'mon down with me, sweetie," you whisper, unable to keep delight from cracking your voice.

"Where...?"

"Honey, life doesn't stop just because you're pregnant." You turn around and approach her, violently massaging her right tit until its tenderness makes her forget her impregnation, if only for a split second. "You're still serving timeout."

Five days later...

Of course, you weren't about to take your AGS-suffering step-daughter from a widow to the government office to get married. You're not so insane as to think that would fly, not with the widespread awareness of AGS or the paranoia of the state. You explained to her, in quiet, careful detail, the various marriage licenses and paperwork required, the letter that needed to be sent, and the marriage license itself which would come in through the mail. Luckily, you've got an Alpha account with Jungle, one of the largest online stores on the planet; after free two-day delivery brings you the box, you open it to reveal, in the privacy of your bedroom, the marriage license: a novelty bachelor party gag gift, one that declares stupid requirements for the wife to service her husband and let him and the "bros" have fun. You both sign it in a mockery of a real government process... though you hadn't considered the consequences of her actually taking the time to read it after you had her sign it.

"I agreed to... 'butt-stuff'? That's part of marriage?!"

"Eh... y-yes, honey. Your mother... boy, she really loved the butt... stuff- but from now on, we'll just use the term 'anal'... and don't worry baby, this is merely a legally-binding document, legitimate in the eyes of the state. What's important is that you do what I tell you, both for your safety and to have a convincing marriage. A real wife does everything her husband asks, even if she doesn't like it."

"... to bring beers and chips to the bros during..."

"Please stop reading it, honey."

Hastily, you shove the ill-conceived "proof of marriage" back into the Jungle-branded box and into the topmost shelf of your closet, hopefully to never be cited again by your...

Wife. "We're married now, Isabella."

"I'm..." Familiar streams pour down her cheeks, but she tries to smile. "I'm... I'm a lesbian. I... I wanted to have a life with..."

"You're married to me now, Isabella. Remember that."

"I... I'll always remember..."

That's right... you're finally here. You have the length of her pregnancy to look forward to, all while she pretends to be your wife, all while she suffers under the alleged knowledge of being impregnated by her father, a scandal she'd have to take to the grave... and to do anything to give away the illegitimacy of this union would be to risk the lives she loved so very much. All while denying her lover the truth... and soon enough, the same lover would deny her altogther for getting "fat".

It was time to stop being so nice about it. "Honey, it's time... let's take care of your timeout and cleaning downstairs."

"Daddy, please-"

"No, honey," you chide, shaking your head as you scoop her face in your hands, "we're married now... and you have to be the subservient, obedient wife, or else someone will definitely notice it's fake. You remember what happens then, don't you?"

Her eyes go wide, but she casts her eyes down and nods in your grip.