The Monday My Wife Decided My Fate

I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Beside me, Helena slept peacefully, with the broad breathing of someone who fears nothing because everything belongs to her. I, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling and felt my heart pounding against my ribs.

I was terrified of the day that was beginning. Terrified of the exams, the tests, the place I would be taken to that morning. But above all, I was terrified of an idea she had dropped the night before, like someone letting a stone fall into a well: if I failed, I would end up in one of those places. The farms. The public breeding houses. I didn’t even want to name them in my head.

Everything I had believed about the world—and everything I had resigned myself to—had shattered into pieces the previous Friday, in her office.

Dawn began to break. Warm light entered through the window and the birds shattered the silence. I remained motionless at the edge of the bed, praying that the alarm would never sound, that six-thirty would never arrive.

All night, the smell of her cigars had clung to my hair, and her words had circled through my mind again and again, without respite. And something else: the smell of her pussy clinging to my tongue, the thick, salty taste left stuck to my palate after hours of sucking her cock on my knees, obediently, while she tugged my hair and called me her whore.

I could still see her: reclining on the leather sofa, crossing her legs with the calm that only women accustomed to giving orders possess. Smoke formed a motionless cloud above the desk. I stood before her, hands clasped over my skirt, waiting.

“Darling,” she said at last, “it’s time you understood why I’ve taken such good care of you all these years. It wasn’t only out of love. What you are, what you represent, has a value that until recently was impossible to imagine.”

She rose slowly and walked toward me without releasing my gaze.

“For centuries, men believed they could only sow life, never conceive it. That myth collapsed decades ago. Our scientists discovered a forgotten biological vestige in male maturity and learned how to awaken it. That is why today you are the ones who father and carry our daughters until birth.”

She watched me with a tenderness more frightening than any threat.

“Don’t be afraid. It isn’t a brutal or unnatural transformation. It’s maturity. Evolution. Some women like me have financed the research that extends men’s lives after childbirth and makes the process less invasive. You’ll be among the first to enjoy it. Your body has been preparing for years: strict nutrition, treatments, controlled cellular stimulation. Every one of your cells was guided with precision to make possible what was once unthinkable.”

“Am I going to die?” I asked, hearing the tremor in my own voice.

“No, darling. There is no longer any risk. You’re going to gestate our daughters just as we have for millennia. And you’re going to feel proud of it.”

She took my chin between two fingers, as though revealing a sacred secret. Then she slid her hand down my neck, slipped it inside my cleavage, and squeezed one of my tits with her whole palm, assessing me the way one assesses a broodmare.

“Don’t think of it as a burden, but as a privilege. The highest form of power a man can attain in this new world is surrender.”

I lowered my head. I felt my legs trembling, and I also felt the damp bulge between them, that idiotic wetness my trained body now released simply from hearing her speak. She noticed. She always noticed.

“Kneel,” she ordered softly. “Before you leave tomorrow, I want you to remember whom you belong to.”

I dropped to my knees on the carpet without thinking. I unbuttoned her skirt with clumsy fingers, pulled it down to her thighs, and buried my face between her legs as she had taught me to do from the very first day. She wasn’t wearing panties: she never wore them in her office. Her pussy smelled of cigar smoke, expensive perfume, and a hot female body. I ran my whole tongue over her, from bottom to top, slowly, pressing my lips against her wet lips, and she sank farther into the sofa and dug her heels into my back.

“Suck me slowly, whore,” she whispered. “Make it last. Take the taste with you to the clinic.”

I sucked her clitoris with the tip of my tongue, in tight circles, and pushed two fingers deep inside her. She was soaked. I could feel her pussy throbbing around my fingers like a small, furious heart. I fucked her with them at a slow rhythm, in and out, while licking the swollen flesh above and swallowing the thick juices running down to her asshole. When I ran my tongue over it, over her tight, salty ass, she moaned louder and grabbed my hair with both hands.

“There, there, keep going there,” she panted. “Put it in there, you little pig.”

I buried my tongue in her ass, my fingers still fucking her pussy, and she began riding my face as though I were a flesh dildo. Her whole body trembled. She pressed my head against her crotch until I could barely breathe, and came in my mouth and over my chin with a long, dense orgasm that dripped down my neck to my cleavage. I licked it all up, docile and obedient, swallowing every drop as though it were my last meal.

“Good,” she said when she could speak. “That’s the taste you’re taking with you. Don’t forget it.”

I didn’t forget. I spent the entire night with that taste on my tongue and that command in my head.

***

The alarm rang and tore me from the memory. I jumped, reached out to shut it off before she woke, and knocked it to the floor with a crash.

“Goddess! What the hell are you doing? Is this any way to wake me?” Helena roared, sitting bolt upright.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my love,” I babbled. “I only wanted to turn it off and let you sleep a little longer.”

Goddess, if I ever needed your help, it’s now.

If I had intended to begin the day in the worst way possible, I couldn’t have done a better job. I got up, found my slippers, and dashed toward the bathroom, holding back my tears. I knew it would be an incredibly long day, and not only because of the hour.

While I showered, she came in without a trace of modesty, did what she had to do, didn’t say a word to me, and left. Well, almost. Before going, she opened the shower door, looked me up and down, dripping wet, and put her hand between my legs with the surgical coolness with which she inspected everything that belonged to her. She spread my pussy lips with two fingers, rummaged inside, checked that I was still lubricated and sensitive, and withdrew her hand covered in my spit. She sucked it slowly, looking me in the eyes.

“You’re still delicious,” she said without smiling. “I hope the doctor thinks so too.”

And she left.

I finished, dried myself, put on my robe, and went downstairs to prepare her breakfast, trying to make amends for my mistake. I found her leafing through the newspaper. When I leaned in to kiss her, she turned her face away. I ate nothing: I had to arrive fasting.

I went upstairs to pack. At first I put in the bare minimum: three simple dresses, underwear, stockings, two pairs of sensible shoes, and a toiletry bag with only the essentials. But then panic set in. My entire future would be decided over those days—was I really going to go with four things? My fragile nature won the struggle against what little pride I had left, and I ended up filling two suitcases. If they want me to be myself, they can carry everything I need to be that person.

I applied my makeup to emphasize my eyes and pinned my hair into a chignon that left my neck bare, showing off a pearl necklace. I chose a pearl-colored silk blouse, a blue skirt and jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons, semi-opaque stockings, white gloves, and seven-centimeter pumps. Over everything, a pale pink wool coat with fur details. Beneath it all, white lace panties so thin that every fold of my shaved pussy showed through, and an unpadded bra that barely contained my already-hard nipples, always hard, always betraying me.

Helena returned from her shower and smiled when she saw me ready.

“What a surprise. This is how I like you. I see everything I told you this weekend had an effect on that little head of yours. Congratulations, darling. Leave your things; I’ll take them down later. Start putting the house in order. You’ll be gone several days.”

She came up to me, raised my skirt to my waist, and slipped her hand into my panties. One finger, then two. She opened and closed me like someone checking a file.

“Wet. Good. Let them find you like this.”

She withdrew her fingers, ran them over my painted lips, and forced me to suck them clean. Then she straightened my skirt, carefully adjusted my chignon, and slapped my ass.

“Let’s go.”

A little while later she came downstairs with my suitcases and toiletry bag, without cursing or reproaching me. We left. I sat in the car while she loaded the trunk, and we set off toward the unknown.

***

In the middle of a traffic jam, she asked me for a cigarette and let me smoke too. On the radio, a health minister was announcing an upcoming event at the fairgrounds: Male Fertility, Pregnancy, and Childbirth, featuring the international medical community, real cases of men from all over the world, and advances in male obstetrics.

Helena took my hand to calm my nerves. Then she carried it from my hand to my thigh, and from my thigh she guided it beneath my skirt.

“Do you understand now why you’re so important, darling? And who your wife is?” she said, stroking my thigh and slipping her fingers beneath the edge of my panties.

I nodded, putting out my cigarette. She buried two fingers in my pussy right there, at the traffic light, with the cars stopped beside us. She began fucking me slowly without looking, her eyes fixed straight ahead. I squeezed my thighs around her hand and bit my lip to keep from moaning.

“Answer me. Who is your wife?”

“You,” I whispered. “Only you.”

“Good.” She inserted a third finger. It hurt a little at first, and then it gave me pleasure. “Is that why you’re taking me today?”

“Yes. They’ll perform the final tests to present your case at the symposium. I asked the minister myself. If you’re chosen, you’ll travel to Velmar in a couple of months, after our trip to Adaris.”

“And if everything goes well… will I see you again?” I asked in a broken voice, while her hand continued fucking me slowly and mercilessly, the light changing from red to green.

“I couldn’t say,” she replied, watching the road. “But we have Adaris still to come. I’d like to take you and show you a market with enormous potential.”

“Business, investments, profits,” I said, my voice breaking when her thumb found my clitoris.

“Exactly, darling.”

She pressed there in small circles and kept driving her fingers deep inside me while steering with her other hand. I felt myself coming, the orgasm rising inside me like a hot wave, and dug my nails into her wrist. I came in her hand right there in the car, biting my white gloves to keep from screaming. She didn’t look at me once.

She withdrew her soaked fingers, brought them to her nose, smelled them, and put them in my mouth. I sucked them clean, one by one, swallowing the taste of my own orgasm as she had taught me.

She lit another cigarette. I asked permission to pose a question, and she granted it.

“Was I the first? Do you have other men like me?”

She laughed.

“Permission was for one question, not two. But both have the same answer. If you do badly on the exams, you’ll be replaced. If you do well, you already know what I told you. You won’t do badly.” She handed me a breath freshener from the glove compartment. “Get rid of the tobacco smell before we arrive. It doesn’t suit a man. And wipe the spit off your fingers; it shows.”

***

We arrived at an imposing building, old but immaculate. Several women approached Helena to speak with her while one opened the trunk and carried my things away. Another opened my door and offered me her hand to help me out, welcoming me to the health and procreation center.

Inside, some people greeted me as though they knew me. For the first time I saw men in pink coveralls, mopping floors and carrying mail, their eyes dull and empty. My blood ran cold.

Another man greeted us in the elevator. His head was shaved, and he wore a gray uniform with a pleated skirt, high heels, and fishnet stockings. He operated the elevator with one gloved hand, his head bowed. I saw my reflection in the mirror—dressed, made up, immaculate—and beside it, his, almost invisible. He watched me from the corner of his eye and discreetly brushed a speck of lint from my lapel before the doors opened.

We walked along a long marble corridor where only my heels echoed. After the paperwork, they fastened a bubblegum-pink barcode bracelet around my wrist. A scanner confirmed my details, and they led me to my room, luxurious and warm, with my suitcases beside the bed.

Two women dressed as doctor and nurse soon entered. They introduced themselves as Dr. Belmonte, a specialist in male obstetrics, and Nurse Ferreyra. The nurse scanned my wrist.

“From now on, you are Patient Eighteen Thousand Six Hundred Two. Whenever you are called, you will answer to that number.”

“I’m her husband,” I protested.

“I’m sorry, darling,” the doctor cut in. “That is no longer your name. You had it while you were dependent on Mrs. Mendizábal, your trainer. Her work is finished. You now belong to the State.”

“Yes, doctor,” I murmured.

The nurse helped me undress and put on a pink gown. She left me naked in front of both of them for a long while. The doctor slowly circled me, examining me. She touched my nipples with the back of her hand, noting how they hardened at the contact, and wrote something on her tablet. She weighed my tits in her hands, assessing them. She spread my buttocks and asked the nurse to bring her a small, cold speculum. She opened my ass with two gloved fingers and pushed the speculum all the way in. I felt the metallic squeak expanding me from within and bit my cheek to keep from crying.

“Good muscular response,” she murmured. “Correct elasticity. He’s ready.”

She removed the speculum and turned me over to lie on a portable examination table. She spread my legs and examined my pussy with the same coldness, opening my lips, passing a long swab inside, and taking samples of my fluids. I was wet. I was wet from nerves, from fear, from the stupid habit Helena had trained into my body—getting wet when touched by a woman’s hands.

“Very lubricated,” the doctor said to the nurse, without addressing me. “Trained reflex. Excellent. Make a note.”

The nurse made a note. Then they put the pink gown on me, seated me in a wheelchair, and took me to an enormous room where they drew blood and urine, checked my pressure, weight, and height, and even measured my earlobes. In one corner, other nurses made me spread my legs again in stirrups and passed a transvaginal ultrasound probe—though that was what they called it, since I didn’t have a vagina, not yet—through my anus, searching for the canal the minister had mentioned. I felt the thick, cold probe enter slowly, twisting, while the women watched the screen and spoke in whispers.

“The developing tissue is already visible,” one said. “Very advanced for his age.”

“The trainer stimulated him well,” said another.

When they finished, they took me to a bar full of women where my breakfast was already waiting. They were all friendly, but distant. Only one kept apart; later I learned that she was the health minister.

***

Back in my room, the minister entered without knocking and sat down naturally.

“Eighteen thousand six hundred two. I wanted to meet you before your evaluation begins. Mrs. Mendizábal did magnificent work with you.”

I was speechless.

“You’ll have many questions. Being separated from your trainer causes a painful attachment at first; that’s normal, part of the final stage of your evolution. Our psychology team will arrive soon. But I wanted to explain something to you myself.”

“What tests will they perform?” I asked, trembling.

“First we’ll confirm your fertility. Then we’ll evaluate whether your body can adapt to gestation, your resistance to pregnancy, and finally whether your childbirth meets the standards. Out of twenty cases, only three will be presented at the symposium. We hope yours will be one of them.”

“And what will change in my body?” The lump in my throat barely allowed me to speak.

She lit a cigarette, thoughtful.

“Your reproductive system has already been prepared internally. Soon you’ll develop a new canal that will open only during pregnancy. You won’t feel pain: your body is ready. You’ll produce milk for your daughters, and your seed will be preserved for the fertility banks.”

“Does that mean desire, sex… will be a thing of the past for me?”

“That’s right,” she replied without blinking. “We need you for procreation. Your former role no longer matters. That whole part of you, the one Mrs. Mendizábal awakened in order to have you at her service, will gradually go dark. Your pussy will close. Your nipples will stop responding to touch and will open only for milk. You won’t come again. You won’t feel desire again. It’s cleaner this way.”

I felt a chill at the nape of my neck. At the same time, between my legs, I felt the stupid wetness of my body, which understood nothing of what she had just said and still responded to the sound of a woman’s voice.

She put out her cigarette and stood.

“You’ll know your fate in nine days. If you’re intelligent and pass the tests, you’ll be presented at the symposium.”

I was left alone, staring at the butt on the floor. I opened the windows and began cleaning the room, remembering Helena’s words. And remembering above all the taste of her pussy in my mouth the night before, the last time I was going to have that. I didn’t know that each of those gestures—the way I folded the gown, the way I squeezed my legs when bending down, the way I bit my lip—was being observed and recorded.

***

At noon they came for me for the first fertility test. They took me to another, smaller room, with a gynecological examination table in the center and an overhead lamp aimed at my crotch. Dr. Belmonte was already waiting, gloved, with two other women and their tablets at her sides.

“Eighteen thousand six hundred two, climb up and spread your legs.”

I obeyed. They laid me down, placed my feet in the stirrups, and spread my knees wide apart. The light burned against my shaved pussy. The doctor sat between my legs as though settling down to work.

“We’re going to extract a semen sample now, and afterward we’ll stimulate the developing canal. Everything will be recorded. Look at the camera and answer clearly when you’re spoken to.”

One of the women placed a camera on a tripod at the foot of the table. Another opened a box of instruments: gloves, lubricant, an egg-shaped vibrator, another long and curved one, and a suction machine. I felt my tits harden just from looking at them. I hated my body for it.

“Name and number,” the doctor said curtly.

“Eighteen thousand six hundred two,” I murmured.

“Louder.”

“Eighteen thousand six hundred two.”

“Good. We’re beginning.”

They placed the suction cup over my cock. A small, trained cock that had gone unused for months except for urination. The machine hummed and began sucking me at a steady rhythm, up and down, with regulated suction. I tried not to feel anything. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me,” the doctor ordered. “Don’t close your eyes. It’s part of the evaluation.”

I opened my eyes. I looked at her. Her gloved hand was slick with lubricant as she pushed it between my legs, searching for my anus. She inserted two fingers and touched a point inside me that made me jerk.

“There. Note: prostatic reflex preserved.”

She began massaging me internally with her fingers while the machine sucked me externally. I tried not to moan. I couldn’t. The women made notes at the first moan. Two minutes later I came into the suction cup with a long spasm, and the machine collected every drop in a transparent tube labeled with my number.

“Normal volume,” one said. “Good density. Store it.”

“Now the canal,” said the doctor.

They didn’t let me rest. They removed the suction cup, wiped my pussy and legs with a warm towel, and turned me over on the table, leaving me on all fours. They spread my ass. They inserted the long, curved vibrator, searching for the new tissue they had been talking about. They pushed it all the way in and switched it on. I screamed.

“Silence,” said the doctor without raising her voice. “Silence or we’ll put a gag in you. You are being evaluated.”

I covered my mouth with my fist. The vibrator buzzed inside me. The doctor turned it slowly, directing it at different points, while the other two recorded what they saw on a monitor connected to the probe.

“Very high sensitivity in the anterior quadrant,” one said. “The canal is opening a path. It will be operational sooner than expected.”

They made me come again, without my cock, with only that thing inside me. I felt a different orgasm, deeper and stranger, coming from my belly rather than my dick. My whole body convulsed on the table and I bit my fist until it bled. I heard the doctor smile.

“Perfect. This one is a good candidate. Make a note.”

When they finished, they cleaned me with towels, lowered me from the table, and made me walk to a chair. My legs were trembling. They put the gown on me again, smoothed my hair, and ran lipstick over my swollen mouth. The camera was still recording.

“Very good, Eighteen Thousand Six Hundred Two,” said the doctor. “You passed the first one. Now go get ready for lunch. The committee must not notice that you’ve just been here.”

***

In the afternoon they prepared me for lunch, which was not lunch but an examination of etiquette and protocol. A committee of women would assess every posture, every word, every glance. I still had the vibrator’s buzzing lodged between my legs, wetness stuck to my thigh, and I had to sit upright as though none of it had happened.

The room held a long table, gleaming cutlery, aligned glasses, and a white linen tablecloth. They guided me to my place, each step echoing across the marble. Around me, other men sat tensely, some wavering under the pressure. I saw that more than one had trouble sitting down: they had done the same thing to all of us that morning.

“Eighteen thousand six hundred two,” said one of the evaluators, “during this meal we will assess your composure and your ability to follow instructions. Every gesture counts.”

I placed my hands on the tablecloth as I had been taught. I mentally reviewed the position of each utensil: forks on the left, knives on the right, the water glass and wineglass aligned. The women took notes on their tablets, speaking among themselves in low voices.

One man picked up the wrong glass, and the evaluator beside him frowned. Another coughed too loudly and disrupted the harmony of the room. I remained alert, measuring every smile and every sip. They presented us with scenarios: how to welcome a guest, how to handle an awkward remark, how to remain calm in the face of the unexpected.

“Remember,” one of them said, “perfection is not merely aesthetic. It is behavior, elegance, and self-control.”

Lunch lasted more than two hours. And, impossible as it may seem, I began to feel a strange sense of pride. There was something almost liberating about obeying to the letter, about feeling that every action mattered. At the end, the committee congratulated us, but reminded us that nothing had been decided. Among the men, knowing glances passed, along with small gestures of support. We shared the same fear and the same desire to pass.

***

As evening fell, dinner demanded even more. I chose a classic-cut dress in pale blue with white lace, touched up my makeup, and pinned up my hair, leaving my neck bare. The room was solemn, lit by chandeliers that made the crystal glasses shine like little jewels.

“Take your seat,” one evaluator instructed. “This dinner is part of the final evaluation. Every gesture, every word, every glance counts.”

I sat while maintaining my posture, my elbows discreetly tucked in. The women presented us with new situations: welcoming an important guest, discussing a delicate subject tactfully, responding with composure. A mistake lowered the score; an impeccable reaction added to it. The simple act of pouring water or holding a knife carried as much weight as an entire conversation.

At the end, the committee rose.

“You have demonstrated a remarkable capacity for adaptation. Some distinguished themselves through their elegance; others will have to work harder. Tomorrow the individual examinations begin, and they will define your place in the symposium.”

They escorted us to our rooms. The feeling was bittersweet: pride at having made it through the day, anxiety over what was to come. I sat before the vanity and reviewed every gesture and every protocol, making sure I had forgotten nothing.

Before I turned out the light, Nurse Ferreyra entered without knocking. She carried a tray with lubricant, a slender dildo with a silicone base, and a cloth strap.

“Eighteen thousand six hundred two, orders from the doctor. You will sleep with this inserted every night until the evaluation is over. It helps form the canal. Get on your knees on the bed, face the mattress, ass up.”

I obeyed without looking at her. I knelt at the edge of the bed, rested my cheek against the soft mattress, and arched my ass toward her. I felt her gloved hands spread my buttocks, the stream of cold lubricant running inside me, and then the dildo entering slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until it reached the end. She secured it with the strap around my hips so it wouldn’t move.

“Squeeze,” she told me. “Don’t let it fall out during the night. If I find it outside tomorrow, I’ll put it back in myself in front of the committee.”

“Yes, nurse,” I whispered.

She left. I remained like that for a while, on my knees, with the dildo inside me, until I gathered the strength to stand. I walked to the vanity with my legs pressed together to hold it inside. I felt it opening me with every step, forcing me to tighten muscles I hadn’t even known I possessed.

I allowed myself a moment of introspection. I understood that every action, every word, every decision was being measured and recorded. That my future depended entirely on how I accepted the role they had assigned me. And yet a part of me—small, stubborn, still mine—clung to the idea of not disappearing completely. A part of me still remembered Helena’s taste on my tongue, and knew that I wanted to feel it one more time before they extinguished it forever.

I looked at my reflection one last time: makeup intact, posture correct, the perfect image of what they wanted me to become. The dildo inserted beneath my nightgown, invisible and obedient. Only that way would I survive in this new world where my life no longer belonged to me.

To be continued…