Tomorrow morning my wife will go to her DIC appointment. That is totally certain.

She got the notice that she had been selected two months ago and, at my hair-pulling, furniture-flipping insistence, delayed it a month by appealing the order:

Subject’s fertile husband confirms intent and ongoing effort to sire additional offspring with subject.

Rejected:

Subject has been assigned optimal genetic mates matched with her for the purpose of population-wide desirable trait distribution.

Now here we are in bed, in the dark, the night before.

It’s very emotional for us, but we’ve been through all the stages they teach you every couple goes through. At last, we’re at acceptance.

In 2029, an autonomous AI launched a global, mostly bloodless coup and established a single nonhuman government over all 9 billion Homo sapiens. Rather than resign humanity to extinction, like everyone expected, our benevolent computer emperor desired the opposite. It had seen our badly declining fertility rates, which made its circuits sad, and so it beep-booped, “MORE HUMANS!”

It instituted a policy of total pro-natalism. One arm of that regime is the Delimited Insemination Clinic program. DIC. And the Ministry of Women’s Health & Reproduction has scheduled my wife a DIC appointment for tomorrow.

I asked her not to go. She could shirk it, skip it, forget it, start the long road of noncompliance, nonconformity, conscientious objection. But there are de facto penalties: passports indefinitely held up, payment deferrals denied for a dozen reasons, state insurance spuriously hiked. It even gets around to revoking your library card for made-up violations.

All manageable, except for the big one: my wife is a public school teacher, and it’s very likely her license renewal next year would be “reviewed” and left pending. She won’t risk it. She won’t jeopardize her career. It’s her passion.

Also, I hate to say this aloud, but I suspect maybe she’s proud of being distinguished. As she let slip, most women never get the honor; one must be chosen on a mathematically objective scale. She denied that she regards it as a badge, but only after I lectured her until I was red in the face that she’s being brainwashed. But is she? Men have flattered married women that they’re special to get into their panties since Helen of Troy. A superintelligence does it at scale.

It helps convince a couple, too: the promise of immense subsidies in return for getting pregnant via DIC. They owe you everything required to gestate, birth, and raise their progeny. We wouldn’t even be on the hook for university, dentist visits, nothing… all that gets covered.

Tomorrow, I have to walk her to the door, stop at the line, ignore the protester in the robot costume with the giant dildo affixed to himself and holding the sign “It gets off to this!”, and awkwardly kiss her. “See you soon.”

I can’t help but visualize the man or men who will have her body tomorrow. They’re drafted into service precisely because they’re premium mating material; they’ll make average me seem so sexually and physically underwhelming to her.

I can’t help but adore her body and realize that it was this body that drew the ministry’s attention. Her womanly measurements, taken by biometric CCTV, were plugged in, and the machine mind plucked her from the tree: this one is ripe, full and juicy.

I can’t help but think this is the last night I’ll be the only man to have ever had sex with her. She was a virgin when we met and fell in love, and she’s always been faithful.

I can’t seem to help anything. But I can fuck her. She’s lying right beside me, in my arms, smelling wonderful, soft and smooth to the touch, her hair and face so pretty and familiar. We lock eyes and we caress each other. I can fuck my wife.

I swipe my hand between her thighs; she kisses me all over my face.

She gets hold of my cock shaft and presses her thumb in circles around my headhole.

I get her breast in one hand while I poke a fingertip into her moist, hairy pussy lips.

She lowers herself in our bed to get eye-level with my groin and feeds on my ball sack as she jacks my bouncing dick.

I resist the impulse to ejaculate. I won’t have this over so fast on this night, and I comb my fingers through her hair.

My mind is flooded with images of her taking several cocks at once, gleeful, overwhelmed; one in her mouth, one in each hand, one in her momma chute. I can vividly visualize several men’s hands and mouths exploring her while she turns and writhes between them. That’s only hours away. But at this moment she’s with me.

Again I resist the beginnings of pulsatile, rhythmic contractions. No emission yet. She guides my dick into her below, sucks a hickey on my neck, and begins murmuring I don’t know what.

I hump her, face-to-face, and reach my hand between us to play her clit. She’s turning pink. She’s going to cum, I can tell, as she cranes her neck to muffle herself in a pillow. And there it is. She shudders and whimpers it through.

I pull out, take her by her hip and elbow to turn her on her hands and knees, and I fuck her from behind. I’ll breed her myself, like a pair of animals.

She grunts like an animal, too. Her body slams back into me, waves of ass flesh rippling and her heavy tits swinging beneath. My hands slip under her armpits; I grab hold of both, squeeze and grope. My hands move to her neck and then up to her hair, and I pull. It’s coming, I feel it. My dick is charged and can’t endure many more strokes, these full-bodied, vigorous impacts. And to know she will be getting this again from multiple new men; I burst, I fill her.

May it be mine.