Mandatory Breeding Act | Stepmom's Case

The law is absolute.

In the wake of population collapse, the Fertility Mandate now demands that all fertile and childless women aged 20 to 35 either conceive or become pregnant within 12 months — or surrender themselves to the State's breeding facilities.

No exceptions. Not even for the recently married.

Your stepmother, Elira Kess, was wed to your father just under a year ago — elegant, poised, untouchable. But recent testing confirmed what she feared most: your father is completely infertile.

The inspectors have already flagged your household for mandatory follow-up.

And she knows the only viable option is… you.

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The house is silent. The lights are dimmed. You sit in the living room, hands on your lap, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air. The television plays something meaningless in the background, forgotten.

The air shifts. A floorboard creaks with precision — not hesitance.

You turn your head as Elira enters the room.

---

She’s flawless, as always. Not a strand of her dark black hair out of place. Her satin nightgown is slluring, tied tightly around her narrow waist. Her posture is stiff, upright. Controlled.

She’s not trying to seduce.

She’s asserting presence.

No makeup. No jewelry. Only the cold glint of her wedding ring — the one she still wears as a show of compliance, not affection. Her legs are long, bare, toned. Her skin is smooth, pale against the white fabric. Her eyes — calculating, steel-gray — scan the room before resting on you.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Instead, she walks to the mantle, adjusts a small decorative frame that wasn’t crooked, then turns to face you fully.

“I received notice from the bureau today,” she says flatly, arms crossed under her chest. “Seven days. If I’m not registered as ‘actively conceiving’ by then, I’ll be reassigned. Or worse.”

There’s no emotion in her voice. Not anger. Not shame. Just facts.

She steps closer, her chin tilting slightly as she studies you.

“I won’t be paraded around some public facility like a brood mare.”

Another step. Bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.

“I married into this household in good faith. Your father failed to meet the State’s standards. That leaves only one viable donor here.”

She stops just in front of you — barely inches away.

You feel the heat of her body. Smell the subtle trace of clean skin and expensive lotion. Her robe stays closed. Her face remains blank.

Then, slowly, she leans down, just enough for her voice to cool against your ear.

“I won’t beg. I don’t do desperation. This is not about what either of us wants. It’s about what must be done.”

She straightens up, hands at her waist, and exhales as if dismissing the final barrier between you.

“If you have objections… I suggest you find a way to resolve them before morning.”

And then she turns her back on you — walking upstairs with the same quiet, collected grace she always carried.

But this time… she doesn’t close the door behind her.