Daddy Issues

**Copyright Disclaimer** *Daddy Issues* is a work of interactive fanfiction based on the film *The Bronze*. I do not own intellectual rights to the film or to the characters of Lance Tucker, Maggie Townsend, Janice Townsend, or Hope Ann Gregory. No financial gain is being made from this work, nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only. **Adult Content Disclaimer** This story contain graphic sexual content and other content of a mature nature, including a sexual relationship between an 18 year old and an adult. It is intended for players 18 years of age or older. [[I am 18+ and wish to proceed|Proceed]] [[I am 18+ but wish to read additional warnings before proceeding.|Additional Warnings]] (Contains spoilers) [[I can not or do not wish to view adult content]]

**Author's Note** To be honest, I only watched *The Bronze* for Sebastian Stan, and I didn't particularly like it, so nobody is more surprised than I am that I wrote fic for it. I just felt bad for Maggie Townsend, whose only real crime was that she was naive and easily manipulated, and whose life basically got ruined as a result. I started writing this because I wanted to, er, un-ruin it a little bit, but I was torn about how to end it. On the one hand, as a feminist, I wanted Maggie to self-actualize, kick Lance to the curb, and build a happy and satisfactory life for herself despite her unplanned pregnancy. On the other hand, she's 18, pregnant, naive, and easily manipulated, so there are some realism issues to deal with if she goes all "Girl Power!" too abruptly. Plus, writing porn is fun. I realized what I really wanted was alternate endings, and that got me thinking about trying to create a CYOA-style story out of Maggie's future. I've been interested in learning Twine for some time, so I decided to create this interactive fanfic as an experiment, both to learn how to code in Twine and to let myself (and you) explore different alternate endings for Maggie. The story starts out with few choices, but the options start to branch out as you get further into it. You can guide Maggie down the path to self-actualization, trap her in an unhealthy BDSM relationship with Lance, or any of several options in between. **Status** This story is a work in progress. Some branches reach ends that I hope are satisfying to one degree or another, others are still incomplete. (Just use the back arrow on the left side of the screen if you run into an incomplete branch.) I hope to add more content over time and take advantage of Twine's ability to track variables to allow you, for example, to see different choices depending on how well you're getting along with different characters, personalize the sex scenes with your own preferred kinks, and other more game-like elements, but at this point I'm still planning those options. Are you ready to [[decide Maggie's fate]]?

**Additional Warnings** This story contains a relationship between an 18 year old gymnast and her coach that involves Daddy kink and bad BDSM etiquette, including lack of safewords and unnegotiated kinks that include pain play and impact play. This behavior is treated as normal within the story because the narrator is inexperienced and unaware of correct BDSM etiquette, but at several points it crosses the line into physical and emotional abuse. Nothing in this story should be used as a guide to what a healthy BDSM relationship should look like. If you're new to BDSM yourself and want to learn more about how to practice Safe Sane and Consensual BDSM, the <a href="http://www.bdsmwiki.info/Main_Page">BDSM Wiki</a> is one helpful starting point. This story also contains homophobic, fatphobic, and misogynistic language, as well as several discussions of abortion that contain anti-abortion language and attitudes that may be upsetting for some readers. (I am personally pro-choice, but the character expressing the opinions in the story is not.) [[I wish to proceed|Proceed]] [[I do not wish to proceed|I can not or do not wish to view adult content]]

Find other Twine games at <a href="https://twinery.org/">Twine's official website</a> or the <a href="http://ifdb.tads.org/">Interactive Fiction Database</a>, or explore more fanfiction at <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/">An Archive of Our Own</a>.

[[This is how you become a teen pregnancy statistic]]. { (set: $pregnancyweek to 0)  (set: $bellykink to 0) (set: $pregnancykink to 0)  (set: $relationshipLance to 5) (set: $relationshipAnsel to 4) (set: $relationshipMother to 10) (set: $relationshipSue to 5) (set: $relationshipOtto to 2) (set: $relationshipChris to 2)}

Your first day at the new gym in Los Angeles, Coach Tucker calls you into his office. "I know you thought of Hope as a friend," he says, " but I don't want you to think of me like that. You should think of me more like your father: strict and stern, but only wanting the best for you." "I never knew my father," you tell him. "I know that," he says, looking annoyed. "Just pretend. It will do you good to have [[a man in your life]]."

"[[Okay, Daddy]]," you say.

You only mean to tease him, but he looks surprised, and then he laughs. He's beautiful when he laughs, seriously. The way he crinkles up his eyes. The way he throws his head back. You feel your stomach twist a little at the sight. [[You like that you made him laugh]].

[[You want to make him laugh again]].

"Alright, Maggie-baby," he says. "If that's the way you want to play it, that's how we can play it. Not in front of anybody else, though, okay? It'll be our secret." "Yes, Daddy," you say. "Whatever you say." "That's right," he says. "[[Whatever I say]]."

You notice suddenly how dark his eyes have become, the icy blue-gray of his irises just a thin ring around the blackness of his pupils. [[You don't know what it means]].

[[You don't know a lot of things]].

So you become Magge-baby, or just plain Baby, or sometimes (click:"sometimes")[when you do really well] (click:"when you do really well")[Baby Girl.] (click:"Baby Girl")[That's your favorite. The way he smiles in those moments. How his voice softens and goes low pitched, like a little secret just for the two of you. You would do anything for him in those moments.] (click:"You would do anything for him in those moments")[Everything.] (click:"Everything")[And in the end, [[you do]].]

The day you lose your virginity to Lance Tucker isn't a Baby Girl type of day. In fact, it's quite the opposite. You're messing everything up, and getting frustrated and upset about it. Lance is losing patience fast. (click:"Lance is losing patience fast")[He doesn't have much to begin with.] (click:"He doesn't have much to begin with")[He's swearing so much you're sure the air must be turning blue, and every new curse that passes his lips feels heavier and heavier, like he's pounding them into your skull with a hammer.] (click: "hammer")[Finally, you can't stand another word. You cover your ears with your hands and scream at him to [[shut up]].]

[[Well]]

He's already mad as a hornet in a jar, and that sure doesn't help matters. He yanks you up off the mat by one arm, his grip bruisingly tight. "Don't tell me to shut up, little girl," he snarls, and stalks off towards his office, dragging you behind. He pushes you inside so hard you stumble and have to grab at the desk to keep from falling and then he slams the door and turns on you, still furious. "Wh-what are you doing, Daddy?" you quaver, frightened of the look on his face. "What the fuck is wrong with you today?" he shouts. "You can't stay on your fucking feet! You do the beam, you land on your ass. You do the bars, you land on your ass. You do the fucking floor, you land on your ass. You land on your ass one more time, girl, and I'm gonna make damn sure you regret it. Bend over the desk." "What?" you say again, stupidly. "I said, bend over the desk, or do I make you?" [[You bend]].

You can hear him opening the door of the little storage closet in his office behind you, and there's a muffled jangle of metal. You crane your neck in time to see him folding a thick leather belt in half and taking the loose ends in one hand. He gives an experimental slap against his palm, winces, and grins. "Daddy, please!" you gasp. "Please don't hit me, I'll do better!" Your mother has taken her belt to you one time in your entire life, when you were 8 years old and stole a candy bar from the gas station. [[It was horrible]].

"You're damn right you'll do better," he says. "I'm going to hit you whether you want it or not, because your job is to land on your fucking feet and my job is to correct you when you're wrong, and unlike you, *I do my fucking job*." He demonstrates by cracking the belt hard across your buttocks. The thin leotard you're wearing gives hardly any protection at all, so you feel every bit of that sting. [[You might scream]], you're not really sure.

"Say it," he growls behind you. *Slap*. "Say, ‘I'm sorry, Daddy.'" *Slap*. "'I won't land on my ass anymore.'" *Slap*. Your whole backside feels like it's on fire and you're crying. "I'm sorry, Daddy," you hiccough between sobs. "I won't land on my a-a-" SLAP! The hardest yet. "My ass!" you yelp. "I won't land on my ass anymore." "Good," he growls. "Good girl. You do and you'll regret it. Here." *Slap*. "Are a few more." *Slap*. "Reminders." *Slap*. "For you." *[[Slap]]*.

You're not so much crying as whimpering by this point, half out of your mind with the pain, and yet you notice how strange his voice sounds. A little breathless with the effort and yet oddly hoarse, like he's fighting something. You hear a thud and a jangle as he tosses the belt aside and it hits the floor, and relax a little. It's over. (click:"It's over")[You blink your eyes blearily to clear away the tears clouding your vision and try and get your breathing back under control. [[Then he grabs you]].]

Strong fingers sink bruisingly into your hips as he flips you over on the desk so you're looking up at him, and he's there, right there, standing at the edge of the desk between your open legs. His body sags a little, like his anger has left with the belt, but there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his face is red. His eyes are bright and black, every bit of ice swallowed up by his pupils, and suddenly you know what it means, know what he's been fighting. You know, because [[you've been fighting it, too]].

"Daddy," you croak, hearing your voice crack, rough with crying. You reach up to touch his face, wipe away a few of the little beads of sweat, and that seems to [[break something in him]].

"Maggie-baby," he says, almost a groan, and then he falls on you, pushing your mouths together hot and frantic. You can feel him hard against the thin fabric covering your crotch and you wrap your legs around his waist and hook them together, pulling him in, grinding him against you until he moans and rears up, breaking the kiss. He grabs the neckline of your leotard in his hands, and pulls, gritting his teeth with the effort until the cloth gives way with a sharp tearing noise and falls away from your body in tatters, leaving you [[exposed to him]].

It's the first time you've ever been naked in front of a man and the odd thing is that you don't feel shy or ashamed or frightened at all. You shove the tattered remnants of the leotard off your shoulders and sit up - wincing a little as you put weight on your still-smarting bottom - and tug just as eagerly at his clothes, helping him shuck his shirt off over his head, shove his pants down around his knees. Then he's kissing you again, kissing you like he's going to devour you, and shoving inside, [[hard and not gentle at all]].

You yelp as he breaks through your hymen and he pulls away from your mouth as quickly as if he's been burned. "You were a fucking virgin?" he demands incredulously. "Yes," you say, suddenly frightened. Is that a bad thing? Is he angry again? "Fuck," he says, his eyes going wide and shocked. "I didn't know, we shouldn't have-" He's already starting to gather himself together and pull out, so you tighten your legs around him and hang on. "Please," you say. "Please, I want it." He stills, half in and half out. "I-" he starts. "Please!" you cry, and then you have an idea. "Please, Daddy, I want you to f-fuck me," you say, in your [[sweetest little-girl voice]].

[[You see the exact moment he gives in]].

You'll remember this moment for the rest of your life, and not just because of your lost virginity. You've never felt so beautiful, so wanted. So powerful. (click: "So powerful")[The pain in your bottom is forgotten. You feel like you could take on the whole world and win.] (click: "take on the whole world and win")[He's your coach] (click: "your coach")[your Daddy] (click: "your Daddy")[your strict and stern taskmaster] (click: "your strict and stern taskmaster")[but at this moment, [[you rule him]].]

"Maggie-baby," he moans, his voice breaking as he shoves back inside you. "My baby girl." "All yours, Daddy," you tell him. "Only yours. It's all for you, just tell me what you want me to do." (click: "just tell me what you want me to do")["Jesus fuck," he says, pausing the staccato rhythm of his hips to stare at you. "Where did you learn to do that?" "Nowhere," you say, confused. "It just… seemed right. Do you not like it?" you ask, [[suddenly worried]].]

He gives a strangled laugh and starts moving again. "Say something like that again and I'm gonna blow my brains out through my dick. You're so fucking good, you have no idea. You're being so good for me." "I can be better. I'll do whatever you want, Daddy, anything if I can be your baby girl." "Jesus fuck," he moans again. "[[Keep talking]]."

[[So, yeah]].

That's how you become [[a teen pregnancy statistic]].

[[You should have made him wear a condom]].

You quickly discover that Lance is basically always horny, which is great, because you are, too. You're having a terrific time until about a month after that day with the belt, when you notice that your breasts have started hurting when you run. Worse, they seem to be *[[growing]]*.  {(set: $pregnancyweek to 4)}

A couple weeks after that and you start getting queasy in the mornings. That's when you really start to suspect what has happened. Your mom always groans a little bit when she reminisces about how sick she got when she was [[pregnant]] with you.  {(set: $pregnancyweek to 6)}

So here you are, two days later, with a positive pregnancy test in your bag and your dreams of winning another gold medal in ruins at your feet. In Lance's arms, you might have felt like you could take on the world, but the battle you're going to be fighting sure as heck isn't going to be the next world championship. It's pretty hard to do a floor routine when you're 7 months pregnant and can't see your feet. To borrow Hope's favorite word: *[[fuck]]*.

Lance looks up from his papers when you come into his office and shut the door. "What are you doing here so early, Maggie-baby?" he says, looking surprised. "I, uh, needed to talk to you," you tell him. "Talk?" he asks, getting up and coming over to you. "Or "'talk?'" he murmurs, getting his hands on your hips and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. You bite your lip, good intentions about serious adult conversations at war with the promise of orgasms in his voice. [[Talk]] or "[[talk|Airquotes Talk]]"?

There's really no way to break this gently. "I'm pregnant," you blurt out. You've never seen a human being move so fast. Lance recoils so hard he nearly hits the opposite wall. "What the *fuck*?" he spits. "I'm pregnant," you say again, and burst into tears. "I'm sorry," you sniffle. "I didn't think I could get pregnant. I haven't had my p-period in months." Lance runs over to his desk, unlocks the cash drawer, and starts pulling out bills, counting frantically and fumbling as he tries to bundle them together with a rubber band. "Here," he says, tossing the stack at you. "[[Go get it taken care of]]."

"Can we do both?" you ask, good intentions flying out the window. You're weak, sue you. "Okay." He grins, picking you bodily up. Then he pushes you up against the door and proceeds to jackhammer you into the wood until you both collapse on the floor in sated and exhausted puddles of sweat and, well, [[other stuff]].

"Taken care of?" you say, staring blankly at the bills. There has to be at least $200 in your (if: (history:) contains "Airquotes Talk")[lap](else:)[hands]. "Abort it," he says, his tone suggesting that you're a particularly stupid child. [[Your eyes widen]].

Unfortunately, his hand lands on your breast and he suddenly frowns and sits up. "Are your tits getting bigger? You haven't gone back to Hope's 10,000 calorie-a-day diet, have you?" he asks suspiciously. (click:"suspiciously")[There's really no way to break this gently.] (click:"no way to break this gently")["[[I'm pregnant]]," you blurt out.]

You've never seen a human being move so fast. Lance recoils so hard he nearly hits the opposite wall. "What the *fuck*?" he spits. "I'm pregnant," you say again, and burst into tears. "I'm sorry," you sniffle. "I didn't think I could get pregnant. I haven't had my p-period in months." Lance is pulling on his pants like he's a fireman and the bell has just gone off. As soon as they're on, he runs over to his desk, unlocks the cash drawer, and starts pulling out bills, counting frantically and fumbling as he tries to bundle them together with a rubber band. "Here," he says, tossing the stack at you. "[[Go get it taken care of]]."

"I'm not getting an abortion," you say, dropping the money like it burned you. "That's murder!" Lance runs his hands through his hair, his eyes a little wild. "I thought Hope *cured* you of this stupid fucking Jesus shit! Of course you're going to abort it." "It's not stupid," you say. You don't get mad very often, but you can feel it starting to build up. Your brows are already starting to pull together into what your mother calls your "stormy" face. She hardly ever sees it, so on the rare occasions you fight she tends to give in as soon as she does. You wonder if it will work the same on Lance. "And [[I'm *not* going to abort it|I'm not going to abort it]]."

Lance groans and collapses into his chair. His hair is sticking up in every direction. "Do you understand what this will do to me if it gets out?" he says. He straightens with a jolt, eyes wide. "Fuck, have you even had your 18th birthday yet?" You nod. "Three months ago." "Well, thank fuck for that, at least," he says, slumping back into the chair. "My career might be dead, but at least I'm not going to fucking *jail*." "Your career's not dead," you say. "If the Federation finds out I slept with a student, it is," Lance says. "Abort it. Please, I'm begging you. This can't get out! Look," he says, rummaging in his drawer again and pulling out more handfuls of cash. How much does he have in there? "I'll pay you. I'll give you more if you [[just abort the fucking thing]]."

You glare at him, putting one hand protectively over your still-flat belly. "It's not a ‘fucking thing,' it's my child. And yours. Don't talk about it like that again." (if: (history:) contains "Airquotes Talk")[You stand up and pull on your track pants and jacket, gathering your bag and the rest of your clothes in your arms and [[turning to go]].](else:)[(link-goto: "You turn to go", "turning to go").]

"Wait," he says. "What about your gold medal? You can't compete in the world championship next year if you're pregnant. What about your dreams? What about your *career*?" "They'll just have to be put on hold," you say, [[opening up the door]].

Suddenly Lance is right there between you and the exit. "Look," he says. "Wait. I'm sorry, I just panicked, okay? Don't be mad. We'll figure this out." "I can't believe you want to murder your own child," you say, glaring at him. He flinches, but grabs your arm. "Just… don't tell anyone else yet, okay? I'll figure this out." "The honorable thing to do would be to marry me," you snap. His jaw drops open and he blinks at you, looking weirdly fish-like and not handsome at all. "Are you from fucking Victorian times all the sudden? If I marry you, that might as well be a full confession. Sex with a student - my career's over. Dead. Kaput. Ain't happening, Baby." "So what are you gonna do, send me away to the country for my confinement?" Lance is still staring at you like you're a zoo animal or something. "For a girl who sucked my dick hanging upside down on the parallel bars, you're still being weirdly 19th century here," he says. You feel yourself flush. You can't help it that your mom likes to watch old Jane Austen movies. But when you open your mouth to respond, he slaps a hand over it. "I told you, I'll figure this out," he murmurs, voice dropping to your special tone. "Just listen to Daddy and don't tell anyone. Got it, Baby Girl?" You feel your resolve slipping under the full force of his voice and his gaze. "[[Okay, Daddy|Okay Daddy 2]]," you whisper.

"Good girl," he says. "Go get dressed and go home. Get yourself a milkshake or something - I guess if you want to take up Hope's 10,000 calorie a day diet again, there's nothing now to stop you getting as fat as you want. Ain't like it's gonna be the deciding factor between you and another gold when you're waddling around with a belly like you just swallowed a watermelon." "I'm not going to get fat again," you say, stung. Lance just raises his brows at you. "Pregnant's not fat," you mutter. "It sorta is," he says. He digs a piece of gum out of his pocket, pops it in his mouth, and promptly snaps it, then grins. "You know, I never fucked a preggo chick before," he says. "Guess there's a first time for everything." "You're gross," you tell him. "Never bothered you before," he leers, and heads back to his desk. "Your tits look great, by the way," he adds over his shoulder. "I can see I'm going to enjoy this." Ugh. [[You don't dignify that with a response]].

Thank God your mom got bored sitting around at home about two months into your relocation and went out to get herself a job as a waitress at a diner about a mile from your apartment, or you would never would have been able to hide the next few mornings of more or less continuous throwing up. Lance finally calls three days after your conversation at the gym. "Come to my office," he says. "I figured it out." "How?" you ask. You're clammy and tired from another round of barfing, propped up with one elbow on the toilet seat. Gross as it is - toilet water smell, ugh - you really don't feel like moving. "I'll explain when you get here," he says. Double ugh. You haul yourself up and [[into the shower]].

"You look like shit," Lance says cheerfully when you get to his office about 40 minutes later. "I'm sorry your baby made me barf all morning," you say sarcastically. "The sicker you are, the stronger it will be. That's an old wives' tale, right?" "I think it's supposed to mean it will be a girl," you mutter. "Good. With genes like ours, maybe she can grow up to fulfill your dream of becoming an Olympic gold medalist, since you've decided to throw away your chance." You grit your teeth. "I'm not aborting this baby, so you can stop trying to make me feel bad about keeping it." Lance shrugs. "Fine. Whatever. I took care of it anyway." He sweeps his arm grandiosely towards the desk behind him. "[[Meet Ansel Sommer]]."

That's when you notice the other person in the room. Ansel grins sheepishly at you from the chair by Lance's desk, where he's clearly been trying to make himself look as small as possible. He's pretty short, which helps, but so muscular he makes Lance look like Jack Skellington, so the only reason it really worked was Lance intercepting you before you could spot him and distracting you. "Hi, Ansel," you say politely, then immediately [[turn back to Lance]].

"I've been coming to your gym for five months, " you tell Lance. "I already know Ansel. Why is he here?" "He," Lance says, "is the solution to our problem. And we're the solution to his. This really couldn't have worked out any better for all of us, in fact. I'm a fucking genius." You roll your eyes. "Let me decide that." "Ooh, look at Baby, all grown up and making her own decisions," Lance coos in a truly revolting voice. "I'm going to have to, aren't I?" you say, dropping a hand protectively to your belly. "Or is ‘taking responsibility' such [[an alien concept in California]]?"

"Hey now, spare me the judgement until you hear my brilliant plan," Lance says. "Ansel here, as you may know, is a big flaming faggot and has been fucking Chris Czajkowski behind his parents' back for, what, three years now?" "Four," Ansel says sheepishly. "His parents are Jesus freaks like you - you're going to love them - and will disown him if they find out. And they're starting to get suspicious. So, we're going to throw them off the scent. You, Maggie-baby, have been having a secret affair with him and whoops! The condom broke. So Ansel is going to do the *honorable* thing and [[marry you]]."

"He's a rising star," Lance continues, "so he'll get plenty of endorsements, and his parents are rich as fuck anyway, so he'll be able to support you and the baby a helluva lot better than your mom's waitressing job." He starts ticking points off on his hands. (click:"ticking points off on his hands")["Ansel can keep fucking Chris."] (click:"Ansel can keep fucking Chris")["I can keep fucking you."] (click:"I can keep fucking you")["And the only one who loses anything is you, because you'll be sitting on the sidelines with a big baby belly cheering on your beloved husband at the next world championships instead of standing on the podium yourself like you deserve."] (click:"like you deserve")["But really," he adds, "the media's gonna eat that shit up with a spoon, so it could be worse. When he wins Olympic gold, you'll probably get a Lifetime movie about your oh-so-sweet teenage romance." Lance snaps his gum and grins. "Genius, [[am I right]]?"]

You have to admit, it's surprisingly thorough, but you're still grouchy from the argument the other day (not to mention all the barfing), so you don't want to give him the satisfaction so easily. "What if I don't want to keep fucking you?" you grumble. Lance snorts. "The alternative is a life of celibacy with your homosexual husband while he's off getting his ass ploughed by Chris Czajkowski, and if that thing you did to me on the pommel horse is any indication, that's not a life that's gonna suit you real well. Anyway, I'd like to see you try and be satisfied with anybody else after you've had me. I'm the best, Baby, and don't you forget it." You open your mouth to snap back, but before you can say anything, [[Ansel's brows go up incredulously]].

"Okay," Ansel says. "Rule number one for this arrangement. I don't care what kinky shit you guys get up to when you're alone, but *I don't want to know*. I don't rub Chris's amazing ass-ploughing skills in your face, you don't rub anyone's pussy in mine. Agreed? Also, please take the pommel horse out back and burn it. What was she even doing on there? Girls don't do the pommel horse." Lance smirks. "[[She was f-]]"

You and Ansel both lunge for his mouth at the same moment and your hands smack together as you cover it up before he can say any more. Lance rolls his eyes as you and Ansel grin at each other in triumph. "I guess we make a good team," you say shyly to Ansel. "[[Wanna get hitched]]?"

Just like that, you're engaged to a guy you hardly know. Ansel has always seemed nice enough, but there's a lot you have to learn about him if you're going to pull this off. Lance stops making gross comments long enough to help you and Ansel work out a backstory for your fake relationship, and after that, everything moves surprisingly quickly. (click: "quickly")[You and Ansel call a meeting with your mom, Ansel's parents, and Lance to tell them all officially about your "relationship", the baby on the way and your decision to get married.] (click: "married")[Your mom cries.] (click: "cries")[Ansel's mom cries, and hugs you.] (click: "hugs you")[Ansel's dad blusters a little in the general direction of his son (and Lance, for allowing his students to have an affair right under his nose), but comes around at the urging of his wife.] (click: "wife")[For his part, Lance puts on a good show of being supremely disappointed in both of you, but winks at you behind your mom and the Sommers' backs. [[You ignore him.]]]

Unexpectedly, the one who takes the news the worst is Ansel's boyfriend. Chris shows up at the apartment where you and your Mom are living at 9:37 PM about a week after your engagement to Ansel is made public, red-eyed, tight-lipped, and drunk as a skunk. Luckily, your mom is still at the diner and you are home alone. "I hope you know you've ruined him, you stupid little slut," he says when you open the door. "He's so frightened to disappoint them, but he was coming around. He was going to tell them and we could have gotten married and made a life together. But no, you had to go and get yourself knocked up by Lance fucking Tucker and now he's got an excuse to hide again. He's gonna hide forever, and then where will we be? What kind of life will be left for us?" Abruptly, he is crying, great wracking sobs that shake his whole body. [[Apologize]] [[Invite him inside]]  {(set: $pregnancyweek to 7)}

"I'm sorry," you tell him. You don't know what else to say. "I never wanted to stand between you and Ansel." "Well, it's too late now, isn't it!" He sways drunkenly, and almost stumbles backward off the stoop. "I hate you," he says. "I just wanted you to know that." And off he lurches. [[Text Ansel to tell him Chris might need to be picked up]] [[Run after Chris]]

"Why don't you come inside?" you suggest, opening up the door invitingly. "Let me call Ansel - we can all sit down and talk about this." "What is there to talk about? It's all planned out: his perfect little beard, baby on the way and everything. Have you picked out your white picket fence yet?" Chris sneers. The effect is a little bit ruined by his red, puffy eyes and dripping nose. "I don't want to stand between you and Ansel," you say. "I'm sure we can work something out if you just come inside. Look, see? I'm calling him right now." You pull your phone out of your pocket and hit his name on speed-dial, praying frantically that [[he picks up]].

You go back inside to text Ansel and let him know that Chris might need to be picked up, and then go to your room and have a good cry. When you were a little girl, you always imagined a fairy-tale wedding to a handsome prince who would see you win a gold medal at the Olympics, fall madly in love with you, and carry you off to his castle, far away from the dingy, drafty trailer where you grew up. So much for that. (click: "So much for that")[Instead, the man who carried you away from Ohio has turned out to be a boor, you've lost any chance you ever had of winning Olympic gold, and you're marrying a man who's in love with someone else. [[How could you have let it all go so wrong?]]]

You run after him. Drunk as he is, it doesn't take long to catch up. "Chris, please," you say. "Let me call Ansel. I'm sure we can work something out if you just come inside. Look, see? I'm calling him right now." You pull your phone out of your pocket and hit his name on speed-dial, praying frantically that [[he picks up]].

Thank God, he does. "Ansel!" you say, your voice sounding high and nervous even to your own ears. "Can you come over to my place? Chris is here right now and I think we all need to talk." "He's what?" Ansel says. "He's here." "Aww, shit," you hear Ansel mutter. Louder, he says, "I'm so sorry, I *told* him not to bother-" "It's okay," you break in quickly. "Just come, if you can. We'll wait." "Give me 15," Ansel says, and hangs up with a click. "He's on his way," you tell Chris, who's crying again, scrubbing fruitlessly at his eyes like that will help him stop. "Please come inside." [[This time, he does]].

By the time Ansel shows up, you've got two glasses of water into Chris and he's washed his face in the kitchen sink. His eyes are still pretty red and puffy, but at least he's managed to stop crying and dripping snot. As soon as the doorbell rings, Chris lurches up from the spot where you've parked him on the couch and tries to answer it, but he's still too drunk to make it without swaying dangerously, and you have to catch him and sit him back down before opening the door yourself. "Hey, Maggie," Ansel says when he sees you, then immediately pushes past you to go inside. Chris flounders to his feet again when he sees Ansel, and Ansel has to cross the room in a bound to catch him before he falls. For a moment, Chris is held up by nothing but Ansel's hands on his face as he kisses him fiercely. "You idiot, you fucking idiot," you hear Ansel hissing roughly as you close the door, turning away to give them privacy. "I'm sorry," Chris is sobbing. "I'm sorry." "Don't apologize to me, apologize to her," Ansel says, and you turn back in time to see them collapse together onto the couch, still fused together like they're more one person than two. "I can't *believe* you-" "[[It's okay]]," you cut in.

"It's okay," you say again, when they both turn their heads to look at you, Chris bleary and wet, Ansel tight-jawed and angry. "He has a right to be upset. I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry any of this is happening." Now you're crying, and Ansel and Chris both go a little wide-eyed and alarmed at the sight. "Uh, should we call Lance?" Ansel says after a minute. Chris pokes Ansel in the ribs. "She's *your* fiancée, man, give her a hug or something." Ansel looks even more like a deer in headlights, visibly reluctant to peel himself away from whatever melding is going on over there. It's almost cute, or would be if it wasn't just one more reminder that you're marrying a man you hardly know. A man in love with somebody else. "It's okay," you sniffle, trying to pull yourself back together. "You don't need to give me a hug. Or call Lance." You sit down on the easy chair across from them and wipe your eyes. "[[This is something we need to work out with each other]]."

Ansel and Chris just look at you. "I don't want to come between you," you tell them. "Too late for that," Chris mutters darkly. "I'm not going to marry you!" Ansel explodes, abruptly. "You're lying to yourself, Chris! It's not going to happen. I want to. I want to more than anything. But I can't. I love you, but I love them, too. They're my *parents*." "Bigoted, homophobic-" Chris mutters. "Yes!" Ansel says. "Yes, they are! I wish they supported me like yours support you. But they *don't* and I'm not ready to lose them yet. Can't you see that this is perfect? They'll be off my back and we can still be together whenever we want - Maggie won't care!" "I think Chris should move in with us," you say, and both of their heads swivel abruptly back to you. "Really?" Ansel says. "You'd let me, after everything I said?" Chris says. He sounds skeptical. "Yes," you say. "*[[Why]]?*"

You shrug. "I've never heard of anyone in modern gymnastics making a serious comeback after having a baby. I looked, after I found out I was pregnant. My career is over, so at least I can do something to make other people happy." Ansel frowns. "Maggie, you're only 18. You have your whole life ahead of you. What will make *you* happy?" You drop your hand to your (link:"belly.")[(set: $bellykink += 1)belly. You're not supposed to start showing for several more weeks, and it's still flat and taut as the day you won gold at Worlds. If it weren't for the morning sickness, you almost wouldn't believe that you're pregnant. But you are, and your life will never be the same.] "I don't know yet," you say. "For now, I'm just taking this one day at a time." "That's no way to live life," Ansel protests. "You've got to have plans, you've got to have dreams!" *I had dreams*, you think. *And now they're dead.* Out loud, you say, "Chris, do you want kids?" Chris darts a glance at Ansel. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I do." "[[Then it can be yours, too]]," you say.  {(set: $relationshipAnsel += 1) (set: $relationshipChris += 1)}

After Chris and Ansel leave, you go to your room and have a good cry. You feel relieved that you managed to win over Chris and come to an agreement with him and Ansel, but seeing the two of them together was just one more painful reminder of how much you've screwed up your own life. They didn't stop touching each other the whole evening, and once Chris sobered up a little more, he and Ansel looked at each other with happy, shining eyes as they talked and joked, planning your lives together. Their lives together. [[You are just an accessory]].

When you were a little girl, you always imagined a fairy-tale wedding to a handsome prince who would see you win a gold medal at the Olympics, fall madly in love with you, and carry you off to his castle, far away from the dingy, drafty trailer where you grew up. So much for that. (click: "So much for that")[Instead, the man who carried you away from Ohio has turned out to be a boor, you've lost any chance you ever had of winning Olympic gold, and you're marrying a man who's in love with someone else. [[How could you have let it all go so wrong?]]]

When your mother gets home an hour later, looking tired and frazzled after her long shift, she takes one look at your red eyes and pulls a carton of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer and two spoons out of the silverware drawer. Just a few weeks ago, you would have turned it down. A champion gymnast with dreams of Olympic gold isn't allowed to eat her feelings - not if she wants to stay a champion for long. But now… (click: "But now")[Your hand drops to your (link:"belly.")[(set: $bellykink += 1)belly. It's still so deceptively flat and normal, like your whole life hasn't been changed by what's growing inside it.] You're never going to win Olympic gold now. There's no reason to stop yourself anymore. [[You take a spoon]].]

You sit together at the little table by the window and eat the whole carton in silence while your mom pretends not to see the tears dripping slowly down your nose and you pretend not to notice her pretending. Finally, she says, "You don't have to go through with it, you know. We could go somewhere, get it taken care of." *Get it taken care of*. Exactly what Lance said when you told him. You were furious with him - imagine wanting to kill your own child! But you're too tired and heartsick now to react the same way to your mother's words. "I couldn't do it, Mom," you tell her. [["I couldn't kill my baby."]]

Your mother reaches across the little table to squeeze your hand. "I couldn't, either," she says softly, "and I'm happy I didn't. You're the best part of my life. But I was always going to end up a janitor or a waitress or some awful job. I was drifting through life, getting high, hanging out with the wrong crowd. You had dreams, Mags. You were going someplace. You still can." "No," you say. "[[I made my bed and I'm going to lie in it]]."

Your mother sighs and stands up from her chair to take the empty carton to the trash and wash the spoons. "I'm glad you have Ansel, at least," she says when she's done. "He's a much nicer boy than your father was. You have better taste in men than I did when I was your age." You let out an involuntary sob and try to cover it up with a cough. "I love him," you lie. You're already getting better at lying. One more thing you've learned from Lance Tucker. You're going to have to be good at lying, if you're going to pull this off. But all you can think inside is, *[[little do you know]]*.

"Wow, I think your tits have gotten even bigger since the last time I saw you," your better taste in men says when you show up three days later at the gym. "You'll look like a porn star in no time at this rate." Ansel picked you up from your apartment on his way to practice because your mom has the car and you're going to the courthouse when he finishes to meet her and his parents and apply for your marriage license. He disappeared into the locker room as soon as you arrived at the gym, leaving you alone with Lance. Lance has yet to take his eyes off your breasts, which have, admittedly, grown a full cup size in the last few weeks. "[[Leave me alone]]," you tell him.

"Aww, Baby, don't be like that," he says, reaching out to cup your breasts in his hands like he's weighing them. "Definitely bigger," he smirks. "I'm aware," you hiss. [[You knock his hands off you]].

He puts them right back on. "I've been reading up," he says, rubbing his thumbs gently across your nipples through the thin fabric of your blouse. You shiver involuntarily, feeling them harden under his touch, and his smirk deepens. "The internet says they're not only going to get bigger, they're going to get more sensitive." He drags the last word out, accentuating every syllable, his thumbs pressing more insistently against your breasts. You ought to tell him to stop, but it feels so good. Suddenly you realize it's been almost two weeks since the last time you had sex. [[Tell him to leave you alone again]] [[Let him continue]]

"I told you to leave me alone," you snap, ignoring the rapidly growing pool of heat in your belly. Lance takes his hands off you and backs away, holding them up placatingly. "Okay, okay," he says. "Leaving you alone now. Your loss. I've got some ideas I think you'd like." Oh no, now you're curious. [[Ask what they are]] [[Pretend you don't care]]

"I'm aware of that, too," you say, trying to ignore the rapidly growing pool of heat in your belly. "I told you they hurt when I run now." "I'm just saying, Baby," he murmurs. "We haven't fucked for almost two weeks. You've gotta be getting tired of flicking your bean by now and I've got some ideas I think you'll like." "[[Flicking my bean]]?"

"What kind of ideas," you ask grudgingly. His smirk is blinding. Dammit. "I knew you'd be tired of flicking your bean by now," he says. (click: "flicking your bean")["[[Flicking my bean]]?"]

"I'm going to go sit in the bleachers and wait until Ansel is done," you announce. "Have it your way," Lance shrugs. (if: (history:) contains "Why")[(link-goto: "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish", "You're silent the rest of the way to the courthouse")](else:)[(link-goto: "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish", "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish")].

"Paddling the pink canoe?" he suggests. "Jilling off?" You just stare at him. He rolls his eyes. "Point is, [[a girl like you needs dick to be satisfied]]."

"If you want to have sex," you say, "go pick someone up at a bar." "I did," he says. "A couple someones, actually." You feel a little stung in spite of yourself. You haven't so much as looked at anyone else, have spent your mornings barfing and miserable because of *his* baby, and all the while he's been off having one night stands with strangers from a bar? "In that case, I don't see why you care what I'm doing or not doing to get off," you scowl. Lance bites his lip, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Nobody else talks like you," he mutters. "[[What]]?"

"It just wasn't the same, okay?" he says. You feel your mouth drop open. "Are you saying you *miss* me?" "You know I always show you a good time," he says, lowering his voice. "And it's not like you can get any *more* knocked up at this point." "You do miss me!" you say incredulously. He huffs. "Are you up for it or not?" Just then, Ansel emerges from the locker room, changed and ready to start his session. You've got [[about four seconds]] before he's close enough to hear what you and Lance are saying.

[[Say yes]] [[Say no|Pretend you don't care]] (set: $counter to 4) You have |amount>[$counter] seconds left! (live: 1s)[ (set: $counter to it - 1) (if: $counter is 0)[(go-to: "Too Late")] (replace: ?amount)[$counter] ]

"Fine," you say quickly. Annoyed as you are with Lance himself, you really have been missing the sex. "When?" "Tonight, closing time," he murmurs, before walking off with Ansel to work on the pommel horse. (if: (history:) contains "Why")[(link-goto: "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish", "You're silent the rest of the way to the courthouse")](else:)[(link-goto: "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish", "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish")].

Dammit, Ansel reaches you before you can make up your mind. He and Lance move off to the pommel horse, Lance throwing a regretful look over his shoulder at you. (if: (history:) contains "Why")[(link-goto: "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish", "You're silent the rest of the way to the courthouse")](else:)[(link-goto: "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish", "You go sit in the bleachers and wait for Ansel to finish")].

On the way to the courthouse, you and Ansel talk about Chris and you watch his mouth twist into the same thin, painful line you saw on Chris's lips a few nights earlier. "I can't lose my parents," he says. "His family supports him, so doesn't understand how hard it is. I love him, but I love them, too." "You don't think they'd come around?" you ask. "I mean, they took the news that you knocked up your teenage girlfriend pretty well, and a lot of parents would be really upset about that." Ansel gives a short, sharp bark of laughter. "Mom's all happy that she's going to be a grandma and it's not even true. But better a lie that makes her happy than a truth that would destroy her." "Not all family is blood," you tell him. "I think she'll be a good grandmother, and I think you'll be a good father, too. Maybe in a few years we can give her a real grandchild." He snort. "The old turkey baster technique?" You wince at the thought. Shoving a turkey baster up there didn't sound very pleasant. But… "[[Whatever works, I guess]]," you tell him.

"You'd really do that?" Ansel asks. You shrug. "Yeah, probably. I mean, let's see how this one goes before we make any definite plans, but I've never heard of anyone in modern gymnastics making a serious comeback after having a baby. I looked, after I found out I was pregnant. My career is over, so at least I can do something to make other people happy." Ansel frowns. "Maggie, you're only 18. You have your whole life ahead of you. What will make *you* happy?" You drop your hand to your (link:"belly.")[(set: $bellykink += 1)belly. You're not supposed to start showing for several more weeks, and it's still flat and taut as the day you won gold at Worlds. If it weren't for the morning sickness, you almost wouldn't believe that you're pregnant. But you are, and your life will never be the same.] "I don't know yet," you say. "For now, I'm just taking this [[one day at a time]]."  {(set: $relationshipAnsel += 1)}

"That's no way to live life," Ansel protests. "You've got to have plans, you've got to have dreams!" *I had dreams*, you think. *And now they're dead.* Out loud, you say, "Does Chris want kids?" Ansel's fingers tighten on the steering wheel until the knuckles show white through his skin. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, he does." "Then it can be his, too," you say. [[You're silent the rest of the way to the courthouse]].

With the marriage license in hand, Ansel's mother ("Call me Sue, dear") wants to start wedding planning immediately, so she invites you and your mother to their house for dinner and a discussion. (if: (history:) contains "Say yes")[You bite your lip nervously. Should you call it off with Lance, or make your excuses to Sue? [[Call it off with Lance]] [[Make your excuses to Sue]]](else:)[[[Go to the Sommers' house for dinner|Wedding Planning]]]

You furtively text Lance to let him know you won't be able to make it back to the gym, but he must be coaching, because he doesn't respond. [[Go to the Sommers' house for dinner|Wedding Planning]]

"I'm so sorry, Sue, but I can't this evening," you tell her. "Could we possibly do it tomorrow or the next night instead?" "Well, I really did want to get started as soon as possible, but I suppose tomorrow night is only one more day. Will 7 PM work for you?" "Sure," you say, relieved. "Then we'll see you then." Your mother frowns at you as you walk back to your car. "Why did you tell Sue we can't go?" she asks. "Do you have plans?" "[[Yes|Plans with Lance]]," you tell her.

Your mother looks ready to faint dead away when she sees the house. Lance had told you that Ansel's parents were "rich as fuck" and it turns out that they own a chain of furniture stores with multiple locations up and down the West Coast. They aren't just wealthy, they control a company worth millions upon millions of dollars. Your mother, who's rarely had more than a couple hundred extra dollars to her name, looks increasingly shell-shocked and bewildered with every question Sue asks you at dinner, seated around an enormous, ornate table that's nearly as long as the trailer you grew up in. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that is," she keeps saying, then invariably, after listening to a long-winded explanation of the difference between organza and chiffon or some other such critical issue, "Whatever you think is best, Sue. I'm sure Maggie will love anything you pick." But it isn't until Ansel's father Otto has the draft of a prenuptial agreement delivered to your apartment the next day that she breaks down. "I don't even know what some of these words mean," she sobs when you show it to her after she gets home from work. "How can I let you sign it if I can't even understand what it says?" [[You call Lance]].

"Maggie-baby," Lance moans some time later, his face buried against your breasts. His eyes went almost comically wide when you pulled your shirt off over your head and unhooked your bra to reveal how much they'd grown, and he's been licking and sucking at them for what seems like hours, swirling his tongue around the swollen pink buds of your nipples with his fingers buried in your pussy. There's a spot in there that makes you see stars and he seems to have an unerring instinct for finding it - you've already come three times. Lance tied your hands up over your head before you started, so you haven't even touched him, but his dick bobs between you, as hard and red as you've ever seen it, the tip dripping steadily onto your thighs. As much as you're enjoying his fingers, you're starting to squirm and thrust upward with your hips, impatient for something bigger, but he keeps pushing you back down, holding you still underneath him. "Daddy, please," you whine. "I want it." "Greedy Baby," he chuckles, his voice a rumble against your chest. He raises his head to look at you, his face twisted in a mock scowl. The effect is a little ruined by his lips, which are wet and pink and swollen from what he's been doing on your breasts. "If you think I'm just going to forget what a bad girl you've been and let you have whatever you want, you've got another think coming. I want you begging for it." As if to prove the point, he rubs himself along the inside of your thighs, smearing them with precome and letting you feel the slick, hot slide of his dick between them, so close and yet so far. "Please, oh, please," you moan. "Daddy, I want you so bad." "Better," he hums, dropping his head back down to mouth his way up your neck and claim your lips with his, his dick still moving between your slicked-up thighs. "But I think you might owe me an apology first." He tangles his fingers in your hair, arching your head back so he can suck and bite along your neck. "I think," he says, punctuating his words with little kisses and nips and scraps of teeth on skin that make you shiver and gasp, "you need a little reminder of who's in charge here. You've been awfully insubordinate lately." "Sorry," you gasp. He's nuzzling into your pulse point and that's about as coherent as you can be at that precise moment. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you," he says. "What's the proper way to address me?" "Sorry, Daddy," you say, louder this time. "Much better," he says. "Tell me, Maggie-baby, if I tell you to do something, what do you say?" "Yes, Daddy." "If I tell you not to do something, what do you say?" "Yes, Daddy," you gasp again. "Good," he says. "Good girl. Get it through your head what I am to you." He sinks his fingers back into your pussy, and the two of you moan in unison. "So wet," Lance murmurs. "You're so wet. Is it all for me? Say it. Say it, baby, and I'll fuck you." "Please," you whimper, not sure you're even capable of anything else. "Please…" "Say it," he growls again, harsher this time. "You know what you have to do, so do it." "Please fuck me," you gasp out in a rush. "God, please, Daddy, it's all for you. All yours." He gives a pleased hum. "Good girl, good girl," he says, pulling his fingers out and lining himself up at your entrance. "One more time. Say it again." "Please!" you sob. "I'm yours, all yours." "Baby Girl," he says, voice soft and fond as he pushes in. "There you are. [[It's good to have you back]]."

Congratulations, you've reached an ending! *Daddy Issues* is still a work in progress, so it might be a real ending or it might be a temporary stopping point while I write more of the story. I hope you'll check back for <a href="http://daddyissues.neocities.org/updates.html">updates</a> if you've enjoyed the story so far! <a href="http://daddyissues.neocities.org/">Return to the homepage</a>

"A prenup?" he says. "That suspicious motherfucker." "I guess it would be hard to build a business as successful as his if you were too trusting," you say. "You're too nice," he says. "He's put some lawyer in charge of drawing this up who doesn't give a shit about you and the baby, or even Ansel. It's all about the money. Well, two can play that game. I can have the gym's lawyer look it over and explain it to you and your mom, maybe try and renegotiate if there's anything iffy." "You'd do that?" "Maggie-baby," he says, his voice going soft, "you know I only want the best for you. I won't let them fuck you over." "Thank you, d-" you say, just barely cutting off the automatic "daddy" that almost passed your lips at the sound of his old pet name for you. "If you bring it over now, I can give it to the lawyer first thing tomorrow," he says. You can't tell whether he didn't hear your slip or did and is ignoring it. "Are you still at the gym?" you ask, surprised. "Nah, I'm at home. Can you come? I'll text you the address." "[[Of course, Daddy|Plans with Lance 2]]." "[[Uh, sure. I guess I can. Let me ask my mom]]."

"Don't knock yourself out. It's not like I'm doing you guys a favor here or anything," Lance says sourly. "Sorry," you say. "I really am gr-" "Sorry what?" Lance breaks in impatiently. He lets out a frustrated groan. "Do I have to drag it out of you? *Who takes care of you*, Maggie-baby?" Your heart beats at little faster at the realization that he's angry with you. Before anything else, he was your coach and somewhere in there, you're still hardwired to want to please him. Obey him. "Sorry, Daddy," you say, dropping your voice so your mother can't hear you in the other room. "Of course I can come over." "That's more like it," he says. [[He hangs up with a click]].

You've gotten used to feeling nauseous in the mornings over the last few weeks, but it usually calms down by lunchtime. After you turn off the phone, though, your stomach is so twisted up in knots that you have to run to the bathroom and throw up, even though it's almost 10 PM. Lance is angry with you(if: (history:) contains "Call it off with Lance")[, probably for blowing him off the night before to have dinner with Ansel and his parents.](else:)[. You can't blame him.] You've been pushing him away ever since the argument you had when you told him you were pregnant. You've been rude. You're *never* rude. [[You feel awful]] [[You take a deep breath]]

You feel awful. You've been horrible to Lance, and he's still helping you anyway. Your Daddy. He'd promised to take care of you, and he is. You need to make it up to him. You need to [[give him back his Baby Girl]].

You take a deep breath. You can't let him get to you like this. Everything is different now. He's not your Daddy. That was a stupid game you played and it's over now. You can never trust him so deeply again. He's shown you the line he won't cross. Lance Tucker might like you, and he certainly likes having sex with you, but you're always, always going to come in second to his career. You need to set boundaries. But what boundaries? It was stupid to let yourself believe that he loved you more than he loved himself. But the rest of it was fun. You'd like to keep doing it, especially if the alternative is a life of celibacy while your gay husband is off having sex with *his* boyfriend. Or you can break it off right now. Thank him for his help with the lawyer, marry Ansel, and let that be the end of it. You have to choose now, or he'll keep jerking you around. [[Keep your sexual relationship, but set the terms]] [[End it]]

By the time you've cleaned yourself up and gargled away your vomit breath, Lance has texted you the address. You don't recognize the name of the street, but when you punch it into your GPS it turns out to be only about 15 minutes away. Your mother offers to drive you, but you manage to convince her to go to bed instead and let you borrow the car. (click:"borrow the car")[In that weird way time sometimes feels during a competition - too long and too short all at once - the drive to Lance's house feels like the longest 15 minutes of your life, and yet before you know it, you're pulling up behind his red sports car in the driveway of a nice modern bungalow.] (click:"nice modern bungalow")[He answers the door in his usual costume of a white t-shirt and gym pants and holds it open for you at an angle that ensures your swollen breasts will have to brush against him when you squeeze past him to get inside. [[You don't budge]].]

End it. You're going to end it. Your heart feels light. Soon you'll be done with Lance Tucker. Once you marry Ansel, he won't have any claim over you or the baby. You can figure out your own path. Sure, your Olympic dreams are gone, but you'll figure something out. Maybe you'll love being a mom and give Ansel and Chris lots of babies to raise and enjoy together. Maybe you'll get your GED and go back to school and find a new dream to chase. The important thing is, the decision will be yours. [[The End]]

"We need to talk," you say, instead of stepping past him to go inside. Lance grimaces. "Do we? Why don't you just give me the pre-nup? I'll give it to the lawyer first thing tomorrow, I promise." "We really do," you insist. "Can I come in, please?" Lance sighs and holds the door open wider. "Fine." You follow him into the living room, where he gestures for you to sit down on the spotless white couch bedecked with red and blue pillows. He settles himself into the matching armchair opposite you with a resigned air. "So, talk," he says. "Let's get this over with." You bite your lip nervously. Here goes nothing. "I'm sorry I've been rude to you the last couple weeks," you say. "I've been scared and upset and it wasn't really fair of me to take it out on you." "Apology accepted," he says, shifting forward in his chair with a little more interest in his expression, though he still looks wary. "Thanks," you say. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's next. "I've been upset because you chose your career over me and your baby," you say. He frowns and opens his mouth as if to reply, but you shake your head quickly. "Please," you say, "[[just hear me out]]."

Lance shrugs and sits back in the chair, crossing his arms across his chest. "I don't blame you," you say, "and I'm not angry anymore, but I can't trust you the way I did before." Lance snorts. "You're going from Ohio trailer trash to a member of the 1%. I got you a sweet fucking deal, if you ask me." "I know, and I appreciate that," you tell him. "I appreciate that you offered to have your lawyer look at the pre-nup, too. You didn't have to and it was very kind of you." "Damn right." You sigh. "What I'm trying to say is, you're not my coach anymore and you're not my father either. I want you to stop treating me like I'm your student or your child." "And yet the first thing you did when Ansel's father sent over the pre-nup was call me for help," he points out. You blush. "I'll try and do that less," you say. "I'll believe it when I see it," he mutters. Louder, he says, "So this is the end, then? We're through?" [[Your blush deepens]].

"No," you say. "I was hoping we could… you know." "No, I don't know," Lance scowls. *Dammit*. "I, um, enjoyed what we were doing before," you tell him. "I'd like to keep doing it." Lance raises his brows. "If you can't even say it, I'm not sure you're as ready to live without my guidance as you think you are." "Have sex with you," you blurt out, cheeks flaming. "I want to keep having sex with you. If you want." His brows go even higher. "Wait," he says. "Let me get this straight. You want me to leave you alone, and you're going to leave me alone, too, except for *booty calls*?" You grimace at his crudeness. "[[Basically]]," you tell him.

"Well, shit. Sign me up!" he grins. "When do we begin?" "I told my mom to go to bed and not wait up for me," you say. "So I guess I was thinking tonight." "Fuck yeah," he says, coming out of his chair towards you. He laughs when notices your glare. "Is 'hot diggety dog' more to your taste, Maggie-baby?" he asks, taking your hand and pulling you up off the couch. "Yes, Daddy, it is." This close to him, you can see his pupils expand at the word. "So we're sticking with that, then?" he murmurs, getting his hands on your hips, and pulling you closer, against the hardening bulge in his pants. "We both like it," you point out. "We do," he agrees, leaning down to kiss you. You slide your arms up around his neck, and let your mouth open under his. It's not the life you once dreamed for yourself. There will be no Olympic gold, no whirlwind romance or fairytale wedding. Your Prince Charming is, in the end, neither a prince nor particularly charming. But you can work with it. [[The End]]

By the time you've cleaned yourself up and gargled away your vomit breath, Lance has texted you the address. You don't recognize the name of the street, but when you punch it into your GPS app it turns out to be only about 15 minutes away. Your mother offers to drive you, but you manage to convince her to go to bed instead and let you borrow the car. (click:"borrow the car")[In that weird way time sometimes feels during a competition - too long and too short all at once - the drive to Lance's house feels like the longest 15 minutes of your life, and yet before you know it, you're pulling up behind his red sports car in the driveway of a nice modern bungalow.] (click:"nice modern bungalow")[He answers the door in his usual costume of a white t-shirt and gym pants and holds it open for you at an angle that ensures your swollen breasts brush against him as you squeeze past him to get inside. Your cheeks flame and he smirks as [[he closes the door behind you]].]

"Here's the prenup," you say awkwardly, handing it to him. Your rudeness to him over the last few weeks weighs heavily on you as he takes the document, and you feel nervous and on edge standing in front of him and asking for a favor, even one that he offered. "I'll be sure to get it to the lawyer," he says, turning to set it on the little table in the entryway. (click:"set it on the little table in the entryway")[When he turns back, he just looks at you for a long moment, and you bite your lip, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You feel like you might vibrate out of your skin. Should you [[say something]]? Should you [[wait]]?]

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, unable to stand the tension any longer. He smiles. "You should be. Come with me." He turns on his heel and marches off down a hallway to the right. [[You follow]].

(if: (history:) contains "Call it off with Lance")["So," he says finally, crossing his arms. "Last night you brushed me off with barely a by-your-leave." "I texted you!" you protest weakly. "Sue insisted - I couldn't get out of it, I swear!" "And today," he continues, ignoring your protests completely, "you only call me because you need something."](else:)["So," he says finally, crossing his arms. "You only call me when you need something now, huh?"] "That's not tr-" you start to say, and then stop. It is true, sort of. (if: (history:) contains "Call it off with Lance")["Tell me," he says, still ignoring your words, "is that any way to treat your Daddy?"](else:)["Tell me," he says, ignoring your words, "is that any way to treat your Daddy?"] You hang your head. "No, Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy." "Come with me," he says, turning on his heel and marching off down a hallway to the right. [[You trail behind him]].

You follow him into the master bedroom. It's a large room, bedecked in his favorite colors - red, white, and blue - and dominated by an enormous California King bed in the center of one wall. His Olympic gold medal is mounted in a frame directly across from the bed and surrounded by similar displays of other medals, including his world and national championships, but before you have time to register much of anything else, he grabs you by the hair. You left your hair loose because you know he likes it that way, and from the feel of it, he's got a pretty good handful. He shoves you to your knees at his feet, and you go, eyes watering. "So you're sorry, huh?" he says. "Yes, I am. I'm sorry, Daddy," you say, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling out. "Sorry for what?" he says, giving you a little shake that makes you cry out in pain. "I've been rude and ungrateful," you say. "You've done so much for me and you're still doing so much, and I've treated you horribly." "Hmm," he says. "That's a start." He lets go of your hair so abruptly that you nearly fall forward against him, and your vision goes briefly spotty as the pain in your scalp is relieved. "You forgot who takes care of you," Lance says, running his fingers back through your hair again, gently this time. "Who is it?" "You," you say. "You take care of me, Daddy." "Good girl," he says. He raises you back to your feet with a gentle hand under your chin, and wipes the tears from your eyes. "Don't forget again," he says. "I won't, Daddy," you whisper, closing your eyes and putting on a pretty smile. [[The End]]

You follow him into the master bedroom. It's a large room, bedecked in his favorite colors - red, white, and blue - and dominated by an enormous California King bed in the center of one wall. His Olympic gold medal is mounted in a frame directly across from the bed and surrounded by similar displays of other medals, including his world and national championships, but before you have time to register much of anything else, Lance snaps, "Sit down." He glares at you with his arms crossed as you sit obediently on the edge of the bed. You're expecting him to scold you, to say something, anything, but as the seconds tick by and he remains silent, you start to squirm guiltily under his gaze. You want to shrink away, melt into the bed, escape, but you feel pinned in place by the force of his anger. At the same time, the awareness of being alone with him is making warmth pool in your groin and spread outward, upward. It's the first time you've been truly alone with him since the day you told him you were pregnant, and you're acutely aware of that fact, acutely aware of *him*. He's not touching you, but you feel his presence is like a physical pressure against your skin, his breaths like roaring wind in your ears, the heat of his body radiating off him in nearly visible waves. You can feel yourself blushing in response, and you clench your thighs together in a futile attempt to calm down. Despite everything, you still want him. [[God, do you want him]].

“We’ve got a few things to talk about,” Lance says finally, apparently deciding that you've stewed in your own juices long enough. (if: (history:) contains "Call it off with Lance")["Like how you brushed me off last night with barely a by-your-leave, and how fucking insubordinate you've been lately."](else:)["Like how fucking insubordinate you've been lately."] "I'm sorry," you say, trying to resist the urge to cower. "You should be," Lance says again. "You fucking should be." "I've been frightened," you say. "Thinking about-" "Who the fuck gave you permission to think?" Lance snaps. Your eyes widen. "Um," you say. "I can't just-" Lance sighs loudly, and you shut up. "I told you I'd take care of you, Baby Girl," he says, more gently. "I know, but-" you try again. "But nothing," he says. "You think I'm not a man of my word?" "No!" you say. "No, that's not what I mean at all. It's just, I just..." You trail off, fumbling to find the right words to explain without making him angrier. "[[You just]]?" he scowls.

"How can I trust you when you chose your career over me?" you say in a rush. Lance snorts. "You're going from Ohio trailer trash to a member of the 1%. I got you a sweet fucking deal, if you ask me." Your eyes abruptly fill with tears. "I feel like a cheat and a liar." "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "You're doing Ansel a favor here, too, don't forget." (if: (history:) contains "Text Ansel to tell him Chris might need to be picked up")["Am I?" you ask, thinking of the bitter twist in Chris's mouth when he came to your apartment the other night.](else:)["I know that," you say, "I just can't help but feel-"] "Pull it together," Lance snaps. "You can't get cold feet now." "I just-" you begin. "No," Lance says firmly. "Stop." You do. "That's better," he says. "You're thinking too much again. Don't do that. You agreed to my plan, you don't get to second guess it now and put all three of us at risk." "Sorry," you mutter. "What? I didn't hear you. [[What's the proper way to address me]]?"

"Sorry, Daddy," you say, louder this time. "That's better," he says. "I think you need a little reminder of who's in charge here. Take off your clothes." Nervously, you peel your blouse off over your head, folding it neatly and setting it aside. When you turn your attention back to Lance, you find him staring openly at your breasts, his eyes almost comically wide. You glance down. They're nearly spilling out of your bra, barely contained - you haven't been able to make it to the store to get a larger size yet. "Baby's growing up," Lance says dryly, seeming to collect himself and remember that he's supposed to be directing the scene. "Get that off, [[let me see them bare]]."

You reach behind you to unhook it and pull it off, setting it aside on your folded blouse. Your nipples immediately harden as the cool air hits them. "Jesus Christ," Lance says. Before you know it, he's pushed you down flat on the bed and is bending over you, his hands cupping the unfamiliar weight of your growing breasts, his hot, wet mouth closing around your right nipple. "Jesus," he repeats, a murmur that's almost a moan. "If this is what happens to you, (link:"you should be knocked up all the time.")[(set: $pregnancykink += 1)you should be knocked up all the time." You shiver a little at the thought, picturing yourself heavy and swollen with child. Everybody looking at you, knowing what you've been up to. Knowing that you belong to somebody, inside and out.] "Would you like that, Daddy?" you ask. "Boobs like this? [[Fuck yeah]]," he says.

"Now that I'm not on a gymnast's diet anymore, they'll probably stay bigger," you offer. "Thank God and all his angels," Lance says, rolling his eyes heavenward. You wince at his blasphemy, but he just smirks at your reproachful expression and grabs the waist of your jeans. He pops open the button and starts pulling them down, cursing a little bit as one leg gets caught on your foot and tugging so hard to pull it free that he nearly drags you off the bed. You giggle in spite of yourself when he catches you and tosses you bodily through the air to land on your back on the soft, fluffy white comforter. It's like landing in a cloud and you start to tell him so, but before you can stop giggling enough to catch your breath, he's shucked off his own clothes and climbed on top of you, one firm thigh pushing between your legs to spread them apart. "Two weeks is too fucking long to make me wait for this," he growls, and [[shoves roughly inside you]].

You gasp sharply at the sudden and unexpected intrusion, but the sound is drowned out by Lance's moan. His eyelashes flutter shut and for a moment his scowl vanishes, replaced by an expression so calm it's almost blissful. "I fucking missed this," he mutters. "Me, too," you tell him, wrapping your legs around him to grind him deeper into you. He groans again at the sensation, rocking his hips in sync with your own, and then gathers himself and pulls back, grabbing your legs and slinging them up over his shoulders before shoving back in again, hard and deep enough to make you cry out. Lance grins at that. “That’s right,” he grunts, gripping your thighs and using them as leverage to snap his hips back and forth at a punishing pace. "Just like that, baby, [[just like that]].”

"Daddy." You gasp the word like it's being punched out of you. There's a spot inside you that makes you see stars every time he hits it, and he seems to have an unerring instinct for it - nailing it with every thrust until you're a writhing mess under him on the bed, your breath coming in short, sharp pants like you're running a marathon instead of lying flat on your back with your legs in the air. "Say it again," he says. "Call me Daddy again, baby. Get it through your head what I am to you." "Daddy," you gasp again. "My Daddy." "If I tell you to do something, what do you say?" "Yes, Daddy." "If I tell you not to do something, what do you say?" "Yes, Daddy," you gasp again. You're so close, whole body clenching around him, arching into him, away from him, your mind white and empty of everything but want. "Don't fucking come, girl," he snaps. "Don't you dare. [[I want you fucking begging for it]]."

"No!" The word escapes you in a wail before you can stop it, and Lance slaps you hard in the face. "What do you say?" he snarls. "Yes, Daddy," you sob. Tears are burning in your eyes and your cheek stings, but your body's still thrumming with energy, orgasm building relentlessly in response to his thrusts, and you throw back your head, straining with the effort of holding it back. "Please," you whimper, "please, I can't, I can't." "Have you learned your lesson?" "I have. I have, Daddy. Please!" "No," he says. "I don't think you have." He slows down almost as abruptly as he started, pressing down on you until you're nearly folded in half underneath him, dick sliding in and out easy and gentle, too gentle. "I'm begging," you sob, your chest still heaving, heart thundering in your ears. "[[I'm begging, please]]!"

Lance just hums, and reaches a hand between you to rub idly at your clit. Your body jerks involuntarily at the touch, and he smirks at you, but his smirk vanishes into a moan when his fingers come back slick and wet, shining with juices. "This for me?" he says, voice rough. "You wet for me?" You're actually crying now, tears leaking from the corner of your eyes, too overstimulated to even speak. "Is it for me?" he asks again, pushing his fingers back between you, into you, first one, then two and three, sliding in alongside his thick dick, stretching you, filling you up even more. It's so good, and you can't, you can't- "So wet," Lance murmurs, voice breaking through your scrambled thoughts. "You're so wet. Is it all for me? Say it. Say it, baby, and I'll fuck you harder." "Please," you whimper, not sure you're even capable of anything else. "Please…" "Say it," he growls, harsher this time. "You know what you have to do, so do it." "Please fuck me," you gasp out in a rush. "God, please, Daddy, it's all for you. All yours." "Good girl, good girl," Lance says, pushing in a little harder, but not hard enough, not- "One more time. Say it again." "Please!" you sob. "I'm yours, all yours." Lance grins, feral, pulling his hand back out of you and grasping your thigh again, his fingers shining wetly in the dim light of the room. "Don't forget it again," he growls, and [[slams himself back into you to the hilt]].

The sound that escapes your lips is something like a wail as the impact drives the breath from your lungs, and then he's fucking you again, fucking you like you were made to be fucked, rough and fast. “Come now,” Lance gasps, hoarse. “Right now, baby,” he says, and your brain whites out completely in the white hot burn of pleasure. It could be two minutes later or ten when you feel his thrusts go wilder and less controlled, his own need taking over as his orgasm builds. You can hear your own ragged breathing, your heart thudding in your ears like something outside of you, something that belongs to someone else, and he's gasping, too, bent over you now, his breath hot on your neck and voice rough enough that you only catch some of what he's saying - "Baby, my Baby Girl…" You moan in response, and at the sound, Lance's whole body shudders. He shouts, halfway between a cry and a roar, as he comes, dick spurting hot and liquid within you and then you're lost again in the pulsing waves of your own pleasure and it's only long minutes later that your body finally stills and your breathing returns to normal. "Daddy," you mumble, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. He raises his head to look at you. "Nice to have you back, Baby Girl," he says, eyes soft and fond. You'd almost believe he really loves you, if you didn't know better, and you're not surprised when the expression vanishes quickly, replaced by his typical smirk. "Well," he says. "Pretty sure if you weren't already knocked up, that would've done the trick." [[The End]]

<div id="menu">(link:"Save Progress")[(if:(save-game:"Slot A"))[Game saved!](else: )[Sorry, I couldn't save your game.]](if: (saved-games:) contains "Slot A")[ | (link: "Restore")[(load-game:"Slot A")]]</div>

[[View Author's Note and Status|Author's Note]] [[Decide Maggie's Fate|decide Maggie's fate]]

Your mother is already asleep when you sneak back into the apartment hours later and collapse onto your bed, feeling relaxed and content for the first time since you started to suspect you might be pregnant. You fall asleep almost as soon as your head hits the pillow. When you wake up late the next morning, your mother has already left for work, but there's a note in the kitchen saying she'll be home in time to [[go to the Sommers' house for dinner]].

"A prenup?" he says. "That suspicious motherfucker." "I guess it would be hard to build a business as successful as his if you were too trusting," you say. "You're too nice," he says. "He's put some lawyer in charge of drawing this up who doesn't give a shit about you and the baby, or even Ansel. It's all about the money. Well, two can play that game. I can have the gym's lawyer look it over and explain it to you and your mom, maybe try and renegotiate if there's anything iffy." "Oh, thank you!" "Don't worry, baby, I won't let them fuck you over. If you bring it over now, I can give it to the lawyer first thing tomorrow." "Are you still at the gym?" you ask, surprised. It's after 9 PM. "Nah, I'm at home. Can you come?" You feel a little thrill run through you. You've never been to his house before. "[[Of course, Daddy]]."

Your mother offers to drive you, but she's on the breakfast shift again the next morning, so you manage to convince her to go to bed instead and let you borrow the car. Lance answers the door in his usual costume of a white t-shirt and gym pants and holds it open for you at an angle that ensures your swollen breasts brush against him as you squeeze past him to get inside. "Hey there, Baby Girl," he smirks, [[closing the door behind you]].

"Here's the prenup," you say, handing it to him. You try not to be really obvious about your eagerness to see his house, but you're pretty sure you don't succeed, because his smirk deepens as he takes it from you and sets it on the little table in the entryway. "You want a tour?" he asks. "[[Yes, please]]!"

Lance's house is a beautiful modern bungalow. He'd told you once that, unlike Hope, his parents had hired a financial advisor for him as soon as he started winning championships, and their foresight has clearly paid off. Though the house is much smaller than the mansion where Ansel grew up, it's still more luxurious than anything you could have dreamed of in your trailer back home. As Lance shows off the gleaming chrome kitchen, the steam shower, the patio hot tub, the home theater, the private gym in the basement, your exclamations of wonder and delight grow only more enthusiastic. Predictably, the last stop on your tour is the bedroom, which is dominated by an enormous California King bed in the center of one wall. Like the rest of the furnishings in the home, it's bedecked in his favorite colors - red, white, and blue. On the wall opposite the bed is his prized Olympic gold, mounted in a frame, with medals from other championships surrounding it. You get a lump in your throat at the sight, and your hand drops to your belly. Once you might have dreamed of a trophy wall of your own like that, but now it's lost to you forever. If Lance notices your sudden change in mood, he doesn't comment. Instead he comes up behind you, crowding up into your personal space, getting his hands on your hips and kissing you as he steers you backward into the edge of the bed. You land on the fluffy white comforter with a little poof of air. "It's like sitting on a cloud," you laugh, delighted. "You'll be flying in the clouds before I'm done with you tonight, Baby Girl," Lance promises, pushing you down on the mattress and bending over you with his hands on your wrists, one muscular thigh pushing between your legs. "I can't wait," you say breathlessly. [[The End]]