The Institute was converted from a women's college. It took us three hours to get there. Katerina didn't speak the whole time, just sat curled in her seat with her chin nearly to her chest. I didn't push her. When we pulled up to the gates, I turned to my daughter.
She wouldn't look at me.
I drove on. The man in the gatehouse leaned out the window when we approached.
I handed him my ID and he checked me against the registry. Peering through the windows, he saw my teenaged daughter slumped against the window, and nodded at us both.
"God be with you," he said to me.
They gave us rooms in an old dormitory. It was late afternoon in autumn, and the college was in its prime. The old brick buildings complemented the upstate New York trees, turned red and orange in the crisp air. The college had been founded in the nineteenth century, and I marveled at the arches and old paned windows as we walked up the stone steps. But Katerina said nothing, just hung her head. The place was quiet. Most of the girls were in class or therapy sessions, the man in the office told us when we checked in, and their fathers were supervising. There were a few out walking when we passed, but for the most part, the dormitories were silent as the grave. Our footsteps echoed in the stone halls as I carried up our luggage.
Katerina shuffled her feet. Her long, dark hair hung in sheets on either side of her pale cheeks, so I could not see her eyes. I scolded her for slouching, and she stood up straighter to oblige me, but I could tell her spirits were low. I squeezed her shoulder.
"What a beautiful place," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "Aren't we lucky to be staying here?"
We paused outside a window, looking down at what had been the quad, back when girls were permitted to attend university. Now, the girls on campus were all here to learn, but it was not academics that they were here for. My poor child was so distraught at meriting a place in these punitive halls that I gave up trying to cheer her, and opened the door to our suite.
The rooms had been rehabilitated since women studied here. Gone were the linoleum floors and formica counters. The government, in an effort to encourage fathers in their participation — grown men could not be expected to live in such shoddy conditions — the dormitories had been converted into apartments that befit the rest of the campus. We had an enormous window looking out onto the quad, hardwood floors covered in a Persian rug, and a large leather couch. The kitchen was small but clean and contained new appliances and enameled glassware. There were two bedrooms off the living room — one small one for Katerina, with a twin bed and desk, and a larger one for me, with a king sized bed. There was a small room off of my bedroom that would serve as a office.
I brought Katerina's small suitcase into her room and opened it for her. The little bed was dressed in a white eyelet coverlet and pillows, with a dust ruffle. Still sullen, she removed her long dresses from the suitcase and hung them in the closet. I caught sight of her regulation undergarments — white and modest — folded like little flowers at the bottom of the suitcase. To cheer her up, I removed the two stuffed animals I had put in there earlier that day, Beebee, the little stuffed bear she'd had since she was a child, and Tulip, the little dog. They sat on the bed and completed the picture of the little girl's room, though Katerina herself was eighteen and nearly a woman herself, and sullen rather than cheerful.
She sat on the bed in her long gray dress. Her eyes looked bluer than usual from her crying. I sat beside her and took her in my arms.
"Kitten," I said to her. "It will be all right."
She shook her head. "I've failed you."
I hesitated. I did not know what my baby did to earn a place here. Gently, I said, "Kitten, are you ready to tell me what you did?"
She covered her face in her hands. Slowly, she shook her head. I sighed. Ten days ago, I received a letter in the mail. As the guardian of Katerina's virtue, I was being made aware that she had performed a transgression, and our presence was required at the Girl's Purity Institute beginning October first. I clicked my tongue. "Katerina, it would help me to know."
"I can't, papa," she said. "I
can ' t.
"
I sighed. Katerina is a perfectionist, and is historically very hard on herself. Ever since the letter, I've been wracked with anxiety about her transgression, though I know it is something small. Even a kiss, or time alone in a room with a man, could have earned her a place here. I tell her again that I am proud to be her father.
"What are they going to do to me?" she asked. Her voice shook.
"You know I don't know that." It was true; the secrets of the Institute were guarded fiercely, even by graduates and their fathers. I kissed her forehead. "But we'll get through this together."
"How do you know?"
"I promise to be with you every step of the way," I promised her, and I knew I was telling the truth. If I knew anything about the Purity Institution, I knew that Katerina would be my responsibility.
I left her in her room for a nap before dinner, and then went back down to the office. On my way down, I passed several Guardians in their uniforms, as well as other fathers and daughters. Apart from Katerina, I felt somewhat guilty for how I watched the girls, knowing that each and every one of them had earned their place here. Their fathers kept their hands on the smalls of their backs and looked at the men who passed with suspicion and even anger. I did not blame them. I saw a petite girl in her uniform — the same long loose dresses that virtuous women wore, though these were all gray rather than the patterns permitted to women not on probation. Each of the girls here was on probation, but had been deemed Salvageable — meaning her virginity had not been breached.
A place at the Institute was a great shame on a family. The girl herself, of course, was the culprit, but her father, as the keeper of her virtue, was as much to blame. Hence why I had to chaperone Katerina's confinement. Still, most girls were here at their father's urging. The state would not confine the girls until the circumstances were dire — it was up to us to keep track of our girls' virtues, and bring them here when they veered off course. Katerina had been recommended by her teachers, our letter said, which meant that they had acted in my stead. Her transgression, I reminded myself, was surely quite minor. The hope was that in her time here, she would be pulled away from the temptation of the evil path she had been on, and avoid a future as an Expelled woman.
I shuddered to imagine my Katerina in one of those hellholes — a den of sin, the houses of the girls without virtue. Men could visit them at any time for their fill, treating the girls as the animals they were, rutting with them as they pleased. I myself had visited the dens many times. Every man in our society has. There are new girls there each week, as the expelled women are moved around the cities so the men never tire of them. As an expelled woman, their duty is to act as a public receptical for male pleasure. As a widower, I go to the dens twice a week, as I do not have a woman assigned to me. There I enjoy the affections of the whores who have failed their courses at the institution, or whom never qualified in the first place, women who fucked indiscriminately and were expelled from society. While Katerina is asleep, I exercise my rights as a man. But here, I am only her father.
I took my seat on a bench in the office, waiting beside a gray-haired gentleman and a little freckled brunette, twisting her hands in her lap. I tried not to, but I wondered what this sweetheart had done to earn a place here. I felt blood fill my cock as I imagined this little girl with a cock in her mouth.
In preparation for our journey today, I visited our town's den last night. I knew that the Institute would be filled with temptation. It was a more pleasurable than usual visit. I hadn't been there for more than five minutes, pacing through the hall of naked girls available for choosing, when I saw Sarah, Katerina's childhood friend. I stopped in front of her.
"Sarah, sweetheart," I said. I drank in her glorious body. Girls in our society are instructed to wear such loose, concealing garments, that I had little idea of the bodies beneath, even my own child. It was a pleasure to see Sarah's little hip bones that poked out and her puffy pink nipples. I took her to my bed, where I made her show me what she had done to earn a life as a whore, and she bent down on her hands and knees and let me take her from behind. I sighed in her ear as I finished, "God, little one, how good to see you again."
As much as I enjoyed the dens, I deplored the idea of my child ending up in those hellish walls. It made bile rise in my throat to imagine sweet Katerina lined up for rutting. The Guardians of Purity — the man in our society who maintain the order — are brought through the dens each morning, to empty their seed, so they can go about their days among the virtuous women with respect and control. At night, they return to the whores, hot with lust. It is the burden of the men in our society to be surrounded by women forbidden to touch. But it is so comforting knowing the women who share are homes are worthy of that honor.
When I was growing up, society was as it used to be, with women dressing like sluts and doing what they pleased. But as the new government took over, the rules changed. I'll admit that at first, I protested. I marched with the women. Girlfriends of mine who, I realize now, were beyond saving. Godless women. Now they are all retired from the dens, being too old to serve for pleasure. As soon as I had a little girl of my own, born to me by my wife Lilian, God rest her soul, while she was alive, I recognized the superiority of this society. Katerina was safe. Now, I would guard Katerina until it was time to hand her off as a wife. If she proved virtuous until then, she would have a home of her own and her body would be available to just one man. It gave me pride to know that Katerina would be protected from the lustful gazes of men and her precious female parts would be cherished.
I do not know what my darling girl has done to earn a place in the Institute, but I am determined to help her get out.
I waited while the gray-haired gentleman and his daughter spoke to the head Guardian, and then, at least, it is my turn. Dr. Benjamin Moorcroft is in his sixties, with bright white hair and a pleasant lined face. He welcomed me into his office, and he smiled.
"Come in, Mr. Watson," he says. "I'm so glad you're here."
We shook hands. He offered me a glass of whiskey, and I accepted. He nodded at the door, where the father and daughter just left.
