One will become your wife, and the other two will be your neighbors. Choose wisely!

Welcome to 2127. The world is locked in a new Cold War: a Capitalist Bloc led by an expanded 65-star America faces off against a Communist Bloc led by China, while a restless gray zone of undecided nations plays both sides. Think Fallout before the bombs fell, all chrome, atomic optimism and gleaming tomorrow-tech, wrapped in a tongue-in-cheek version of idealized 1950s America with its picket fences, trad wives and wholesome propaganda. It’s a world that looks like a perfect postcard and is quietly, absurdly on edge. If you’re curious, you can read more about the setting here (or here).

The 5th Bush War is officially over. Victory parades still echo in Monrovia. But the map doesn’t stay quiet. New flash points lighting up. So a lot of the big, healthy, draft-age American dicks that should be standing in Spouse Lottery terminals back on the continental States are instead still overseas — fighting, garrisoning, rotating, or permanently planted under white crosses that the propaganda never counts out loud.

Result: the eligible-man pool at home has shrunk. Hard.

And that creates a very specific crisis among the unlucky American girls who kept reporting to their local S.L.U.T. terminals year after year and kept hearing the soft, cheerful chime that meant “no match this cycle.” Two years. Sometimes three. The official line is “patience and patriotism.” The unofficial reality is a growing cohort of young women who have been watching their biological clocks ticking and their sexual frustration climb...

Your story begins here. You’re a freshly demobilized GI, just traded your dress blues for a sharp civilian suit after two years in the Silent Service, playing cat-and-mouse with Chinese subs in the depths of the Pacific.

A grateful government has rewarded you handsomely: a fat bonus, the full GI Bill, and keys to a brand-new home in a housing project outside San Diego. Mesquite Oasis.

All that’s missing is a wife, and in this world there’s only one ultimately democratic way to get one, so here you are, standing at the Spouse Lottery terminal.

There’s a TWIST, though: every girl you don’t pick will go to one of the other fellows in this room (so they form pairs too), and they’ll all be your neighbors! Different pairings make for different dynamics, so whoever ends up next door to whom will shape your rivalries, friendships, backyard barbecues and over-the-fence gossip for years to come.

Choose wisely.

GIRLS:

Patricia Becker, 20 / State of Pennsylvania

For all her early successes, she’s pretty much self-made. She grew up in a modest house, the daughter of an steel factory worker. All-American slender blue-eyed blonde — Pat looks like she walked straight out of a soda-shop calendar. Soft golden hair, cornflower-blue eyes, and a tight body: narrow waist, high perky tits, long legs and a cute round ass (that just begs for a playful spank).

High-school queen, Homecoming darling, star in the local Liberty Girls. She won every sash, every bake-off, every purity pledge, and every boy’s heart until... the Spouse Lottery started returning that soft cheerful “no match this cycle” chime two years running. While all other girls in her class got husbands, houses, and swollen bellies, Pat watched her social world implode. Overnight she went from untouchable queen to the town’s most pitied outcast — the pretty loser everyone whispered about, the gossip punching bag other girls used for fake-sweet sympathy while secretly savoring the fall.

Now she’s standing in line for her third roll, smiling that same soft, sweet smile... and quietly, angry, ruthlessly determined to milk every last drop of delayed attention, pleasure and breeding out of whatever lucky (or unlucky) man the machine finally spits at her. Two hellish years are going to get paid back with interest!

Caridad “Cachita” Sánchez, 19 / State of Cuba

Daughter of a well-to-do tobacco farmer on the island, her family is aggressively Americanized. Shapely, curvy Cuban beauty with glossy dark hair, flashing black eyes, silky olive skin, and a perfect hourglass figure. Her English is excellent, quick and idiomatic, full of slang picked up from the movies. But the accent stays. And then there’s her voice: low, a little smoky... That same voice can rise to a volume that rattles windows.

Her adoring father pulled every string and paid every favor to transfer her onto the continental S.L.U.T. rolls, determined to spare his princess the “peasant” Cuban pool. All for nothing. First year: dud. The soft cheerful chime hit her like a slap. It isn’t as humiliating as what some of the other girls endure, but for a one raised to be the prettiest, most spoiled, most admired creature in her village, even one year of waiting feels as unbearable.

Proud, stubborn, and still carrying that provincial Latino élan, Cachita can turn bitchy in a heartbeat and will pick a fight over the smallest slight. That first failure only made her even more demanding in her private fantasies about the future husband who would finally claim her: she will test, push, argue, and can give a guy absolute hell... but a man with real cojones will find something rarer underneath the attitude: a fiercely loyal, passionately devoted woman who, once tamed, will burn for him like a fuse.

Dinah Rabinowitz, 22 / State of New York

Dinah grew up above Rabinowitz & Sons, Kosher Meats, on the Lower East Side. Her grandfather opened the shop, her father runs it. Auburn-red hair, big warm brown eyes, freckles everywhere, and a curvy body built for comfort: heavy tits, soft belly, wide hips, and thighs that could smother a man in the best possible way.

No one has suffered the S.L.U.T. lottery quite like Dinah. She somehow failed even in the last pre-war year, then stacked three more failures during the “challenging times.” Four empty chimes in a row. At family gatherings she became the permanent target for laments and comparisons: “Cousin Rivka already has two, Cousin Miriam is on her third, and little Esther is already planning the fourth... and look at our Dinah, still waiting, still alone, what did we do wrong?”

She overthinks everything, frets endlessly, and will fuss and lament over the smallest detail, but she refuses to stay down and somehow the girl is still very optimistic (after all the whining). All those years of denial only concentrated her. The chosen one had better be ready: she is going to her husband half to death, drown him in overwhelming affection, and start practicing her future-mama instincts the second the match is confirmed. The man who finally gets her will never, ever wonder whether he is loved.

GUYS:

James (21) is the tall blond from Texas, a joker. Don’t let that fool you, though: he flew as a door gunner on a chopper in the Fifth Bush War, and the man has balls. Not an intellectual, but he’s charming, easygoing and good company. Once he’s married, he’ll join his friend’s car dealership.

Gary (21) is the shorter guy in glasses, from a tiny town in Iowa, and a fellow sailor. He served on an aircraft carrier as an Aviation Electrician’s Mate, keeping the planes’ wiring and systems running on the flight deck. He’s smart, calm and humble, good with his hands, and plans to work as an electrician in civilian life.