28 Days Later

The Prime Minister’s office reeked of stale coffee, sweat, and the acrid tang of desperation. The man himself sat slumped behind his desk, his forehead pressed into his palm, fingers digging into his temples as if he could physically squeeze out the last dregs of his sanity. The curtains were drawn against the midday sun or maybe against the protesters whose chants still seeped through the bulletproof glass.

"NO MORE LIES! NO MORE LIES!"

and

"WE WANT PORN! SHOW US TITIES!"

He didn’t need to look. He knew they were out there thousands of them, waving homemade signs, some with crude drawings of sperm, others with his face crossed out.

Fucking plebs.

"Alright," he growled, eyes still shut. "Give it to me straight. How fucked are we?"

A nervous cough. Then the weedy voice of his junior policy advisor, Timmons:

"Sir, the short answer is… not good." A shuffle of papers. "Attendance at extraction clinics is below ten percent of projected numbers. Police have issued over sixty thousand chastity devices for infractions masturbation, pornography, illicit intercourse but the prisons are overflowing. We’ve had to release actual criminals early to make room."

The Prime Minister’s lips twitched. At least someone’s profiting. His shares in SecureFirm Ltd.—the sole manufacturer of government-mandated chastity belts had tripled in the last month.

Timmons continued, voice cracking: "Riots in Manchester, Leeds, London. Looting, arson. The public are calling it the ‘Great Wank Revolt.’ Social media’s flooded with—"

"Why," the Prime Minister snarled, "are these animals rioting? They’re being given free orgasms! What more do they want?"

The room fell silent.

Then, a voice smooth, husky, laced with the kind of American confidence that made his teeth ache.

"What did you expect?"

All heads turned.

Ambassador Eleanor Graves leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed beneath her formidable chest. Mid-forties, jet-black hair curling over one eye, a suit that cost more than most Brits made in a year. Rumour said she’d slept her way to the top. The Prime Minister knew better. She’d blackmailed her way there.

"You banned their favourite pastimes," she said, ticking them off on manicured fingers. "Jerking off. Porn. Sex. You turned their wives into state mandated cock milkers. And you’re surprised they’re angry?"

The Prime Minister **** a smile. "So, Ambassador. What’s your solution?"

Graves didn’t blink. "You need to make them hunger." She stepped forward, heels clicking like a predator’s teeth. "Right now, extraction is a chore. A shameful one. But what if it was… exclusive?"

A murmur. The Chancellor leaned in. "What do you mean?"

Graves’ smile was razor-thin. "men have always craved the hunt, you are giving them something that they have not strived for, a quick empty release can you imagine if we gave them their fanaticises, Celebrities. Influencers. let them be milked by women they could only dream about and if they don't fuck them, we take what we want by ****."

The Prime Minister’s pulse jumped. It was genius. And monstrous.

He stood, turning to the window. The crowd below had swelled. A banner unfurled: "YOU CAN’T CUCK THE UK."

Fuck it.

"Next phase," he said quietly. "Mandatory extractions. Draft in more nurses. Confiscate all pornography. Milking devices for those that will not comply. And if they resist?" He glanced at Graves. "Take it by ****."

The room emptied— xcept for Graves, the Chancellor, and a few other trusted individuals.

The Prime Minister loosened his tie. "One more thing."

Graves pressed a hidden button. A panel in the wall slid open.

Giggling. The scent of perfume.

Six women-no, girls, barely twenty slinked in, dressed in lingerie that would’ve been illegal on the streets outside.

The Prime Minister unbuttoned his shirt. "Just because the plebs can’t get any," he muttered, pulling Graves close, "doesn’t mean we can’t."