Chaos

The chime on Larissa’s government-issue tablet was soft, polite, and it froze the blood in her veins.

It wasn’t the standard alert for a city council memo or a budgetary update. This was the specific, dread-inducing ping of the Priority Directive System. The PDS had only been activated in the last, chaotic two hours, and each notification had carved another piece out of Larissa’s sanity.

Her finger trembled as she tapped the screen. The document loaded, plain text on a stark white background, headed with the official seal she’d once been so proud to serve.

Subject: Mandatory Student Reassignment to Professional Sexual Services (PSS) – Immediate Enrollment and Quota Fulfillment.

Larissa’s eyes skimmed the text, and a soft, wounded sound escaped her lips. It was worse than the one about the books. Worse than the one about the waiters. This was… systemic. It was a harvesting mechanism.

"...we got big shortages in workers, we're makin Professional Sexual Services (PSS) a required class..."

"...every semester, at least 12 girls per school get picked by a fair lottery for full-time hands-on training..."

"...training either in prostitution or porn star actresses..."

But it was the last sentence that frightened her the most. She was glad she was no longer a student, otherwise this could have affected her too, but she had many friends who were still studying.

"...If you refuse to do it, or if you suck at meeting the standards in PSS classes, thats a big breach of school and citizen duty. You'll get kicked out instantly, lose any chance at professional licenses forever, and get labeled as a social non-person..."

She had to read the sentence several times before it finally made sense to her. Yet what she read sent a cold shiver down her spine. The words burned themselves into her thoughts, freezing her to the core. Who would write something like this? Barely comprehensible, confusing and unsettling. What kind of idiot formulates rules so that no one can understand them?

Larissa was used to rewriting the guidelines making them clearer and more meaningful. She often had to read between the lines so others could follow them at all. But this time she wondered if it was even possible to make these rules understandable. She would then send it to Ms. Hawthorne for approval and a final signature.

She was out of her chair before she could think - she didn't have much time, as each rule usually had to be sent out within 10 minutes, and she also had to reword it, but she had to discuss that with Ms. Hawthorne first - the tablet clutched to her chest like something radioactive. The government office hummed with a frantic, shell-shocked energy. Phones rang incessantly—angry, confused, terrified calls from universities, from parents, from citizens who had woken up in a funhouse mirror of their own city. Men barked into headsets, their voices a mixture of panic and a strange, burgeoning entitlement. Larissa weaved through the chaos, a ghost of guilt in a sensible pencil skirt.

Her destination was the corner office with the frosted glass door: Ms. G. HAWTHORNE, DIRECTOR OF “AGENCY FOR IMMEDIATE LAW”. Ms. Hawthorne had been Larissa’s idol since a career day lecture in ninth grade. She’d spoken with such razor-sharp clarity about "structural integrity" and "procedural adherence." Larissa had clawed her way through a competitive internship program for this. To learn from the best. To be near that formidable, unshakeable competence.

Now, she needed that competence to stop this.

She could hear Ms. Hawthorne’s voice even through the door, not its usual controlled alto but a raw, frayed shout. “I don’t CARE what the mandate says! We have no say in this! If we stop now, we will all end up in pris—oh, for God’s sake, put him through already!”

Larissa knocked, a timid rap of knuckles on glass.

“NOT NOW!” The roar was immediate, volcanic.

Larissa flinched but didn’t retreat. She pushed the door open just enough to stick her head in.

The office was a monument to organized power, now in disarray. Neat bookshelves stood next to filing cabinets with drawers hanging open. On the large desk, three monitors scrolled with frantic code and complaint tickets. And behind it sat Genevieve Hawthorne. At fifty-two, she was a masterpiece of severe elegance, her silver-streaked black hair in a perfect chignon, her tailored navy dress impeccable. But her face, usually a mask of composed authority, was pale, with dark smudges under her eyes. A faint, constant blush tinged her cheeks, and as she shifted in her high-backed leather chair, a soft, almost inaudible whir accompanied the movement. Larissa knew what it was. Every seat in the building, including the plush one Ms. Hawthorne currently occupied, was now a "Luxury Model." The Director was, even now, being relentlessly fucked by a state-mandated dildo as she tried to hold the line against state-mandated madness.

“Ms. Hawthorne,” Larissa whispered, her voice small. “It’s… it’s another one. A PDS directive.”

Ms. Hawthorne’s fiery gaze snapped to her. She saw the terror on Larissa’s face, the way the tablet shook in her hands. The anger drained from her expression, replaced by a grim, bone-deep exhaustion. Ms. Hawthorne ended the conversation without saying a word and motioned Larissa inside. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Larissa breathed. “Student quotas. Mandatory… reassignment.” She couldn’t say the word prostitution. Not here, not to her.

“Let me see.” Ms. Hawthorne’s voice was flat.

Larissa approached, placing the tablet on the desk. Ms. Hawthorne’s eyes scanned the text. Larissa watched as the color drained completely from the older woman’s face, leaving her ash-gray. Her lips, usually pressed in a firm line, parted slightly. For a long, terrible moment, there was only silence in the office, broken by the hum of computers and the subtle, persistent vibration from Ms. Hawthorne’s chair.

"Oh no," Mrs Hawthorne finally said in a quiet, hollow voice, her words sounding final. "That's... That's like leading our girls into homelessness."

She leaned back, the chair emitting another soft whirr. Her eyes drifted shut. Behind her eyelids Larissa could almost see the calculations running—legal loopholes, technical backdoors, political pressure points. Every path she traced ended the same way. Dead. The rules didn’t come from any known legislature; they simply appeared, fully formed, unquestionable.

No one knew where they originated. They only knew they had to enforce them. Just like last time, when the directive declared that “licking must be granted if requested”. They had hesitated then—just a little too long—and the call from the federal office came within the hour, sharp as a blade. A reminder to stop thinking and start obeying.

Then Ms. Hawthorne’s eyes opened. A new resolve was there, hard and ****. “This is the last one,” she stated, as if decreeing it to the universe. “This is the last rule we promulgate today. We are shutting it down.”

“Shutting… what down?” Larissa asked.

“The conduit,” Ms. Hawthorne said, pushing herself up from her desk. As she stood, there was a louder, wetter whirr-chunk from the chair as the thick dildo, slick with her arousal, retracted into its housing. A damp patch was visibly darkening the inner thighs of her navy dress. She ignored it with the practiced grace of every woman in the city. “The PDS server. The distribution node. If we take it offline for ‘maintenance,’ at least we can’t receive any more of these… atrocities. It will give us time to think. If the feds call, just say we have problems with the server, I will not be part of this any longer.”

She strode out from behind her desk, a general marching to a last, doomed battle. “Your task, Larissa,” she said, her voice regaining a shred of its old command, “is to take this… this filth,” she gestured at the tablet, “and re-draft it. Find any ambiguity, any loophole, and phrase the enforcement in the most minimal, least harmful way possible. Watch for spelling errors, for logic traps. The entity writing these is either a monster or an idiot, and its sloppiness is our only weapon. Make it as painless as you can. Then we will look over it together when I’m done.”

Larissa nodded, a surge of grim purpose cutting through her panic. This she could do. This was administration. “Yes, Ms. Hawthorne.”

Ms. Hawthorne gave a curt nod and swept out of her office, a **** of nature moving through the chaotic bullpen. Larissa hurried back to her own desk, her mind already parsing the horrific text, looking for lexical handholds.

She saw Ms. Hawthorne’s progress across the floor. A young man from the tech pool, Lucas, was standing frozen, staring at a crisis ticket on his screen. He didn’t see Ms. Hawthorne bearing down on him and stepped backwards, bumping squarely into her.

“You!” Ms. Hawthorne’s shout made everyone flinch. “Lucas! Are you physically incapable of situational awareness, or is your head permanently lodged in a server rack? Move!”

Lucas, a lanky boy with perpetual acne and nervous eyes, jumped as if electrocuted. “S-sorry, Ms. Hawthorne! I’m sorry, I just—the latency on the alert cascade is—”

“I don’t care! Get out of the way!” she snapped, sidestepping him with a swirl of her damp skirt.

Larissa hid a small, tense grin. Lucas was the other intern, always fumbling, always in the way. She felt a petty thrill seeing him scolded. It was a tiny piece of the old world, where incompetence was met with a reprimand, not with a mandate to perform oral sex.

Then she saw Oliver. Oliver Pendleton, a man in his late fifties with a perpetually hangdog expression and a cheap suit that had been out of style for two decades. He’d been in the department for twenty years, a bureaucratic fixture. He was hovering near Ms. Hawthorne’s path, wringing his hands. “Genevieve, please, about the quarterly review and my salary adjustment, I really must—”

“Not now, Oliver!” Ms. Hawthorne didn’t even break stride, her voice a whip-crack. “The sky is falling, and you’re worried about your cost-of-living increase? For God’s sake, man, have some perspective!”

Oliver shrunk back, his face crumbling. Larissa felt a twinge of something—not quite pity. Oliver was a sad sack, but he was also a fossil. She, the intern, made more than him now, a fact he’d drunkenly lamented at the last Christmas party. Ms. Hawthorne had no time for fossils today.

She was heading, Larissa realized, for the secure server room at the end of the hall. The brain of this madness. Shut it down.

Larissa bent to her task. She opened a new document and began to paraphrase the directive, her fingers flying. ‘Automatic enrollment’ became ‘will be considered for inclusion in a broader wellness and vocational readiness program.’ ‘Full-time practical immersion’ became ‘supplemental experiential learning modules.’ She stripped out the phrase ‘social non-person’ entirely, replacing it with ‘may be subject to alternative civic engagement pathways.’ It was a gauze bandage on a gaping wound, but it was something. It was the gentlest possible phrasing for a human cattle call.

She read it back.

"…must reassign a female student per 30 enrolled students, if no one has volunteered…"

"…participants will receive dedicated housing, state-supervised scheduling, and standardized compensation deposited directly into a monitored account…"

"…non-compliance with reassignment will result in immediate suspension of all educational privileges…"

It was sterile, bureaucratic, and it left just enough nebulous wiggle room that a clever administrator might, might be able to slow-roll the worst of it. She took a deep, shaky breath, and as she hit the send button, to send the new rule to Ms. Hawthorne, for final approval, the world shifted.

It wasn’t a sound. It was a silent, profound click in the foundation of everything, as if a cosmic gear, rusted for millennia, had finally been **** to turn. The light didn’t change, but the meaning of the light did. The air grew heavier, thicker, tasting of old paper, stale cigar smoke, and a faint, pervasive musk of male dominance.

Larissa blinked. Her memory… rippled.

One moment, she was Larissa the intern, the promising protégé of Genevieve Hawthorne.

The next, she was… Who was she? Well, she got hired, out because of her looks, not her knowledge. Also because Mr. Lucas the assistant of Mr. Pendleton had taken a liking to her bright eyes and quick smile during her interview. He’d suggested to Mr. Pendleton with a wink that a young lady around the government-office would be good for morale. A perk for the hard-working men. Of course, she was to be helpful in all ways. It was understood. It had always been this way.

The confusion lasted a nanosecond before the new, old memories overwrote the old, new ones seamlessly. The panic of the last few hours? A strange dream. The reality was this: a well-ordered office where men made decisions and women facilitated. Where a woman’s highest ambition was to be a efficient, pleasing support to the important work of her male superiors.

Her body moved before her conscious mind could question it. She found herself not at her desk, but underneath it. The carpet was rough against her knees. The space was dark, crowded with cable tangles and the dusty metal of the desk frame. And in front of her, tenting the expensive wool of his trousers, was a bulge. Lucas’s bulge.

She looked up. Lucas was sitting in her chair. His posture had changed. The nervousness was still there, sharp under his skin, but he pushed through it because that was what she had always done. His shoulders were tense, his fingers tight around the pen, tapping once, twice, too fast, then writing again, hurried, restless, as if every word might break.

He felt her gaze and looked down at her. No surprise in his eyes. Only strain. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking, yet he managed a small smile and gave her a brief, almost imperious nod.

It was her cue. Her duty.

Her fingers, which had just been typing a sanitized atrocity, now went to his belt buckle. The metal was cool. She undid it, then the button of his trousers, the zipper’s sound loud in the confined space. She pulled the fabric down just enough. His cock, already half-hard, sprang out. It was of average size, neat, circumcised. It smelled of clean cotton and a hint of male sweat. This was routine. The afternoon stress-relief. Mr. Lucas had a lot on his mind with the server loads. It was her job to help him focus, to make him relax and this was, what he needed right now anyway.

With a practiced ease that came from the implanted memory of a thousand such lunches, she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

Across the room, near the server room door, the shift hit Genevieve Hawthorne with the **** of a physical blow.

One moment, she was striding, a general on a mission, her mind a chessboard of network protocols and system overrides. The next, a wave of vertigo washed over her. The mission… what mission? The servers? Mr. Pendleton had mentioned a potential latency issue. She was on her way to… to check on him. Yes. To see if he needed anything. Oliver Pendleton was the department head. A brilliant, if somewhat distracted, man. Her role was to ensure his work environment was… conducive.

Her heels, which had been clicking a staccato of purpose, now faltered. She looked down. She wasn’t walking towards a server room. She was kneeling on the plush carpet inside Mr. Pendleton’s office. How did she get here? The memory supplied itself: she’d brought him the revised directive to sign, seen he was stressed, and had… naturally… slid under his office table to help him relax before the big meeting. It was what a good divorced woman did.

The conference table had a long modesty skirt. She was in darkness, a expensive, perfumed secret beneath the polished oak. And before her, in the gloom, was Mr. Pendleton’s flaccid penis, poking out of his unzipped trousers. It was thicker than Lucas’s, veined, with a heavy set of balls. The smell here was different—stale coffee, cheap aftershave, and the unmistakable scent of older male flesh.

A wave of profound, soul-sickening humiliation washed over her. This wasn’t right. She was the Director! She…

But you've always been the office cock-sucker, ever since your divorce you've been hired to suck cocks, purred the new memory. Since he gave you a chance, a newly divorced woman who needs a purpose in life. He guided you. He corrected you. This is how you show your gratitude. This is how you secure your place. A woman without a husband needs a male guide. Oliver is yours. Now do your job.

The resistance crumbled, replaced by a cold, pragmatic acceptance. And with it, a flicker of competitive fire. She heard it then, from outside the office—Lucas desk. The soft, wet, rhythmic slurp. The girl was already at work.

Of course. Larissa was always trying to impress, to get ahead. Sucking up to young Lucas. Well, Genevieve Hawthorne did not get to where she was by being second best. If this was the currency of the office now, she would be the richest woman in the room.

She leaned forward, her previously immaculate chignon brushing against Oliver’s thighs. She didn’t use her hands—that was for amateurs, for the Larissas of the world. A true professional used only her mouth. She opened her lips, those lips that had once dictated policy to deputies, and took Oliver’s soft cock into the warm, waiting cavern.

He was flaccid, salty, a inert lump on her tongue. She worked him with gentle suction, her tongue swirling around the head. Above, she heard Oliver give a grunt, then the shuffle of papers. He was reading the revised directive. “Hmm, Genevieve, this wording on ‘experiential modules’ is rather vague…” he muttered, his voice distracted.

She redoubled her efforts, applying more pressure, hollowing her cheeks. She felt him twitch, then begin to swell. Good. She took him deeper, letting the head nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed her gag reflex, a skill honed over years of this understanding. He grew harder, thicker, filling her mouth with a satisfying weight. She began to bob her head in a slow, deliberate rhythm, her nose inhaling his musky scent with each forward plunge.

The sounds under the table became a symphony of submission. From outside the office, Larissa’s fast, eager slurps echoed through the open doorway—Pendleton’s “open door policy” meant every door stayed wide open—while Lucas sat on his desk, probably writing out a new rule, something she did before, but then Oliver ordered her in his office to suck his cock, because this is what her mouth is good for anyway.

The girl was enthusiastic but sloppy. Genevieve could hear the wet smack of lips on shaft, the occasional gasp for air. Amateur. She maintained her own steady, deep, controlled pace. Slurp… suck… swallow… A metronome of obedience.

Oliver was fully hard now, a rigid column battering the roof of her mouth. He’d stopped moving and writing. His breathing was heavier. She quickened her tempo slightly, adding a twist of her head on the upstroke, letting her teeth graze ever so lightly along the sensitive underside. He hissed, and his hand came down, not to guide her, but to settle heavily on the crown of her head. A possessor claiming his property.

This was the trigger for the true competition. Genevieve’s humbling was now a fuel, burned in the engine of her need to win. To be the best. Even at this.

She took him all. With a deep breath through her nose, she **** herself forward, allowing the thick head of his cock to breach her throat. It was a brutal, unforgiving invasion. Her eyes watered instantly, tears tracing lines through her foundation. Her throat convulsed, trying to reject the intruder, but she willed it to relax, to open. She held herself there, nose buried in his grey pubic hair, tasting skin and salt and dominance. She was engulfing him. She was in control of his pleasure.

From Larissa’s desk, she heard a choked gag, then a sputter. Lucas must have gotten ambitious. The girl is ****, Genevieve thought with vicious satisfaction. She can’t handle a real man’s pace.

Oliver groaned above her, a deep, rumbling sound of pure approval. His fingers tangled in her perfect chignon, gripping tightly. “That’s it, Gen,” he mumbled, his voice thick. “Just like that. Take it all. Good girl.”

Good girl. The words, so condescending, so reductive, sent a paradoxical thrill through her. She was winning. She pulled back, a long, slow drag of her lips along his shaft, then plunged down again, establishing a brutal, pounding rhythm. Thwack-squish-thwack-squish. Her chin bumped his balls with each descent. The sound was obscene, wet, and violent.

Under Larissa’s desk, the sounds changed. The gagging stopped, replaced by a frantic, high-pitched humming and a furious, wet lapping. She was using her tongue, focusing on the tip. A different tactic. It might be effective for a boy like Lucas.

Genevieve had to finish this. She had to claim the victory. Oliver was close; she could feel the tension coiling in his shaft, the way his balls drew up tight. His grip on her hair was punishing, holding her in place as he began to jerk his hips upward, fucking her face in short, sharp thrusts.

“Gonna… gonna cum, you brilliant bitch,” he grunted, his professional veneer gone, replaced by raw, grunting need. “Swallow it. Every drop.”

That was her command. Her purpose. She redoubled her efforts, milking him with her throat, her mouth a perfect, tight sleeve. The slap of his flesh against her face was a rapid drumbeat now.

From the other desk, she heard Lucas let out a sharp, keening cry. “Oh fuck, Larissa, I’m—!” His sentence ended in a gasp.

No! Genevieve thought, panic and fury mixing. She couldn’t lose! She took Oliver as deep as she could, burying her face in his groin, and let out a ****, vibrating hum around his cock. The vibration traveled through her lips, through his flesh.

It was the final trigger.

With a roar that was muffled by the table above, Oliver came. A hot, bitter flood of cum erupted from his cock, jetting directly down her constricted throat. She swallowed reflexively, once, twice, a third time, as pulse after pulse filled her. It was thick, copious, the taste a pungent mix of salt and something faintly metallic. She kept swallowing, not missing a drop, as he shuddered and groaned above her, his grip on her hair finally relaxing.

As the last spasms faded, she gently pulled off, her lips making a soft, wet pop as they released his softening, glistening cock. She stayed on her knees, breathing heavily through her nose, her throat sore, her makeup ruined, her dignity a distant memory. But she had done it. She had served her guide. She had won.

She heard Larissa pull away with a similar wet sound, followed by a series of coughs and swallows. Then, a pitiful, sniffling silence.

Oliver patted her head, a gesture for a dog. “Excellent, Genevieve. Truly top-notch. My mind is clear. Now, about this directive, of the rule your kind drafted out… the wording is still too soft. We need to tighten it up. We need to make it clear that every student can get chosen,. No ‘wellness program’ nonsense.”

Was that what she had done before? Before she crawled under the table and warmed Oliver's penis? But that's not really true. Men have always been in charge, but she couldn't really remember anything before the blowjob. Everything was so blurry and her head hurt when trying to think about her past.

This must have been the moment when Lucas sent his freshly revised rule, overworked and polished, ready to be approved and pushed out into the world. Oliver opened the document, skimmed through it and suddenly burst into loud laughter. Genevieve wasn’t sure if he was laughing about her or something entirely different.

Then Oliver leaned back in his chair and shouted so the whole floor could hear.

“Brilliant work, Lucas. Absolutely brilliant. From now on, you write every single rule for this government. Not the women here. They turn everything into soft nonsense. Rules against women have to be written by men, not the other way around. No more of that.”

He slammed the print button, signed the pages without bothering to stand up, scanned them and sent them off to the contributors within minutes.

Just out of curiosity, would you like to see more from the perspective of the women affected by the perverse regulations, or rather from Michael's perspective as he writes the rules, or I continue writing both perspectives. I just thought it would be interesting to see both sides. If you don't write anything, I'll continue as before :-)