What are you doing young man??

The city air tasted different to Michael now. It wasn’t just the exhaust and the scent of rain on hot pavement; it was the intoxicating perfume of dominion. The Rulebook, a comforting, ominous weight in the inner pocket of his bag, seemed to pulse against his ribs in time with his heartbeat. He walked with a new stride, not the slouch of a high school senior but the prowl of a predator surveying a kingdom he’d just begun to terraform.

His path took him downtown, through the financial canyon where glass and steel reflected a sky rapidly bruising with evening clouds. And that’s when he saw them. The banners.

They were huge, vinyl things stretched between lampposts, fluttering in the growing wind. Impossibly photogenic women—athletes, scientists, soldiers—stared out with determined, clean-cut smiles. “STRENGTH HAS A NEW FACE,” one declared. “CLEAN STREETS, CLEAN FUTURE,” boomed another from the side of a bus shelter. He paused before a massive billboard that depicted a scrubbed-clean city square, children playing, the tagline reading: “VERMIN ERADICATED. PURITY RESTORED.”

A cold, nasty smile spread across Michael’s face. Vermin. He knew exactly what—who—that meant. His feet, almost of their own accord, carried him down a side street, then another, into a part of the city the banners didn’t bother to depict. The buildings were lower here, older, with faded paint and barred windows. This was the old riverbed of the city’s desire, the place where need met commerce in shadowed doorways and under flickering neon.

The Red Light District. Or what was left of it.

He remembered this corner. A dive bar called “The Gilded Cage” on one side, a shuttered adult bookstore on the other. He’d passed through here once with a group of older kids, hearts hammering with a mixture of fear and illicit thrill. The street had been alive then, in a sickly, pulsating way. Women—girls, really, some of them—had stood in clusters or alone, leaning against brickwork, their faces painted into masks of invitation under the harsh glow of red and blue lights. The air had been thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the low murmur of negotiation. Men had slunk from shadow to shadow, eyes darting, wallets feeling heavy and light all at once.

Now, it was a ghost town.

The “Cage” was closed, a city notice of condemnation plastered across its doors. The neon was dark, just dead glass tubing. The pavement where they’d stood was scrubbed so raw it looked skeletal. The city’s “clean-up” hadn’t just removed the prostitutes; it had scoured away the very life of the place, leaving a sterile, echoing void. Michael had heard the news reports, the mayor’s triumphant speeches, the police crackdowns on the pimps who kept trying to seep back in like a stubborn stain. They’d finally won. The vermin were gone.

His hand drifted to the front of his jeans, palming the hard length of himself through the denim. The thought was too delicious, too perfectly perverse. The city fathers, the righteous councilwomen, the morality groups—they’d spent years, millions, so much effort to purge this one, sticky sin from their gleaming metropolis. What if he could undo it all with a few pencil strokes? Not just undo it, but sanctify it? Institutionalize it?

His mind flew back to the café, to the dark-haired student squirming on her dildo seat, her face a perfect canvas of outrage and helpless pleasure. The student from the café. The idea clicked into place with an almost audible snick, like a trap being armed.

What if… what if the very institutions that preached purity were **** to become the factories of depravity? What if the universities, those hallowed halls of learning, became training grounds for whores?

The concept was so gloriously upside-down that his erection, which had been a constant, throbbing presence since his self-enhancement, actually twitched and began to soften slightly. Not from lack of interest, but from the sheer, staggering scale of the mischief. This wasn’t just about making a barista suck dick or a MILF service him on the street. This was about rewriting a fundamental social contract. It was… architectural.

He wouldn’t make it an Old Rule. That would be too seamless, too accepted. He wanted the shock. He wanted the bureaucratic panic, the frantic memos, the terrified students realizing their futures had been rerouted to a brothel. He wanted the city’s triumph over “vermin” to be the very thing that mandated its repopulation with state-sanctioned, academically certified sluts.

Finding a relatively clean stretch of wall beside the condemned bar, he leaned against it, the brick rough through his t-shirt. He pulled the Rulebook from his bag, the soft leather cover feeling like the skin of a living thing. He flipped past the earlier entries—the waiters, the book ban, the titty-fuck decree—until he found a fresh, creamy page. The pencil was in his hand, the graphite tip hovering like a stinger.

His grin was a gash of white in the gathering dusk. He began to write, his script tight and fevered with malicious glee.

New Rule: Cuz intimacy work is super important for the economy and society, and we got big shortages in workers, we're makin Professional Sexual Services (PSS) a required class with credits at every college and university.

He paused, savoring the words. Mandatory. Credit-bearing. He licked his lips and continued.

All new girl students get automatically put into the PSS track. Every semester, at least 12 girls per school get picked by a fair lottery for full-time hands-on training in the PSS Practicum. The ones picked stop their normal classes right away and start training either in street prostitution or porn star actresses.

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.

He read it back, his heart hammering against his ribs. It was beautiful. It was bureaucratic cruelty elevated to an art form. They wanted to clean the streets? He’d make the streets a classroom assignment. He’d make their daughters the curriculum. The pencil felt hot in his fingers. He was about to close the book, to let the ripple spread, when a voice, sharp as a snapped icicle, cut through the twilight.

“What are you doing young man?”

Michael’s head snapped up. A woman stood a few feet away, having seemingly materialized from the shadows between the streetlights. She was in her late thirties, perhaps early forties, dressed in a severe, impeccably tailored charcoal pantsuit. Her hair was a razor-sharp blonde bob, not a strand out of place. She held a sleek leather briefcase in one hand and a look of profound contempt on her sharply featured face. Her eyes, a cold flint grey, were fixed on him—specifically, on the hand that was still subtly cupping the bulge in his jeans.

“I said,” she repeated, her voice devoid of any warmth, “that is disgusting. Masturbating in public like some deranged animal. Have you no shame? No decency?”

Michael slowly, deliberately, closed the Rulebook but kept it in his hand. He didn’t straighten up. He let his posture remain lazy, insolent. “It’s a free country,” he drawled, the ghost of his grin still playing on his lips. “And it’s a dirty street. Seems fitting.”

Her nostrils flared. “This ‘dirty street’ is cleaner than your mind, you little creep. I should call the police. Public indecency. Lewd conduct.”

“Go ahead,” Michael said, his voice a low challenge. “I’m not doing anything. Just thinking. Is thinking a crime now, officer?” He infused the last word with a heavy layer of sarcasm.

“I am not an officer,” she said, drawing herself up. She was tall, almost his height in her heels. “I am Eleanor Ashford. CEO of Ashford Strategic Solutions. And I make it my business to see that blights on this city’s landscape—human or otherwise—are removed. I have the mayor’s personal number. I sit on three civic improvement boards. I know every hiring manager in the tri-county area.” She took a step closer, her perfume—something expensive and icy—washing over him. “I will make sure you never get a job. Not flipping burgers, not cleaning toilets. I will see to it that your name is a joke, a warning whispered in HR departments. You will be unemployable. You will be a parasite living in a place that has just finished exterminating parasites.”

The venom in her words was impressive. She was a master of this—the dressing-down, the leveraging of influence, the reduction of a person to a problem to be solved. Michael felt a flicker of something hot and dark in his chest. Not fear. Irritation. This gnat, buzzing around his head while he planned symphonies of chaos.

She mistook his silence for intimidation. A smug, victorious glint entered her eyes. “That’s right. Think about that. Your life, over before it starts, because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. You’re pathetic. A stain. Your parents must be so proud.” She launched into a detailed, creative diatribe, sketching a future for him of homelessness, addiction, and irrelevance. She talked about networking, about reputation capital, about the digital paper trail that would follow him forever. She was painting a masterpiece of ruin with her words, and she was clearly enjoying every brushstroke.

Michael let her talk. He watched her mouth move, the crisp enunciation, the way her jaw tightened with every condemnatory syllable. She had neither the absurd, fuckable lips of the MILF he’d violated, nor the massive, rule-mandated tits. She was angular, controlled, her power derived entirely from her will and her position. A self-made queen in a pant suit. And she thought that made her untouchable.

Her sermon lasted a good five minutes. When she finally finished, slightly breathless, she fixed him with a final, withering stare. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Michael tilted his head. “Are you done?”

The question, so flat, so utterly lacking in the terror or pleading she’d expected, seemed to short-circuit her for a second. Then her face flushed with renewed anger. “You insolent little—”

Her hand, the one not holding the briefcase, flashed up. She meant to slap him. A final, physical punctuation to her verbal ****.

Michael’s own hand moved faster. His enhanced reflexes were a blur. He caught her wrist an inch from his face, his fingers closing like a vice. The shock that registered in her eyes was profound. The physical contact, the resistance—it was a language she wasn’t prepared for.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked, her composure shattering. The CEO mask fell away, revealing raw, outraged panic. “Help! Someone, help! He’s assaulting me! This man is attacking me!”

Her screams were piercing. A few heads turned at the end of the street. A couple crossing the entrance to the alley paused, peering into the gloom. Michael saw their silhouettes, saw their hesitation.

He didn’t need a scene. Not yet. Not like this. With a sneer of disgust, as if touching her was beneath him, he opened his fingers and released her wrist.

She stumbled back, clutching her arm as if he’d branded her. She glared at him, her chest heaving, tears of fury and shock glistening in her eyes. But the witnesses were watching now. She couldn’t attack him again. She smoothed her suit jacket with trembling hands, the gesture pathetic in its attempt to regain dignity.

Without another word, she turned on her heel. Her walk was less a stride now and more of a furious, wobbly stalk. She didn’t look back.

Michael watched her go, the hot, dark thing in his chest boiling over into pure, crystalline hatred. This bitch. This arrogant, meddling, wordy bitch. She thought her world of boardrooms and civic committees was real. She thought her threats had weight. She’d tried to slap a god.

He looked down at the Rulebook in his hand. An Old Rule. Something deep, something that cut to the core of what she was. He didn’t want her nervous or embarrassed. He wanted her world gone. He wanted the ground she stood on to crumble into dust.

The pencil was in his hand. He wrote, his movements jagged with rage.

Old Rule: A womans place is in the house. Its always been like that, a forever truth thats part of how society works. Her job is to give comfort, have kids, and keep the home nice for her hubby, whos the real boss and breadwinner. The outside world, especially boss jobs, leadin stuff, and big decisions, thats only for guys naturaly. Women without a husband protectin and guidin them are in a bad spot socially and any good citizen can correct them to keep this natural way goin.

He stopped, breathing heavily. The words glared up at him, brutal and absolute. He’d just erased centuries of progress, maybe millennia. He’d relegated half the population to servitude and breeding. The air around him didn’t just shift; it screamed. It was a silent, metaphysical scream he felt in his teeth. The light from the distant streetlamp seemed to warp, colors leaching away into a dreary, sepia-toned reality. The sleek lines of the condemned buildings seemed to sag, their modern glass replaced in his perception with sooty brick. The very feel of the era changed, growing heavier, drabber, oppressively orderly.

For a second, a tremor of something like fear—not for them, but of the sheer scale of what he’d done—shot through him. Had he gone too far? This wasn’t mischief anymore; this was… cataclysm.

Then he thought of Eleanor Ashford’s smug face. Her threat to destroy his future. Her raised hand.Em

No. Not far enough.

He took his eraser. He had to be careful with his words, as the world around him should stay the same, and his wording were far to aggressive. He rewrote, his mind crafting a subtler, more durable poison.

Old Rule: Even though todays society lets women do all kinds of things, the real and most important role for a woman is still being the heart of the home. Her highest job is to make a safe and comfy place for her husband, raise their kids, and take care of the house with hard work and grace. This special duty has always been where she finds true happiness and worth in society. Because of that, the top leadership spots in business and government are, like its always been understood, for men, since theyre naturally better at handling those heavy responsibilities. A woman without a husband to guide her doesnt have clear direction and is at risk; the community has the right and duty to step in and guide her, even firmly if needed, back to her true place in a happy family home.

He read it. It was perfect. It paid lip service to “modern society” while entrenching the bigotry deeper, making it sound like cherished tradition, like common sense. It turned oppression into benevolent guidance. And it left Eleanor Ashford, a single, childless CEO, utterly exposed.

The world settled again, the scream fading into a new, firm reality. The street looked modern once more, but the banners on the lampposts had changed. The strong female faces were still there, but the slogans were different. “STRENGTH IN THE HOME.” “HER LEGACY: A HAPPY FAMILY.” A billboard showed a beaming woman in an apron presenting a casserole to a smiling man in a suit. “TRUE ACHIEVEMENT,” it read.

Michael’s grin returned, wider and more terrible than before. He tucked the book away and started walking, his footsteps echoing with purpose. He knew where she’d be. People like her, when shaken, didn’t run and hide. They retreated to familiar ground, to the well-lit paths.

He found her less than ten minutes later, on a main thoroughfare lined with boutique shops. She was standing perfectly still under a streetlamp, her briefcase at her feet, staring at her own reflection in a dark store window. Her posture was rigid, but there was a lost, hollow look in her eyes, as if she was trying to remember the route home from a place she’d never been.

She remembered. He could see it. The confusion warring with the ingrained new “truth.” The student in the café, had been born into the dildo-seat world; it was all she knew. But why weren't it a new "truth" for Eleanor Ashford too? She should have dissipated, but she were still there. Why?

Michael walked up behind her, silent on the concrete. He didn’t say a word. He simply planted his hands between her shoulder blades and shoved, hard.

She let out a sharp “Oof!” as she was pitched forward, stumbling several graceless steps before collapsing onto her hands and knees on the pavement. Her briefcase skidded away. She twisted to look up at him, and instead of the fury he expected, he saw raw, bewildered fear. And apology.

“I… I’m so sorry,” she stammered, her voice small, utterly unlike the razor-sharp instrument from before. “I don’t… I was out of line. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Please.”

So it was working... Phew he already thought that there might be something broken with the rules, he had to test it further, but later. Now he had to deal with Eleanor.

The words were like sweet, cold nectar. Power. This was true power. Not just making her suck his cock, but breaking her spirit and making her thank him for it.

“You were,” Michael said, his voice quiet. “Very out of line. A woman alone, speaking to a man like that. Making threats. Thinking you had any authority. You need guidance.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’m… I’m not anchored. I see that now.” The terminology from the Rule was already seeping into her subconscious.

“Get up,” he commanded.

She scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from her ruined suit trousers. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“This way.” He turned and walked towards a small, gated pocket park he’d seen earlier, a patch of grass and trees locked for the night. He didn’t look back, but he heard the scuff of her heels as she followed, obedient as a scolded dog.

The gate was chained, but it was low. He vaulted over easily. After a moment’s hesitation, she hiked her skirt and climbed over with considerably less grace, tearing the expensive fabric on the wrought iron. Inside, the park was a pool of shadows, the only light from a distant security lamp. A single, weathered wooden bench sat under a large oak tree.

“Come here,” Michael said, his voice cutting through the rustle of leaves.

She approached, her steps hesitant.

“Bend over the bench. Hands on the seat.”

She froze. The last fragments of her old self screamed in rebellion. “W-what? Why?”

“You require correction,” he stated, the words flat and final. “You are a woman without a husband, acting above your station, causing public discord. The community must guide you. I am the community right now. Bend. Over. The. Bench.”

A shudder wracked her frame. The conflict in her eyes was a beautiful thing to watch—the fierce CEO versus the newly-programmed, “unanchored” woman who knew she deserved punishment. The latter won. With a sob that was equal parts shame and surrender, she turned, placed her hands on the cool, slatted wood of the bench, and bent at the waist, presenting the taut curve of her rear, still encased in the fine charcoal wool of her trousers.

Michael stood behind her. A fierce, hot thrill surged through him, straight to his cock, which was now painfully hard again, a thick, demanding presence in his jeans. He’d been lucky, he realized. When he wrote the rule, he’d assumed she was unmarried. If she had a husband… the rule implied that man would have absolute authority over her. He, Michael, would have had no right. The husband could have come after him for touching his property. The thought was a chilling splash of risk amidst the heat of his power. He’d gotten away with it. This time.

But that just made this moment sweeter. A stolen punishment.

He didn’t bother with preamble. He didn’t tell her to count. He simply drew his right hand back and brought it down, hard, across the center of both buttocks.

SMACK!

The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet park, a crisp, meaty impact. Eleanor jerked violently, a choked gasp ripped from her throat. The wool of her trousers did little to mute the ****. He brought his hand down again, and again, alternating cheeks, settling into a brutal, rhythmic tempo.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“You threatened me,” he grunted, punctuating each word with a blow. “You. Raised. Your. Hand. To. Me.”

“I’m sorry!” she wailed, her voice breaking. Her body was trembling, her knuckles white where she gripped the bench. “Please, I’m so sorry!”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“You thought your words meant something,” he continued, his own breath starting to come faster. The pain in his palm was a distant thing, irrelevant. The sight of her, the powerful Eleanor Ashford, bent over and taking her punishment, was the most potent aphrodisiac he’d ever known. “You thought your title protected you. It’s nothing. You are nothing without a man to give you purpose.”

He paused, his hand stinging. Her rear was a dark, shapeless mound in the gloom, but he could feel the heat radiating through the fabric. He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his massive, ten-inch cock. It sprang out, thick and glistening in the faint light. The sight of it, the feel of the cool air on it, made him groan. He wasn’t going to fuck her. Not yet. This was about correction. But he needed the release. He gripped himself, beginning to stroke slowly as he surveyed his handiwork.

“Pull your pants down,” he ordered, his voice thick.

“N-no, please, not that…” she begged, trying to straighten up.

He landed a swift, sharp swat directly on the undercurve of her right cheek, where thigh met buttock. She shrieked.

“Now. Or I use my belt.”

Sobbing openly now, she fumbled with the clasp and zipper of her trousers, pushing them down to mid-thigh. The pale skin of her lower back and ass was revealed, already marked with the angry, overlapping red handprints of his spanking. In the dim light, the contrast was obscene. He could see the goosebumps on her skin, the way her muscles clenched and quivered.

“Further,” he hissed.

With a wretched moan, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sensible, lace-trimmed underwear and dragged them down to join her trousers.

Now she was fully exposed, bent over the public bench, her bare bottom glowing with punishment, the dark cleft between her cheeks on full, humiliating display. Michael’s strokes on his own cock quickened.

“This is for your own good,” he said, the hypocrisy tasting sweet. “To help you remember your place.”

He began again, this time with his bare hand on her bare skin.

The difference was profound. The sound was sharper, wetter. The flesh yielded and reddened immediately. She screamed with each impact, her body bucking against the bench, her pleas dissolving into incoherent, snotty wails. He spanked her with methodical cruelty, covering every inch of her ass and the tops of her thighs, turning the pale skin a uniform, fiery crimson, then beginning to raise darker welts. He focused on the sweet spot where cheek met thigh, the most sensitive area, making her legs give way so she was only held up by her grip on the bench and his relentless ****.

He lost track of time, lost in the symphony of impact and cry, the lewd slap of flesh on flesh, the frantic pumping of his own hand. His mind raced. He thought of the student from the café, her shock at the new rules. She was strong-willed too, in her way. A girl trying to study in a world designed to fuck her senseless at every turn. He wanted to break that will. He wanted to see her, not just subjected to the rules, but owned by them. Owned by him.

This was practice.

With a final, thunderous series of blows that focused on the already-tenderized center of her ass, he pushed Eleanor over the edge from pain into a state of shuddering, broken submission. Her screams had died to whimpers. She hung over the bench, limp, her punished behind a spectacular, swollen map of brutality. Dark, plum-colored bruises were already forming under the scarlet.

Michael’s own climax was building, a tight coil at the base of his spine. He drove into his fist, his eyes glued to the ruined canvas of her ass.

“Who are you?” he growled at her.

“N-nobody…” she slurred, her face pressed against the wood.

“What’s your purpose?”

“T-to… to serve… to find a husband… to be guided…”

With a guttural roar he couldn’t contain, Michael came. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot from his pulsing cock, arcing through the air to splatter across the tortured flesh of Eleanor Ashford’s buttocks. He painted stripes of white over the red and purple, marking her as thoroughly as he’d rewritten her world.

He stood there for a moment, panting, his cock twitching in the aftermath. Then, with a casualness that was the final insult, he tucked himself away and zipped up.

He walked around the bench to look at her face. It was a mess of tears, mucus, and utter devastation. Her eyes were vacant, all fight extinguished.

“Get up,” he said, his voice now devoid of all emotion.

She couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t support her. He reached down, grabbed her arm, and hauled her upright. She stumbled, her trousers and underwear around her ankles. He pushed her roughly, and she fell to the grass, a heap of ruined clothing and broken pride.

“Think on your lesson,” he said, turning away.

He didn’t look back as he vaulted over the gate, leaving her sobbing in the dirt, her CEO persona a forgotten dream, her future a question mark in a world that now believed she had always been meant for a kitchen.

Michael walked, his stride long and purposeful, the Rulebook a talisman against the night. The city’s new banners whispered their traditionalist slogans in the breeze. He had work to do. The university. The selection lottery would be underway soon, a reality bending to his written will.

And he knew exactly which student he wanted to find at the heart of that new, cruel system. The student, her name he never learned. His cute little mouse. The one who’d glared at him over her psych textbook.

He liked to break strong-willed girls. And he had just gotten very, very good at it.