What the hell?

Hey Charity here, I rewrote this chapter so many times, until I was happy, first I wasn’t happy about the rule and I just wanted Emily to stay herself, but it kept getting worse and worse for her, so I had to stop and start from the beginning. I hope this chapter is good enough anyway. Now enjoy!

The final bell shrieked - a sound that no longer signaled freedom, but the start of the next mandated degradation. As hundreds of women scrambled towards the entrance. Emily felt a cold, leaden dread settle in her stomach. She lagged behind Mia by a step, her eyes darting nervously.

Just as they reached the wide oak doors, an insistent Government Alert flashed across everyone’s phone screen with a sound like breaking glass:

GOVERNMENT ALERT: CURRICULAR INTEGRITY ACT ADDENDUM 4.4

NEW RULE: THE MANDATE OF SEXUAL UTILITY

Due to the near-total absence of street prostitution and the porn industry’s growing demand for more women, the PSS Constitution comes into **** immediately.

Effective Immediately: Every incoming female student, upon formal enrollment at any institution of higher learning, is now subject to mandatory reassignment to the Professional Sexual Services (PSS) Curriculum. This course, titled "Prostitute Street & Screen: The Complete Earning Portfolio,"mandates comprehensive training in all facets required to survive and excel as a high-yield prostitute, servicing both the street economy and the burgeoning pornographic industry.

Compliance Quota: To meet the minimum staffing requirements for the State-Mandated Sector, each semester, the administration must select one female student from every registered course section to immediately drop their current studies and enter the PSS Curriculum. A minimum of four students per academic institution must commence training each semester. Effective immediately, all newly enrolled female students are automatically enrolled in the PSS Curriculum until randomly selected out (or until graduation). Further details regarding housing, compensation structure, and daily assignments will be provided upon reporting to the designated training facility.

Since the semesters are already underway, two female students are selected from each class to keep the numbers above average.

Refusal/Evasion is classified as High Treason against the State and carries the penalty of immediate, public, forcible sterilization and permanent civic nullification.

Emily’s breath hitched, a sharp, painful intake that did nothing to clear the sour taste rising in her throat. Her mind, already frayed by the public violation in the lecture hall and the **** submission in the café, seized up. The words professional, sexual and services, they clawed at her composure. She didn’t just feel sick; she felt the physical precursor to expulsion. She wanted to vomit up the last seven years of dildo-induced arousal, to purge the very idea of her body being owned by rules.

“Oh, God,” Emily managed, her voice a strained whisper, her eyes locked on the vibrating screen. “They… they can’t. This isn’t just banning books, Mia. This is… this is turning us into stock.” She leaned heavily against a nearby concrete pillar, her legs suddenly weak, the ghost of the professor’s massive cock still feeling tight in her core.

Mia, however, was eerily calm. Her lips, still swollen and slightly bruised from Brandon’s crude ministrations, were set in a thin, hard line. The fire in her eyes wasn’t just arousal anymore; it was a terrifying, adaptive cunning. She looked down at her own phone, then back at Emily, a fierce, proprietary possessiveness in her gaze.

“They already have, Em,” Mia said, her voice low, carrying none of the frantic energy of the morning. “Look at the quota. They need six per institution this semester. We’re already signed up for the PSS track just by being women. They’re just formalizing the syllabus. You got violated by a professor for art. I got manhandled by a student just for having fuckable lips. We’re already initiated. We just have to survive the selection process.” She paused, her eyes flicking toward the lecture hall where Sex and Art 301 was held. “But yes. If I have to choose between being publicly sterilized and worse for refusing to service someone who wants to paint with my fluids, or learning how to sell my body to survive, I choose survival. We both know the rules now, Em. We comply, or we literally vanish.”

The alert’s cold text was still burning a hole in Emily’s vision when a new, sharper chime cut through the murmuring panic of the dispersing students. The university’s PA system crackled to life, a sound usually reserved for fire drills or snow days.

“ATTENTION ALL STUDENTS. MANDATORY ASSEMBLY. ALL FEMALE STUDENTS OVER THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN ARE TO REPORT TO THE MAIN AUDITORIUM IMMEDIATELY. YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES. NON-COMPLIANCE WILL BE TREATED AS EVASION UNDER ADDENDUM 4.4.”

A fresh wave of icy dread washed down Emily’s spine, cutting through the residual ache in her core. Ten minutes.

“See?” Mia’s voice was a low hiss in her ear, her grip on Emily’s arm tightening. “No time to think. Just move.”

The main auditorium was the largest on campus, a cavernous space usually reserved for graduations and guest lectures. Now, it was filling with a low, terrified hum. Hundreds of young women streamed in, their faces pale, their steps hesitant. The air, usually stale with old dust, was now thick with the scent of nervous sweat and the faint, ever-present musk of arousal from skirts dampened by **** seats. The hum wasn’t just voices; it was the collective, sub-audible vibration of hundreds of activated Seating Chips, sensing the plush auditorium chairs and twitching in anticipation of yet another violation.

Emily and Mia found seats near the middle, the velvet cushion giving its familiar, sinister whir as they sat. Emily barely registered the slick, stretching intrusion of the dildo this time; her mind was a roaring static of fear. She scanned the stage. It was empty save for a simple wooden podium.

A figure walked out from the wings. Principal Stone. He was a man in his late fifties, with a frame that spoke of a former athlete now running to fat, encased in a too-tight charcoal suit. His hair was steel-grey, swept back, and his face was a monument to grim, unyielding authority. He carried no notes. He didn’t need them. The new rules were his scripture now.

He adjusted the microphone, the screech of feedback making the entire auditorium wince.

“Silence.”

The single word, uttered with the weight of a gavel, killed the murmuring instantly. Hundreds of pairs of eyes, wide and frightened, fixed on him.

“You have read the alert,” Stone began, his voice a dry, rasping thing that carried to the back rows. “The Curricular Integrity Act Addendum 4.4 is now in effect. The State has identified a critical shortage in the Professional Sexual Services sector. This institution, like all others, has a quota to fulfill. It is a simple matter of civic duty and economic necessity.”

He let the words hang, his cold eyes sweeping over the sea of young faces. Emily’s stomach churned. Civic duty. Her mother’s voice, long buried under years of dildo-induced haze, whispered in her ear. “Men have always been the most powerful beings in the world, sweetheart. Our role is to support. To nurture. To… accommodate.” She’d wanted to study psychology to understand the mind, to maybe help. Now, the only mind she needed to understand was the one that saw her as a resource to be allocated.

“The selection process is straightforward,” Stone continued, pulling a tablet from inside his jacket. “I will call out the names of two female students from each degree program and year cohort present today. When your name is called, you will come to the stage. You will be given a choice between two specializations within the PSS Curriculum: Street Prostitution or Performance Artistry for the Screen.”

A faint, **** hope flickered in the auditorium. A choice? It was more than they’d dared pray for.

“The first named individual,” Stone enunciated slowly, savoring the tension, “will choose their specialization. The second named individual will be assigned the remaining specialization. Your academic records, physical assessments, and observed… compliance… today have been factored into your selection. There is no appeal.”

The flicker of hope turned into a frantic, competitive hunger. To be chosen first. It was the only sliver of control left.

One by one, Stone began reading names. Business Administration. Two juniors, one weeping openly as she was chosen second and assigned ‘Street’ after her rival chose ‘Screen.’ Engineering. A fierce-looking woman who scowled but chose ‘Screen’ with defiant pride, leaving her timid classmate to dissolve into silent tears for ‘Street.’ The process was a brutal, public dissection of friendships and rivalries. Whispers crisscrossed the auditorium. “Screen is better, you just fake it…” “No, Street is faster money, you control your clients…”

Then, he reached their program. Graphic Design, Third Year.

“Shannon Briggs.”

A small, collective gasp rippled from their section. Shannon? Quiet, mousy Shannon with her glasses and her perfect grade point average? She sat frozen for a second, then stood on trembling legs. She walked to the aisle, her head down, her shoulders hunched. She looked unbearably small climbing the steps to the stage under the harsh lights.

Stone consulted his tablet, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “And… Emily Thompson.”

The world narrowed to a tunnel. Emily felt Mia’s hand squeeze hers, then let go. “Go,” Mia mouthed, her own face pale. Numbly, Emily stood. The dildo retracted from her with a wet sound that seemed obscenely loud in the silent auditorium. She walked forward, her legs moving on autopilot, the eyes of hundreds burning into her back. She joined Shannon at the center of the stage, under the blazing heat of the spotlights. Shannon was crying, soft, hiccupping sobs that shook her slight frame. Without thinking, Emily put a tentative arm around her. The girl flinched, then leaned into the touch, a **** seeker of comfort in freefall.

Principal Stone watched the display with detached amusement. “Miss Briggs. You have the first choice. The specializations: Street Prostitution, involving direct client engagement in public and private settings, or Performance Artistry for the Screen, involving staged erotic performances for filmed distribution. Choose.”

Shannon’s sobs hitched. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, smudging her glasses. She looked up at Emily, her eyes red and swimming with tears. And then, something shifted. The tears didn’t stop, but a strange, calculating light entered her gaze. The sly, knowing smile that crept across her lips was utterly alien on her usually meek face. It was the smile of someone who had been overlooked, underestimated, and was now being handed a knife.

Her voice, when it came, was clear and carried no trace of a sob.

“I choose Performance Artistry for the Screen.”

The words hung in the air, precise and devastating. Emily’s comforting arm fell away as if burned. Shannon didn’t look at Principal Stone. She kept her eyes locked on Emily, that sly grin widening, enjoying the dawning horror on Emily’s face. Shannon had won.

“Very well,” Stone said, utterly uninterested in the micro-drama. “Shannon Briggs is assigned to the Screen Performance track. Emily Thompson, you are hereby assigned to the Street Prostitution track. Head to the other students, to the doors stage left for processing and transportation to your induction facilities.”

Emily stood rooted to the spot, the words Street Prostitution echoing in her skull like a **** sentence. From the audience, she caught Mia’s horrified stare. Her friend’s lips formed a single, silent word: “No.”

But it was done.

He gestured with a thick hand. Stage left, a heavy metal door stood open, a grim-faced male guard in a security uniform beside it. Stage right, another door, this one marked with a simple stylized ‘PAS,’ stood ajar.

Shannon gave Emily one last, glittering look of triumph, then turned and walked, head held higher now, toward the door marked ‘PAS.’ She didn’t look back.

Given the choice, Emily would have preferred the screen; being a porn actress felt like the easier path. But looking at Shannon—the little bookworm who seemed so out of place—Emily’s protective instincts took over. She would have volunteered for the harsher reality of prostitution just to spare Shannon from it. Emily wasn't a bad person; she had spent her life standing up for others.

Yet, if she were honest, her future mattered too. She would have chosen the easier life in a heartbeat if it weren't for Shannon’s grin—a look that felt less like a thank-you and more like a stab in the heart.

The selection continued, a relentless drumbeat of fate. Two more from Fine Arts. Two from Biology. When it was over, twelve young women stood clustered in two groups on the stage: six by the ‘PAS’ door, trying to look composed, and six, including Emily, by the left door, looking shell-shocked and lost.

Principal Stone addressed them one final time. “Your old lives are over. Your new education begins now. Go through your assigned doors. Comply, and you may yet have a future. Resist, and you will be made an example of under the Treason Clause. Move.”

The guard by Emily’s door snapped, “This way. Now.”

The group by the ‘PAS’ door—the Performance Artistry for the Screen—filed out first. Shannon was among them, sobbing against the arm of the girl beside her. The girl, paralyzed by her own fear, met Shannon's tears with a look of cold annoyance. They disappeared into a corridor that, from a fleeting glance, looked clean and well-lit.

Then it was their turn. The Street Prostitutes. Emily **** her leaden feet to move, following the others through the heavy metal door. It shut behind them with a final, resonant clang that sealed away the light and the world they knew.

They were in a concrete service corridor, poorly lit, smelling of damp and industrial cleaner. The guard led them wordlessly to a rear loading bay where a windowless, grey van idled, its engine grumbling. The back doors were open.

Emily couldn't stop the images from flooding in: the skimpy outfits, the overdone makeup, the smell of stale tobacco. Was that the identity she was stepping into? The realization hit her like a physical blow. My God, she thought, panicked, is this, what I am becoming?

“Get in,” the guard said, his voice devoid of empathy. “You’re going to the orientation center. Your training starts tonight.”

One by one, the six young women climbed into the dark, cold interior of the van. Emily was the last. As she hauled herself up, she took one final, fleeting look back at the sliver of the campus. Then the doors were slammed shut, plunging them into darkness, the van lurching forward, carrying them away from everything, and into the uncharted night of their new profession.