on the street

Joseph stepped out of his apartments door, nameless women followed him obediently with her stiletto heels. Her massive tits bouncing with each step she take.

The fresh morning air hit him, mixed with ambient sound of city. joseph occasionally looking back, glancing at her, eyes fixed on her breasts, her arms covered in black latex gloves clasped behind her back, making her breast thrust forward like offerings.

Joseph felt something is wrong. The streets are alive with alive with women, every one of them a vision of exaggerated perfection. A group of office workers ran by, their blouses unbuttoned to the navel, letting humongous J-cup tits spill out, nipples erecting hard. Skirts hiked up to expose shaved pussies and ass cheeks that jiggled like overripe fruit, each step making their ass clap softly. They smiled at Joseph, eyes filled with submissive glaze, whispering among themselves about their work.

Further down the block, a barista from the corner cafe dashed out to dump trash, her apron barely covering a K-cup tits that wobbled free, slapping against her ribcage. She wore nothing else but a small apron hanged on tits with company logo and tiny thong that vanished between her meaty ass cheeks, her heels clicking as she bent over the bin, presenting her holes without a second thought. Joseph watched her ass flex, imagining the notebook's rules might reshaped her into willing fuck toy.

"so, ****."

"yes?"

the woman, his **** asked softly, her voice muffled through the mask. She pressed closer, her gloved hand brushing his arm accidentally.

joseph yanked her head grabbing her latex mask.

"Tell me more about this world, ****. What's normal out here?"

She gasped lightly, a faint of lust in her breath.

"Oh, sir, everything revolves around men. Women are property—house-slaves like me, street whores, office pets. Our bodies grow to please: tits so heavy they ache, asses built for pounding. We beg for **** because it makes our cunts drip. We have no rights, just holes to fuck."

They turned a corner into a busier street, where the sights grew even more obscene. A jogger passed, her sports bra shredded to ribbons, L-cup breasts flopping wildly. She panted, not from exertion but from the constant jiggle pulling at her nipples, pierced and chained to weights that swung between her thighs. Nearby, a mother pushed a cart loaded with groceries, her own M-cup udders leaking milk through a soaked halter top, dripping onto the pavement as she apologies to passersby for the mess.

Joseph's cock twitched in his pants, the notebook tucked under his arm like a weapon. Every woman was stunning, faces sculpted for desire even if hidden, bodies primed for domination. A construction crew of females hammered away at a scaffold, bent over in tool belts that framed their exposed cunts and asses, cheeks spread wide as they worked on tiptoes, hammers swinging in rhythm with their heaving tits.

Then, as they reached the edge of the square, a low rumble echoed from the boulevard. Joseph froze, his **** halting beside him, her body tensing in what might have been excitement or fear—hard to tell without eyes or mouth visible.

It was a tram. joseph don't remember his city ever had a tram, but he guessed in this world, city installed it somehow.

The crazy thing is, the tram is not powered by electricity or gas, but twenty amputated pony girls. Their arms hacked off at shoulders, leaving smooth stumps that wriggled uselessly against the harnesses binding them. there feet wearing what looks like modified high heel with out heel to mimic horse hoof.

Joseph stared, arousal mixing with a dark fantasy. The notebook's rules had birthed this—women as expendable beasts or tools. His **** whimpered beside him, thighs pressing together. "Sir... they are pony girls. They're trained to pull cargo or tram just like that. Amputated so they can't run, only serve."

joseph suddenly opened his rule book slashed off the new rule he wrote to test the rulebook, then he wrote a rule.