Rule Correction

Note: I haven't forgotten or neglected the storypath. I just like to have another chapter in reserve so that I can be sure I'll always have a chapter to post if I ever lose interest... Don't ask, it's strange, I know, but that's just how I am.

The city’s decay smelled like victory to Michael. It was a cocktail of exhaust, wet garbage, and the new, pervasive musk of female submission—sweat, sex, and fear. He strode through a park that was once a manicured oasis, now a tableau of his new world. Leaves, untended, formed damp piles. The benches were occupied not by readers, but by scenes of casual, public use. A woman bent over a bench, skirt hiked, her face a mask of resignation as a man in a business suit pistoned into her from behind, his grunts mingling with the distant traffic. Another was on her knees before a teenager, her lips stretched around his cock, her eyes dutifully closed. No one batted an eye. It was the background hum of the corrected reality.

Mia scurried beside him, a step behind, her breathing shallow. Her dark hair was a mess, her lips still swollen and bruised from his face-fuck. The memory of her gratitude for that violation still warmed him, a perverse little ember in his chest. She was his now, a broken little guide dog leading him to his true prize: Emily. His Emily. The thought of her in that “whore school,” being molded by some brute named Viktor Kray, sent a possessive fury through him that hardened his cock against his jeans. The Rulebook, tucked under his arm in his bag, pulsed with that same dark energy.

But a god on a mission could still indulge in roadside corrections. Chaos, after all, was his sacrament.

He took the time to make his life easier, to learn things about people. He went to the next table, took the rule book out of his bag, and opened it. He took his pencil to write down a new rule. He wrote:

New rule: Michael knows things about people when he thinks about them; he receives information about them, such as their age, name, marital status, and much more. He can obtain any information he ever wanted. This only applies to Michael, the owner of this rule book.

Happy, he put the rulebook aside and put it back in his bag. Then he went back to Mia, who was standing there uncertainly, not knowing what to do, and looking around. He took her by the arm and dragged her along, looking around and, with his new ability, scanned the park like a predator’s thermal vision. The woman being fucked on the bench? Her name was Linda. Thirty-four. Divorced. A former accountant. She’d laughed at her husband’s requests for a home-cooked meal. Now, her truth was the feeling of a stranger’s cock splitting her asshole on public furniture. Good.

Then he saw them. Two women, cutting across a stretch of wilted grass. They were jogging. Jogging. In sleek, skin-tight black leggings and moisture-wicking sports tops, their ponytails bouncing with a vigor that was an affront to the new order. Their faces were set in expressions of determined, independent focus. Michael’s mind, with its divine clarity, unpacked them instantly.

The one on the left: Chloe Bennett, 27. Marketing executive. Never married. Had rejected countless serious proposals. She owned a condo, a cat, and a subscription to a feminist podcast network. Her truth was a fragile castle of self-delusion.

Wait a minute, did that even still exist? Feminism should have disappeared long ago, deflected by the power of men, right?

The one on the right: Sarah Jennings, 26. Chloe’s best friend and colleague. Similarly single. Had a habit of dating men briefly before finding “fatal flaws”—too clingy, not ambitious enough, laughed weirdly. She’d ghosted the last five. Her truth was a curated life of brunches, yoga, and hollow empowerment.

They were a matched set of defiance. Rejecting the natural order, spurning the guidance of men, pretending their bodies and lives were their own to run into the ground with pointless exercise. A hot, righteous anger boiled in Michael’s gut. This was exactly the slippage his “woman’s place is in the home” rule was meant to prevent. These bitches thought they’d found a loophole by simply saying ‘no’ to every man who approached, the surely also had a way to prevent punishments. A clever trick, but child’s play for a god.

“Mia,” he said, his voice a low command that cut through the park’s ambient sex sounds.

Mia jumped. “Y-yes?”

“See those two jogging cunts?”

She followed his gaze, her eyes widening. “The… the ones in leggings?”

“They’re in violation. Deep, habitual violation. They need immediate correction, and I need a moment. Stall them.”

“How?” Mia’s voice trembled.

Michael’s smile was a blade. “Use the ‘Eat me’ rule. Make them service you. It’ll hold their attention.”

Mia paled. The memory of her own brutal, **** cunnilingus from Emily in the cafeteria was clearly fresh. But the fear of disobeying Michael was fresher, sharper. She nodded, a quick, jerky motion.

As the two joggers approached a junction in the path, Mia stepped into their way, holding up a hand. “Stop.”

Chloe and Sarah skidded to a halt, irritation flashing across their sweat-glistened faces. “Excuse you?” Chloe said, her tone sharp.

Mia, drawing on a well of terror that lent her voice a strange authority, pointed a trembling finger at them. Her voice dropped, trying to mimic the demanding, sexual tone she’d heard from others. “I… I command you. Both of you. By the rule. Get down on your knees and… and eat my pussy. Now. Use only your mouths and tongues. No fingers.”

The effect was instantaneous. The professional, annoyed masks on Chloe and Sarah’s faces shattered. A wave of confusion, then dawning horror, then the unstoppable compulsion of the New Rule washed over them. Their bodies stiffened. They looked at each other, eyes wide with a shared, silent scream of ‘What the fuck?’ But they had to comply, or they will be excluded from the community.

“What is this?” Sarah hissed, even as she sank to the damp grass.

“I don’t… we have to…” Chloe gasped, her resistance crumbling under the psychic imperative. They knelt before Mia, who, with a surge of terrified power, hiked up her micro-skirt, revealing her bare, shaved pussy, still slick from the day’s earlier violations and the ever-present arousal of her chip.

“Do it,” Mia whispered, her own arousal spiking from the dominance, however ****.

With looks of utter disgust and humiliation, Chloe and Sarah leaned forward. Their ponytails fell over their shoulders as their faces neared Mia’s crotch. The first contact was tentative, revolted—Chloe’s tongue darting out like it was touching poison, Sarah pressing her closed lips to Mia’s outer labia.

As their tongues touched her clitoris, the dildo withdrew with a wet and loud whirring sound. Mia breathed a sigh of relief for a moment, but they weren't doing a good job. Inexperienced cunts, she thought. ‘Woow, where did this thought come from?’

“Enthusiastically!” Mia snapped, parroting the rule’s language, her fingers tangling in Chloe’s hair. “Or it doesn’t count!”

Goaded, the two women began. It was a grotesque, unwilling ballet. Their tongues, meant for witty banter and sipping lattes, now probed and licked at another woman’s sex. The sounds were wet, slurping, filled with choked gags and suppressed retches. Mia’s breath hitched. The sensation, combined with the sheer taboo power of it, was overwhelming. Her hips began to rock subtly.

Michael paid them little mind. He was already pulling the Rulebook from his bag, flipping to the page with his “woman’s place” Old Rule. The pencil was in his hand. The existing rule was powerful but messy. It needed correction. Specificity. It needed to close the ‘just say no’ loophole these bitches had been exploiting.

He began to add a new rule, under the old one, his script furious and precise, making it an inherent, historical part of the same social contract.

New Rule: **Marriage is not shown by a ring on the finger, but by a necklace.**

Any unmarried woman who has willfully rejected a lawful offer of courtship or marriage three (3) times, past or present, is in a state of profound social dysfunction and peril. To correct this aberration and secure her necessary placement within a protective household, she is hereby mandated to either:

A) If a male blood relation of legal age (brother, cousin, etc.) exist, she is required, to marry one of them, whoever ask her first, gets the price, thereby keeping her service within the family unit, or

B) If no suitable relation exists, she must accept the very next proposal of marriage from any unmarried man who presents one.

Furthermore, any unmarried woman observed in public without a marriage necklace shall be deemed to be advertising her need for a husband. Any man may approach and claim her for marriage on the spot; her consent is implied by her unanchored state. Refusal of such a claim is punishable by public gang **** until compliance is achieved.

The husband can decide what necklace she has to wear.

—

If a woman is caught wearing a collar and does not have a husband, anyone can claim her, regardless of gender. However, they must not know each other, nor can it be a prearranged meeting.

Furthermore, she is stripped of all her rights. Human rights no longer apply to her, and she is bound to slavery forever.

—

Addendum for Genetic Anomalies: In the case of twins, one male and one female, they are required to marry each other.

He read it over. It was beautiful. Bureaucratic cruelty married to absolute patriarchal dominion. It turned their prized independence into a crime with automatic, horrific sentencing.

He glanced up. The scene before him was intensifying. Mia was moaning openly now, her hands fisted in both women’s hair, grinding their faces into her pussy. “Deeper! You fucking lesbians, lick it like you mean it!” she snarled, her own degradation fueling her cruelty. Chloe and Sarah were lost in a hell of compelled tongue-work, their faces slick with Mia’s juices, tears of shame cutting through their sweat.

But Michael’s mind snagged on another problem. Mia. She was with him, unchaperoned. By the spirit of his new rule, she should already belong to a man. By his new divine perception, he thought she’d rejected guys too, maybe shy boys in class, a persistent guy from her part-time job. She was in violation. He couldn’t have that. He still had uses for her—a plaything, a guide, a living testament to his power. The thought that she could be claimed by some random brute made his penis go stiff, but he couldn't let that happen.

The rule was too broad. It had to be restricted. An exception for... what? For the property of the owner of the rulebook? Yes. But he had to be careful. He couldn't just write, “Mia is exempt.” That would exclude all the Mias in the world. He needed a principle. An age, perhaps?

He pondered, the moans and wet sounds from the trio a lewd soundtrack to his godly deliberations. The age? 20 was too young, Mia was surely older. After school? But if a woman’s place was the home, why was she in school at all? Shouldn’t her education be at home? So no school at all? The logic was eating its own tail. He needed to polish this later, craft a perfect, unassailable hierarchy. But for now, he had to seal this new mating law.

Mia’s breathing became frantic, ragged. “I’m… I’m gonna… don’t you dare stop!” she shrieked at the two women whose tongues were fucking her to the brink.

Time was short. He’d refine the master rule later. For now, this new clause would have to do. He closed the book, feeling the familiar, silent thrum as reality bent to accept the new statute into its ancient, unforgiving legal code.

He waited. A minute passed. Mia was bucking wildly, her orgasm imminent. The two women beneath her were pale, their earlier disgust now mixed with a deeper, more fundamental dread.

Then, the simultaneous ping-ping-ping from three phones—Mia’s in her discarded bag, Chloe’s and Sarah’s in their armbands.

Chloe and Sarah froze, their tongues stilling inside Mia. Mia, delirious with need, screamed in frustration. “Don’t stop! I’m so close, you fucking bitches!”

But the two women were already pulling back, fumbling with their phones, their faces draining of all color as they read the government alert detailing their new, horrifying marital status. Chloe’s hand flew to her mouth. “No… my brother… Bjorn just turned eighteen…” she whispered, the blood leaving her face so completely she looked like a ghost.

Sarah was worse. She had no brother. No close male cousins. She was an only child. Her family was small, distant. The reality of a next man who asked—hit her like a physical blow. She stared at her screen, then at the park around them, at the men watching the spectacle, and a full-body tremor took her.

“I said FINISH!” Mia roared, and in a final, brutal act of domination, she grabbed both their heads and slammed their faces back into her soaked cunt, grinding against them with furious, punishing strokes. “LICK ME, YOU FUCKING CUTS! LICK ME!”

With a slight delay, they continued to lick uncertainly. Exclusion from the community was at stake, so they licked and licked. Mia's breathing grew faster and faster. The combined stimulus and her own raging power trip tipped her over. With a ear-splitting, ragged scream that echoed across the park, Mia came, her body convulsing, juices flooding the mouths of the two horrified women. The moment her climax peaked, a wet whirrr sounded from between her own legs as her seat-dildo, inactive during the oral command, re-injected itself violently into her hungry pussy, making her shriek again in a mix of surprise and overwhelming fullness. She collapsed backward onto the bench, panting, the dildo visibly stretching her skirt as it pulsed inside her.

Chloe and Sarah fell back onto their haunches, spitting, wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands, their eyes locked on each other in panicked, silent communication.

Michael saw his opening. He stood, tucked the Rulebook away, and strode forward, his boots crushing the grass. He cleared his throat, a sound of ultimate authority.

The two women flinched, finally noticing him fully. They’d seen him before, of course, but Mia’s commanded performance had consumed their attention. Now, he was the only thing that mattered.

“Ladies,” Michael said, his voice dripping with false politeness. “Let’s cut to the chase. Do either of you currently have a husband? A fiancé? A male guardian?”

They stared at him, the color slowly returning to their faces in blotches of shame and fear. “I… I have a brother,” Chloe stammered, clutching at the straw of Clause A.

“I don’t… I don’t have anyone,” Sarah whispered, her voice hollow.

Michael's divine knowledge confirmed this. He smiled, a cold, merciless expression. “A brother. How... curious. But the rule says that you must marry the brother, and after your marriage, you will be free from any punishment. And I see a more immediate solution to your... unsecured status.”

Chloe’s eyes widened. “No, wait, I have a brother, I’ll marry him, just let me go home and—”

“Silence,” Michael commanded, and the Old Rule in the air seemed to amplify his voice, making her flinch as if struck. He unzipped his jeans, and his cock, perpetually enhanced to a brutal, veined thickness, sprang out, already fully erect and glistening with pre-cum. It was a weapon of flesh, and it demanded tribute. “Your punishment begins now,” he sneered.

He didn’t give her time to process, to beg, to run. He simply lunged, grabbing her by the front of her expensive, moisture-wicking sports top. With a single, vicious RRRIP, he tore the fabric from neck to waist, exposing her sports bra. Another rip, and her breasts spilled free—full, firm C-cups with pert pink nipples, now pebbling in the cold air and terror.

“No! Don’t!” she screamed, trying to cover herself.

Michael grabbed her arm, spun her around with inhuman strength, and bent her forward. Her tight black leggings were no barrier. He didn’t bother peeling them down. He simply gripped the fabric at her lower back and, with a brutal SHRRRECK, tore a hole right over her ass, exposing the pale, perfect globes of her cheeks and the tight, hidden seam between them. She wasn’t wearing panties beneath the athletic wear.

“Please! I’ll do anything!” Chloe sobbed, her body trembling violently.

And that even though she wasn't wearing clothes that were easy to open! "How can a dildo be implanted in your bloody cunt?" He spanked her now exposed ass hard. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

"W-when I exercise, I don't usually sit down." She whimpered. "Oh, please stop," he spanked her ass with all his might. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK. SMACK!

Then he got into it and struck with all his fury. This whore defying his rules, the system he build.

"You," SMACK! "deserve,"SMACK! "everything," SMACK! "by," SMACK! "rejecting," SMACK! “men” SMACK! "and," SMACK! "having," SMACK! "no," SMACK! "easy," SMACK! "access," SMACK! "to," SMACK! "your," SMACK! “fucking,” SMACK! "PUSSY," SMACK!

He shouted the last word so loudly, hoping that passengers would hear it.

SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

She was now crying and sobbing uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, sir, I-I'll never do it again." Michael glanced at her bruised ass and realised that he might have gone too far, but she deserved punishment. She had clearly defied today's norm—which, of course, had not been the case three hours ago—but from now on they had to live under the new world order, and anyone who defied it would be punished. If Michael hadn't punished her, someone else would have, he told himself.

"Shut up, bitch," he hissed at her. "That was just a taste of what's to come." He looked at Sarah, who flinched fearfully. "You, bitch, better do exactly what I say, or you'll end up just like your slutty friend here."

He then spat once into his hand, slicked the head of his monstrous cock, and without any further preparation, he positioned himself at her entrance. Her pussy, dry.

He didn’t care. He shoved.

THWACK-SQUELCH!

The sound was a wet, brutal punch of flesh. Chloe’s scream was ripped from her lungs, a raw, sound of pure, tearing agony. He was too big, too thick, and she was utterly unprepared. He felt her tightness, stretch and threaten to rip around his invading girth. He buried himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust, his balls slapping against her torn leggings.

“FUUUUCK!” he roared, the sensation of her impossibly tight, hot, resisting channel a white-hot brand of pleasure. He held himself deep, letting her feel every inch of him splitting her open.

He began to fuck her. There was no rhythm, no technique, only punishment. Each withdrawal was a dragging, scraping agony for her, each thrust a hammer-blow that slammed her forward, making her scrabbling hands dig into the grass. SMACK-SQUISH-SMACK-SQUISH. Her breasts swung wildly with each impact. Her screams devolved into choked, guttural sobs.

“You thought you were too good for a cock?” Michael snarled, his voice ragged with effort and fury. He grabbed a handful of her ponytail and yanked her head back, arching her spine. “This is what you rejected! This is what you were made for! Take it, you arrogant slut! Take every inch!”

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” she wailed, but the words were swallowed by his next brutal plunge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah, the friend, frozen in horror. She took a tentative step backward.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?” Michael bellowed, never breaking his piston-like rhythm on Chloe’s ravaged pussy. “YOU’RE NEXT, GET NAKED! NOW!”

With trembling, fumbling fingers, Sarah began to peel off her own top, her sports bra, her leggings. She stood there, naked and shivering, her body toned and lovely, a perfect victim awaiting her turn.

Chloe, beneath him, was breaking. The pain was transitioning into something else—a brutal, traumatic overload of sensation. Her sobs became interspersed with sharp, involuntary gasps. Her pussy, betraying her, began to lubricate from the sheer, violent friction. Michael felt it, the added slickness, and he increased his pace, fucking her with jackhammer ****.

“That’s it… juice up for me, you hypocrite cunt! You love it! You needed this!” he taunted.

“AH! AH! GOD! I’M… I’M CUMMING! NO!” Chloe shrieked, her body seizing as a brutal, unwanted orgasm was torn from her by the relentless ****. Her inner walls clamped down on his cock in a series of violent spasms, milking him, pulling him deeper.

Bu he wasn’t ready to finish, not with Sarah waiting. With a supreme effort of will, he wrenched his cock out of Chloe’s sloppy, convulsing hole with a wet, sucking POP. She collapsed face-first into the grass, her body twitching, a mixture of his pre-cum and her own juices leaking from her gaping pussy.

He turned, his cock dripping, and gestured to a nearby park bench with a flat, wooden table attached. “Over there! Both of you! Now!”

Chloe, weeping and broken, crawled on her hands and knees. Sarah, crying silently, followed. Michael grabbed Chloe by the hair and hauled her onto the bench table. “On your back.” She complied, lying back on the cold, graffiti-stained wood, her tear-streaked face to the sky, her brutalized pussy on display. She let out a sharp cry, when her bruised ass hit the bench.

He then grabbed Sarah and pushed her on top of Chloe, face-down, so their bodies were aligned, Sarah’s breasts pressed against Chloe’s, their faces inches apart. “Now,” Michael panted, lining his throbbing cock up with Sarah’s untouched entrance. “You two are going to kiss. Loud, slutty, wet kisses. I want to hear smacking. I want to see tongues. If I don’t, I’ll stop fucking and start whipping your asses with my belt.”

"I'm going to call you," he said, delivering a hard spank to Chloe's already well spanked ass, "cunt under, since you're on the bottom." She let out a sharp whiny cry. "And you," he continued, slapping Sarah's ass just as firmly—she yelped in pain—"cunt upper, because you're on top."

He didn’t wait for a response. He plunged into Sarah.

“GYAAAAH!” Sarah’s scream was higher, sharper than Chloe’s. She was just as tight, just as unprepared. Michael penetrated her with a brutal thrust. Unfortunately, neither of them were virgins anymore due to the dildo seats, but he knew that one way or another, someday, he would fuck a virgin.

The heat and tightness were exquisite. He set a furious pace immediately, his hips pounding against her ass cheeks, the sound echoing in the quiet park.

The two women beneath him lay frozen, their bodies a sandwich of suffering.

“I SAID KISS!” Michael roared, and delivered two simultaneous, thunderous spanks—his right hand on Sarah’s upturned ass cheek, his left snaking under to land on Chloe’s outer thigh. The twin CRACKS were like gunshots.

The women jolted. Their eyes met, filled with shared horror, shame, and a **** need to avoid more pain. Slowly, agonizingly, they leaned the final inch forward. Their lips met.

It was a dry, closed-mouth press at first.

SMACK! SMACK! Michael spanked them again, harder. “WITH FEELING! PRESS TOGETHER! TONGUES! MAKE IT REAL OR I’LL SKIN YOUR ASSES!”

A broken sob escaped Sarah’s mouth into Chloe’s. Then, with a shudder of ultimate degradation, Chloe’s lips parted. Sarah’s followed. Their tongues touched—a hesitant, sickening flicker. Then, driven by terror, they began to move. It became a ****, performative French kiss. Their mouths opened wide, tongues dueling, sliding over each other’s teeth, exchanging spit and the taste of each other’s fear. They pressed their faces together, their noses squashing. Chloe’s hands came up, trembling, to clutch at Sarah’s shoulders. Sarah’s fingers tangled in Chloe’s sweaty hair.

“RUB YOUR TITS TOGETHER!” Michael grunted, fucking Sarah with deep, grinding strokes that made her moan into Chloe’s mouth. “PRETEND YOU LOVE IT, YOU DYKE SLUTS!”

They obeyed, shifting their upper bodies, their firm breasts mashing together, nipples hardening against each other in a parody of lesbian passion. The sight of it, the two toned, naked women **** into intimate contact while he violently claimed one of them, sent Michael’s arousal soaring. He fucked Sarah with abandon, his balls slapping against her clit, his cock reaching depths she never knew existed.

Sarah, lost in a hurricane of pain, violation, and the bizarre intimacy of the **** kiss, began to break. Her moans, muffled by Chloe’s mouth, became continuous. Her hips, against her will, began to push back against his thrusts. Her body was betraying her, seeking relief from the overwhelming sensation.

“She’s learning, cunt upper!” Michael taunted, watching the kiss become messier, wetter, as Sarah’s arousal grew. “She’s learning what her mouth and her cunt are really for! You’re teaching her!”

Chloe could only cry, her tears mixing with their shared saliva. She kept kissing, her tongue moving now with a frantic, practiced rhythm, if only to give her shattered mind something to focus on other than the sounds of her best friend being savagely fucked on top of her.

Michael switched targets. He pulled out of Sarah’s slick, loosening channel and in one smooth, brutal motion, slammed back into Chloe’s waiting, sore pussy.

“AGAIN!? OH GOD, NO!” Chloe screamed, breaking the kiss.

He didn’t slow. He fucked her with the same intensity, her body jolting on the table. “KISS HER! NOW! OR I’LL FUCK YOUR ASS INSTEAD!”

They reconnected, their kiss now ****, hungry with a shared, agonized need for the ordeal to end. Sarah, her own pussy empty and aching strangely, kissed back with ferocity, sucking on Chloe’s tongue, biting her lip. Their bodies writhed together, a tangle of **** sensuality under Michael’s punishing rhythm.

He fucked them alternately for what felt like an hour, switching between their two ravaged holes, each woman growing progressively looser, wetter, more broken. Sarah came twice, screaming her climaxes into Chloe’s mouth, her body convulsing. Chloe came three more times, each orgasm a sob of utter defeat, her pussy clamping around his invading cock like a vice of shame.

Finally, Michael felt the unstoppable tide rising in his own balls. He was fucking Sarah at the time, her back arched beautifully, her ass red from his spanks. He pulled out at the last second, his cock glistening and throbbing. He aimed at the small of her back, at the twin, red handprints on her ass.

“HERE’S YOUR FUTURE, YOU REJECTING SLUT!” he roared, and with a guttural, shuddering cry, he erupted. Thick, hot ropes of pearlescent cum shot from his pulsating slit, painting stripes across Sarah’s back and buttocks. Jet after jet splattered against her skin, some landing in the crack of her ass, some dripping down onto Chloe’s stomach beneath her. The volume was immense, a godly load marking his territory.

He stood there for a moment, panting, watching his cum drip over the two intertwined, weeping women. He pulled out his phone—a cheap burner—and took a picture. The image was perfect: two naked, kissed-bruised mouths, tear-streaked faces, bodies glazed with his seed, under the grey park sky. A masterpiece of correction.

With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Mia over to him. When she stood in front of him, he said, "Lick me clean." Mia was confused at first, then realised what he wanted and looked at him with wide eyes. Mia was somehow disgusted by the thought of other vaginas in her mouth. Penis was fine, but she hated tasting other flavours on a penis. Michael saw her disgusted look and laughed out loud. He grinned at her, "You're disgusted by tasting other pussy juices? If you don't lick my cock clean right now, I'll make you lick the next three women we meet to orgasm."

She threw herself down on her knees. Without further foreplay, she took his cock in her mouth and sucked it clean with skill. She tasted the flavour of other pussies on his penis. She swallowed his semen.

Before he got hard again, he pushed Mia back, her big lips popping as his penis left her mouth. He put his now clean cock back in his trousers and zipped up.

“You,” he said while turning to the sobbing heap. “Stay here for one hour. Keep kissing. Anyone who comes by and wants to use you… you welcome him warmly. You are public property until you find a husband. Understood?”

They couldn’t speak, only nod weakly, their lips still touching in a pathetic, trembling mockery of a kiss.

He turned to Mia, who was now standing next to him, her face full of fear, as she didn't like licking other women and wasn't sure if she had done her job well enough. "Let's go. We're wasting time," he said.

As they walked away, he called over his shoulder, shouting so the whole park could hear, “Good luck, cunt upper! Maybe a nice man will find you here today! Try not to reject him this time, you frigid whore!”

He left them there, two broken dolls on a park table, painted white with his cum, destined to be used by anyone who passed, until one claimed them permanently.

Mia scrambled to keep up with his long strides. After a few blocks, she fumbled for her own phone, having finally retrieved it. She read the government alert, the one about the three-rejection rule. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sound of pure panic.

“Michael…” she whispered, her voice trembling violently. “I… I’ve rejected men too. In college… a-at university… What does this mean for me? Am I… am I going to have to…”

He stopped and turned to her. Her fear was delicious, a delicate perfume. He cupped her chin, his thumb stroking over her bruised lips. “Shhh, Mia. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. The rules are still being… refined. There will be clarifications. Exceptions for special cases. For girls who are already serving a higher purpose.” He leaned close, his breath hot on her ear. “You serve me. That’s a higher purpose than any husband, isn’t it?”

The hope that flickered in her terrified eyes was the most beautiful thing he’d seen all day. She nodded frantically. “Y-yes. I serve you, for now.”

“Good girl,” he purred, 'for now' she said, she had no idea what her future held. He smiled and turned to continue their journey to rescue Emily.

They passed a large digital billboard. Earlier in the day, it had been an ad for a new VR headset. Now, it showed a slow-motion, high-definition loop. It was Emma Watson. Not the neat, classy Emma Watson look people are used to, but a red-faced, screaming mess. She was bent over a luxurious leather sofa, still wearing a stunning, high-fashion silver gown that was torn open at the back. A man, his face obscured, his body muscular and powerful, was fucking her from behind with animalistic fury. The gown’s fabric bunched around her waist. Her perfect, round ass was bare, clenching with each deep thrust. Her head was thrown back, her mouth a wide, endless ‘O’ of ecstasy and agony, mascara running in black rivers down her cheeks.

The caption below read: “BURBERRY AUTUMN **HERMÈS COLLECTION: FEEL THE SAVAGERY OF STYLE.”**

Michael stopped, mesmerized. He pulled out his phone and opened a news app. The front page was a livestream. A female news anchor, her blouse ripped open, her professional composure gone, was sobbing as a man in a suit fucked her mouth on the anchor desk. The chyron read: “MARKET DIPS 2%; ANALYSTS SUGGEST DEEPER PENETRATION NEEDED.”

He scrolled. Sports highlights showed a female sideline reporter getting gangbanged by the winning team in the locker room. Weather segments featured the forecaster being taken from behind by the meteorologist while pointing at a low-pressure system. It was everywhere. His chaos had seeped into the very media, turning it into a 24/7 global gangbang.

He opened YouTube. The homepage was a mosaic of thumbnails: women in various states of penetration, cumshots, brutal face-fucks. He typed “Emma Watson fashion fuck” into the search bar.

The top result had millions of views already. It was titled: “BEHIND THE SCENES: HERMÈS SHOOT GETS WILD.”

He clicked it. The video was professional quality, clearly shot by a crew member. It showed a lavish studio. Emma Watson, in an breathtaking emerald green silk dress, was posing against a marble pillar, looking ethereal and untouchable. The director called “And action!” and smiled. Then he walked over, his intent clear. He said something the mic didn’t pick up. Emma’s face went from polite to confused, then to horrified. She shook her head, taking a step back.

The director, a handsome man in his 40s, simply grabbed her by the waist, spun her around, and pushed her against the pillar. With one hand, he gathered the silk of her dress and hiked it up to her waist, revealing she wore nothing underneath. With the other, he unzipped his trousers.

The camera zoomed in. Emma screamed, “No! Stop! This isn’t part of the—!” Her protest was cut off as he drove his thick, already-hard cock into her dry, unprepared pussy from behind.

“AAAAAGHHHHH! IT HURTS! STOP!” she shrieked, her nails scrabbling against the polished marble.

He didn’t stop. He set a brutal, rhythmic pace, fucking her with the cold efficiency of a man claiming what was his. The silk of her dress trembled with each impact. The crew watched, some filming with phones, others just staring, a few adjusting their own bulges.

“You’re a… a fucking animal!” Emma sobbed, her face pressed against the cold stone.

“And you’re a hole for my cock,” the director grunted, slamming into her deeper. “Now act for the camera! Look like you love it!”

He reached around, grabbing one of her small, perfect breasts through the silk, squeezing brutally. Emma cried out, her body betraying her as the rough stimulation and the relentless pounding began to trigger a traitorous response. Her sobs became mixed with gasps. Her back arched, pushing her ass back against him.

“That’s it… you pretentious bitch… you love being a set slut…” the director taunted, accelerating.

The camera work was flawless, catching every tear, every contortion of her beautiful face. She came, screaming, her body convulsing around his invading cock. He fucked her through it, then with a final thrust he came deep in her snatch. As he zipped up, he casually said, “We’ll need another take. Clean her up.”

But as he turned away, Emma, slumped against the pillar, gasped, “Wait… I’m not on birth control…”

The director didn’t even look back. The video ended.

Michael exhaled slowly. The world was perfect. Even the sacred halls of high fashion were now just another brothel.

“Fuck yeah,” Michael breathed, his cock hard again. Even YouTube was perfect now. He noticed the ads playing before other videos. An ad for a “RealFeel 12” Dildo” showed a woman being double-penetrated by two of the products, screaming in fake ecstasy. An ad for a banana smoothie featured a woman trying to swallow a banana whole while a man fucked her mouth, the voiceover cheerfully saying, “Get the nutrients you need, even when you’re busy!”

He clicked on ‘YouTube Kids,’ curious. The interface was bright pink and purple. Videos featured little girls doing elaborate makeup tutorials, baking pink cupcakes, and having tea parties. There were no games, no cartoons with male heroes, no trucks or dinosaurs. Just an endless stream of hyper-feminine conditioning.

“What the fuck?” Michael muttered. He searched “why no boys content on youtube kids.”

An article from a news site called “The Traditionalist” popped up, dated two years ago.

GOVERNMENT MANDATE: BALANCING THE FUTURE THROUGH CONTENT REGULATION

In a landmark move to address the concerning demographic decline in female births and to reinforce natural gender roles from the earliest age, the Federal Content Oversight Board, in partnership with the Department of Social Harmony, has enacted Directive C-778.

Effective immediately, all child-directed digital content platforms (e.g., YouTube Kids, Kidztopia) are required to curate their offerings to reflect and encourage traditional gender development. As such, content featuring masculine themes (aggressive play, vehicular obsession, superhero narratives, competitive sports) has been deemed disruptive to the gentle nurturing of future wives and mothers, and has been phased out.

The “Two-Child Gender Correction Policy” is also reminded here: Families with two children of the same gender are required, via tax incentives and social counseling, to raise the second child in alignment with the underrepresented gender. For example, a family with two male children may choose to socially and legally redesignate the younger as female, ensuring a balanced household and contributing to a stable society. A third consecutive male child may remain male, but a fourth must be female. This policy, combined with the content directive, ensures our girls grow up focused on their sacred, natural destinies as the hearts of the home, free from confusing or competitive influences.

While some fringe groups have protested, calling the measures “draconian,” most citizens understand the necessity of these steps to preserve our cultural fabric and ensure a sustainable population future.

Michael’s blood ran cold, then hot with fury. He hadn't written that. It came from another rule he had established. He was pretty sure he had given the men too much power, since they were all perverts by nature. His rules had caused all this. But this... this was wrong.

“Kneel,” he ordered Mia, his voice tight.

She hesitated, looking at the dirty sidewalk. “Michael, it’s—”

“I said KNEEL, you fucked up cunt!” he roared, his patience gone.

She dropped instantly, her knees hitting the dirty concrete with a wince. He sat on her back, using her as a stool, and opened the Rulebook on his lap. He flipped through the pages, his mind racing. He had to fix this. He had to write a rule that undid this… this genocide of boyhood. But how? An Old Rule stating that boys and girls were born naturally in equal measure? But how is this a rule that can get followed? The book is magic, but to change people… Should he try it?

What else could he do to fix this? Erase the old rule? Add another rule?