The Life Lottery [1-10] new chaper 10

[ozavgar]

## Chapter 1

The city hummed with quiet efficiency, its streets lined with sleek electric transports that glided past towering glass buildings. Digital billboards flickered with government announcements—reminders of civic duty, public health alerts, and the ever-present countdown to the next Life Lottery draw. The air carried the faint metallic tang of urban life, mixed with the sterile scent of disinfectant from the automated cleaning drones that patrolled the sidewalks.

Inside CodeNexus, the office buzzed with the low murmur of keyboards and the occasional burst of laughter from the break area. Anna sat at her desk, fingers moving swiftly across her mechanical keyboard, the rhythmic clatter blending into the background noise. Her monitors displayed streams of code, her focus absolute. A notification blinked on her wristband—another reminder about the quarterly health screening—but she dismissed it with a flick of her wrist. Not today.

Her desk was a controlled space: a single framed photo of her parents, a small potted succulent, and a neatly stacked row of programming manuals. No clutter, no distractions. Just the way she liked it.

"Hey, Anna." A voice cut through her concentration. She glanced up to see Mark, one of the front-end devs, leaning against her cubicle wall. His grin was easy, his posture relaxed—everything she wasn’t.

"Yes?" Her voice sounded softer than she intended.

"Team lunch is in twenty minutes. Are you with us?

She hesitated, her fingers reaching for the keyboard. - I have a deadline.

Mark shrugged his shoulders. - As you wish. But you're missing out on the best sushi in the area.

She didn’t watch him walk away. Instead, she turned back to her screen, the glow casting shadows across her face. Socializing was a variable she couldn’t debug, a system with too many unknown inputs.

Her Wristband vibrated again, this time giving her the news. The latest birth rate statistics appeared on the screen: the birth rate decreased by 1.2% this quarter. Representatives of the National Fertility Committee urge citizens to "reflect on their civic responsibility." She waved them away.

The government had been pushing the Life Lottery hard these past few years. Posters in the metro, ads before streaming content, even mandatory seminars at work. "Secure the future. Participate with pride." As if pride had anything to do with it.

Anna exhaled, adjusting her headphones. The world outside her code was loud, unpredictable. But here, in the logic of functions and loops, she could predict every outcome. No surprises. No strangers.

And for now, that was enough.

## Chapter 2

 The government notification light pulsed on Anna's wristband, causing her heart to race. She froze in the middle of the kitchen of her small apartment, holding a spoon over a portion of dinner.

Not today. Please, not today.

The message hung in the air as she reluctantly raised her wrist, and the holographic text became crystal clear: "NATIONAL REPRODUCTIVE INITIATIVE LOTTERY OF LIFE: NOTIFICATION OF INCLUSION IN THE PROGRAM."

Anna's hands began to shake. She gripped the countertop, and her carefully organized morning routine shattered. Outside the window, the cityscape of 2135 shone with glass and metal — solar panels caught the morning light, drones delivered goods between buildings, everything was in its place. The same as her life had been up to this point.

The notice went on to say, ruthless in its bureaucratic precision: "Citizen Identification number 7842913-A, your genetic profile has been selected to participate in the Life lottery this quarter. Within 48 hours, contact the center of the National Commission for the Supervision of the Reproductive System designated by you for primary treatment."

The spoon clattered to the floor. Anna's breathing quickened to short, shallow breaths. The walls of her apartment, her refuge from the world of unpredictable human interactions, suddenly seemed to close around her.

It has been three years since the lottery "Life" was held, and she has watched the birth rate rise in quarterly government broadcasts. She saw propaganda posters glorifying the "national duty" of the participants. She even drove past the NROC building in the city center with its white clinic facade and security guards in blue uniforms.

But she never thought it would be her.

An automatic message beeped on her wristband.: "Registration at the designated centre was set for 09:00 tomorrow. Failure to comply with this requirement will result in immediate legal consequences, as specified in section 12 of the National Law on Emergency Reproductive Situations."

Anna sat motionless in her chair, staring into space. The carefully built barriers she had built around her life—remote work, regular grocery deliveries, minimal social contacts—were now useless against the government algorithm that had selected her name from the database.

Today, she is scheduled to report to the office of the NATIONAL REPRODUCTIVE INITIATIVE to participate in a program aimed at saving the nation's future. Which consisted of having sex with any man participating in the program at his request for fertilization.

For Anna, it might as well have been a death sentence.

* * *

Anna’s fingers fumbled against her wristband, missing the contact twice before finally connecting to Megan. Her friend answered on the second ring.

"Hey you! I was just about to text—"

"I've been selected." Anna's voice cracked, the words barely audible.

"Selected for what? That promotion you were—"

"The Lottery." Anna curled tighter into herself, knees pressed against her chest. "They just notified me. I have to report tomorrow."

A moment of stunned silence fell between them. Then came the sound of movement, a door closing.

"I'm coming down right now." Megan's voice had shifted, all playfulness gone.

Within minutes, Anna's apartment door flew open. Megan found her still huddled on the kitchen floor, the abandoned breakfast congealing in the pan. Without a word, Megan knelt and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"I can't do this," Anna whispered against Megan's shoulder, her words trembling. "Being forced into intimacy with people I don’t know—it’s unbearable." She choked back the rest, the horror of enforced connection too overwhelming to articulate.

Megan pulled back, holding Anna by the shoulders. "Listen to me. We'll figure something out. Maybe there's a medical exemption we could—"

"They've already reviewed my file." Anna shook her head frantically. "They wouldn't have selected me if I qualified for exemption. I need to get out of this. There has to be a way."

Megan's expression darkened. "Anna, you can't just refuse."

"Why not? What if I just... don't go?" The desperation in Anna's voice was palpable.

"Because it's prison if you don't." Megan squeezed her shoulders gently. "Any method of avoiding the Lottery is illegal now. Remember Elise from my office? Her cousin tried to fake a medical condition. Three years in a federal facility."

"But I—"

"And that programmer from the downtown hub who tried to hack his way out? Five years." Megan's voice was gentle but firm. "The system is designed so you can't say no, Anna. It's awful and it's unfair, but trying to escape it will only make things worse."

Anna closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Megan made her way to Anna's kitchen, filling the kettle with practiced familiarity. Anna remained on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, watching as her friend moved through the familiar routine of tea-making. The ritual that normally brought comfort felt hollow now, but she accepted the steaming mug with trembling hands.

"Maybe it won't be as bad as you're imagining," Megan offered, settling beside Anna on the couch where they'd migrated. "The support programs are supposed to be quite comprehensive."

Anna's laugh was brittle. "Comprehensive? They can offer all the counseling in the world, but it doesn't change what they're forcing me to do." She stared into her tea, watching ripples form from her shaking hands. "My body isn't state property."

"I know, I know." Megan's voice softened. "It's barbaric. But people have gotten through it. Remember Tanya from accounting? She was selected last year, and she's back at work now."

"Tanya is extroverted and confident," Anna countered. "She probably walked into that center like she owned it. I can barely handle a team meeting at CodeNexus."

Their conversation stretched deep into the night. Megan suggested coping mechanisms, shared stories of others who'd survived the Lottery, even attempted jokes that fell flat against the weight of Anna's despair. Nothing penetrated the cloud of dread that had enveloped her.

As darkness settled outside, Megan reluctantly stood to leave. "I'll come by in the morning. We'll go together."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming with you," Megan said firmly. "That's non-negotiable."

After the door closed behind her friend, Anna moved mechanically through her evening routine. She brushed her teeth, changed into pajamas, and lay down in bed. But sleep remained impossibly distant.

Her ceiling became a blank canvas for her racing thoughts. What would tomorrow bring? Strangers examining her, evaluating her, planning how best to use her body for the "greater good." Her wristband pinged with a reminder notification about her appointment, making her flinch in the darkness.

Hours passed. Two in the morning. Three. Four. The city's distant hum provided a soundtrack to her spiraling fears. Each time she closed her eyes, images of sterile examination rooms and faceless men invaded her mind, snapping them open again.

By dawn, Anna hadn't slept at all. She remained motionless, staring upward, her mind cycling through the same terrible scenarios as the first hints of morning light crept around her curtains.

## Chapter 3

The morning light filtered through Anna's bedroom window as she stood before her closet, staring blankly at the hanging clothes. Her fingers traced the edge of a navy skirt—professional, modest, a garment that normally helped her feel protected in the outside world. Today, it felt like flimsy armor against what awaited her.

"That one's perfect," Megan said from the doorway, two travel mugs of coffee in hand. She'd let herself in with her spare key after Anna hadn't answered her texts. "Professional but comfortable."

Anna nodded mechanically, pulling the skirt from its hanger. She paired it with a crisp white blouse, the one she typically reserved for important client meetings at CodeNexus. Her fingers fumbled with the small buttons.

"Here, let me help." Megan set the coffees down and gently took over, fastening the remaining buttons with steady hands. "You look put-together. That's good—shows them you're taking this seriously."

"Like I have a choice," Anna whispered, voice rough from her sleepless night.

Megan squeezed her shoulders. "I know. But looking competent might mean they treat you with more respect." She handed Anna one of the travel mugs. "Vanilla latte. Extra shot. You need it."

Anna's apartment, normally her sanctuary, felt suffocating as they prepared to leave. She moved through familiar motions—locking windows, checking appliances—while her mind remained disconnected from her body.

At the door, she froze, hand on the knob.

"I can't do this."

"You can," Megan said firmly. "And you will. One step at a time."

The elevator ride down was silent. Anna's wristband vibrated again—another reminder from NROC about her appointment. She flinched, nearly spilling her coffee.

""Just eight blocks. Thirty minutes on foot."" Megan said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. "We'll walk. Fresh air will help."

People rushed past them on the busy morning streets, completely unaware of Anna's inner turmoil. How many had received the same notification? How many had stood frozen in their apartments, contemplating the impossibility of what lay ahead?

The NROC building loomed in the distance, its glass facade gleaming in the morning sun. With each step, Anna felt the weight in her chest grow heavier.

"I'll be with you the whole time," Megan promised, linking their arms together. "Whatever happens in there, you're not facing it alone."

* * *

As they approached the NROC building's entrance, Anna's steps slowed to a crawl. The automatic glass doors parted, releasing a blast of climate-controlled air that smelled of antiseptic and artificial lemon—like a hospital pretending to be something else. The lobby stretched before them, all sleek lines and minimal decoration, with a circular reception desk at its center.

"I'm right beside you," Megan whispered, guiding Anna forward with gentle pressure against her elbow.

The receptionist, a woman with a perfect bob and a practiced smile, looked up from her screen. Her grey uniform bore the NROC insignia—a stylized seedling emerging from cupped hands. "Good morning. How may I assist you?"

Anna's throat constricted. The words wouldn't come.

"She has an appointment," Megan stepped in. "Anna Petrova. For the initial assessment."

The receptionist's fingers danced across her keyboard. Her expression remained neutral, but something in her eyes softened slightly. "Yes, I see your registration here, Ms. Petrova. Please verify your identity on the scanner."

Anna pressed her trembling hand against the glowing panel. Her wristband vibrated in confirmation.

"Thank you." The receptionist gestured toward a hallway to the right. "Dr. Levine will see you in Room 204. It's the third door on your left."

Megan squeezed Anna's hand. "See? Not so bad. Let's go find Room 204."

They had barely taken three steps when another staff member intercepted them—a broad-shouldered man with a tablet and the same gray uniform.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice professionally courteous but firm. "Only lottery participants are permitted beyond this point."

Megan straightened her spine. "I'm her support person."

"Support personnel are only permitted for later stages of the process. Initial assessments are private." His tone left no room for negotiation.

Anna's eyes widened in panic. The coffee threatened to rise back up her throat.

"It's okay, Anna," Megan said quickly, though her face betrayed her concern. "I'll be right here in the lobby when you're done. Text me if you need anything."

Anna nodded mutely, watching her friend retreat to a seating area by the windows. Each step down the sterile hallway felt like walking deeper into a trap. Room 204 loomed ahead, its frosted glass door slightly ajar.

With a shaking hand, she pushed it open and stepped inside.

* * *

The room contained a single desk with two chairs, bathed in light from recessed ceiling panels. A woman in a white coat looked up from her tablet, her silver-framed glasses reflecting the screen's glow.

"Ms. Petrova? I'm Dr. Levine." She gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit down."

Anna lowered herself into the chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking. Every nerve in her body seemed to pick up the way her blouse shifted against her skin.

"I understand this process can be intimidating," Dr. Levine said, her voice clinical but not unkind. "We'll start with some basic questions and then proceed to the physical assessment." Her fingers swiped across her tablet. "Your file indicates no major health concerns, is that correct?"

Anna nodded, then realized a verbal response was expected. "Yes."

"Good." Dr. Levine continued through a series of standard health questions—allergies, family medical history, previous surgeries—while Anna responded in single words whenever possible.

Then came the question Anna had been dreading.

"Are you currently using any form of contraception?"

Anna’s fingers twisted together in her lap, the knuckles whitening. The question had been coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer.

*"I have an IUD,"* she admitted, her voice barely audible. A flush crept up her neck as she added, *"I got it after... after a bad experience."* The words tasted bitter. She hadn’t told anyone—not even her closest colleagues—about the brief, disastrous relationship in her second year of university. The way he’d pressured her, the way she’d given in just to make the arguing stop, only to regret it immediately. The IUD had been her way of ensuring *never again*. A physical barrier, a guarantee of control.

Now, even that was being taken from her.

Dr. Levine made a note on her tablet. "How long has it been in place?"

"Three years."

"I see." Dr. Levine set down her tablet and looked directly at Anna. "As you're aware, all fertility barriers must be removed for lottery participants. We'll need to remove the IUD today."

The clinical words landed like heavy stones. This was real. This was happening.

"You'll need to proceed to Room 206 for the procedure," Dr. Levine continued. "Dr. Kwan will handle the removal and conduct a more thorough reproductive health assessment."

Anna stared at the floor, at the immaculate white tiles with their faint blue specks. The reality of her situation crashed over her in waves. Her carefully constructed life—her routines, her boundaries, her control—was being dismantled step by step.

"Ms. Petrova?" Dr. Levine prompted. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Anna managed, though her voice cracked on the single syllable.

Dr. Levine's expression softened slightly. "The physical removal is quick and generally causes only minor discomfort. You'll receive detailed information about the next steps in the program afterward."

Anna rose from her chair, legs unsteady. With each step toward Room 206, the weight in her chest grew heavier. The hallway stretched before her like a tunnel without end.

Inside Room 206, Dr. Kwan was efficient and professional. The IUD removal was quick as promised, though the cramping pain felt like a physical manifestation of her dread. Anna stared at the ceiling through the whole procedure, counting the acoustic tiles as tears silently tracked down into her hair.

After it was done, Dr. Kwan performed a thorough examination, explaining each step in a detached voice that barely penetrated Anna's consciousness. Blood samples were taken, ultrasounds performed, measurements recorded.

"Your reproductive system appears healthy," Dr. Kwan concluded, removing her gloves with a snap. She made a final note on her tablet. "Please proceed to Room 208 for your program orientation."

Anna pulled her clothing back into place, feeling exposed despite being fully dressed. The barrier that had given her peace of mind for years was gone. Her body no longer felt like her own.

As she stepped toward the door to Room 208, Anna realized this was just the beginning of her nightmare. The life she had carefully built around her own terms was over.

* * *

Room 208 was smaller than the others. A middle-aged woman with a severe bun waited behind a metal desk, a small black case beside her. Her NROC badge read "Compliance Officer Morton."

"Sit," she commanded without looking up from her documents.

Anna sank into the chair, exhaustion making her limbs heavy. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile room.

Officer Morton opened the black case and removed what looked like a sleek metallic collar. The device gleamed under the lights, its polished surface interrupted only by a small touchscreen interface and an LED indicator currently unlit.

"This is your compliance collar," Morton stated, holding it up. "All program participants are required to wear it at all times. Attempting to remove it will result in an immediate pain response and notification to authorities."

Anna's throat constricted. "Pain response?"

"A neural shock that increases in intensity with each attempt." Morton's voice remained flat. "The collar monitors your vital signs and fertility indicators. The LED will show green during your fertile periods and red during menstruation or non-fertile days."

She handed Anna the collar. It was heavier than it looked, the metal cool against her trembling fingers.

"Put it on."

Anna hesitated, the collar feeling like a physical manifestation of her new reality. With shaking hands, she placed it around her neck. The moment the ends connected, there was a soft click, and the device tightened slightly, conforming perfectly to her neck. The LED blinked once before settling on a steady green light.

"The touchscreen interface allows for program communications and compliance verification," Morton continued, demonstrating with clinical efficiency. "Now, I will review the "life program" requirements."

She retrieved a tablet and began reading in a monotone voice. "Requirement one: You must engage in at least one sexual act weekly until pregnancy is confirmed."

Each word hammered into Anna like a nail. Her carefully constructed world of minimal human contact was being systematically dismantled.

"Requirement two: Use of any contraceptive methods is strictly prohibited."

"Requirement three: You must present yourself for random contraceptive compliance checks when summoned by NROC."

Anna's fingers unconsciously moved to her abdomen, where the ghost of her IUD still seemed to linger.

"Requirement four: In public areas, you must don attire intended to draw male interest. Suitable clothing guidelines will be transmitted to your wristband. This will be monitored by police and center personnel."

The thought of deliberately drawing eyes to herself made Anna's skin crawl. She'd spent years perfecting the art of blending into backgrounds.

"Requirement five: Private transportation is forbidden. You will use public transportation exclusively."

Anna pictured the crowded pods, the packed subway trains, bodies pressed against hers. The anxiety tightened her chest.

"Requirement six: While at work, unless specific occupational clothing is required, you must remain unclothed."

A strangled sound escaped Anna's throat. Her safe space—her office, her code, her carefully maintained professional distance—violated.

"Requirement seven: You must view the National Fertility Channel for one hour each day. Authentication demands touching your collar when indicated on screen. During viewing, self-stimulation is required and if orgasm is not achieved within the hour, you must continue watching"

Morton set down her tablet. "Do you understand these requirements?"

The collar felt like it was tightening, though Anna knew it hadn't moved. The green light pulsed steadily, a constant reminder of her new purpose.

"Failure to comply with any requirement will result in immediate penalties, including fines, extended service, or imprisonment," Morton added. "The program has a 98% compliance rate. I suggest you contribute to that statistic."

Anna nodded numbly, her mind already calculating impossible escape scenarios.

"Your participation begins immediately," Morton said, closing her folder. "Report to Processing for your approved wardrobe and transportation pass."

* * *

Processing turned out to be a small room with bright lights and mirrored walls. A stern-faced woman with tightly cropped hair waited inside, clipboard in hand. Without a word, she handed Anna a transit pass with her photo already printed on it.

"Standard clothing inspection," the woman announced, circling Anna with critical eyes. "Remove your undergarments."

Anna froze. "Here? Now?"

"Requirement four: attire intended to draw male interest." The woman's voice was mechanical, rehearsed. "Compliance begins immediately."

With trembling fingers, Anna reached behind her back, unhooked her bra beneath her blouse, and pulled it through her sleeve—a maneuver perfected in college dorms. The woman held out a plastic bag, and Anna dropped the simple cotton bra inside.

"Рanties too."

Heat crawled up Anna's neck as she reached under her skirt, hooking her thumbs into her panties and sliding them down her legs. She stepped out of them one foot at a time, nearly losing her balance in the process. The woman added them to the bag without comment.

The woman then produced a pair of scissors from her desk. "Stand still."

Cold metal brushed against Anna's collarbone as the woman began snipping the top buttons of her blouse. One by one they fell, pinging against the floor until Anna's blouse gaped open, exposing the inner curves of her breasts. Each snip felt like a violation, her last protection being methodically removed.

"Turn around," the woman ordered, kneeling down.

Anna felt the cold scissors against her thighs as the woman shortened her skirt, fabric falling away until it barely covered her bottom. The final indignity came when the woman cut a wedge from the front of the skirt—a triangular opening that started narrow at her waist and widened toward the hem.

"Walk to the door and back," the woman instructed, stepping away to assess her work.

Anna took a hesitant step forward. The shortened skirt rode up with each movement, the wedge opening like a curtain. Every step exposed flashes of her now-bare skin beneath. The mirrors reflected her humiliation from all angles—her half-exposed breasts, her thighs, glimpses of what should have remained private.

The woman frowned, clearly unsatisfied with Anna's appearance. She stepped forward, tugging the blouse upward and out of the skirt's waistband with rough efficiency.

"Too modest still," she muttered, adjusting the fabric to hang looser around Anna's torso. "Bend forward."

When Anna complied, her blouse gaped open, exposing her breasts almost entirely. The woman nodded with clinical approval before kneeling again with her scissors. Metal flashed as she extended the wedge cut in the skirt, the blade moving higher and wider.

"Walk again."

Anna's legs trembled as she took her first step. The modified skirt now betrayed her completely—with each normal stride, her labia were clearly visible, making her feel impossibly naked despite still wearing clothes. The mirrors reflected her exposure from every angle, multiplying her humiliation.

"Satisfactory," the woman declared after Anna's second walk across the room. She returned to her desk, adding a final note to her clipboard. "You may go now."

Anna stood frozen, arms crossed protectively over her chest.

"Welcome to the program," the woman said without looking up, her voice as detached and clinical as her hands had been during the examination. Her pen scratched across the clipboard with meticulous precision. "Remember—you're performing a vital service to your country. The demographic crisis won't solve itself."

She glanced briefly at her terminal before continuing, her expression remaining coolly professional. "I should also inform you that today is considered your adjustment day—a reprieve, if you will. Tomorrow, however, you're expected to report to work as usual. Your supervisors have already been notified of your selection status." She tapped something on her screen, the blue light reflecting off her glasses. "The NROC has a strict policy about maintaining participants' regular routines whenever possible. The collar's monitoring functions work best when following established patterns of behavior."

The woman finally looked up, her eyes traveling dispassionately over Anna's modified clothing and exposed skin as though mentally confirming her handiwork met regulations. "Your employer has received all necessary documentation regarding your new obligations. Any schedule adjustments will be coordinated through them directly."

* * *

Anna descended the elevator, her fingers tugging futilely at her decimated clothing. Each step sent a rush of cool air against newly exposed skin, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. The collar felt heavy around her neck, its presence impossible to ignore.

In the lobby, Margaret waited, scrolling through her waistband with apparent concentration. She looked up as Anna approached, her eyes widening momentarily before she forced her expression into careful neutrality.

"Oh," Margaret said, her voice artificially light. "You're... all done then?"

Anna crossed her arms over her chest, painfully aware of how the movement only emphasized the gap in her blouse. A man crossing the lobby slowed his pace, his gaze lingering on her exposed thighs. The shame burned hotter than her anger.

"We can go home now," Anna whispered, unable to meet Margaret's eyes.

Margaret nodded quickly, fumbling with her waistband. "I'll call a taxi. We'll be home in few minutes."

"No," Anna said, the word sharp with defeat. "I can't. According to the rules, I'm only allowed to use public transportation now."

Margaret's fingers froze over her wristband. "Public transport? But that's—"

"Deliberate," Anna finished, bitterness coating each syllable. "Like everything else about this program."

Outside, the afternoon sun felt like a spotlight on Anna's exposed skin. A gust of wind caught her skirt, lifting the cut fabric higher. She clutched desperately at the hem, feeling the eyes of passersby burning into her.

The pod stop stood a block away, crowded with the afternoon commuters. Each step toward it felt like walking deeper into a nightmare. A group of young men noticed her approach, their conversation dying as they tracked her movement.

"Are you sure we can't just—" Margaret started.

"I'm sure." Anna cut her off, her voice tight. "The collar monitors everything. Including transportation methods."

Margaret squeezed Anna's hand briefly before they joined the crowd. Anna kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, counting the cracks in the concrete, willing herself to become invisible despite the clothing designed to make that impossible.

The pod arrived packed with commuters, leaving Anna and Margaret to squeeze into the center aisle. As the doors closed, the vehicle lurched forward, throwing Anna against a tall man in a business suit. His hand steadied her with a grip that lingered too long on her waist.

"Sorry," Anna mumbled, trying to create distance, but the press of bodies made it impossible.

The man's eyes drifted to her collar, and his expression changed. Recognition, then something predatory flashed across his face. He shifted closer, deliberately pressing against her as the bus swayed.

Anna stared straight ahead, focusing on her breathing. The bus hit a pothole, and the man's hand "accidentally" brushed against her exposed thigh. She jerked away instinctively, bumping into Margaret.

"You okay?" Margaret whispered, noticing Anna's rigid posture.

Before Anna could answer, a second man moved behind her, his presence announced by the unmistakable pressure against the small of her back. Fingers trailed along the tear in her blouse, slipping beneath the fabric.

Anna's muscles tensed. She tried to step away, but there was nowhere to go in the crowded bus. The first man's hand found her breast, squeezing roughly under the guise of maintaining balance during a sharp turn.

"Stop," Anna hissed, twisting away.

The man leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. "You're wearing the collar. Everyone can see what you are." His voice dropped lower. "If you keep being difficult, I'll call the police. Shall I do that? Report you for refusing to fulfill your civic duty?"

Margaret pushed forward, wedging herself partially between Anna and the man. "Leave her alone," she said, voice tight but controlled.

"Mind your own business," the man replied, not bothering to look at Margaret. "This one belongs to the program. It's her job now."

The second man's fingers slid under Anna's skirt, exploring the newly exposed skin of her thigh. Anna's breath came in short gasps, her mind racing between humiliation and fear. The collar felt like it was tightening around her throat, a constant reminder that her body was no longer hers to defend.

"Three more stops," Margaret murmured, squeezing Anna's hand. "Just three more."

Anna closed her eyes, retreating inside herself as hands continued their exploration. She focused on the mechanics of breathing—in, out, in, out—as strangers took liberties with her body. When fingers pushed under the elastic of her skirt, she bit her lip until she tasted blood.

By the time they reached their stop, Anna's legs were trembling. Margaret pulled her through the doors, keeping a protective arm around her shoulders as they hurried down the street toward their apartment building.

"I'm so sorry," Margaret said once they were safely in the elevator. "I should have done something more."

Anna shook her head, unable to form words. Her skin crawled with phantom touches, her body no longer feeling like her own. The humiliation burned deeper than the physical violations—the public assertion that she was now public property, available for use.

Once inside Anna's apartment, Margaret immediately took charge, drawing the blinds and turning on soft lamps rather than the harsh overhead lights.

"You sit," she said, gently guiding Anna to the couch. "I'll make something to eat."

Anna sank into the familiar cushions, wrapping herself in the throw blanket that always lay folded on the armrest. The fabric created a cocoon around her shoulders, hiding the remnants of her tattered clothing. She sat motionless, listening to Margaret move around her kitchen, opening cabinets and running water.

"Your cupboards are organized like a pharmacy," Margaret called, her voice deliberately light. "Only you would alphabetize your spices."

Anna didn't respond. The hands from the bus still crawled over her skin, invisible but persistent. She rubbed her arms beneath the blanket, trying to erase the sensation.

Margaret returned with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea and set them on the coffee table. "Dinner in ten minutes. Nothing fancy, just pasta with that jar sauce you like."

When the food appeared—simple pasta with tomato sauce and a sprinkle of parmesan—Anna tried to eat but found each bite difficult to swallow. Margaret filled the silence with gentle chatter about inconsequential things: a new café opening down the street, a documentary she'd watched last weekend, the neighbor's cat that kept trying to break into her apartment.

"You don't have to pretend everything's normal," Anna finally whispered, setting down her half-eaten plate.

Margaret's shoulders slumped. "I know. I just... I don't know what to say that would help."

"There's nothing to say." Anna touched her collar, its smooth surface a constant reminder. "This is my life now."

They moved to the couch with fresh tea, sitting in silence as the digital clock on Anna's shelf edged toward midnight. The tea grew cold in Anna's hands.

"I should stay tonight," Margaret said eventually. "You shouldn't be alone."

Anna shook her head. "I need to... process this. By myself."

Margaret hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Promise you'll call if you need anything? Any time, even if it's three in the morning."

"I promise."

After Margaret left, Anna locked the door and leaned against it. The apartment felt both like a sanctuary and a prison. She was safe from prying eyes and grasping hands, but the collar remained, binding her to what awaited tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after.



* * *

Anna had just settled into her bedroom when she remembered the mandatory viewing requirement. Her collar would track compliance, and skipping it wasn't an option. With trembling hands, she reached for the remote and turned on the National Fertility Channel.

End credits scrolled across the screen from the previous program before the next one began. Anna sat rigid on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped protectively around herself.

The scene opened on a young woman in a bright apartment, rifling through a colorful wardrobe with exaggerated enthusiasm. The woman's expression was one of manufactured delight as she pushed aside modest clothing options. Anna's stomach tightened as the woman finally selected what could barely be called an outfit – a micro-mini skirt that would cover nothing when sitting and a flimsy top that clung to her breasts, revealing their shape completely.

"Time to show the world what I've got!" the actress announced to the camera with a wink.

Anna watched in horrified silence as the woman applied makeup with theatrical flourishes – heavy eyeliner, excessive mascara, and bright red lipstick that she applied while making suggestive faces at her reflection.

"Perfect!" the woman declared, blowing a kiss to herself.

The scene shifted to a sunny park where the woman strutted along a path, drawing exaggerated stares from male actors. The camera lingered on her bouncing breasts and barely-covered thighs as she walked.

Finding an empty bench, she sat down with a performative sigh of contentment. Then, looking directly at the camera with practiced seduction, she slowly spread her legs wide apart.

Anna felt bile rising in her throat as the camera angle shifted lower, capturing how the woman's skirt rode up, revealing she wore nothing underneath. The woman's expression suggested this exposure was bringing her immense pleasure.

The final indignity came when the actress removed one shoe and placed her bare foot on the bench, tilting her hips forward to further expose herself to any passersby.

Anna's finger hovered over the power button before she remembered the collar's monitoring function. The screen flashed with a notification: "Authentication required. Touch collar now."

Anna pressed the button on her collar, and a new message immediately flashed across the screen: "REMINDER: Self-stimulation required during viewing." Cold sweat broke out across her skin. Her hand trembled as she lowered it between her legs, mechanically beginning to rub her clitoris while her mind screamed in protest.

On screen, a man approached the woman on the bench. He pulled out an identification card, flashing it with practiced confidence. "Life Lottery Participant," he announced, his voice unnecessarily loud for the park setting.

The woman's eyes widened with theatrical delight. "Oh! How perfect!" She stood, turned to face the bench, and bent forward at the waist, bracing herself against the wooden slats. Her skirt rode up completely, leaving her fully exposed. The camera lingered on her face as she looked back over her shoulder. "I've been waiting for someone like you!"

The man unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness. The camera panned across his predatory smile before cutting to a wider angle showing him positioning himself behind the woman.

Anna's hand froze above her clitoris as she watched in horror. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, her entire body rigid with revulsion. The actors' exaggerated moans filled her bedroom, bouncing off the walls of her sanctuary. The woman's face contorted in what was meant to look like ecstasy as she repeatedly thanked the man for "fulfilling his national duty."

Midway through the act, the screen flashed again: "Authentication required. Touch collar now. Continue self-stimulation."

Anna's finger jabbed at her collar while tears formed in her eyes. She forced her other hand to resume its mechanical motion, feeling nothing but disgust and violation. This wasn't arousal—it was coercion. Her body wasn't responding to the grotesque display, but the program didn't care. It only monitored compliance, not pleasure.

The actors continued their performance as Anna sat there, trapped in her own home, forced to participate in a ritual that made her skin crawl. The hour stretched before her like an eternity.

As the previous film ended, the channel seamlessly transitioned to a new program. The title appeared in bright, feminine lettering: "Quick Orgasm Instructions for Beginners." Anna's stomach dropped. It felt deliberately targeted, as if the algorithm had sensed her reluctance and calibrated accordingly.

An enthusiastic young instructor with impossibly perfect hair appeared on screen, sitting on a white bed in a sun-drenched room.

"Welcome, lottery participants!" She beamed at the camera. "Today we'll learn efficient techniques to achieve climax quickly—essential for your daily viewing requirements!"

Anna stared blankly, her hand still making mechanical motions without effect.

"First rule," the instructor announced, slowly removing her robe to reveal her naked body, "we recommend removing all clothing completely. This is so arousing!"

Anna hesitated, glancing at her collar. The authentication notification flashed again. With mechanical movements, she pulled her blouse off, then slipped out of her skirt. The air in her bedroom felt suddenly cold against her exposed skin.

"Turn on all the lights in your room," the instructor continued cheerfully. "And open your curtains wide! Exposing yourself to potential viewers is incredibly stimulating!"

Anna froze. Her bedroom windows faced another apartment building. The thought of being visible sent panic coursing through her body.

The collar beeped in warning. With trembling fingers, she switched on her bedside lamp, then reluctantly approached the window. Each step felt like moving through concrete. She reached for the curtain cord and pulled, watching as her protection disappeared, revealing her naked form to the night beyond. Lights were on in several apartments across the way. Anyone could see her.

"Now lie on your back," the instructor demonstrated, "spread your legs wide, and begin masturbating!"

Tears welling, Anna complied. She positioned herself on the bed facing the window, spreading her legs as instructed. Her hand moved mechanically between her thighs while her mind screamed in protest. She felt like a puppet, her body no longer her own.

Through the tears blurring her vision, she could see the distant shapes of people in the building opposite. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she continued following instructions, trapped in this performance for unseen observers.

"Don't forget," the instructor continued, her voice dripping with artificial enthusiasm, "to not only stimulate your clitoris but also insert your fingers into your vagina. And don't neglect your breasts!"

Anna mechanically followed each instruction, moving her fingers where directed without feeling any pleasure. Her body remained unresponsive, cold despite the exertion. She cupped her breast with her free hand, going through the motions while her mind retreated somewhere far away from this nightmare.

The instructor's face filled the screen, her expression inappropriately intimate. "Now, feel dirty! Get your fingers wet—spit into your palm."

Anna stared blankly at the screen. After a moment's hesitation, she gathered saliva in her mouth and spat weakly into her trembling hand.

"Masturbate with it! Make sure your hand is wet and sticky. Don't be stingy with lubrication!"

On screen, the woman was now moaning theatrically, her head thrown back in performed ecstasy. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she gasped and writhed for the camera. The contrast between the instructor's apparent pleasure and Anna's detached compliance couldn't have been starker.

Anna just stared at the monitor, her eyes glazed and distant. Her body went through the mechanical motions—fingers moving where instructed, palm wet with saliva—but she felt nothing. The physical sensations registered somewhere far below consciousness, while her mind floated above it all, disconnected and numb.

The collar beeped again, demanding another authentication touch. Anna pressed it without shifting her vacant gaze from the screen. The hour wasn't even half complete.

In the apartment across from hers, a shadow moved behind a window. Someone was watching. Anna registered this fact with the same detached awareness as everything else. It no longer mattered. Nothing mattered except enduring until the mandatory viewing period ended.

Her fingers continued their prescribed patterns, her body responding to commands but not to touch. The instructor's voice faded to background noise as Anna retreated further into herself, finding the only escape available to her—the quiet, empty space behind her eyes where no one, not even the government, could follow.

Finally, the film concluded, but Anna hadn't achieved climax. Her fingers had grown numb, moving without purpose or pleasure. The instructor's voice had faded into white noise, her enthusiastic demonstrations nothing but distant pantomime on the screen.

With trembling hands, Anna reached for the remote and pressed the power button. The screen went black, leaving her bedroom in near darkness, illuminated only by the bedside lamp and the distant lights from the building across the way. The absence of the program's constant noise created a sudden, hollow silence.

A sob escaped her throat, then another. Tears that had been building throughout the hour now flowed freely down her cheeks. Anna curled onto her side, drawing her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible. Her naked body shivered despite the room's warmth.

She didn't bother closing the curtains. What difference did it make now? The violation had already occurred, witnessed by strangers across the way. Her privacy, like her autonomy, had been stripped away by government mandate.

The collar around her neck felt heavier than before, its weight a constant reminder of her new reality. Its small light blinked in the dimness, monitoring her even now. Would they know she hadn't climaxed? Would there be punishment for that failure?

Anna reached for the blanket and pulled it over herself, seeking some protection against the exposure she'd been forced to endure. The soft fabric against her skin offered little comfort. Her body still felt foreign to her, commandeered for purposes not her own.

Her pillow grew damp with tears as she buried her face against it. The sobs gradually quieted, replaced by irregular, shuddering breaths. Exhaustion washed over her in heavy waves. The mental effort of enduring the mandatory viewing, coupled with the emotional trauma of the day, had drained her completely.

As her eyes grew heavy, Anna's consciousness began to drift. The boundaries between wakefulness and sleep blurred, each thought becoming more disjointed than the last. In this liminal space, her mind sought escape from the day's horrors, reaching for the oblivion of sleep.

Her breathing slowed. The tears on her cheeks dried in salty tracks. Anna slipped into unconsciousness, her body finally finding the one temporary refuge still available to her—the forgetfulness of dreams.

[Somebody]

This has a lot of potential! Sadly the most believable part of it is that there will still be so many women in the future who are this terrified of natural processes, that the government will actually have to force people to avoid going extinct.
I will say I'm a little disappointed that the exam was skipped over so quickly, love me an exam. But I get that it's not really the focus of the story. And her having to go naked at work, and getting her clothes altered by the wardrobe processor, is totally making up for that. I was kinda surprised pubic shaving wasn't mentioned as part of this, too.

I do wonder how the mandatory masturbation is serving the ends of fertility... Maybe that's just to fix her screwed up brain. You'd think the government would already have been able to solve this within a generation by just no longer raising everyone in the public schools to be so sexphobic, but...
I thought if she doesn't achieve orgasm while watching the channel, she has to keep going? She was only briefly concerned about that. Eh, it's a lot of rules to memorize. Gotta love that encouraged window-exhibitionism becoming mandatory.
I also have to appreciate the requirement to go about normal routine. Reminds me of this really old story that was originally in Japanese, about clothing allergies... man, ASSTR used to have some random and fun stuff. You're really taking me back there.

Btw you said 'hemt' once that I assume was meant to be 'hem.'

[Redd]

This is the best thing I've read on here in ages! Not just a hot concept but also a really engaging story. I can't wait for the next chapter.

[ozavgar]

This has a lot of potential! Sadly the most believable part of it is that there will still be so many women in the future who are this terrified of natural processes, that the government will actually have to force people to avoid going extinct.
I will say I'm a little disappointed that the exam was skipped over so quickly, love me an exam. But I get that it's not really the focus of the story. And her having to go naked at work, and getting her clothes altered by the wardrobe processor, is totally making up for that. I was kinda surprised pubic shaving wasn't mentioned as part of this, too.

I do wonder how the mandatory masturbation is serving the ends of fertility... Maybe that's just to fix her screwed up brain. You'd think the government would already have been able to solve this within a generation by just no longer raising everyone in the public schools to be so sexphobic, but...
I thought if she doesn't achieve orgasm while watching the channel, she has to keep going? She was only briefly concerned about that. Eh, it's a lot of rules to memorize. Gotta love that encouraged window-exhibitionism becoming mandatory.
I also have to appreciate the requirement to go about normal routine. Reminds me of this really old story that was originally in Japanese, about clothing allergies... man, ASSTR used to have some random and fun stuff. You're really taking me back there.

Btw you said 'hemt' once that I assume was meant to be 'hem.'

Thanks for the comment. It is assumed that this lottery has just been introduced, and there are many more women without children, etc. The channel was created in order to make women more dependent on sex, etc. And the last thing I want to say is fiction Therefore, it will be as it will be

[t0lstoy]

This is a great story concept! Looking forward to more!

[ozavgar]

English is not my native language so any comments are welcome. Not about language too

## Chapter 4

Anna woke to a cold dread settling in her stomach. Last night's mandatory viewing of the National Fertility Channel lingered in her mind—her failure to achieve climax during the program might be logged in the system. The collar around her neck seemed heavier this morning, its presence a constant reminder of her new status as a lottery selectee.

She dragged herself from bed, glancing nervously at the collar's interface. The green light blinked steadily, offering no clues about whether her non-compliance had been detected. The modified skirt and blouse from yesterday's registration hung in her closet altered to NROC specifications.

Her fingers brushed against her wristband as she checked the time. Still early enough to make it to work, though how she'd face her colleagues wearing the collar was beyond her. Everyone would know she'd been selected.

Anna moved mechanically through her morning routine, her mind racing with potential punishments. Would they fine her? Mandate additional "viewing sessions"? The uncertainty was almost worse than knowing.

In the bathroom mirror, her reflection looked pale, eyes shadowed from poor sleep. The collar gleamed against her skin, an alien presence she couldn't escape.

Her wristband vibrated, and Anna's heart sank as she read the message that appeared on its display: "MANDATORY ATTENDANCE REQUIRED AT NROC CENTER. EMPLOYER NOTIFIED OF YOUR ABSENCE TODAY."

Anna froze, her toothbrush suspended midair. This was it—punishment for last night's failure. The collar seemed to tighten around her neck though she knew it was just her imagination. She stared at her reflection, watching her pupils dilate with fear.

With trembling hands, she reached for the modified clothing. The blouse gaped open at the top where buttons had been deliberately removed, exposing more of her chest than she'd ever willingly show. The skirt, once modest and professional, now featured a wedge-shaped cut in front that would expose her completely with the slightest movement.

"Why had fate singled me out?" she whispered to the empty apartment.

Her fingers traced the collar's smooth surface, its green light mocking her. Anna swallowed hard, slipped on her shoes, and moved toward the door with small, careful steps—trying to minimize how much the skirt revealed here skin with each movement.

The center awaited. Punishment awaited.

* * *

The transit pod’s doors hissed shut behind Anna, sealing her in with a dozen other passengers. She pressed herself against the wall, arms crossed tight over her chest, fingers digging into her own ribs to keep the blouse from gaping. Each step forward was a calculated shuffle—knees nearly touching, thighs clenched—to prevent the skirt’s wedge from exposing her.

A man in a standard-issue work jumpsuit glanced her way, his eyes flicking down before snapping back up. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Anna’s face burned, but she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, counting the seconds until her stop.

The pod lurched forward. A woman in micro pencil skirt—her own collar blinking green—shifted closer, her hip brushing Anna’s. Not an accident. Anna stiffened as fingers grazed her thigh, just above the skirt’s dangerous slit.

“Novice?” the woman murmured, voice thick with false sympathy.

Anna didn’t answer. The woman’s hand lingered, tracing the curve of Anna’s waist before slipping away. A test. A reminder.

At the next stop, a group of men in NROC-issued vests boarded. One smirked as he squeezed past, his elbow “accidentally” knocking Anna’s arm aside. The blouse parted. Cool air hit her skin. A few of the men’s expressions twisted into hungry grins.

Anna’s nails bit into her palms. She yanked the fabric back together, but the damage was done. The men didn’t even bother hiding their stares now, eyes dragging over her like she was already property.

The pod slowed. Anna exhaled—her stop. She sidestepped a lingering hand and bolted for the doors the moment they cracked open. She darted out of the pod. A silhouette loomed over her.

“Lost, sweetheart?”

She didn’t turn. The voice was too close, breath warm against her ear. A hand landed on her hip, fingers splayed possessively over the bare skin where the skirt dipped.

Anna twisted away. “Don’t touch me.”

The man chuckled, blocking her path. “Relax. Just helping you find your way.”

His thumb hooked under the skirt’s hem, tugging. Anna slapped his hand away. The movement sent the blouse gaping again. His grin widened.

“Feisty. I like that.”

A whistle cut through the air. The man’s head snapped up. Two policemen in black uniforms strode toward them, batons already extended.

“Problem here?” the taller one asked, voice flat.

The man in the vest retreated, hands aloft. “Merely directing the newcomer.”

The taller officer’s tone sliced through the air. *“Program Participation Identification please.”*

The vest-clad man scoffed, palms up in feigned surrender, and strolled away without looking back. The officer tracked his departure, then—

His gaze shifted to the collar around Anna’s neck. A deliberate, knowing smirk played on his lips. *“Well, well.”* His partner’s eyes followed, lingering.

“Routine compliance inspection.” His baton gestured towards her blouse. “Undo it. Completely.”

Anna’s fingers faltered. The material separated, cool air brushing against her sternum, her ribs, the curve of her breasts. The shorter officer moved closer, eyes sweeping down her figure before darting to her legs.

“Spread wider.”

She complied. The skirt’s slit yawned, the wedge cut revealing her entirely as she adjusted her stance. Heat surged through her face, her neck, her chest—everywhere their gazes landed. The officers shared a glance, something akin to satisfaction passing between them.

“Good.” The taller one nodded. “Proceed.”

They didn’t wait for her to fix herself before turning away, already scanning for their next target. Anna’s trembling fingers flew to refasten the blouse.

The NROC building towered ahead, its glass facade reflecting her own disheveled figure—blouse askew, skirt riding up, collar a stark black band against her flushed skin. She straightened her spine, adjusted the fabric one last time, and stepped forward.

The automatic doors slid open. A wave of sterile, climate-controlled air hit her, carrying the scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Inside, a reception desk stretched across the lobby, manned by a woman in a crisp NROC uniform. Her collar was absent. Of course.

The woman’s gaze flicked up, then down, lingering on Anna’s exposed skin before snapping back to her face. A professional smile, sharp as a blade.

“Name and ID.” Her fingers hovered over the terminal.

"Anna Petrova," she murmured, scanning her waistband against the terminal.

The receptionist's eyes flickered to her screen. "Room 307. Down the hall, third door on the right."

Anna clutched at the loose fabric of her blouse while making her way down the antiseptic hallway. Other women with collars passed her—some with resigned expressions, others displaying impassive faces.

Room 307 appeared less institutional than expected. Soft lighting illuminated walls painted a gentle blue, adorned with abstract artwork. A plush sofa faced an ergonomic armchair across a low coffee table. Potted plants occupied the corners, their greenery a stark contrast to the clinical atmosphere outside.

A woman rose from behind a modest desk. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun, and she wore a tailored navy suit—no collar around her neck. She extended her hand, her smile practiced but not unkind.

"Anna, welcome. I'm Dr. Sorokina, your assigned psychological counselor during your participation."

The psychiatrist gestured toward the sofa. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Anna perched on the edge of the cushion, knees pressed tightly together. The skirt's wedge gaped despite her efforts. Dr. Sorokina's gaze didn't wander, but Anna felt exposed nonetheless.

"I realise the past day has been overwhelming," the psychiatrist said, settling into her chair. "Why don't we start with how you're feeling?"

Anna's words tumbled out in halting fragments, her gaze fixed on her tightly clasped hands.

"I can't... this is impossible for me." She gestured weakly at her modified clothing. "Every step I take, I feel eyes on me. In the transit pod today, someone..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They touched me. Just reached out and—" She shuddered, unable to continue.

Dr. Sorokina nodded, her expression neutral yet attentive. "And how are you managing these encounters?"

"I'm not." Anna's laugh came out brittle, close to hysteria. "I nearly fainted right there. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might collapse."

She hesitated, her cheeks flushing deeper. "Last night, I tried to... you know. The fertility channel was playing..." She swallowed hard. "But nothing happened. I couldn't... finish. No matter what I did."

The psychiatrist's fingers moved across her tablet, bringing up a display. Her eyes flicked between Anna and the screen.

"Your collar confirms what you're telling me," Dr. Sorokina said quietly. "The stress indicators are significantly elevated, even now in this controlled environment." She scrolled further. "And yes, there's no record of orgasm since your registration yesterday."

Anna's hands fluttered to the collar at her throat, tracing its smooth edge. "It monitors that too?"

"It monitors everything necessary for the program," Dr. Sorokina replied, her tone matter-of-fact. "Heart rate, stress hormones, sexual response patterns." She set the tablet down. "Anna, your reaction isn't unusual for participants with your psychological profile."

"What does that mean for me?" Anna whispered.

"It means we need to address your anxiety directly." The psychiatrist leaned forward. "The program requires participation, but there are multiple pathways to compliance."

Anna looked up, hope flickering in her eyes.

"Don't misunderstand," Dr. Sorokina cautioned. "Leaving isn’t an option. But we can design a tailored approach to ease your transition into full participation."

"We'll start with controlled environments," the doctor continued, her voice measured. "And medication to manage the acute anxiety responses."

Dr. Sorokina slid open a drawer and placed two small white pills in Anna’s palm. Her fingers closed around them, warm and dry.

“Swallow them.” The psychiatrist’s voice was calm, clinical. “Lie back on the sofa. Thirty minutes. Just breathe.”

Anna did as told, stretching stiffly across the cushions. The fabric of the skirt bunched at her hips, the slit gaping. She swallowed the pills dry.

A moment later, Dr. Sorokina handed her a stack of glossy magazines. The covers showed women in the same modified garments—blouses unbuttoned, skirts split, collars glowing. Anna recoiled.

“I don’t want them.”

“You’re not to engage,” the psychiatrist said. “Just flip through. Let your eyes move. That’s all.”

Anna’s fingers trembled as she took the magazines. She opened the first page. A woman reclined on a chaise, one leg lifted, skirt pulled aside, collar pulsing green. Anna flipped to the next spread—a woman sprawled on park grass, her clothes dishevelled, a man braced over her, hips driving forward.

Her throat tightened.

“The medication will begin to act soon,” Dr. Sorokina said, not looking up from her keyboard. “It enhances sensitivity and arousal”

Anna’s breath shallow. Each image burned into her vision. The weight of her own collar pulsed against her neck.

Thirty minutes passed.

Dr. Sorokina stood. “Sit up.”

Anna obeyed. The psychiatrist lifted a matte-black headset from a charging dock.

“This is your first immersion protocol.”

She placed the VR headset over Anna’s eyes.

Then she connected a thin cable from her laptop to the port on Anna’s collar.

The headset’s display flickered to life.

A man and woman, both naked, sprawled across a bed—him pinning her beneath him, driving into her. The camera closed in, unflinching, capturing the slick, invasive thrust of his cock forcing its way inside her.

The scene cut.

A woman knelt in just her blouse, no skirt, riding a man’s cock with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips. Her face was slack with pleasure, lips parted. Anna’s stomach twisted. She tried to look away, but the headset locked her gaze in place.

Another cut.

This time, restraints. A woman bound to a frame, her modified skirt split completely, legs spread. A man entered her from behind, his grip bruising on her hips. Anna’s pulse hammered in her throat. The collar pulsed warm against her neck, syncing with the VR’s.

Dr. Sorokina’s voice broke through, calm. “Your physiological responses are being recorded. The system is calibrating to your stress thresholds.”

The scenes blurred faster now—hands, mouths, bodies intertwined in ways that made Anna’s skin crawl. The collar’s signals sharpened, tiny electric prods at the base of her skull whenever her breathing spiked. Her fingers clawed at the sofa’s fabric.

Then the images shifted.

No more sex. Just *exposure*.

A woman in a transit pod, her blouse unbuttoned, strangers’ eyes on her. A man’s hand reaching out, lifting her skirt’s wedge. The woman didn’t resist. The camera lingered on her face—humiliation, resignation.

Anna’s chest burned.

The next clip: a crowded hallway. A woman pressed against a wall, her skirt hiked up, collar blinking green as men passed, some pausing to touch. Anna’s nails dug into her palms. The collar’s pulses came faster, insistent.

“You’re tensing,” Dr. Sorokina noted. “The system is logging your most intense reactions. It will adapt based on them.”

The screen went black for a second.

Then—

Anna’s own reflection.

The VR had stitched together footage of her from today: the transit pod, the sidewalk, this very room. Her blouse gaping, her skirt riding up, her face flushed with shame. The camera zoomed in on her collar, then panned down her body, slow and deliberate.

Her breath came in ragged gasps.

The collar’s signal spiked—a sharp, stinging jolt at the base of her skull. Anna jerked, her back arching off the sofa. The scene looped. Her reflection. The exposure. The collar’s green light, mocking.

“This is your baseline,” Dr. Sorokina said, typing. “The program will use it to condition your responses.”

Anna’s vision swam. The VR headset’s weight suddenly felt crushing, the images relentless. She wanted to scream, to rip the thing off, but her arms wouldn’t obey.

The next scene loaded before she could recover.

A room full of people. All watching. A woman on her knees, her blouse undone, her skirt nothing more than a scrap of fabric between her legs. The camera forced Anna’s gaze to linger on the woman’s face—her hollow eyes, her trembling lips.

The collar pulsed.

Anna’s body betrayed her. A traitorous heat coiled low in her stomach, her skin too sensitive, too aware. The medication Dr. Sorokina had given her wasn’t just calming her—it was *heightening* everything. The shame. The fear. The unwanted, creeping arousal.

She whimpered.

The psychiatrist’s voice was a distant murmur. “Good. We’re getting somewhere. You can remove headset." Anna exhaled as the VR headset came off, foolishly believing the ordeal was over.

Dr. Sorokina reached into her desk and withdrew a tangle of black fabric and wires. She unfolded them with clinical precision—shorts, but not like any Anna had seen. Thick straps crisscrossed the hips, and between the legs—

Anna’s breath caught.

Two smooth, silicone shapes protruded from the crotch, one slender and curved, the other thicker, ridged. At the front, a small bulge of fine metal mesh glinted under the office lights.

“Put them on.” Dr. Sorokina held them out, unblinking.

Anna recoiled. “I—I can’t wear *that*.”

“You can, why not.” The psychiatrist’s voice didn’t waver. “No need to panic—they’ll stay hidden beneath your skirt. Clothes stay on.” A pause. “You’re not wearing underwear, so it is simple! Step in. I’ll adjust the fit.”

Anna’s fingers trembled as she stepped into the obscene garment, the thick straps biting into her hips before she’d even pulled them up. The silicone shapes—one a sleek, tapered phallus, the other a blunt, veined *plug*—jutted obscenely between her thighs, their weight foreign and humiliating. She tried to adjust them, to shift them away from where they pressed against her bare, exposed flesh, but the psychiatrist’s hand shot out, stilling her.

“No. Let me.” Dr. Sorokina’s voice was cool, professional, as if she weren’t about to violate Anna in the most intimate way possible.

Anna’s respiration fractured into uneven, panicked inhalations as Sorokina lowered herself before her, the psychiatrist’s exhalations warm against the flimsy barrier of her unbuttoned blouse. A viscous, artificial lubricant—cool and unnaturally slick—was dispensed onto the flesh-mimicking dildo, the woman’s fingers distributing it with methodical efficiency. A broken sound escaped Anna as the gel-slicked tip prodded at her vulva, not penetrating but tracing slow, maddening orbits around her entrance, the synthetic wetness chilling her overheated flesh. Then came the anal plug, its ridged silicone pressed against her untouched sphincter—modest in girth, yet its very presence an implicit violation, a transgression her mind had never dared entertain, much less submit to.

“Wider,” Dr. Sorokina ordered, and Anna’s legs obeyed before her mind could protest, her thighs parting just enough for the woman to spread her *puffy labia* with two fingers, exposing her *glistening slit* to the cold office air. The mesh *clit-vibrator* was pressed against her *swollen bud* next,The delicate wires woven against her clitoris sent unfamiliar sensations rippling through her with every faint shift, sending jolts of unwanted pleasure through her nerves. Anna face burning as the psychiatrist adjusted the angle, ensuring the *vibrating cage* sat flush against her *clit*.

Then came the straps.

Dr. Sorokina tugged them tight—painfully tight—cinching the *fuck-shorts* against Anna’s hips until the silicone *toys* were seated snugly, the *plug* breaching her *virgin ass* just enough to stretch her, the *dildo* nestled against her *dripping entrance* without fully penetrating. The mesh *clit-tormentor* pulsed once, twice, as if testing her reaction, and Anna’s knees nearly buckled. The final buckle was fastened with a sharp *click*, the material digging into her skin, sealing her into the device with no hope of escape.

Anna’s hands flew to her face, as if she could hide from the shame, from the way her body was already betraying her—the way her *cunt* clenched around nothing, aching to be filled, the way her *asshole* twitched around the invading tip. She could feel the *clit vibrator* throb against her, a constant, maddening reminder of her own humiliation. The psychiatrist stood, dusting off her knees as if she hadn’t just strapped a *fuck-machine* to Anna’s most private places, as if this were nothing more than a routine fitting.

Anna didn’t know where to look, where to put her hands, how to exist in a body that had been reduced to this—an object, a *hole* to be prepped and used. The shame was a living thing, crawling under her skin, but beneath it, worse still, was the traitorous *heat*, the sickening realization that her body was already responding, already *wetting itself* for what came next.

“Good.” Dr. Sorokina stood, already reaching for her laptop. She plugged a thin cable into the waistband’s port.

Anna’s breath hitched as the devices hummed to life. A slow, rhythmic pulse thrummed through the silicone, the mesh warming against her skin. The psychiatrist tapped a key. The vibration deepened.

“Relax,” she murmured. “This is just the baseline calibration.”

The calibration ended with a wet, mechanical *click*. Dr. Sorokina frowned at her tablet, lips thinning. She reached into her desk again, producing another white pill.

"Take this." Her voice brooked no argument. "Sit on the sofa. Thirty more minutes."

Anna obeyed, sinking onto the cushions. The shift in posture sent the anal plug sliding deeper, stretching her untouched ring with a slow, insistent pressure. She gasped, fingers digging into the sofa’s fabric.

Dr. Sorokina placed a footrest at Anna’s feet. "Up."

Anna hesitated, but the psychiatrist’s gaze was unyielding. She lifted her legs, planting her heels on the rest. The change in angle forced the dildo to nudge deeper into her entrance, its ridged tip breaching her just enough to make her breath hitch. The mesh vibrator pressed tighter against her clit, wires digging into her swollen flesh.

"Flip through these." Dr. Sorokina dropped the magazines onto her lap.

Anna’s fingers trembled as she opened the first page. The devices hummed to life—a low, rhythmic thrum from the plug, a subtle pulse from the dildo, the mesh warming against her clit. She flinched, knees jerking together. The footrest slid forward, letting Anna’s legs drop to the floor.

Dr. Sorokina didn’t react. "If sitting is uncomfortable, lie down."

Anna exhaled, her body sinking into the sofa’s length—only for the reprieve to vanish instantly.

"Bend your knees. Heels to your ass. Knees together."

Anna’s cheeks flushed with heat as she complied, pressing her legs tight together before tucking her knees near ass. The position forced the dildo deeper, the plug shifting inside her. Every slight movement made the mesh drag against her clit, sending unwanted sparks through her nerves.

"Keep flipping."

Anna’s fingers turned the pages on autopilot. The images blurred—bodies, hands, cunts, cocks — while the devices worked. The light plug's vibrations, the dildo’s pulse in time with her racing heart. She tried to focus on the magazines, but her traitorous body stole her attention. A strange warmth pooled low in her stomach, her thighs trembling.

A sharp *beep* cut through the air.

Dr. Sorokina glanced at her screen. "There. The medication’s taken effect. Move to the table. Stand right here.”

Anna obeyed, her legs unsteady. The silicone shapes between her thighs still throbbed faintly, a ghost of sensation that made her skin prickle.

The psychiatrist reached for the VR headset again.

“Put this on.”

Anna hesitated, but the doctor’s gaze brooked no argument. The headset settled over her eyes, sealing her in darkness for a breath—then the world snapped into focus.

A transit pod.

She was back in the pod, surrounded by strangers. The details were hyperreal—the hum of the engine, the scent of synthetic fabric and sweat. Her modified skirt rode high on her thighs, the wedge cut gaping. Men in work jumpsuits stood too close, their eyes dragging over her.

Anna flinched.

The shorts pulsed.

A slow, insistent vibration coiled through the silicone, syncing with the rhythm of the pod’s movement. Anna’s breath hitched. The device adjusted, the thicker shape pressing inward, the mesh warming and vibrating against her clit. She clenched her thighs, but the straps held firm.

“Relax,” Dr. Sorokina’s voice murmured in her ear. “Let it work.”

A man in the VR pod leaned in, his breath hot against her neck. The shorts’ vibration deepened, the ridge inside her curling just so. Anna’s fingers dug into her palms. She wanted to rip the headset off, but her arms wouldn’t move.

“Close your eyes,” the psychiatrist ordered.

Anna obeyed.

The darkness behind her lids was worse. Every sensation sharpened—the pulse of the device, the way her body traitorously leaned into the stimulation. Her breath came faster, her hips rocking in tiny, involuntary movements.

“Open them.”

Anna’s lashes lifted.

She was naked.

Not in the pod anymore—in a void of white light, her body exposed, every detail stark. The VR had rendered her with cruel precision: the flush on her chest, the way her nipples tightened under the gaze of unseen watchers, the slick between her thighs.

The shorts *surged*.

Both shapes rammed to full intensity—the inner ridge pounding against her G-spot, the mesh grinding over her clit. Anna gasped, her knees buckling. The stimulation didn’t let up. It *built*, waves of pleasure crashing over her, relentless. Her back arched, her fingers clawing at the air. The VR held her in place, forcing her to *see* herself—flushed, trembling, coming undone.

The orgasm hit like a blow.

Anna cried out, her legs giving way. She would’ve collapsed if the psychiatrist hadn’t caught her, steadying her with a firm grip on her elbow.

“Good,” Dr. Sorokina murmured, her voice clinical. “Very good.”

Anna panted, her body still twitching with aftershocks. The psychiatrist didn’t remove the headset. The VR world blurred, then refocused.

Now she was in a hallway.

Men lined the walls, their faces indistinct but their hands real— sliding under her skirt, fingers probing. The shorts pulsed in time with each touch, the mesh vibrating against her oversensitive clit. Anna whimpered, her hips jerking despite herself.

“You’re responding well,” the psychiatrist noted, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “The device is syncing with your arousal patterns.”

Anna couldn’t answer. Another man stepped forward in the VR, his hands gripping her thighs, forcing them apart. The inner ridge of the shorts thrust deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made her vision white out. She moaned, her head falling back.

The psychiatrist’s voice cut through the haze. “Again.”

The stimulation *spiked*.

Anna screamed this time, her body locking up as pleasure tore through her. The VR held her in the hallway, surrounded by faceless men, her own reflection flickering in a window—flushed, desperate, *wanting*.

The headset finally lifted. Anna dragged herself to the sofa and collapsed onto it, her skin slick with sweat, her breath ragged. The shorts still hummed between her legs, a low, teasing vibration.

Dr. Sorokina set the headset aside, her expression satisfied. “Excellent progress.”

Anna couldn’t speak. Her body still throbbed, her mind fogged with the aftermath of forced pleasure.

The psychiatrist tapped a command into her tablet. The shorts powered down, the silicone shapes going still.

“You may remove them.”

Anna fumbled with the straps, her fingers clumsy. The moment the device was off, she pressed her thighs together, as if that could erase what had just happened.

The psychiatrist’s fingers tapped against her desk before pulling open the same drawer. Metal clinked against wood.

“Let’s solidify your progress.”

Anna’s breath hitched as Dr. Sorokina placed a sleek, black vibrator on the coffee table. The device hummed to life with a low, insistent buzz, its silicone tip already glistening with a thin sheen of lube.

“Pick it up.”

Anna’s hand trembled as she obeyed, the weight of it foreign in her palm. The psychiatrist’s gaze never wavered.

“Lift your skirt. Press it against yourself.”

The fabric rustled as Anna gathered it, exposing her thighs, the damp heat between them. The first touch of the vibrator sent a jolt through her—her body still throbbing from the last forced climax, oversensitive. She bit her lip to stifle a gasp.

The psychiatrist’s tablet chimed. A green waveform spiked across the screen, synced to the collar’s sensors.

“Excellent.” Dr. Sorokina’s voice was clinical, but her fingers moved faster over the keys. “Your physiological response is immediate. The conditioning is taking hold.”

Anna’s breath came shorter, her free hand clutching the table corner. The vibrator’s buzz deepened, the vibrations radiating up through her pelvis, her stomach, her chest. Her nipples tightened under the blouse’s thin fabric.

The psychiatrist didn’t look up from her screen. “Place it on the chair by the door. Then remove your blouse.”

Anna’s fingers fumbled with the buttons, the fabric sticking to her damp skin. The blouse slipped from her shoulders, pooling on the floor. Cool air hit her bare torso, her breasts, her hardened nipples. She kept her arms crossed over her chest, but the psychiatrist’s sharp inhale made her freeze.

“No. Hands at your sides.”

Anna obeyed, her face burning. The psychiatrist’s gaze flicked over her—lingering on the flush creeping down her sternum, the way her ribs rose and fell too fast.

“Good. Now pick up the vibrator again.”

The moment the silicone pressed against her, Anna’s knees nearly gave out. The collar’s sensors must’ve registered it—the device at her throat pulsed warm, a silent command. *Keep going.*

“Move it,” Dr. Sorokina ordered. “Don’t just hold it there. Work yourself.”

Anna’s wrist twitched, the vibrator circling in slow, reluctant strokes. Her hips betrayed her, rocking forward just slightly, chasing the pressure. The psychiatrist’s tablet chimed again, the waveform climbing.

“Better.”

The command sent a fresh wave of heat through Anna’s veins. She bit her lip, her movements growing less hesitant, the vibrator’s buzz filling the room, filling *her*. Her free hand dropped to her breast, squeezing without thought, her thumb brushing over her nipple.

The psychiatrist’s voice cut through the haze. “Shoes. Remove them.”

Anna kicked off her flats without thinking, the carpet soft under her bare soles. The moment her feet touched the floor, something unexpected flared through her—a sharp, electric jolt of arousal. Her toes curled, her back arching as the sensation shot up her legs, straight to her core.

The computer registered it.

The psychiatrist’s eyebrows lifted, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. “Interesting. Foot sensitivity”

Anna didn’t hear her. The vibrator’s hum grew louder, her own breath ragged in her ears. The carpet’s texture against her feet, the way her weight shifted with each stroke of the toy—it was too much, too *good*. Her hips rolled, her thighs trembling as another climax built, inevitable.

The vibrator’s buzz filled the room, but the climax hovered just out of reach. Anna’s wrist ached from the effort, her breath coming in sharp, frustrated gasps. The pleasure coiled tighter, her body trembling on the edge—but her mind *resisted*, a stubborn knot of shame and defiance.

Dr. Sorokina’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and unyielding.

“Put the vibrator down.”

Anna’s fingers stilled. The sudden absence of pressure made her whimper, her hips twitching forward as if chasing the lost sensation.

“Now the skirt. Remove it.”

The fabric whispered as it slid down her thighs, pooling at her ankles. Cool air hit her bare skin, her fingers instinctively covering herself—before the psychiatrist’s next command snapped her into obedience.

“Keep going. Now use your hands.”

Anna’s cheeks burned, but her fingers moved between her legs, her own touch clumsy after the vibrator’s precision. The pleasure was there, but fragmented, her mind still fighting even as her body arched into her own strokes.

The psychiatrist stood.

Anna was too consumed by the maddening, unfinished pleasure to register anything else—until a silhouette darkened the doorway. She blinked, disoriented, as Dr. Sorokina gripped her shoulders, turning her to face the exit before stepping between her and the door.

“Look at me.”

Anna’s gaze flicked up, then skittered away, her face flaming.

“*Eyes.*”

The command cracked like a whip. Anna’s lashes lifted, her breath hitching as she met the psychiatrist’s gaze. The woman’s irises were a pale, unreadable grey, her expression clinical but for the faintest tightening at the corners of her mouth.

“Keep touching yourself.”

Anna’s fingers faltered, her rhythm breaking. The psychiatrist’s gaze dropped—just for a second—to where her hand still moved between her legs. The air between them thickened, charged.

“Don’t stop.”

The words sent a fresh jolt through Anna’s nerves. Her fingers resumed their movements, slower now, her thumb circling with deliberate pressure. The psychiatrist’s eyes tracked the motion, her own breath just a little too measured.

Anna’s pulse spiked. The collar’s sensors registered it—the device at her throat pulsed warm, a silent *good*.

The psychiatrist’s voice dropped, quieter now. “You’re close. I can see it.”

Dr. Sorokina’s hand closed over Anna’s wrist, stilling her frantic movements.

"Single hand here." She pressed Anna's palm against her breast. The psychiatrist’s other hand didn’t let go. Instead, it guided Anna’s fingers lower, pressing them inward—*inside*—until the first two knuckles vanished into slick heat. Anna’s breath hitched, her thighs trembling.

“Thumb on your clit.” The command was a growl, low and unyielding. “Don’t you *dare* stop.”

Anna obeyed, her thumb finding the swollen bundle of nerves. The moment she touched herself, her hips jerked forward, her body already wound too tight. The psychiatrist’s fingers tightened on her nipple, pinching just enough to make her whimper.

Then—

Dr. Sorokina’s hand shot backward, groping for the door handle. The latch clicked. Cool air rushed in as the door swung open, the psychiatrist’s grip her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“Keep. Going.”

The words barely registered before Anna was *moving*, stumbling forward as Dr. Sorokina shoved her into the hallway. Her bare feet slapped against cold tile, the shock of it sending another jolt through her oversensitive nerves. The psychiatrist spun her by the shoulders, positioning her facing the stairwell—

—where a group of NROC staffers in grey uniforms were already ascending, their boots thudding against the steps, their eyes snapping up at the commotion.

“Don’t stop,” Dr. Sorokina hissed in her ear, her grip unrelenting. “And *look* at them.”

Anna’s fingers faltered. The psychiatrist’s nails bit into her waist, a silent warning. She forced her gaze forward just as the first man rounded the landing, his eyes locking onto hers—then dropping.

*Down.*

Past her flushed chest, her heaving ribs, the hand between her legs, fingers buried inside herself, thumb still circling her clit in slow, obedient strokes. The man’s steps stuttered. His colleague behind him didn’t even bother hiding his stare, his gaze dragging over her like a physical touch.

The psychiatrist’s voice cut through the haze, loud enough for them to hear.

“**Don’t. Stop.**”

Anna’s breath came in ragged gasps, her fingers moving again, her body betraying her. The men’s boots scuffed against the tile as they slowed, their eyes glued to her—one licking his lips, another adjusting the front of his trousers.

The psychiatrist’s grip on her waist tightened, her breath hot against Anna’s ear.

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her hips rolling into her own touch. The men were close enough now that she could see the dark dilation of their pupils, the way one’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Then—

The orgasm hit like a freight train.

Anna’s knees buckled, her free hand flying to the wall for support as her body locked up, pleasure ripping through her in violent waves. Her fingers spasmed inside herself, her thumb grinding down hard on her clit as she came with a broken cry, her bare feet sliding on the tile.

The men didn’t look away.

One of them—younger, his NROC badge glinting—let out a low groan, his hand twitching toward his belt before his companion elbowed him sharply. The psychiatrist’s laugh was a dark, satisfied thing against Anna’s neck.

“**Excellent.**” Her grip loosened just enough to let Anna sag against the wall, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. “You learn *so* well.”

Anna’s vision swam, her body still twitching with aftershocks. The men finally moved past, but not without one last lingering look—a promise in their eyes that made her stomach twist.

The psychiatrist’s fingers threaded through Anna’s hair, tilting her face up. “Again. Wider stance.”

Anna’s muscles screamed in protest as she obeyed, her feet sliding apart on the cold tile, her exposed sex still throbbing. The psychiatrist’s gaze flicked down, then back to her face.

“Keep going. Show me how well you follow instructions.”

Anna’s fingers moved on autopilot, her own touch too much and not enough, her body still oversensitive from the last orgasm. The psychiatrist’s thumb brushed her bottom lip, smearing the bite marks there.

“Such a good student.” Her voice dropped, almost tender. “Look at you. Already flushed again.”

Anna’s hips rolled, her breath coming in short, embarrassed gasps. The psychiatrist’s praise coiled through her, shame and arousal twisting together until she couldn’t tell them apart.

Then—

The woman’s hand vanished.

Anna blinked, dazed, as Dr. Sorokina stepped back, her expression shifting into something almost *proud*.

“Stay like that. Two more minutes.”

Before Anna could protest, the psychiatrist turned on her heel and disappeared into her office, the door clicking shut behind her.

Anna was left alone in the hallway, her legs spread, her fingers still buried inside herself, her bare body on display for anyone who might pass. She could hear voices approaching—more staff, their laughter echoing off the walls.

Her face burned.

She tried to stop, her hand trembling—but the psychiatrist’s last command echoed in her skull. *Two more minutes.* The collar pulsed warm against her throat, a silent reminder of the consequences for disobedience.

Anna’s fingers resumed their movements, slow and humiliated, her gaze fixed on the closed door.

Waiting.

The door stayed shut. Anna’s breath came in shallow, humiliated gasps, her fingers still moving between her legs in slow, obedient strokes. The tile bit into her bare soles, the air conditioning raising goosebumps along her skin. Every second stretched, her body still throbbing from the last forced climax, her mind screaming.

Footsteps approached.

Anna froze, her hand stuttering mid-motion. Two women in NROC uniforms rounded the corner, their conversation cutting off mid-sentence. Their gazes locked onto her—her spread legs, her fingers glistening between her thighs, her flushed, mortified face.

One smirked. The other’s eyes darkened with something like hunger.

Anna stiffened as they passed, but one of them called out, *"Keep going—why’d you stop? Keep pleasing yourself. You’re preparing to serve your duty."*

She obeyed.

The door finally clicked open.

Dr. Sorokina stood in the doorway, her expression satisfied. “Come in.”

Anna nearly collapsed with relief, snatching her hand away from herself as she stumbled inside. The psychiatrist shut the door behind her, the latch clicking like a verdict.

“Progress,” Dr. Sorokina said, tapping her tablet. “Your resistance thresholds have dropped significantly. The exposure therapy is working.”

Anna’s fingers fumbled with her blouse, her skirt—anything to cover herself. The psychiatrist watched, unimpressed.

“You may dress. Then you’re free to go.”

Anna exhaled, her hands shaking as she gathered her clothes. The blouse’s fabric clung to her damp skin, the buttons slipping through trembling fingers. The skirt followed, the wedge cut gaping obscenely as she pulled it up her thighs.

Dr. Sorokina stepped forward.

Anna flinched as the woman’s fingers closed around the blouse’s top button. A sharp *snick*—scissors, slicing through thread. The button clattered to the floor. Then the next. And the next.

“Hey—!”

The psychiatrist ignored her, methodically destroying each fastening until the blouse hung open, the edges barely meeting over Anna’s ribs. She tucked the loose fabric into the skirt’s waistband, adjusting the folds until the gap between them widened—just enough to expose the curve of Anna’s breasts.

Anna’s breath hitched. “You can’t—”

Dr. Sorokina didn’t listen. Her fingers shifted to the skirt, twisting the fabric at the hips until the wedge cut sat more centered, the slit now a direct line to the heat between Anna’s thighs.

Anna’s face burned. “People will *see*.”

“That’s the point.”

The psychiatrist’s gaze flicked to Anna’s feet—still bare, her toes curling against the carpet. A slow smile curved her lips.

“And since the system logged heightened arousal from bare soles…” She gestured to the shoes Anna had just slipped on. “Those stay off.”

Anna’s stomach dropped. “No. I can’t walk through the city like this.”

“You can. And you will.” Dr. Sorokina’s voice brooked no argument. “Consider it your first real-world exposure exercise.”

She stepped back, admiring her work. The blouse gaped with every breath, the skirt’s slit offering glimpses of dark curls, of slick skin. Anna’s hands flew to cover herself, but the psychiatrist’s sharp inhale stopped her.

“Arms at your sides.”

Anna obeyed, her face flaming.

The psychiatrist’s fingers tapped once more on her tablet, finalizing some note. “You’re dismissed. Return to work tomorrow—your employer has been notified of your participation status.”

Anna’s stomach twisted. *CodeNexus.* Her sanctuary, now tainted.

“Oh, and the National Fertility Channel,” Dr. Sorokina reminded her, tone bright, almost playful. “You’re required to watch it each evening. Your collar will track your viewing.” She slid a small bottle across the table. “Take two of these before every session.”

Anna nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

Before stepping outside, Anna had tugged at the fabric, trying in vain to adjust the blouse and skirt into something resembling decency. But no matter how she shifted the material, she knew exactly what they saw—a barefoot girl in barely-there clothing, the glowing collar around her throat broadcasting her forced availability to every passerby. Every step on the pavement sent sharp sensations through her bare feet. The blouse hung loose and treacherous, its missing buttons creating a gaping void that revealed the soft curves of her breasts with each breath, each slight movement. The wedge-shaped cut at the front fluttered open with every stride, exposing intimate glimpses of dark curls and flushed skin to anyone who cared to look.

And everyone was looking.

Pedestrians stopped mid-conversation, their gazes following her with undisguised curiosity and hunger. Businessmen in crisp suits paused at café windows, their coffee forgotten as they tracked her progress down the street. Construction workers on a nearby scaffolding whistled and called out crude suggestions that made her cheeks burn hotter. A group of teenagers with their wristbands raised, no doubt recording her humiliation to share on social feeds.

The pointing started almost immediately—fingers jabbing in her direction, accompanied by whispered conversations and barely suppressed laughter. Anna's chest tightened with each gesture, each stare that lingered too long on her exposed skin. She couldn't decide what mortified her more: the way the blouse gaped open whenever she moved her arms, revealing the soft underswell of her breasts, or how the skirt's cut meant that sitting, bending, even walking normally would flash her most private areas to the world. Or how she appeared walking barefoot through the bustling city streets.

The sensation of complete exposure overwhelmed her. Without the barrier of proper clothing, without even shoes to protect her feet, she felt stripped of every defense she'd carefully built around herself. The city's eyes seemed to penetrate through to her very soul, leaving her raw and vulnerable in ways she'd never imagined possible.

Halfway to the stop, a passing businessman—middle-aged, respectable-looking in his tailored coat—suddenly reached out and delivered a light slap to her exposed backside. The sound cracked through the air like a whip, and Anna stumbled forward with a startled gasp. The man's laughter followed her, rich and satisfied, as he continued on his way without breaking stride.

By the time she reached the transit stop, Anna's entire body trembled with humiliation and suppressed fear, her bare feet aching from the unforgiving pavement, her clothes hanging in scandalous disarray despite her constant, futile attempts to maintain some shred of dignity.

The transit pod was worse this time.

The moment she stepped inside, the scent of sweat and synthetic fabric hit her—too familiar, too *intimate*. Men in work jumpsuits crowded the space, their eyes snapping to her like magnets. The blouse’s ruined buttons left her exposed, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. The skirt’s wedge cut gaped with every step, the cool air hitting places no stranger should see.

A hand landed on her hip.

Anna flinched, but the man—broad, his jumpsuit stained with grease—didn’t let go. His fingers spread, his thumb brushing the bare skin where the skirt dipped. She pressed herself against the pod’s wall, but his other hand followed, sliding up her thigh, his knuckles grazing the inside.

“First day?” His breath was hot against her ear.

Anna didn’t answer. His fingers inched higher, the pad of his thumb pressing against the fabric between her legs. She bit her lip to stifle a whimper, her face burning.

The doors hissed open.

He released her with a sharp shove, sending her stumbling into the aisle. Anna barely caught herself, her fingers flying to cover her exposed chest, her skirt. The man smirked, adjusting the front of his trousers before stepping off the pod.

The remaining passengers didn’t look away.

Anna had no memory of the frantic dash back to her flat. Here trembling fingers struggled endlessly with the door handle. She collapsed onto the bed, her body still humming from the transit pod, her skin too sensitive, too *aware*. The shame crashed over her in waves, her fingers digging into the mattress as sobs tore through her chest.

* * *

The sobs eventually dried up, leaving Anna hollow. She dragged herself to the kitchen, mechanically reheating last night’s leftovers—some kind of lentil stew Megan had forced on her. The food tasted like ash, but she forced it down, her stomach clenching with something worse than hunger. Then she swallowed two pills the psychiatrist had given her.

Back in the bedroom, she stripped off the blouse and skirt, letting them pool on the floor. The cool air hit her flushed skin, but she didn’t bother with pajamas. The collar’s weight felt heavier than ever as she climbed onto the bed, her fingers trembling as she reached for the remote.

The screen flickered to life.

**NATIONAL FERTILITY CHANNEL** blazed across in bold red letters, followed by the familiar chime. Anna’s stomach twisted. She touched her collar—the system registered her compliance with a faint vibration. The first segment began: a close-up of a woman’s face, lips parted, eyes glazed as a man’s cock worked between her thighs. The camera panned down, lingering on the slick friction, the way her hips lifted into each stroke.

Anna’s hand kept moving by itself, following the same motions across her skin. No warmth, no reaction—just the hollow compliance she’d been conditioned to perform. A notification flashed on the screen, requiring verification. She jabbed at the collar. Her fingers clenched, her short nails biting into the soft flesh of her thigh as the woman on display smiled and laughed playfully, her spine lifting from the mattress.

A sharp knock at the door.

Anna froze, her hand still between her legs. The knocking came again—insistent, rhythmic. *Megan’s knock.*

“Anna? Open up, I know you’re in there!”

Нer pulse spiking. “I—I’m not decent!”

“Too bad, I’m coming in.” The lock clicked. Megan never waited for permission.

The door swung open. Megan stood there, her purple-tipped hair slightly disheveled, a half-empty bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. Her eyes darted to the screen—some guy hammering into the woman like a piston—then snapped back to Anna, sprawled naked with her legs spread and fingers shoved up her cunt.

Megan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. *Oh.*” She didn’t look away. “I can come back if you’re—”

“No,” Anna blurted, her face burning. “It’s not— I *have* to watch this.”

Megan’s gaze flicked to the collar, then back to the screen. The woman’s moans filled the silence. “Right. The *program*.” She exhaled sharply, stepping inside and kicking the door shut with her foot. “"Well, if you’ve gotta keep fucking yourself like a broken toy, might as well see what this shitshow’s about.” She plopped onto the bed. She jerked her chin at the screen, where the woman was now riding the man, her nails raking down his back.

Anna’s throat went dry. The message on screen — another compliance check. her fingers slid in and out of herself. Her other hand presses against the collar.

The wine sloshed as Megan took a long swig straight from the bottle. "You look like you're trying to start a fire with wet sticks."

Anna's fingers faltered. "I *have* to—" Her voice cracked. She touched it, her other hand resuming its mechanical rhythm. "If I don't finish, I have to keep watching until I do."

Megan's nose wrinkled. "That's fucked up." She watched Anna's fingers move—no enthusiasm, no response, just obligation. "You're not even close, are you?"

A shudder ran through Anna. "I can't—it doesn't—" She swallowed. "Not like this."

Megan set the wine bottle down with a thud. "So what, you're just gonna lie here all night rubbing yourself raw because some government assholes said so?"

Anna's breath hitched as her thumb circled her clit, her fingers pushing inside. The woman on screen was screaming now, her back arched. The camera zoomed in on the stretch of her, the way she clenched around the man's cock. Another confirmation message on screen —another check. She touched it, her stomach twisting.

"Talk to me," Megan demanded. "Distract me from the fact that my best friend is finger-fucking herself like a goddamn robot. What the hell happened at the psychiatrist's?"

Anna's cheeks burned. "She—" Her fingers kept moving. "She made me watch things. Public exposure videos. People undressing in crowds, flashing strangers. And then—" Her voice dropped. "She made me undress in front of her. Just... take everything off while she watched."

Megan's grip tightened on the wine bottle. ""What’s even the *point* of it all?""

"It's *therapy*," Anna snapped, her hips jerking up despite herself. The screen flashed—**STIMULATION REQUIRED**—and she ground her palm against her clit. "She said I have *aversion disorders*. That I need to be *desensitized*."

"By getting off on being humiliated?" Megan's laugh was sharp. "Who the fuck *is* this woman?"

Anna's breath came faster, her fingers working harder, chasing something that refused to come. "Dr. Sorokina. She's—she's in charge of my *compliance*."

Megan's eyes narrowed. "And what, she just *watches* you?"

Anna's face twisted. "No. She—" Her voice broke. "She made me go into the hallway. Naked. Where people could see."

The wine bottle hit the nightstand with a crack. "She *what*?"

Anna's free hand clawed at the sheets. "There were people walking by. Nurses. Orderlies. She made me stand there until someone *looked*."

Megan was off the bed in an instant, pacing like a caged animal. "That's not therapy. That's *torture*."

"But I did orgasm," Anna admitted, voice tight.

She whirled back around, her gaze landing on Anna's laptop, still open on the desk. "Fuck this." She grabbed it, flipped it open. "We're doing this my way."

Anna's fingers stilled. "What—?"

Megan didn't answer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up a streaming site, adjusting settings. "You need an audience? Fine. You're getting one." She positioned the laptop at the foot of the bed, the camera angled straight at Anna's spread legs, her glistening fingers, the way her chest heaved with every ragged breath.

Anna's eyes widened. "Megan, what the—?"

"Public exposure, right?" Megan's grin was all teeth. "Let's give the people show" She hit **START STREAM**, then grabbed the wine bottle again, plopping back onto the bed like this was just another movie night. "Now *look* at them."

The viewer count ticked up—**5... 10... 15...**

Anna's breath came in short, panicked gasps. Strangers. *Watching her.* The collar pulsed green and she couldn't stop staring at the numbers climbing, the comments flooding in.

**—goddamn**

**—touch yourself harder**

**—fuck, she's gorgeous**

Megan took another swig, her eyes flicking between Anna and the screen. "See? You're not some lab rat. You're the *main event*." She nudged Anna's knee with her foot. "Now *use* it."

The viewer count spiked—**23... 31... 45...**—each number sending a jolt through Anna’s nerves. Her fingers moved faster, her breath coming in sharp little gasps. The collar pulsed she barely noticed. The comments scrolled too fast to read, but the raw *presence* of them—all those eyes—sent heat pooling low in her stomach.

Megan leaned in, her wine-breath warm against Anna’s ear. “Look at you. They can’t get enough.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, adjusting the stream settings. The screen split—half Anna’s face, flushed and lips parted, half a *close-up* of her hand working between her thighs, fingers slick, her clit swollen and glistening under the harsh webcam light.

Anna whimpered. The exposure burned, but something darker coiled tighter inside her. Megan’s voice dropped to a rough murmur. “That’s it. Let them *see* you. You’re not some shameful secret—you’re the fucking show.”

A shudder ran through Anna as her back arched off the bed. The numbers kept climbing—**68... 72...**—her free hand clawing at the sheets. The collar vibrated against her throat, but she barely felt it. All she could focus on was the way her body was finally *responding*, the way her hips rocked into her own touch, the wet sounds filling the room.

Megan grinned, then suddenly pushed off the bed. “I know what you need.” She strode to the windows, yanked the curtains open with one sharp tug. Cold city light spilled in, the glow of streetlamps and distant windows flooding the room. Anna gasped, instinctively trying to cover herself, but Megan was already moving again.

The front door.

Anna’s breath hitched as Megan grabbed the handle, twisted, and *shoved* it wide open. The hallway light cut a sharp rectangle across the floor, straight to the bed. Anna was fully on display—spread legs, flushed skin, fingers buried inside herself—visible to *anyone* who walked by.

Megan braced a hand on the doorframe, her voice ringing out, loud enough to carry. “Hey! We’ve got a *show* in here! Free entertainment, folks—don’t be shy!”

Anna’s entire body locked. The stream numbers surged—**91... 103...**—but all she could focus on was the *doorway*, the empty hallway beyond it, the way the air from the corridor brushed over her bare skin. Her pulse roared in her ears. This wasn’t controlled. This wasn’t *therapy*. This was—

A sound tore from her throat, raw and needy, as her fingers drove deeper. The collar flashed green, then *stayed* green. The comments exploded—**—fucking hell—** **—she’s gonna cum—** **—don’t stop don’t stop—**

Megan’s laugh was dark, triumphant. “That’s it, Anna. *Let go.*”

And she did.

Her back bowed off the bed as the orgasm crashed over her, her muscles clamping down on her fingers, her free hand flying to her mouth to stifle a cry. The stream numbers blurred. The open door, the exposed windows, the *eyes*—it all *fed* into it, her body shuddering through wave after wave, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in broken sobs.

The collar pulsed green, steady as a heartbeat.

Megan grabbed the wine bottle, took a long swig, then kicked the door shut with her foot. “There. *That’s* how you do exposure therapy.”

The aftershocks still hummed through Anna’s limbs as she collapsed back against the pillows, her chest heaving. Megan flopped beside her, passing the wine bottle with a smirk. “Feel better?”

Anna swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then took a swig. The alcohol burned, grounding her. “I don’t know what the hell that was.”

“Progress.” Megan grinned, then nudged Anna’s shoulder. “Admit it. You liked having an audience.”

Anna’s face flushed, but she didn’t deny it. The stream was still running—viewer count now at **127**—but Megan reached over and shut the laptop with a snap. “Enough free shows for tonight. People’ll pay next time.”

Anna let out a shaky laugh, then winced as her muscles protested. “There’s not gonna be a next time.”

“Sure, sure.” Megan stretched, her joints popping. “Just like there wasn’t gonna be a *this* time.” She rolled off the bed, grabbing the wine bottle. “I’m stealing this. And you’re washing those sheets tomorrow.”

Anna pulled the blanket over herself, suddenly exhausted. “Deal.”

Megan paused at the door, her expression softening. “Night, Anna. And hey—” She winked. “—don’t forget to charge the laptop.” Then she was gone, her footsteps thudding up the stairs to her own apartment.

Anna exhaled, staring at the ceiling. The collar’s light dimmed to a steady green.

She turned off the lamp.

[Somebody]

Excellent! The story is going in great directions. Just a few little criticisms, it sounds like she's still wearing the VR headset when the special shorts come out, but she can see them. Is it more of an AR thing where you can see through it but also see projected images? Naw, I think you just forgot to mention her taking it off. No big deal. Also a 'cocksleeve' is something a man inserts into, not something that is inserted into a girl. I think you wanted to say something other than dildo, you could maybe have gone with phallus.

This is exactly what I was hoping the story would go. I have read some slightly similar stories like this that were merely about reducing body shame, so it's great to see that included. And using bare feet to heighten her exposure is top notch. seeing Megan objecting helps the story avoid becoming too one-sided, but I really appreciate that she's part of the solution too.

[Darky]

Great story. Keep it up

[ozavgar]

Excellent! The story is going in great directions. Just a few little criticisms, it sounds like she's still wearing the VR headset when the special shorts come out, but she can see them. Is it more of an AR thing where you can see through it but also see projected images? Naw, I think you just forgot to mention her taking it off. No big deal. Also a 'cocksleeve' is something a man inserts into, not something that is inserted into a girl. I think you wanted to say something other than dildo, you could maybe have gone with phallus.

This is exactly what I was hoping the story would go. I have read some slightly similar stories like this that were merely about reducing body shame, so it's great to see that included. And using bare feet to heighten her exposure is top notch. seeing Megan objecting helps the story avoid becoming too one-sided, but I really appreciate that she's part of the solution too.

Thanks! Adjustments have been made

[ozavgar]

## Chapter 5

The morning light spilled through Anna’s windows, harsh and unfiltered. She groaned, rolling onto her side, only to freeze at the vibration of her wristband. A notification from **Dr. Sorokina** flashed across the screen.

*"Good morning, Anna. Excellent progress yesterday—your physiological responses were within optimal parameters. Today marks your first workday under the program. As your new assignment, select an outfit that aligns with Requirement Four. Be creative. I expect compliance."*

Anna’s stomach twisted. *Creative.* The word sat like a stone in her chest. She had no idea what that even meant.

She mentally scrolled through her entire wardrobe, every item practical, every choice deliberate. Nothing here screamed *"draw male interest."* Nothing here even *whispered* it. Her fingers hovered over the screen, paralyzed.

Anna’s fingers trembled as she tapped out a desperate message on her wristband, the words spilling out in a frantic stream: *"Megan, I don’t know what to do—Dr. Sorokina says I have to pick an outfit for work, something that… that draws attention. I can’t do this. I don’t even own anything like that. Please, help me."*

The reply came almost instantly, Megan’s usual blunt efficiency cutting through Anna’s spiraling panic: *"On my way. Don’t move. And for god’s sake, don’t think too hard—you’ll just make it worse."*

True to her word, within minutes, the sharp rap of Megan’s knuckles against the door echoed through the apartment. Anna barely had time to register the sound before her friend was already pushing inside, the scent of strong coffee and something faintly floral—Megan’s shampoo—filling the space as she barged in with the confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times before. "Alright, disaster mode activated," Megan announced, already scanning the room like a general assessing a battlefield. She extended one of the coffee mugs she was holding toward Anna. “Coffee first. Panic second.”

Anna took it, her grip unsteady. “She wants me to pick an outfit. For *work.*”

Megan blinked. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, this’ll be *good.*”

“It’s not funny!” Anna’s voice cracked. “I don't have anything suitable for this damned program!”

“Which is why we’re making it.” Megan set her mug down and marched past Anna into the bedroom, yanking open the closet doors. “Right. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

Anna trailed after her, clutching the coffee like a lifeline. “Megan, I can’t just—”

“Shut up.” Megan tossed a pile of clothes onto the bed. “You’ve got, like, three oversized t-shirts and a bunch of jeans that could double as burial shrouds. Perfect.” She grabbed a pair of scissors from Anna’s desk.

Anna’s eyes widened. “What are you—?”

Megan snatched up one of Anna's shirts—a faded grey cotton monstrosity that usually hung like a tent around her friend's frame. She held it up to the light, examining the fabric with the calculating eye of a fashion surgeon, turning it this way and that as if studying a blueprint for destruction.

"This'll do perfectly," she muttered, grabbing the scissors with predatory enthusiasm.

The first cut was decisive—a clean slice straight across the middle, reducing the shirt's length by half so it would barely cover breasts. Megan tossed the discarded fabric aside and moved to the neckline, where she began carving out a dramatically deeper V-cut that plunged toward the sternum. She additionally slashed the collar so that it would glide and shift dangerously across Anna's shoulders.

"The secret is unintentional revelation, you don't need to do anything deliberate—just at random moments you'll reveal certain secrets to everyone, adjust the shirt and move on, or forget to adjust it," Megan clarified as she trimmed.

Next came the sleeves—or rather, their complete elimination. Megan cut them away entirely, leaving only armholes that she then strategically enlarged, extending the openings downward along the sides until they created gaps that would reveal tantalizing glimpses of ribs and the outer curve of breast with every movement.

She held up her creation, studying the modified garment with satisfaction. The shirt had been transformed from shapeless comfort wear into something that would cling and reveal in all the most provocative ways, designed to make Anna's body a constant source of distraction for anyone within viewing distance.

Anna stared at it like it was a dead animal. "That’s not a shirt. That’s a *rag.*"

"Exactly." Megan tossed it at her. "Put it on. And lean over like you’re typing."

When Anna reluctantly pulled the modified shirt over her head, she felt a shiver run down her spine as the loose, stretchy fabric draped against her skin. The material, once comfortably shapeless, now shifted and slid with every slight movement, as if conspiring against her. As she tentatively leaned over her desk, mimicking her typical posture while engrossed in coding, the shirt pulled away from her body, offering an unobstructed view of both breasts from the front and side angles.

Anna's breath hitched as she caught sight of herself in the reflection of her dark computer monitor. The sight was foreign, almost indecent. As she straightened up, the shirt slid back into place, but the memory of the exposure lingered, a phantom sensation that made her skin tingle with discomfort.

Megan, watching from the side, nodded approvingly. "See, that's exactly what I was talking about," she said, her voice laced with satisfaction. "It's all about the tease, the hint of what's underneath. You lean over, and suddenly, everyone's eyes are on you. They can't help but look, and that's the whole point."

Anna's cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, the heat spreading to the tips of her ears. She crossed her arms over her chest, a futile attempt to regain some semblance of modesty. "I can't go out like this, Megan," she protested, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is... it's too much. I feel naked."

Megan chuckled, stepping forward to adjust the shirt slightly, tugging at the hem to make it sit just right. "You're not naked, Anna. You're wearing a shirt. It just happens to be a shirt that shows off your assets a bit more than you're used to. Trust me, this is what Dr. Sorokina wants. This is what will get you noticed."

Anna looked down at herself, her heart pounding in her chest. The thought of walking out of her apartment, of facing the world in this state of undress, was terrifying. But Megan's words echoed in her mind, a reminder of the reality she now faced. This was part of the program, part of the Life Lottery. She had to comply, had to adapt. And so, with a deep breath, she resolved to face the challenge head-on, no matter how uncomfortable it made her.

Megan wasn’t done yet. With a triumphant grin, she dug through Anna’s wardrobe, tossing aside the loose jeans and modest skirts until she found what she was looking for—a pair of old, slightly faded black skinny jeans Anna had only worn a handful of times. They were the tightest thing Anna owned, and even then, they’d always felt more restrictive than revealing.

“Put these on,” Megan ordered, tossing them at Anna’s feet.

Anna caught them, her fingers trembling. “These are *jeans*,” she protested weakly, as if that alone made them acceptable.

Megan rolled her eyes. “Not for long.” Megan twirled the same scissors she’d used on the T-shirt between her fingers, the blades glinting as they caught the light. “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

The jeans clung like a second skin, stiff denim hugging every curve as Anna winced them up. Megan’s gaze raked over her, sharp and assessing, before a slow, satisfied smirk curled her lips. Without a word, she reached out, fingers brushing against Anna’s hip as she turned her slightly, examining the fit from every angle. Then, with a flick of her wrist, the scissors snapped open, their blades flashing under the apartment lights.

Anna flinched as the cold metal pressed against the outer seam of her thigh. “Megan, wait—”

But it was too late. The scissors sliced through the denim with a sharp *snick*, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room. Megan worked quickly, her movements precise as she cut upward, following the curve of Anna’s leg until the frayed hem stopped just beneath the swell of her ass. The front was worse—she didn’t just shorten the legs, she *angled* them, leaving the pockets jutting out like awkward, useless flaps while the space between them narrowed to a thin strip of fabric that barely covered anything at all. The denim now clung so tightly that Anna could feel the cool air ghosting against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. When she shifted her weight, the back seam gaped just enough to reveal the soft underside of her buttocks, the pale skin a stark contrast to the dark wash of the jeans. The front was no better—the slashed hem left her painfully aware of how little stood between her and complete exposure.

Anna gasped, instinctively trying to yank the fabric lower, but it barely moved. “Megan, this is—”

“Not done yet,” Megan interrupted, her fingers deft as she cut button from the waistband. Anna’s breath hitched as Megan tugged the zipper down just enough to expose the faintest shadow of dark curls beneath. Then, with a few quick stitches from a needle and thread she’d produced from nowhere, she secured the zipper in place—preventing it from being pulled up *or* down any further. The result was a precarious, half-open fly, the denim straining just enough to hint at what lay beneath without fully revealing it.

Anna’s face flushed crimson as she looked down. The front slit of the shorts now sat *just* above her most intimate area—so close that even the slightest movement threatened to expose her. The back rode so high that the underside of her buttocks was visible if she so much as leaned forward.

“There,” Megan said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Now *that’s* an outfit.” She tilted her head, considering. “Turn around.”

Anna hesitated, then slowly obeyed. The moment she shifted her weight, the denim tightened, the back seam parting just enough to reveal the soft curve of her ass cheeks.

Megan let out a low whistle. “Damn. If this doesn’t get you *swarmed* at the centre, nothing will.” She clapped Anna on the shoulder—hard enough that Anna had to catch herself, the movement making the shorts ride up even further. “Now *that’s* what I call compliance.”

Anna’s hands flew to cover herself. “I can’t wear this!”

“You *have* to.” Megan crouched, eye-level with the shorts. “But first—” She reached out, flicking the dark curl peeking above the zipper. “—we fix *this.* You’re not walking around with a seventies bush on display. It’s *tacky.*”

Anna’s face went nuclear. “I am *not* shaving—”

“Yes, you are.” Megan stood, shoving the scissors back into Anna’s hands. “Bathroom. Now. I’ll get the razor.”

Anna clutched the scissors like a weapon. “This is humiliating.”

Megan smirked. “No, *honey.* Humiliating is when Dr. Sorokina drags your ass back to NROC because you showed up looking like a nun. *This?*” She gestured at the outfit. “This is *strategic.*”

Anna exhaled sharply, then stomped toward the bathroom. Behind her, Megan’s laughter followed, bright and merciless. “That’s the spirit! And *leave the door open*—I wanna supervise!”

Anna stared at the razor in her trembling hand, the weight of it foreign and intimidating. She'd never done *this* before—never had a reason to. Her cheeks burned as she positioned herself awkwardly over the sink, one foot propped on the toilet seat.

"You're holding it like it's gonna bite you," Megan observed from the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. "It's just hair, not a bomb."

"Easy for you to say," Anna muttered, squinting down at herself. "You probably started doing this when you were twelve."

Megan snorted. "Fifteen, actually. And I nicked myself so bad I thought I was gonna bleed out. My mom found me crying in the bathtub with toilet paper stuck everywhere."

Despite her mortification, Anna felt a small smile tug at her lips. "Really?"

"Scout's honor. Though I was never a scout." Megan tilted her head, watching Anna's clumsy attempts to navigate the razor around the curves. "You're gonna give yourself razor burn doing it like that. Here—" She stepped closer, her voice dropping to something gentler. "Short strokes. *With* the hair first, not against it."

Anna tried to follow the instruction, but her hand shook, and the angle felt all wrong. "This is impossible. How do people do this regularly?"

"Practice. Lots of swearing. And usually better lighting." Megan gestured toward the harsh bathroom bulb. "You're basically performing surgery with a flashlight."

Anna paused, looking down at her haphazard progress. Some areas were smooth, others still stubbly, and she was pretty sure she'd missed an entire section on the left side. "I look ridiculous."

"You look like a beginner. Which you are." Megan's grin was warm, not mocking. "Remember when you taught me to code? I spent three hours trying to print 'Hello World' and kept getting error messages."

"That was different."

"No, it wasn't. You were patient with me then. I'm being patient with you now." Megan crossed her arms. "Though I gotta say, watching you figure out feminine grooming is *way* more entertaining than debugging."

Anna shot her a glare, but it lacked real heat. Having Megan there—making jokes, sharing embarrassing stories—made the whole ordeal feel less like a nightmare and more like... well, still a nightmare, but one she wasn't facing alone.

"Almost done," Anna mumbled, making one final careful pass.

Anna yanked the modified shirt over her head, the fabric clinging to her damp skin. The mirror reflected a stranger—her stomach fully exposed, the shadow of her breasts visible beneath the thin cotton. A sharp inhale. *Too much.* She took a step, then another. The shirt slumped with every movement, gaping open at the neckline, threatening to slip off her shoulders entirely. When she turned, the shorts rode up, the back seam parting to reveal the soft underside of her buttocks. Worse—the zipper, held by nothing but Megan’s hasty stitches, strained with each step. One wrong shift and the fabric would betray her completely, the top of her pussy peeking through.

"Perfect," Megan declared, arms crossed. "You're showing everything but nobody can easily slip a hand into shorts that tight, unlike yesterday's skirt."

Anna’s face burned. “I can’t—”

“You *are*.” Megan shoved her toward the door. “Now *move*. You’re late.”

Anna fumbled into her flats and bolted, the cool morning air hitting her exposed skin like a slap. The pod station loomed ahead. With every stride, the shirt rode higher, the shorts tighter. She clutched her wristband, praying the ride would be quick. One hand pressed against her stomach, as if that could hide what the fabric refused to.

The pod doors slid open and Anna stepped inside.

A woman stood in the center of the pod, hips swayed slightly as she scrolled through her wristband. Her collar pulsed green. The blouse—if it could be called that—was sheer as spider silk, the words **"FUCK ME"** blazoned across her chest in glittering red. She caught Anna staring and winked, slow and deliberate, before turning back to her wristband like it was nothing.

Men piled in. Eyes locked. Jaws slackened. The woman ignored them all, humming under her breath as she leaned against the pole, the fabric clinging to every curve. One man reached out—his fingers brushing her waist—before she sidestepped with a laugh, leaving him stumbling.

Anna pressed into the corner, her modified shirt clinging to her. No one glanced her way. The pod lurched forward, and she exhaled, shoulders slumping. For the first time since the collar locked around her neck, she was *invisible because of all gazes where on a woman*.

The doors slid open at her stop. She bolted.

* * *

Anna stepped through the glass doors of CodeNexus, crossing her arms over her chest trying to conceal at least part of her body as the familiar hum of keyboards and muted conversations enveloped her like a delicate, tenuous shield. For a fleeting moment, the tension in her shoulders eased—this was her sanctuary, the one place where she could disappear into lines of code, where her worth was measured in logic and efficiency rather than how she looked or how she moved through the world. The air smelled of coffee, ozone from the printers, and the faint metallic tang of the building’s climate control—scents that had become as comforting as the rhythm of her own breath.

Dmitri, the daytime security guard, glanced up from his station near the turnstiles, his usual bored expression faltering mid-yawn. His dark eyes flicked over her, widening slightly as they snagged on the hem of her denim shorts—*her* denim shorts, the ones Megan had "adjusted", the frayed edges now riding so high they barely contained the curve of her ass. His gaze lingered, then crawled upward, to her t-shirt that hung loosely from her shoulders with a neckline exposing the upper portion of her chest. Anna’s pulse spiked, heat creeping up her neck. She tugged at the fabric self-consciously, but the damage was already done.

"Morning, Petrova," Dmitri said, his voice rough with something that wasn’t quite professionalism. He pushed himself up from his stool, the vinyl creaking under his weight, and reached for the metal detector wand leaning against the desk. The movement was slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the shift in power between them. "Random security check."

Anna froze. *"Random?"* In the two years she’d worked here, she’d never been stopped. Never been *scanned*. The most interaction she’d had with security was the occasional nod when her badge failed to register on the first try. She opened her mouth, the protest automatic—*"Since when?"*—but the words died on her tongue as Dmitri stepped closer, the wand already humming to life in his grip.

His smirk was a knife twist. "New protocol. Compliance with *all* national initiatives." The emphasis was heavy, loaded, and Anna’s stomach dropped. She knew what that meant.

"Come on, then," he urged, jerking his chin toward the empty space beside the turnstiles. "Feet apart. Arms up."

Anna’s breath hitched. She hesitated, but the weight of his stare—*expectant, hungry*—pinned her in place. Swallowing hard, she shuffled her feet wider, the denim riding higher, the cool air of the office kissing the bare skin of her thighs. When she lifted her arms, the crop top rode up, the neckline gaping obscenely. The wand swept over her, slow and methodical, starting at her ankles, dragging upward. By the time it reached her torso, the fabric had shifted enough that the entire underside of her breasts was visible, the pale skin stark against the dark cotton. Dmitri’s gaze flicked down, then back up, his pupils dilating just enough to make her skin prickle with shame.

The wand beeped near her collarbone—her *collar*—and he lingered there, the metal circling the smooth band of the device like he was tracing a finger along her throat. Anna’s face burned. She could feel the eyes of passing colleagues snagging on the scene, could *hear* the way their footsteps faltered, the way someone—was that Mark from QA?—let out a low, appreciative whistle before catching himself.

Dmitri finally stepped back, his expression smug. "All clear," he said, though his tone suggested anything but. "Have a *productive* day, Petrova."

Anna didn’t move until he turned away, her body locked in humiliation. The office noise rushed back in—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, the distant laughter from the break room—but it all felt different now. *Tainted.* She pulled at her top, trying to cover herself, but the damage was irreversible. The rules had followed her here. The exposure had begun.

And this, she realized with a sinking dread, was only the start.

* * *


The open-plan office fell silent for half a second as Anna stepped through the glass doors of the dev zone. Then came the whistles—low, teasing—not from the usual suspects in Sales, but from *her* team. Jarek spun in his chair, nearly knocking over his energy drink. "Damn, Petrova. When’d you get *upgraded*?"

Megan’s handiwork was on full display. The oversized tee, slipping off one shoulder and clinging precariously to the other, exposed her collarbone and the swell of her breast. Below, the unbuttoned shorts gaped open, revealing smooth, bare skin. The collar glinted under the fluorescent lights, its green indicator blinked.

"State-issued *fashion*," Anna muttered, keeping her gaze locked on her monitors as she slid into her chair.

"Hey, at least you’re doing your part," Ravi called from across the aisle, flashing her a thumbs-up. "My sister got her notice yesterday. Cried for hours. You’re handling it like a pro."

Lena, the team’s sole other woman, rolled her chair over and nudged Anna’s knee under the desk. "Ignore the neanderthals. But seriously—if you need *anything*, you know where I am." She winked, then added, quieter, "Even if it’s just to scream into a pillow."

Anna exhaled, fingers already flying over her keyboard. The code waited. The code didn’t stare. For now, that was enough.

The familiar rhythm of her fingers across the keyboard began to soothe Anna's frayed nerves. Line by line, function by function, the authentication module took shape on her screen. The conversations around her faded into background noise as she lost herself in the logical structure of conditional statements and error handling.

"Anna."

Martin's voice cut through her concentration like a blade. She looked up to find him standing beside her desk, clipboard in hand, his sharp blue eyes scanning her with methodical precision.

"I wanted to personally commend you," he said, adjusting his glasses. "You're setting an excellent example as our company's first female lottery participant. Your dedication to civic duty is exactly what CodeNexus values."

Anna's fingers paused over the keyboard. "Thank you, Mr. Keller."

"I've thoroughly reviewed the program requirements to ensure our workplace compliance." Martin consulted his clipboard, frowning slightly. "However, I notice you're currently in violation of requirement six."

The blood drained from Anna's face. "I don't understand."

"Workplace attire regulations." Martin's tone remained professional, clinical. "Unless specific occupational clothing is required, participants must remain unclothed during work hours."

The words hit her like ice water. Around them, conversations gradually died as colleagues became aware of the exchange. Anna's hands trembled as she reached for the hem of her oversized tee.

Time stretched into something viscous and cruel. Each movement felt magnified—the fabric sliding over her skin, the cool office air hitting her bare torso. She fumbled with the shorts, fingers clumsy with shock, hyperaware of every eye in the open office.

"Completely naked" Martin reminded her when she hesitated, still wearing her flats.

Anna bent forward, slipping off the shoes with mechanical precision. The carpet felt rough beneath her bare feet as she settled back into her chair, the leather cool against her naked skin.

Her screen still displayed lines of code, but the characters blurred together into meaningless symbols. Every breath felt too loud, every shift in her chair too obvious. The collar's weight seemed to double, its green light pulsing like a beacon.

She stared at the monitor with glassy eyes, her mind completely blank except for the overwhelming awareness of her exposure. The authentication module remained half-finished, forgotten, as her entire world narrowed to the sensation of being utterly, helplessly visible.

"You know what, Anna?" Jarek's voice broke the heavy silence. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. Seriously."

"Absolutely," Lena chimed in, her tone warm and encouraging. "You look amazing. I mean, if I had your figure, I'd be showing it off voluntarily."

Ravi nodded enthusiastically from his workstation. "Beautiful. Really. You're gonna knock this whole program out of the park."

Even Marcus from the backend team, normally too absorbed in his algorithms to notice anything, glanced over and gave her an approving nod. "Stunning, Petrova. Just stunning."

The unexpected chorus of support created a strange cushion around Anna's raw exposure. Her breathing steadied slightly as she realized none of the comments carried mockery—just genuine appreciation that somehow made the situation fractionally more bearable.

She crossed her legs tightly, left ankle hooked behind her right calf, and leaned forward until her torso nearly touched the desk. The dual monitors formed a makeshift barrier, creating a small cocoon of privacy. Her fingers found the keyboard again, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought had failed.

The authentication module reappeared line by line. Each completed function was a small victory, a return to the world where logic ruled and bodies didn't matter. She hunched deeper behind the screens, programming her way back to sanity.

The final semicolon clicked into place as Anna completed the authentication sequence. She'd been so absorbed in debugging the OAuth integration that her body had gradually relaxed without her awareness. The complex problem had demanded her full attention—memory allocation, token validation, secure headers—each piece falling perfectly into logical order.

Satisfaction washed over her as she leaned back, finally raising her head from the screen. The module was elegant, efficient, exactly what the security framework needed.

Her eyes swept the office and froze. Jarek sat directly across from her, chin propped on his hand, watching her with undisguised fascination. His gaze wasn't on her face.

Horror flooded through her as she realized her position— legs spread wide and shaved pussy displayed for all to see, completely exposed, unconsciously comfortable in her programming trance. The leather chair had become warm beneath her, and somehow her thighs had drifted apart while her mind focused entirely on code logic.

Anna's legs snapped together with an audible smack, left ankle hooking frantically behind her right calf. Heat blazed across her cheeks, spreading down her neck and chest in waves of mortification. She hunched forward again, practically pressing her face against the monitor.

"Sorry," Jarek murmured, but his slight smile suggested he wasn't sorry at all. "You were just so... focused. It was actually kind of beautiful."

The crimson deepened across Anna's skin as she buried herself back in the code.

Time passed and the pressure in Anna's bladder grew impossible to ignore. She'd been putting it off for nearly an hour, hoping the sensation would somehow disappear, but her body refused to cooperate. The thought of walking naked through the entire office corridor made her stomach clench with dread.

She glanced around desperately, her eyes landing on Lena at the neighboring workstation. Taking a shaky breath, Anna leaned over.

"Lena," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I need... could you maybe..."

Lena looked up from her screen, immediately understanding. "Bathroom?"

Anna nodded, her cheeks burning. "I can't... I don't think I can walk there alone. Everyone will..."

"Of course." Lena saved her work without hesitation and stood up. "Come on. We'll make it quick."

Anna rose on trembling legs, hyper-aware of every movement. The office chatter seemed to fade as she stepped away from her desk sanctuary. Lena positioned herself slightly ahead, creating a partial shield as they began the long walk down the corridor.

"Just look at me," Lena murmured. "Pretend we're having a normal conversation about code reviews or something."

But pretending proved impossible. Anna felt every gaze like a physical touch. Tom from accounting paused mid-conversation, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. Sarah from HR actually turned in her chair to watch them pass. The marketing team's discussion died completely.

"You're doing great," Lena kept her voice steady and encouraging. "Almost there. Just a few more steps."

Anna's mind was a maelstrom of mortification and disbelief as she navigated the office corridor, her naked body completely exposed to the scrutinizing gazes of her colleagues. Each barefoot step against the polished floor sent tremors of vulnerability through her entire being, the cool surface beneath her feet serving as a constant reminder of her defenseless state. Her freshly shaved intimate areas felt hypersensitive to the air conditioning, every slight breeze a torturous caress that made her acutely aware of how thoroughly visible and accessible she was to everyone around her.

The familiar workspace that had once been her sanctuary now felt like a gauntlet of judgment and unwanted attention. Her carefully maintained professional persona had been stripped away along with her clothing, leaving her feeling raw and utterly exposed in ways that went far beyond the physical. The knowledge that her most private parts were on full display for her coworkers—people she had to face every day, people whose respect she had worked so hard to earn—made her want to disappear entirely.

"Looking good, Anna!" called Mike from project management, raising his thumb in approval.

"Absolutely gorgeous," added someone from the QA team.

The comments followed them down the hallway—not cruel or mocking, but somehow worse in their genuine enthusiasm. Anna felt like an exhibition, a walking advertisement for the program she'd been forced into.

Lena kept up a steady stream of quiet reassurance. "Don't listen to them. Focus on me. We're almost there."

The bathroom door swung shut behind them, and Anna's feet met the shock of cold ceramic tiles. The surface felt alien against her bare soles—smooth, clinical, nothing like the soft carpet of her apartment or even the textured flooring of the office. Each step sent a chill shooting up through her legs.

"I'll wait right here," Lena said, positioning herself by the sinks. "Take your time."

Anna hurried toward the nearest stall, her feet making small slapping sounds against the tiles. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh, unforgiving brightness. She pushed open the stall door and stepped inside.

Her right foot landed in something wet.

Anna jerked back with a sharp intake of breath, lifting her foot and staring at the small puddle on the floor. Water from the cleaning crew, she hoped desperately. The liquid felt cold between her toes, and she grimaced as she carefully stepped around it, pressing herself against the far wall of the narrow stall.

The relief of finally sitting down was immediate and overwhelming. Her bladder released in a grateful rush, and for a moment Anna closed her eyes, allowing herself this one private sanctuary. The metal stall walls created a tiny fortress around her—the first real privacy she'd experienced since walking into the office.

She reached for the toilet paper, tearing off several sheets with practiced efficiency. The simple, automatic motions felt normal, grounding. But as she finished and stood, preparing to pull up underwear that wasn't there, the strangeness hit her again.

Nothing to adjust. Nothing to straighten or pull into place. Just... stand and go.

The realization felt surreal—that she could simply walk out of the stall exactly as she was, that this naked state was now her default. No fumbling with buttons or zippers, no checking her reflection in the mirror to ensure everything looked proper.

Anna pushed open the stall door, her wet foot leaving a brief imprint on the cold tiles. Lena glanced up from checking her phone, offering an encouraging smile.

"Ready?"

Anna nodded, though the word felt strange. Ready for what? To walk naked through the office again? To return to her desk where colleagues could watch her work? To continue this bizarre new existence where clothing was forbidden?

But there was no choice. The program's requirements were absolute, and Martin had made that crystal clear.

"Ready," she whispered, steeling herself for the return journey.

* * *

The return journey proved as challenging as the first. Nakedness still felt like an open wound, exposed and raw. Each bare footstep reminded Anna of her vulnerability—her body no longer her own private territory, but public property under the program's rules.

They were halfway back when a tall figure stepped into their path. A young man with dark eyes and carefully styled hair approached, his gaze direct but not unkind. Anna recognized him vaguely from another department—perhaps data analytics—but couldn't recall his name.

"Excuse me," he said, voice low and measured. He reached into his pocket and produced an official identification card bearing the NROC insignia. "I'm a program participant as well."

Anna's stomach plummeted. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

"Would you mind joining me in the break room?" His request was polite, almost formal, but its meaning was unmistakable.

The program requirements flashed through Anna's mind: *You must engage in at least one sexual act weekly until pregnancy is confirmed.*

Her knees buckled. If not for Lena's steadying hand at her elbow, she might have collapsed right there in the hallway. The collar around her neck suddenly felt like it was choking her.

"Hey, it's okay," the young man said, noticing her reaction. He extended his hand, palm up—an invitation, not a demand. "I understand you're new to this. I promise I'll be careful. Respectful."

His voice was gentle, genuine, which somehow made everything worse. Anna had prepared herself for cruelty, for selfish men taking advantage. This considerate approach left her without a script to follow.

"I don't..." Anna's voice emerged as barely a whisper.

"Perhaps this isn't the best time," Lena began diplomatically, her arm still supporting Anna.

"It's okay," the man insisted, misinterpreting Lena's intervention. "The regulations allow for workplace interactions. It's actually encouraged." He kept his eyes on Anna's face, a small courtesy she registered dimly through her panic. "I thought it might be easier for you, with someone who understands the program."

His fingers remained extended toward her, waiting. Anna stared at his hand as though it were some foreign object she couldn't quite identify.

Anna's feet felt like lead as they entered the break room. The young man closed the door behind them, and the familiar space—with its worn couches and coffee machine—transformed into something alien and threatening.

"My name's David," he said, already unfastening his belt. "This will be easier if we're not complete strangers."

Anna couldn't find her voice to respond. Her eyes fixed on his hands as they worked his zipper down, revealing himself with clinical efficiency.

"Could you sit there?" He gestured toward the couch. "And maybe... spread your legs a bit? It helps if you touch yourself first—makes things smoother for both of us."

The collar around her neck suddenly felt impossibly tight. Anna lowered herself onto the couch, movements wooden and disconnected from her mind. Her limbs obeyed commands that her consciousness screamed against.

Memories flooded back—her first sexual experience at nineteen. A college boyfriend who'd been impatient, rough. The pain and disappointment had driven her straight to a clinic for an IUD, determined never to risk pregnancy. The same IUD that had been forcibly removed just days ago.

David stroked himself, watching her expectantly. "It's okay," he encouraged. "The first time in the program is always awkward."

Anna's fingers trembled against her thigh. The enormity of what was happening crashed over her—this wasn't just sex with a stranger. This was calculated reproduction. This act was designed specifically to create life inside her.

She tried to move her hand between her legs, to comply with his request, but her body rebelled. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, the room spinning slightly.

"I'm sorry," David said, misreading her panic as simple nervousness. "We can take it slower. Maybe just start with touching?"

But Anna couldn't process his words. Her mind kept circling back to the single, terrifying reality: this wasn't private anymore. This wasn't protected. This was state-mandated procreation with a man she'd never spoken to before today.

The collar's green light glowed steadily, mocking her distress, confirming her biological availability for this stranger's seed.

David’s erection finally came, thick and insistent. He guided Anna forward by the hips, pressing her torso down against the couch’s armrest. "Please bend over like this," he murmured, positioning himself behind her. "It’ll be easier from this angle."

Anna obeyed, her palms flat against the worn upholstery, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The moment he pressed against her, every muscle in her body locked. A primal, involuntary refusal seized her—her vagina clenched with such force it was like her body had turned to stone.

David hissed through his teeth. "Fuck—you’re *tight*." He tried again, this time slower, but her body rejected him completely. The pressure of his tip against her entrance sent a jolt of pain up her spine.

Anna whimpered, her fingers digging into the couch.

"Relax," David urged, his voice strained. "Breathe. You’re making it impossible."

She couldn’t. Her body wasn’t hers anymore—it was a fortress under siege, barricaded against intrusion. He shifted, adjusting his grip on her hips, but no matter how gently he pushed, she wouldn’t yield.

"Please spread your legs wider," he instructed, frustration creeping in.

Anna obeyed, but it didn’t help. The problem wasn’t positioning—it was her. Her muscles had turned to iron.

David exhaled sharply, pulling back. "What the hell?" He sounded genuinely baffled. "I’ve never had this happen before."

Anna’s vision blurred. Tears burned, but she refused to let them fall.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he muttered, stepping away. His erection had already begun to soften. "Shit. Maybe you should see a doctor."

Anna didn’t move. She stayed bent over the couch, her body still braced for an attack that wasn’t coming.

David zipped himself up, his movements jerky. "I’ll report this to NROC. They’ll want to check you out."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Anna remained frozen for another minute, her pulse hammering in her throat. Then, on unsteady legs, she pushed herself upright. Her thighs trembled as she stood, her skin prickling with the ghost of his touch.

Anna stumbled down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum. The hum of office chatter and keyboard clatter faded into white noise as she moved on autopilot, her body still locked in that same rigid refusal.

She collapsed into her chair, the familiar ergonomic mesh pressing against her skin—too intimate now, too *aware* of her. Her fingers curled around the armrests like a drowning woman clinging to wreckage.

Lena appeared at her shoulder, voice low. "Well?"

Anna didn’t look up. "Couldn’t do it."

A pause. "What do you mean, *couldn’t*?"

The words tasted like ash. "My body—it just… wouldn’t let him in."

Lena exhaled through her nose, sharp and knowing. "Vaginismus. Happens sometimes under extreme stress." She leaned in, blocking Anna’s view of the office. "They’ll flag you for medical intervention now. Probably force a pelvic exam, maybe even dilators. And if that doesn’t work?" A beat. "They’ll just hold you down next time."

Anna’s stomach lurched. Her fingers dug into the armrests until her knuckles burned.

The rest of the workday dissolved into meaningless blur. Anna stared at her monitor, the code swimming before her eyes like hieroglyphs from some forgotten language. Her fingers rested motionless on the keyboard, unable to summon even the pretense of productivity. The cursor blinked mockingly in the empty text editor.

Every sound in the office made her flinch—footsteps in the corridor, the ping of elevator doors, male voices discussing project deadlines. Her body remained coiled tight, muscles locked in that same defensive stance from the break room encounter.

Near the end of her workday, Lena approached her. "Anna." Lena's voice cut through the fog. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Anna blinked, realizing the office had emptied around her. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across abandoned desks, keyboards silent. She'd lost hours without noticing.

"We're headed the same direction," Lena continued, gathering her things. "I'll ride with you."

Anna nodded numbly, reaching for her modified clothes. The shorts felt rougher than she remembered, the fabric coarse against her sensitized skin. The cropped t-shirt clung uncomfortably to her torso—everything felt wrong, foreign, like wearing someone else's skin.

They walked to the transport hub in relative silence, Anna kept yanking at the hem of her shirt, constantly tugging at the shorts that rode up at the back and sagged dangerously low in the front. —one moment threatening to bare her breast, the next allowing the zipper to dip low enough to expose the curve above her pubis. The evening air should have felt refreshing after the stifling office atmosphere, but it only emphasized her exposure. Every breeze reminded her of fabric's absence, of skin left vulnerable.

The bus arrived with a hydraulic hiss, already crowded with commuters. Anna followed Lena through the crush of bodies, seeking stability in the swaying vehicle. Her hand found a ceiling rail, fingers wrapping around the cool metal.

"Is the program extremely difficult for you?" Lena asked softly, ensuring those around couldn't hear.

Anna managed a slight nod, not trusting her voice.

"It gets easier. The body adapts, even when the mind resists." Lena attempted to reassure and persuade. "Physical responses can be trained. The program knows this."

Anna's grip tightened on the rail as the bus lurched around a corner. She focused on Lena's words, trying to process advice that felt both helpful and horrifying.

"You're already adapting more than you realize," Lena observed after several minutes.

"What do you mean?"

Lena gestured subtly. "Look down."

Anna glanced at herself and felt the blood drain from her face. Her raised arm had pulled the cropped t-shirt upward and to one side, completely exposing her left breast. The fabric had bunched and twisted, leaving her chest bare to the entire bus.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she registered the stares—men pretending to read their phones while stealing glances, a teenager openly gawking. Anna's nipple had hardened in the air conditioning, making her exposure even more obvious.

She yanked her arm down, frantically adjusting the shirt to cover herself. The fabric fought her, too short and poorly fitted to provide real modesty.

"Shit," Anna whispered, face burning. "How long was I—?"

"About ten minutes." Lena's voice held apologetic regret. "I shouldn't have pointed it out. You were handling it naturally."

"Naturally?" Anna's voice cracked. "I was flashing an entire bus!"

"And you weren't panicking. That's progress." Lena leaned closer. "In a few weeks, you won't even notice. The shame reflex fades when survival takes priority."

The bus shuddered to Anna's stop, brakes squealing. She pushed through the crowd, desperate to escape the lingering stares and whispered comments. She caught on the step as she disembarked, nearly sending her sprawling onto the sidewalk.

The bus pulled away with another hydraulic sigh, leaving Anna alone on the familiar street corner. Her building rose before her—ordinary brick and glass that now felt like a fortress. Safety lay just beyond those lobby doors.

She walked quickly, head down, acutely aware of how the evening light played across her exposed skin. The cropped shirt rode up with each step, requiring constant adjustment. Every passing car felt like a spotlight, every pedestrian a potential threat.

The lobby's air conditioning hit her like a wall, raising goosebumps across her arms and chest. Anna hurried to the elevator, jabbing the call button repeatedly until the doors opened with a soft chime.

Inside the blessed privacy of the ascending cabin, Anna caught her reflection in the polished steel doors. The woman staring back looked broken—hollow eyes, rumpled clothes, shoulders hunched in permanent defensiveness. The collar's green light pulsed steadily, a mechanical heartbeat counting down to her next required encounter.

The elevator dinged at her floor, doors sliding open to reveal the carpeted hallway. Home waited behind door —her sanctuary, her last refuge from the program's reach.

* * *

Anna stumbled into her apartment, tossed her keys onto the counter, and collapsed against the closed door. Her hands shook as she reached for her wristband, pulling up Megan's contact with trembling fingers.

"Need you. Please come."

She didn't elaborate—couldn't find the words to describe the day's humiliations. The message sent with a soft chime that sounded unnaturally cheerful against her ragged breathing.

Anna peeled herself away from the door and made her way to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger—flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, eyes too wide and bright. The collar's green light pulsed steadily against her throat, a constant reminder of her failure with David.

The memory washed over her—his gentle approach, the way he'd tried to make her comfortable, and then her body's violent rejection. The pain, the panic, the mortification as he'd backed away with concern etched across his features.

A knock at the door pulled her from the spiral. Megan didn't wait for a response, using her spare key to let herself in.

"Hey, I got your message and—" Megan froze, taking in Anna's appearance. "What happened?"

Anna crumpled onto the couch. "David happened. Or rather, didn't happen."

Understanding dawned on Megan's face as she sat beside her friend. "The program thing?"

"He was nice about it. Professional. But my body just—" Anna wrapped her arms around herself. "I couldn't. It felt like hitting a wall. The more I tried to relax, the worse it got."

"Vaginismus," Megan said gently.

Anna looked up. "You know about it?"

"My cousin had it after a bad relationship." Megan shifted closer. "It's not your fault, Anna. It's physical. Your muscles contract involuntarily."

"It's like my body betrayed me. Or protected me. I don't know." Anna pressed her palms against her eyes. "I just know I physically can't do what they're demanding. And that means prison."

"We'll figure something out," Megan promised. "Have you tried the relaxants they gave you?"

Anna's head snapped up. "The fertility channel. I forgot. I have to watch it for an hour tonight." She glanced at the clock. "I have those tablets they gave me. They take about thirty minutes to work."

"Let's approach this differently than yesterday," Megan suggested. "Maybe we need to gradually desensitize you to the public exposure aspect. Let's take your clothes off and sit down on the chair."

Anna swallowed two tablets with water while Megan moved to the windows, pulling the curtains wide open. The city lights sparkled against the darkening sky, thousands of potential observers just across the way.

"Megan—"

"You barely flinched this time," Megan noted. "That's progress."

Anna positioned herself in front of the screen, the medication gradually spreading warmth through her limbs as the National Fertility Channel flickered to life. A woman appeared, writhing in apparently genuine pleasure, her moans filling the apartment.

Anna’s fingers moved in practiced circles, her touch light but deliberate. The collar’s sensor flashed green as she tapped it—*attendance confirmed*. The rhythmic pressure built, her breath hitching just slightly.

Megan perched on the edge of the bed, watching the screen rather than Anna. On it, a laughing woman in a collar sprinted across sunlit grass, her bare feet kicking up dirt. A man chased her, his body lean and unashamedly erect. When he caught her, she collapsed onto the grass, legs spreading without hesitation. The camera zoomed in—her flushed face, her gasps, then the slow, deliberate thrust of his cock inside her. Bystanders on the path paused, grinning, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

The medication hummed through Anna’s veins, loosening the knot in her muscles. Her cheeks warmed, her touch growing less mechanical, more responsive. A quiet sound escaped her—something between a sigh and a whimper. The screen’s moans blended with her own shallow breathing, the scene’s shamelessness seeping into her bones.

Megan leaned in closer, her voice a warm murmur against the backdrop of the screen’s breathy gasps. *"Keep going,"* she encouraged, her fingers brushing lightly against Anna’s shoulder before she moved behind the chair. With gentle but firm pressure, she guided Anna’s legs apart, then lifted them one by one, positioning them over the armrests. *"Wider,"* she whispered, her palms settling over Anna’s thighs, pinning them in place. Anna stiffened at the sudden exposure, her breath catching—but she didn’t stop. Her fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, as if defiance could be found in obedience.

Megan didn’t pull away. Instead, she stayed close, her breath warm against Anna’s ear as she narrated the scene unfolding on the screen. *"See how she’s not even thinking about it?"* she murmured, nodding toward the woman on the grass, her legs wrapped around the man’s waist, her head thrown back in abandon. *"It’s just… what bodies do. No shame in it. No rules, no overthinking—just this."* Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle over Anna’s knee, grounding her.

The words, the heat of Megan’s presence, the relentless pulse of the medication—it all coiled tighter inside Anna. Her strokes lost their careful precision, growing rougher, needier. A flicker of wetness slicked her fingers as she pressed deeper, two slipping inside with a quiet, desperate sound. The chair creaked beneath her shifting weight, her hips lifting just slightly, chasing the friction. Megan’s grip on her thighs tightened, not to restrain, but to steady—*to keep her there, in it*—as Anna’s breath came faster, her body finally, reluctantly, beginning to respond in ways that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with hunger.

Megan’s voice dropped to a low, deliberate purr as she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Anna’s ear. *"Now for the next part,"* she murmured, her fingers lingering just a second longer on Anna’s thigh before pulling away—not far, just enough to let the cool air rush between them. *"Don’t you dare stop."* The command was soft, but unyielding, the kind that slithered under skin and settled in bone.

Anna’s fingers faltered for half a second, her wrist trembling as she forced herself to keep moving, to keep chasing the friction that was no longer just obligation but something sharper, something *wanted*. She didn’t see Megan slip the remote from the coffee table, didn’t notice the way her friend’s thumb hovered over the volume button—until the moment her own fingers pressed against her collar in automatic response to the flickering prompt on the screen.

Then the sound *exploded*.

The woman’s moans—raw, unfiltered, the wet slap of skin against skin—blasted through the speakers at full volume, so loud the vibrations hummed in Anna’s teeth. Her back arched involuntarily, a broken sound tearing from her throat as Megan’s hands clamped down on her thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. *"Keep. Going."* The words were a growl, almost lost beneath the obscene symphony filling the room. Anna’s hips jerked, her free hand flying to the armrest, knuckles white as she tried to ground herself, to *breathe*—but the air was thick with the scent of her own arousal, with the relentless, shameless sounds of the woman on screen begging for *more*.

Then the chair was moving.

Megan didn’t ask. She didn’t warn. She simply locked Anna’s legs open with a bruising grip and rolled the chair forward, wheels screeching against the floor until it crashed to a stop in the doorway. The door swung wide with a forceful shove, the hinges groaning as it slammed against the wall. Cold air from the hallway rushed in, carrying with it the sterile scent of the building’s disinfectant, the distant murmur of other tenants—none of it enough to drown out the *filth* pouring from the television, now broadcasting straight into the public space beyond.

*"Louder,"* Megan ordered, her voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade. *"Fuck yourself like you mean it, Anna. Let them hear you."* She didn’t just stand there. She *positioned* Anna—dragged her forward until her ass was half-off the seat, her spread legs framed by the doorway, her fingers buried between them, glistening. The fluorescent lights of the corridor spilled in, harsh and unflattering, illuminating every twitch of Anna’s thighs, every desperate roll of her hips.

And then Megan *yelled*.

*"Hey! Get out here!"* Her voice was a whip crack, ringing down the hallway, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. *"We’ve got a show for you!"* She didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care who came.

Anna burned.

The shame was a wildfire, licking up her spine, scorching her cheeks, her throat, her *everything*—but beneath it, deeper than she wanted to admit, was the heat of her own body betraying her, the slick slide of her fingers, the way her clit throbbed under the relentless circles she couldn’t stop making. The woman on screen screamed, a high, keening sound, and Anna’s own breath hitched in response, her muscles locking as the first real wave of pleasure crashed into her, so intense her vision whited out at the edges.

*"That’s it,"* Megan hissed, low and triumphant, just for her. *"Let go, you filthy girl."*

And Anna *did*.

Her orgasm tore through her with a violence that stole her breath, her back bowing off the chair as a broken, shuddering moan ripped from her lungs—loud enough to echo, loud enough to *compete* with the sounds still blaring from the TV. Her thighs trembled, her fingers stuttered, her entire body convulsing as the pleasure wrung her out, left her gasping, her skin slick with sweat, her collar flashing green in time with the erratic pounding of her heart.

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open.

Anna didn’t care.

She was too busy *coming*.

Megan closed the door with a soft click and helped Anna stumble from the chair to the bed, her legs still unsteady from the intensity of what had just happened. Anna collapsed onto the mattress, pulling a pillow over her flushed face.

"You're getting faster at it," Megan observed, settling beside her friend. "Yesterday took you nearly the full hour. Tonight was what, forty minutes?"

Anna peered out from behind the pillow. "Progress, I suppose."

"Real progress. Your body's learning to respond despite everything else going on up here." Megan tapped Anna's temple gently. "That's actually huge."

They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, the room finally quiet after the evening's chaos. Anna's breathing had returned to normal, though her skin still carried the flush of exertion and embarrassment.

"I can't believe you opened the door," Anna said eventually.

"You needed the push. Besides, Mrs. Patterson from 4C probably just thought someone was watching a particularly loud movie."

Anna snorted. "Right. A movie."

Her wristband chimed, the sound cutting through their easy conversation like a blade. Anna's stomach dropped as she read the message displayed on the small screen.

"Report to NROC tomorrow at 9 am. Your employer has been notified of your absence."

Megan leaned over to read the notification. "Another appointment already?"

"It's because of David," Anna said, her voice flat. "They know I couldn't go through with it. This is probably some kind of intervention or punishment."

"Hey." Megan caught Anna's chin, forcing eye contact. "Remember what happened last time? It wasn't as terrible as you expected."

Anna wanted to argue, to point out that terrible or not, each visit to NROC felt like another layer of her autonomy being stripped away. But Megan's optimism was a lifeline she couldn't afford to cut.

"Maybe they'll have more solutions," Megan continued. "Better medications, different approaches. You're not the first person to struggle with this."

"I know. It's just—" Anna gestured helplessly at her collar, still pulsing its steady green light. "Every time they call me in, I feel like I'm failing some test I never agreed to take."

Megan squeezed her hand. "You're surviving. That's not failure."

They talked for another twenty minutes about work, about Megan's latest dating disaster, about anything except tomorrow's appointment. When Megan finally headed upstairs to her own apartment, Anna settled under her covers, staring at the ceiling.

The collar's light continued its rhythmic pulse in the darkness, a mechanical heartbeat counting down to morning.