Shepherd Law

[trio]

Teaser: The new state doctrine was enshrined in the "Shepherd Law," mandating that every woman must be under the legal guardianship of a man. Young, unmarried women were placed under the authority of their fathers, grandfathers, or uncles. Married women were controlled by their husbands. Any woman found "unattached" for longer than a designated period would have a Shepherd assigned to her by the state, a swift, uncompromising means of erasing female independence.
-------------------------------------------------------------

The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.

-------------------------------------------------------------


Index:

• Chapter 1: Women’s Fates Under the Law
• Chapter 2: The New Reality

-------------------------------------------------------------

Title: Shepherd Law
Author: Trio

-------------------------------------------------------------

Shepherd Law

Women’s Fates Under the Law

The powerful nation, known globally for its recent and rapid shift to the farthest right extreme of the political spectrum, presented a façade of immense order and tradition. Its vast capital was dominated by monumental architecture and broad avenues, projecting an unyielding sense of scale and institutional power.

Public life was noticeably quiet, defined by established protocols and a deference to authority that left little room for dissent or casual interaction. Here, rigid social rules governed behaviour, applied differently according to gender and social standing, cementing the principle that order was paramount, and freedom was a privilege earned through compliance.

The shift in governance was most profoundly felt in the lives of women, whose autonomy had been systematically dismantled and replaced by obligation.

The new state doctrine was enshrined in the "Shepherd Law," mandating that every woman must be under the legal guardianship of a man. Young, unmarried women were placed under the authority of their fathers, grandfathers, or uncles. Married women were controlled by their husbands. Any woman found "unattached" for longer than a designated period would have a Shepherd assigned to her by the state, a swift, uncompromising means of erasing female independence.

The Shepherd was granted special legal dispensation to maintain comprehensive control over his ward. In a strange, cold twist of the law, male homosexuality was permitted, while all forms of female or bisexual identity were explicitly outlawed and treated as criminal aberrations. Furthermore, while women retained the symbolic right to vote, that vote was conditional, requiring verification and co-signature by her Shepherd to be valid. These were the boundaries of the new state.

—

Amy Sterling, a reporter for the Global Press Exchange, was accustomed to scrutiny. At twenty-eight, her striking athletic build, green eyes, and bright blonde hair, a legacy of her brief but high-profile past as a swimsuit model, often preceded her, but she preferred to be defined by her sharp intellect and tenacity.

She felt the palpable weight of the country’s transformation the moment the plane doors opened. The customs hall was segregated, dividing men from women, and the lines moved with the measured pace of a ritual. After the intense scrutiny of her passport by several male officers, she was directed not to the general exit, but to a small, windowless conference room paneled in dark wood. Inside, a young man in a stiff suit, Mr. Alistair Rourke, a junior attaché from her embassy, was waiting.

Rourke stood beside a small table where a document, printed with the nation’s official seal, lay waiting. He offered no apology or explanation, merely a tired, practiced instruction. He gestured to the page. “Ms. Sterling,” he said quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on the table. “Just sign at the bottom and hand me your passport.” The document was titled: Temporary International Shepherd Mandate.

Amy didn't move. She kept her grip tight on the green booklet, a physical anchor to her identity. "I understand the necessity of diplomatic protocol, Mr. Rourke, but this document grants 'custodial and supervisory authority.' I will not sign away my professional autonomy or my rights as a citizen of a foreign power. This is absurd."

Rourke, still looking down, sighed, the sound thin and brittle, and finally met her green eyes with a flicker of panic in his own. "This is not a debate, Ms. Sterling. It is the law. The local authorities are extremely efficient in enforcing their civic statutes, even against foreign nationals. You sign, you enter the country under the protective umbrella of our embassy's designation. You refuse, and you are deemed non-compliant and immediately deported." He pushed the document closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "They don't put you on a commercial flight back home. They put you on a cargo manifest."

The phrase struck her like a physical blow, validating the terrifying, unsubstantiated rumours she had chased before leaving home. She thought of the hushed up story of a former colleague's interview subject who had vanished; the fragmented whispers of foreign women who refused Shepherdship and were loaded into sealed cargo containers.

The dark speculation that followed; screams on the ships, containers deliberately dropped into the ocean, a limited number ever reaching their destination, flashed through her mind, confirming the unthinkable high stakes. Amy's hand trembled slightly as she looked from the pen, to the mandate, and back to her passport. Survival demanded a signature. With a deep, internal sigh of defeat, she picked up the pen and scrawled her name across the bottom line.

Rourke wasted no time. He snatched the pen, swiftly added his own signature beneath hers, and pulled the passport from her shaking hands. Before she could react, his free hand clamped something around her right wrist. The metal was cool, and with a clean, chilling click, a slender, dark bracelet snapped into place. “This is a state-issued tracker,” Rourke explained, his voice flatly official. “The embedded number clearly links you to me as your assigned Shepherd. You are not permitted to travel within the nation without my direct escort, or the escort of an individual I explicitly authorise. Do not remove it.” He then gripped her elbow with surprising firmness and guided her out of the room.

—

The main terminal was a deafening contrast to the quiet office, dominated by the resonant bass of male voices. They navigated a landscape dotted with groups of foreign travelers. It was immediately apparent which men were Shepherds: they spoke confidently with airport officials while their wives or girlfriends clustered nearby. Smiling, chatting amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to the seismic erosion of their own rights.

Amy watched their easy laughter and close proximity, realising that while these women were physically present and accounted for, their legal presence was entirely dependent on the men they stood beside. They seemed comfortable, babbling and smiling, standing close to the men who spoke to officials, some of whom eyed their women with strange, proprietary smiles.

Rourke led her to a waiting diplomatic vehicle which whisked them through the capital's sterile, imposing avenues to her accommodations: a five-star hotel reserved for international visitors. She was given a suite, payed for by her agency. The suite spacious and opulent, located on a floor designated for solo female travelers. The receptionist stressed the security features: heavy, reinforced doors and complex locking mechanisms. Amy noted the chilling detail: the handles allowed locking from the outside only. She recognised the luxurious room for what it was; a comfortable, temporary prison cell.

—

While Amy Sterling struggled within the confines of her luxurious prison, the Shepherd Law was already deeply entrenched, crushing the lives of domestic citizens in myriad, often deeply personal, ways. The state’s efficiency in assigning guardianship left no space for ambiguity, turning every woman’s life into a controlled equation where the male factor was paramount.

—

Beverly, a recent college graduate with a razor-sharp intellect, had poured her life into securing a policy position working for a powerful Senator. She was an orphan, single, and financially independent; the very definition of unattached. The state, interpreting her lack of immediate male kin as a vulnerability that required swift remediation, intervened within weeks of the law’s enforcement. She had fully expected a low-level bureaucratic clerk to be assigned as her guardian.

Instead, a certified letter arrived at her apartment, bearing the Senator’s seal. To maintain political continuity and ensure his brightest staffer remained compliant and focused, Senator Ryland himself had claimed her Shepherd-ship. The arrangement was a symbiotic nightmare: Ryland gained an asset whose loyalty was now legally enforced, and Beverly gained a Shepherd who could destroy her career with a single word. Her work now required twice the output, all documentation needed his countersignature, and her access to public records, and even her home, could be revoked instantly. She was no longer a valued staffer; she was a prized, high-functioning piece of the Senator’s machinery. Her ambition had become the very mechanism of her subjugation. And she knew he had his eyes on her from the first day she entered his office.

—

Zoe was forty-three, a respected professor of philosophy at the city’s largest university. Her life had been carefully constructed around her professional career and the privacy of her identity as a gay woman, a life made instantly criminal by the new laws. She had divorced her husband, Mark, ten years prior, and had maintained a careful distance from him, a man whose only skill seemed to be carpentry and whose spite for her intellectual life ran deep.

When the Shepherd Law was enacted, the state’s kinship bureaucracy dug into her past. Mark, recently remarried to Zoe's younger stepsister, was designated the nearest "capable" male relative. The irony was a suffocating layer of legal torment. Her ex-husband, a man she actively despised, was now her legal protector, given special dispensation to control the movements and finances of the brilliant professor. Mark relished his new role, using his authority not for actual protection, but for petty torment. He routinely blocked her research access, demanded to review her lecture notes for "subversive content," and had the legal right to enter her apartment at any time. The cruelest joke was that the man who hated her had become the state’s instrument for ensuring she remained strictly hetero-compliant and obedient.

—

Karen was a prodigy, the youngest Homicide Police Commissioner in the nation’s history, and she fought the new political reality with the unwavering conviction of a woman who believed in the rule of just law. When the District Attorney, a pompous political climber who had long resented her success, presented the documents claiming her Shepherd-ship, Karen did not sign. She did not negotiate.

She reacted with the only tool she had left: physical force. She punched the District Attorney, her would-be Shepherd, squarely in the face, shattering his nose and the illusion that the transition of power would be entirely smooth. Hitting a Shepherd, or one designated to become one, was classified as a "Crime Against the State." It was an act of open rebellion, and the regime could not allow it to be ignored.

Karen was immediately arrested, stripped of her rank, and held in a high-security facility. Unlike the many other women who had disappeared after initial defiance, Karen’s public profile demanded an official, exemplary response. She now awaited sentencing, a pawn in a larger political game. Prominent politicians had been discussing the revival of public punishments, some proposals even included physical chastisement like flogging. Though these measures were not yet law, Karen knew she was standing at the precipice, about to become the state’s first, televised victim of the Shepherd Law’s full, merciless power.

—

Amy was in her gilded cage, monitoring the state-controlled news channel on the suite’s large, polished television, the satellite transceiver humming quietly on the windowsill. The broadcast was fronted by a meticulously groomed female anchor who spoke with the cold, measured cadence of state decree. The air of sterile authority only made the content of her announcement more chilling. Amy, along with the three other women across the city, watched in horrified clarity as the final pillars of female autonomy collapsed.

The anchor announced a new ruling from the highest judicial council, framed as an economic initiative: Shepherdship was now a publicly tradable asset.

“Effective immediately,” the anchor stated, her eyes dead, “the legal guardianship of any woman over the age of twenty may be transferred, bought, or sold amongst any man eighteen years of age or older. This measure strengthens the individual responsibility of the Shepherd and injects essential liquidity into the family structure.” A single, necessary exception was noted: the Shepherdship of women under twenty must remain strictly within the assigned Shepherd's line, ensuring the continuity of parental or kinship responsibility.

The four women, Amy, Beverly, Zoe, and Karen, knew exactly what this meant. This turned any woman into a plain commodity. A woman was no longer merely property of a man; she was a negotiable contract, a bond that could be weaponised, leveraged, or sold for profit or spite.

—

The next news segment sealed the deal, validating their deepest fears. The anchor transitioned to a legal report: a Shepherd who had been briefly detained for the severe physical assault of his ward had been released without charge. The presiding judge's ruling was delivered with gravity: the law grants a Shepherd all rights he deems necessary to ensure his ward’s obedience. His actions, though violent, were ruled to be fully within the special dispensation provided to maintain control and order, negating any claim of criminal assault.

A wave of retrospective despair washed over the women as the full, inevitable trajectory of the nation’s political turn came into focus.

—

Amy, trapped in the luxury hotel, felt a sickening validation of her assignment. The horror stories she chased were not anomalies; they were now legally sanctioned procedure. She looked down at the tracker bracelet, a piece of tradable property now locked onto her wrist.

Beverly, sitting quietly in the Senator’s opulent office annex, felt the walls of her ambition crush her. She remembered arguing with college friends, dismissing their panic over the rhetoric of the rising party, believing her professional value would protect her. Now, she realised, she was Ryland’s collateral, ready to be sold to the highest bidder if he deemed her current utility too low.

Zoe, confined to her apartment while Mark, her ex-husband and Shepherd, was out, sank onto her sofa. The bitterness was overwhelming. She remembered the debates over the anti-abortion law that had been the first major blow. Highly religious women, the party's initial core supporters, had celebrated, convinced their faith was finally law. They couldn't see the true end game: no woman was allowed an abortion, even in cases of rape, incest, or medical necessity. The final, crushing stipulation of the Shepherd Law; that the man who impregnated a woman gained sole Shepherdship over her. It was the final, predatory stroke, forcing victims into perpetual subjugation under their abusers.

Karen, waiting in the cold silence of her prison cell, clenched her fists. She had warned them all. She had screamed at colleagues to look at the leader's past. His well-documented history of rape and abuse that his power had shielded him from. They dismissed it as old news, smear campaigns, or "private matters." The women, even the educated ones, had voted for the promise of order and traditional values, ignoring the clear, foundational misogyny. Now, as the law explicitly sanctioned assault and commoditisation of women, Karen knew her impending public punishment was not just a deterrent; it was the final, inevitable demonstration of the regime’s power: absolute, total, and legally clean.

—

Amy’s shoulders slumped. She should have listened to her mother, who had begged her to stay home, to let others chase this darkness. But the need for confirmation, for undeniable proof, had driven her here. She now had her article ready, lacking complete verification but holding the undeniable truth she had just witnessed: they hadn't just taken rights; they had effectively brought back slavery, and women were the new capital. She knew global politicians were watching this model closely, keen to enforce similar laws in their own countries.

The news had to get out. Women needed to unite, and she knew a large group of men would also fight these laws. Rereading the article two times, she was searching for a title that would capture the full scope of the horror when she stepped out of the bathroom, having splashed cold water on her face.

The room door burst open with a crash. Several men in black camouflage, armed and silent, flooded the suite, weapons drawn and aimed at her. Rourke stepped through the doorway behind them, his face devoid of the politeness he had shown at the airport, replaced by cold, calculating anger.

"Destroy the device and the laptop. Remove all her possessions and leave," Rourke commanded the black-clad men, never taking his eyes off Amy. The men moved with brutal efficiency, shattering the transceiver and seizing her laptop and bag. Amy stared, wide-eyed, as two of the men grabbed her, pinning her arms while a gloved hand covered her mouth, stifling her gasp.

Rourke took two steps closer, his gaze sweeping over her terrified face and athletic form. “I said all her possessions,” he stated, his voice a low, chilling rasp of absolute power. “Strip her naked.”

The men did as they were told, stripping Amy completely. An inflatable gag was then forced into her mouth, the rigid piece of plastic clicking into a harness fixed around her head with a mechanism identical to the wrist bracelet. She knew from her earlier, desperate attempts to remove the tracker that this was permanent unless Rourke willed it. A small hand pump, produced by one of the guards, was used to inflate the gag until her entire mouth was painfully filled, ensuring absolute silence. The men stepped back, leaving Amy standing naked, restrained only by the tracker on her wrist, vulnerable, and utterly defeated.

"Do you want to destroy me?" Rourke asked her, his expression a mixture of feigned hurt and true frustration. "You do know you are my responsibility." He walked over to the silk-covered bed and pressed a hidden panel on the headboard, revealing two small compartments. Amy saw him pull out leather restraints. She tried to bolt for the door, but the camouflaged man closest to her was on her in a second, dragging her back to the bed.

"I need to restrain you, so you do not hurt yourself," Rourke said, his face stern. Leather wrist restraints connected to thin metal wires were fastened around her wrists. Similar ankle restraints were pulled from a panel at the bottom of the bed and secured. Rourke gently placed Amy on the silk sheets. He pressed a button, and slowly, silently, the wires began to pull back, locking Amy securely and spread-eagled onto the bed. He pulled the heavy, luxurious covers over her naked body, tucking them around her shoulders and feet.

Rourke stood, the picture of a man burdened by duty. "I need to go and talk to authorities. They are ready to charge me for your crimes, for trying to undermine the state's security. I hope you are happy with the trouble you've caused." With that, he left the room, locking the heavy door behind him, leaving Amy immobilised, silenced, and alone in the opulent cell.



End of chapter 1
-------------------------------------------------------------

Open to suggestions ... what will happen with the four women in the story? What will happen with society?

[SoftGameHunter]

You've got my attention. This looks like the start of a long one. Was it a NaNoWriMo project, or is the timing just coincidental?

I'm most curious about Rourke. He must be on the take somehow, since as a foreigner and an embassy official, he would normally be working to minimize Amy's difficulties, or at least not add to them. This could get interesting, because even if he's intent on throwing her to the wolves of this unnamed country, as a public figure it seems like her vanishing would create an international incident.

Beverly, Zoe, and Karen seem a lot more doomed, unless the story ends with the four of them together trying to get across the border and out of there. And if they do make it, I have a feeling that the unnamed country's neighbors will suddenly have an unforgiving anti-refuge policy in place.

Point for a strong start. More may follow.

[RapeU]

You'll have to be careful to not jump back and forth between the four women too much. I think the best thing to do is make a chapter of events for one woman then switch characters for the next chapter. You've got the potential for cliffhangers here.

Depending on where you want this to go, the four women could be part of a rescue by a group of resistance fighters in a Star Wars kind of tale, only without the traveling through space and the Force part. Or you could have it that the regime brutally oppresses all of the women in a dystopian nightmare that they can't escape no matter how hard they try. Lots of ways this could go. Promising start.

[trio]

I have an outline of what is going to happen. I even have the last chapter written (probably it will get edited a lot before we come to that). I know where I want the story to go in the end.

I haven't decided about Rourke in the end, but he is a cog in a bigger machine. He is not who he seems, I can already tell you that.

The other women are all part of the bigger plot. I need them to evolve the story. Again, I know where I want them to go, but now yet how I am going to get them there.

I hope to finish the next chapter soon. I still need to finish another paper first. Maybe later today or at the end of the weekend.

Let me know if you have any ideas.

You've got my attention. This looks like the start of a long one. Was it a NaNoWriMo project, or is the timing just coincidental?

I'm most curious about Rourke. He must be on the take somehow, since as a foreigner and an embassy official, he would normally be working to minimize Amy's difficulties, or at least not add to them. This could get interesting, because even if he's intent on throwing her to the wolves of this unnamed country, as a public figure it seems like her vanishing would create an international incident.

Beverly, Zoe, and Karen seem a lot more doomed, unless the story ends with the four of them together trying to get across the border and out of there. And if they do make it, I have a feeling that the unnamed country's neighbors will suddenly have an unforgiving anti-refuge policy in place.

Point for a strong start. More may follow.

[trio]

Thank you for your feedback. I need to evolve the story of the four women towards the conclusion, but I agree, I need to be careful not to make it to complex for the reader.

You'll have to be careful to not jump back and forth between the four women too much. I think the best thing to do is make a chapter of events for one woman then switch characters for the next chapter. You've got the potential for cliffhangers here.

Depending on where you want this to go, the four women could be part of a rescue by a group of resistance fighters in a Star Wars kind of tale, only without the traveling through space and the Force part. Or you could have it that the regime brutally oppresses all of the women in a dystopian nightmare that they can't escape no matter how hard they try. Lots of ways this could go. Promising start.

[trio]

Chapter 2: The New Reality

Rourke returned many hours later. The suite was quiet and dark save for the ambient light filtering from the windows. Amy, still bound and naked beneath the sheets, was fighting the panic that clawed at her throat when she saw him enter the room, the inflatable gag a suffocating presence.

Without a word, Rourke began to undress. Amy's heart hammered against her ribs, her terror escalating as he slipped under the covers beside her. He manoeuvred himself over her. Amy tried to thrash, a muffled sound of pure panic escaping the tight seal of the inflatable gag, but the leather restraints held her fast.

The weight of him settled between her thighs. His teeth grazed along her throat, sharp and deliberate, and then he licked a slow path up the column of her neck. He inhaled deeply against her skin, as though savouring the scent of her fear.

His fingers moved with deliberate precision, tracing the curve of her hip before sliding upward. The touch wasn't rough, if anything, it was almost clinical, as if he were inspecting her rather than caressing her. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, lingering just long enough for her to feel the heat of his skin before moving higher. His breath hitched slightly as he cupped her breast fully, kneading the soft flesh with slow, practiced motions.

Slowly licking her nipple, he curled his tongue against the bud with just enough pressure to make her hips buck beneath him, the involuntary response moving him forward. His fingers continued their methodical exploration down her belly, pausing at the dip of her navel before spreading wide across the soft plane of her abdomen. Every inch of her skin prickled under his touch, goosebumps rising in their wake, betraying the way her body reacted despite the fear choking her breath.

He entered her gently, his movements hesitant, almost mechanical, while Amy was consumed by a desperate, silent fear. He leaned close to her ear and began to whisper, his voice low and urgent, overriding the panic with a cold dose of critical information.

“Listen to me,” he instructed, his breath hot against her skin. “This suite, like all the rooms on this floor, is bugged. Every sound, every movement. That bracelet on your wrist, it monitors your biometric data: heart rate, temperature, stress levels. They are watching for deviation from the norm.” He shifted, his movements becoming more frantic, his pounding still gentle, but more firm. “This is a performance, Amy. I need them to see that I am in control, that I am exercising my rights. I need them to believe in the performance of a man with his ward.” He paused, his voice dropping to a near-silent confession. “I am gay, Amy. I have been fighting this system for my own survival. This is not for me. I will pull out before the end, Amy. I promise you that much. I will fake my release. This is to keep us both alive.”

The non-consensual act continued, the horror compounded by his chilling explanation, which Amy had no way of verifying as truth or calculated lie. “A non-compliant ward is a liability, and I will lose my life and my career if I fail to bring you into compliance.” He still had his hard dick in her, fucking her, gently, almost lovingly. But she had not consented, and that was what should mattered the most.

His breathing increased, his thrusts growing erratic, the performance reaching its crescendo. Amy braced herself, every muscle locked in terror, but then... nothing. No warmth, no spill, no shuddering release. Just the weight of him pressing down, the damp heat of his skin against hers, his breath ragged in her ear. He groaned, a sound too deliberate, too practiced, and then went still.

He pulled out, collapsing beside her, the violation complete but the promise of his initial restraint kept. Immediately, the performance changed. He rolled away and started berating her, his voice rough and loud enough for the hidden microphones to pick up. “You ungrateful slut! You almost cost me my job, my life! Do you understand the authority I wield? The risk you put me under?”

—

Amy’s mind was a frantic scramble of confusion and agony. Was his fear real, or just another layer of his control?

He sat up and grabbed the remote, switching on the massive television. Amy watched in numb disbelief as she herself appeared on her former news network. It was an avatar, a digital body double wearing her signature field clothes, with her own face digitally superimposed. The figure, using a synthetic voice uncannily like hers, reported on the stability and security of this powerful nation. The feed was interlaced with segments of a panel discussion, exclusively women, gushing over how peaceful society had become under the Shepherd Law.

The women on the panel, impeccably styled and smiling, spoke about their gratitude. One enthusiastically claimed, “It’s safe again for women to walk the streets at night! The streets are policed, sexual violence against women is down dramatically, and we finally feel protected. We are cared for.” Another added, “The order this brings to our family structures is undeniable. It’s better for everyone. We know where we stand, and the men have clear boundaries.” Amy felt the last shield of her professional pride shatter, tears streaming from her green eyes, instantly absorbed by the inflatable gag. She was being used to undermine the very freedom she had risked her life to defend, a pawn in a global political game.

The sound of Rourke’s cell phone ringing broke the spell. He listened for a moment, his expression tightening, then spoke into the receiver with a clipped, professional tone. “Understood … Yes, I'll ensure … Yes sir …. More convincing … No sir, I understand!”

He ended the call and pulled the covers off Amy’s naked body. Her mind screamed as he adjusted the lighting slightly, making the luxurious silk sheets and her restrained form starkly visible. “Sorry, they need a better performance from me, Amy,” he whispered in her ear.

Then, in a voice loud enough for the microphones, he snarled, “You think tears will save you?” He moved back over her, positioning his dick with cold precision at her entrance, no hesitation, no gentleness this time. He entered her again, this time with brutality, moving with deliberate force. The tears rolled down Amy's cheeks, a silent, desperate collapse. The whimpering sound that escaped her gag was lost beneath the rhythmic squeak of the bed.

His hips snapped forward with calculated violence, each thrust driving the breath from Amy's lungs in ragged, muffled whimpers. The bedframe groaned under the assault, the sound of slapping skin obscenely loud in the otherwise silent suite. Rourke's fingers dug into the meat of her thighs, leaving angry red crescents in their wake. His breathing was steady, controlled, but his eyes betrayed something darker: a flicker of genuine distress beneath the performance.

No possibility to kiss, his lips found her nipple instead, sharp, deliberate, the bite just shy of breaking skin. Amy arched against the restraints, a silent scream trapped behind the gag as the pain radiated outward, mixing with the relentless pounding of his hips. Then, impossibly, she felt him grow even harder inside her, his body tensing like a wire pulled too tight.

She felt him spill, hot and sudden, releasing his seed deep inside of her, violating the one assurance he had given her. She broke down, a silent, internal scream of despair, lying limp and utterly destroyed beneath him. His breath came in ragged spurts against her cheek before he whispered, "I am so sorry, but you coming here just ruined me,” the words barely audible.

After a long silence, Rourke slowly caught his breath and rolled off. He released her from her bindings and took her into the lavish bathroom and gently washed her body, paying meticulous attention to removing all traces of the act, his touch strangely formal. When they returned, the rumpled silk sheets had been replaced with fresh ones, and a tray had been delivered. Amy just let it happen.

He seated her on the edge of the bed. He reached up and pressed a release button on the gag, allowing it to instantly deflate. As the gag softened, Amy took a ragged, whimpering breath, her throat raw from silence. He picked up a glass and held a straw to her mouth. She struggled, the gag still inhibiting her ability to swallow easily, but she managed to slowly sip the liquid nutrient solution through the straw. Once the glass was empty, he inflated the gag again, and the plastic instantly expanded, sealing her silence once more. He then placed her back on the clean sheets and quickly fastened the leather restraints.

Amy barely had time to process the brief respite before she felt the bed shift beneath her. The restraints extended outward, pulling her limbs taut to the four corners of the bed. The leather creaked as it tightened, stretching her body gain into a perfect X. Leaving her spread-eagled again on the bed.

Rourke pulled the sheets up to her neck and left the room, locking the door and sealing her back into the silent, terrifying routine of her subjugation.

—

The next morning, the door opened to the sight of Rourke and another man, Peter James. Amy's immediate, violent surge of nausea confirmed the man's identity. Peter James, her editor, was a man Amy hated. In her eyes he was a fat, slimy bastard, a man she knew had always longed for her, his possessive gaze and subtle comments hidden behind a veneer of professional mentorship. Now, he stood there, impeccably dressed and radiating a self-satisfied, predatory confidence.

Amy, still naked and restrained on the bed, felt a consuming wave of terror mixed with deep, sick humiliation. She thrashed against the restraints, her eyes wide with a desperate panic that betrayed her effort to remain defiant. Rourke pulled away the sheets, presenting Amy's naked body to his guest.

James glanced at her briefly, his lips curling into a cruel smirk before turning to Rourke.

"Alistair, I'm disappointed you couldn't finalise the transfer of the wardship," James said, his voice carrying the entitled impatience of a man used to getting his way. "We both know how useful she'd be under my direct control."

Rourke shook his head stiffly. "It's complicated, Peter. Diplomatic law interferes with domestic asset trading. However, as promised, I can legally authorise you to exercise all the rights of my Shepherdship within the confines of this city. Just remember: I remain legally and criminally responsible for her compliance. Anything that breaks the law falls back on me."

James smiled, a chilling expression that confirmed every terrible thing Rourke had told her. He stepped closer to the bed, ignoring Rourke’s legal posturing, and looked down at Amy, mocking her with his words.

“Look at you, Amy. The great international reporter, reduced to a trembling, compliant asset,” James sneered. “You should have listened to me when I told you how the world works. But no, you had to chase the truth. Well, here it is.”

“We need a few more on-the-ground segments,” he continued, his tone patronising. “They can’t rely entirely on digital trickery. You need to record some short pieces, show your ‘happy cooperation.’ I promise I won’t really hurt you, as long as you perform within the boundaries of the laws of this country. No resistance. We need a perfect, compliant performance.”

Amy knew exactly what he meant. The legal boundaries of this country now encompassed Rourke’s actions the previous night, and James was making it clear that her compliance with his demand was the only currency she had left.

Rourke, satisfied with the arrangement, excused himself for a meeting, leaving James alone with his former star reporter. James didn't wait long. He walked over to the internal bedroom door and double-checked the lock, then turned back to the bed. A vile anticipation glittered in his eyes as he slowly began to unfasten his belt, deliberately staring into Amy's wide, frightened eyes.

—

The walls of Zoe’s loft apartment felt thicker than concrete, yet they offered no privacy. Every relic of her former life, from the priceless first-edition books inherited from her mother to the worn leather armchair in her study, the very space where she had published her groundbreaking work in contemporary Philosophy. It now all was Mark’s property and his to control. The financial devolution had been swift and absolute, confirming Zoe's worst fears of Mark’s petty, systemic revenge.

Zoe's wealth was her inheritance; her mother, rich and powerful in her own right, had left everything to Zoe. However, when her mother died, Zoe’s father retained guardianship until her eighteenth birthday. He immediately married a blatant money-grabber, who wasted no time getting pregnant, resulting in Zoe’s stepsister. Zoe went to college, desperate to create a life free of her controlling father and his gold-digging new family. They were too busy spending her money. It was during this time she fell for Mark, a strong carpenter whose physical presence and grounded nature she mistook for stability and love. She married him right after she had obtained her PhD, primarily to escape the claustrophobic control of her father.

Mark quickly revealed himself to be a profoundly controlling husband who wanted his women compliant and available. Zoe, realising her mistake, began actively fighting against his increasing possessiveness. She knew, he hated that she was smarter than him and she buried herself in her research. The time she spent with Mark was not always bad, but she always had the feeling he had other women on the side. It was a detail Zoe only discovered later, but at Zoe and Mark’s wedding, her stepsister caught the bouquet, while his seed was still dripping out of her pussy.

Zoe learned the truth only after she filed for divorce. Mark had been discreetly screwing her stepsister for years, long before the wedding bouquet toss. The worst part wasn't the betrayal, but the calculation behind it. Two months post-divorce, Mark stood at the altar again, this time with his sister-in-law.

Mark, like all Shepherds, had legally pulled all of Zoe’s substantial assets and financial positions into his name, leaving Zoe utterly destitute and without legal standing to earn or possess anything. Her status as a celebrated university professor was now reduced to that of a monitored asset, something capable of generating intellectual capital but stripped of all autonomy.

Mark had perfected a routine of psychological torment that blended seamlessly with the legal allowances of the Shepherd Law. Since public physical assault was now a risky crime; even for Shepherds, given the strict-but-selective law enforcement. Mark had switched to a more subtle, yet excruciating form of control, often involving her sister.

The man she had fallen for was no more, and this monster had taken his place. He had become an insatiable man, ready to fuck all hours of the day. That was the first thing Zoe had learned, or rather, been forced to accept, after the Shepherd Law stripped her of everything but her body. And even that wasn’t truly hers anymore. Mark had taken her ass first, brutal and unrelenting, while her stepsister rode her face, her soaking wet cunt smothering Zoe’s screams. The humiliation had been worse than the pain, though not by much.

Those first few weeks had rewritten Zoe's understanding of pain and degradation. Mark didn't just fuck her, he experimented, unlocking every depraved fantasy his wife had denied him. Zoe became his private doll, her body a canvas for his darkest whims. The way he'd tap her cheek with his cock before sliding it between her lips, watching her gag reflex fight against the intrusion, became as routine as morning coffee. Her stepsister would sprawl lazily on the sofa, filing her nails while Zoe choked, occasionally grinning when a particularly wet cough escaped Zoe's stuffed mouth. Waiting for Zoe to clean her waiting pussy next. A new routine was born.

—

Zoe was often required to give her scheduled lectures via a remote video link from her apartment, a concession granted only because her expertise was still deemed valuable by the few remaining academic institutions. Mark loved to exert his power.

One of his preferred methods involved a small, powerful vibrating egg that he would force inside of her before the start of a lecture. As she discussed complex abstract philosophical concepts, Mark would sit silently in the apartment, watching her, his hand resting on the sleek remote control. Zoe would struggle to maintain her composure, her voice remaining steady as she endured waves of intense, involuntary reaction designed to shatter her focus.

Her body betrayed her with alarming efficiency, slick with arousal she couldn't suppress, no matter how much she loathed the stimulation. The egg’s relentless vibrations forced her thighs to press together, her core tightening in a futile effort to contain it, to keep it from pushing her toward the edge. Sweat beaded along her hairline as she fought the tremble in her fingers, gripping the edge of her desk with white-knuckled desperation. Every breath was a battle, measured inhales, controlled exhales, anything to keep from panting, from revealing the degradation playing out beneath her professional facade.

Mark had promised her a severe, punishment, or perhaps a transfer to a lesser Shepherd in the open market, if her struggle was ever visible on camera. She was constantly on the razor’s edge of exposure and collapse, her intellectual pride the only thing holding her terror in check.

One afternoon, while reviewing her scheduled correspondence within the university's servers, she noticed a subtle, recurring anomaly in her normal message traffic. Deep within a routine academic email, Zoe recognised the faint, hidden patterns of a cypher, a system often taught in advanced linguistics courses as a historical curiosity. Her mother had taught her this cypher years ago as a private, unbreakable code for communicating secrets away from her father. Crucially, the encrypted beacon messages were not one, but two distinct communications, each from an unknown, separate source. Hopefully indicating a fractured but active resistance network. This discovery heightened both her hope and her caution.

To initiate contact without exposing the first two messages, Zoe used the same cypher mechanism on a highly public, monitored server under the alias "Hypatia," the name of the famed ancient female philosopher. She had not yet received a reply, but the message was out there, a lifeline cast into the oppressive dark.

She almost broke several times, but she found a new strength when she had seen the hidden messages. The thoughts of it kept her mind busy when Mark pushed his dick deep inside of her. Mark liked to fuck her hard punishing her intellect with his cock, forcing her to acknowledge his dominance over her body and mind. He would tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze as he buried himself to the hilt, watching for any flicker of defiance. But Zoe had learned. She didn't fight anymore. She let her hips roll against his, feigning submission, while inside, her mind raced through cypher permutations, tracing the contours of the hidden messages like a scholar decoding ancient text.

—

Meanwhile, in the center of political power, Beverly observed the grim realities of her situation.

Under the strict interpretation of the Shepherd Law, a man was typically limited to one adult ward, aged 20 or over, under standard licensing. However, the law allowed him to have a maximum of five wards under the age of 20, usually dependents or wards inherited from a prior arrangement.

A special provision existed for men who could demonstrate exceptional financial support capabilities, allowing them to register a second adult ward, provided they held no wards under the age of 20. The ability to claim the absolute legal maximum of five adult wards was restricted only to the wealthiest and most influential Shepherds, like Senator Ryland, who could prove they possessed the financial and social capital to maintain such a large "asset portfolio." This tiered system effectively cemented the hierarchy of power, preventing widespread ward ownership among the general public.

During the first few days of the law's introduction, some men mistakenly believed it was a "free-for-all," thinking they could engage in sexual acts with women without any limitation or consequence. This chaotic, public attempt to claim or "take" wards immediately and indiscriminately was quickly halted by the government, which imposed the current strict registration and quota system to maintain the veneer of order and control and prevent the law from being visibly undermined by widespread public violence.

Beverly, reading the statute, noted the critical, dangerous age gap: Sexual acts with anyone younger than eighteen, regardless of gender or the perpetrator's age, were strictly forbidden and carried severe penalties. Yet, women between the ages of eighteen and twenty, while often still legally considered "underage" in other aspects, were explicitly deemed available to their Shepherd for all mandatory duties, including sexual acts, immediately upon their 18th birthday. This loophole exposed women in that age bracket to immediate exploitation, confirming the Shepherd Law's true purpose was not protection, but something much darker.

Senator Ryland, next to his ailing wife who had retired from public life years ago, maintained his four adult wards:

Beverly, his indispensable political operative;
Dana, his mistress for the last 15 years or so, twenty-five years his junior;
Sophie, a young intern taken from a colleague and repurposed as his personal delivery ward, running errands all day;
Sandra, the older widow of his former financial backer, whose substantial wealth Ryland needed for his next campaign, and whom he treated with cool, transactional respect.

Beverly saw the constant, casual exchange of women as assets, far beyond the official trading market. Ryland kept her busy, often working her from morning until late in the evening. He rarely touched her in a brutal way, but his dominance was a constant, insidious physical presence. When passing her in the tight confines of the office, he would deliberately brush his hand against her ass, a quick, dismissive gesture. During high-level meetings, as he spoke, he loved to place his hand on her knee, softly moving it upward, grazing the top of her thigh, and then back, always with a practiced, politician’s smile on his face, a look that said, You should expect something more soon.

One morning, Ryland was meeting with a powerful senatorial rival, discussing a crucial political proposal. Ryland buzzed Beverly and ordered her to send Sophie in, followed some time later by an order for coffee. Beverly, having noticed Sophie had not returned, felt a cold dread as she walked toward the office with the coffee tray.

When she entered the room, the senator was standing by a whiteboard. The rival was seated at Ryland’s desk, a large, triumphant smile on his face. The air in the room was thick with the unmistakable smell of sex. She set the coffee down, her eyes scanning the room, but Sophie was nowhere to be seen. As she turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of two bare soles just under the desk, slightly obscured by the heavy mahogany panel, and an empty dress behind the door.

This again a clear example that the Shepherd Law was nothing more than a cover for elite sexual and political corruption.

—

At the exact moment Beverly closed the door behind her, thinking of Sophie and what she was enduring now, across town, the District Attorney came deep inside Karen.

Lying on top of her bound figure, he told her about how the religious board had forbidden public flogging. This, he sneered, was due to squeamish public perception, not morality. However, they had worked the last couple of days with the same high-powered PR firm the Great Leader always uses. The agency’s specialty was surgical character assassination. They flooded every legitimate news channel and every suppressed social media feed with selectively edited footage and fabricated testimony, twisting every single fact to paint Karen as a deviant and a danger to the very foundation of the new society. They highlighted her former political affiliations, claiming she was a corrupt foreign agent trying to destabilise the state through moral decay.

He whispered in her ear that the public was outraged of all the things she did, or that they told the people she did. The manufactured moral panic was already succeeding: there was even a group of people petitioning the courts to think about a life sentence for all her crimes, citing public safety and the need for moral cleansing.

The District Attorney, her old nemesis, now her Shepherd, with his dick still buried deep inside of her, told her everything she had worked for in her life, every reform and every defence of the disenfranchised, had been completely erased. Her strong demeanour, which had held through arrest and the first brutal weeks of her captivity, finally shattered. Karen started to sob, deep, gut-wrenching sounds she could not stop. He just smiled with a cruel, triumphant widening of his mouth as he pulled out and put his pants back on. "I wish all men could see you like this, Karen," he sneered. "The most feared and uncompromising man-hater on the police force, now nothing but a naked, snivelling mess." He left her crying, bound, naked, and with his spunk slowly leaking out of her. In his mind, and the mind of other like him, it was the perfect way to leave a woman.

—

Amy now lay motionless, waiting for the silence to return. Her editor had taken his time, meticulously ensuring her submission was completed to his satisfaction. After he was finally done, the heavy door clicked open, and a nurse in a pristine, starched white uniform entered the room, flanked by two masked guards. Without a word, the nurse released the heavy wrist and ankle restraints. She was then escorted, slightly unsteady, to the plush bathroom of her suite.

The nurse was trained for efficiency and detachment. The heavy gag was momentarily deflated, not enough for conversation, but just enough for Amy to gulp down necessary water. Even with the gag reduced, Amy could not speak, her throat was too raw, her mind too broken for coherent thought. The nurse was equally mute, trained not to look her subjects in the eye, maintaining a cold professional distance. Amy could relieve herself and was thoroughly cleaned, and then escorted back to the bed.

The sheets were once again pristine and cool. Amy was quickly and expertly restrained in the same unforgiving way. This time, however, the nurse wheeled a stainless-steel hospital stand beside the bed. Attached to the stand was a collection of medical bags. When Amy first saw the metallic pole and the dripping bags, a wave of stark, animal panic flooded her..

The nurse sterilised a patch on Amy's forearm, found a vein, and skilfully inserted an IV, allowing a clear, cool liquid to slowly run into her body. The guards left. As the drugs began to circulate, the edges of her fear softened, giving way to a profound, enveloping weight. Amy fell into a deep, merciful sleep.

—

She awoke hours later to the gentle slant of morning sun streaming through the narrow window. Her hands were still secured, tethered to the bed corners, but her legs were now free. Not that it mattered; she was utterly weak and trapped by the pervasive, chemical dullness in her veins.

A new, strange sensation began to radiate from her chest. A deep, persistent throbbing localised in her nipples. She didn't know what had happened, but as the effects of the intravenous sedatives and painkillers started to diminish, the pain intensified, sharp and immediate. She screamed, a high, desperate sound, but it was muffled completely by the heavy gag. She lay there for what felt like hours, looking outside the window, watching the slow passage of clouds and the effortless flight of birds high above, the piercing pain a constant, agonising companion.

She had heard indistinct noises coming from the adjoining room earlier, but nobody had responded to her muffled cries. Then, the door opened, and Rourke entered the room again.

He approached the bed, his expression a mixture of duty and desire. He told her that her editor wanted her in the early evening for some special takes, but that the editor had told Rourke he had a special surprise for him this morning. Rourke pulled away the soft covers, slowly revealing Amy's body, her chest heaving, moving the edge over her lovely, aching breasts.

The pain shot through Amy as the sheet was pulled down. She looked down and saw, with a fresh surge of horror, that both her nipples had been pierced with what looked like small, delicate golden rings. Somebody’s unseen work. Rourke pulled the sheets further off the bed and, without looking away from her eyes, began to undress. Amy knew what was coming.

His lips formed the silent word "sorry," but she still did not know if he was truthful or just performing a ritual of dominance. The pain, coupled with the terror, had made her body betray her, leaving her soaking wet, the smell of her arousal guiding him. He entered her in one swift motion, his eyes locked on the small rings, mesmerised by the glint of gold against the inflamed nipple. “You destroyed me,” he whispered with a growl, “I wish I never met you.”

Lowering his face, his tongue reached out and started to play gently with one of the newly pierced rings. He was certainly taking his time. Her involuntary body was instinctively massaging his dick in a way he had not often felt before. Each lick or nibble on her nipple sent powerful waves through her body. She had already exploded two times into what, for him, was the intoxicating scent of his first female orgasm. He could not get enough and needed more. Right now, he did not really care about her, he was solely focused on how exquisite the experience felt for him.

Her mind was shattered, looking out at a scene she couldn't control. Every agonising pulse from her chest was matched by a shattering wave of heat in her core. She hated her body for betraying her, hated the exquisite sharpness the rings added to the sensation, hated the fact that she could do nothing but scream soundlessly into the gag while her deepest, most forbidden physical needs were being ruthlessly exploited. This was not release; it was a devastating humiliation that her body was forced to enjoy.

Another powerful orgasm was building, radiating from her core and tightening her chest muscles. She tried desperately to move her mind, to think of what she could do, how she could seize back control of her own being. But every time she almost completed a coherent thought, her body intervened, hijacking her consciousness. This orgasm, gathering force, switched off her total being. The gag did not hide a scream, but a deep, involuntary moan of pleasure. It sounded like a plea for more.

"Yeah bitch, you like this hey," he grunted, the words a rough surprise to both of them.

Amy's eyes flew open. She saw his face, and he wore a look of intense puzzlement, as if he was surprised by what he had just said to her. But he did not stop; this was the best sex he had in a long time, and honestly, he did not care that she was an unwilling participant. Wasn't he also? He did not choose this life, he was forced to do this to survive. He had to hide his own secrets, and by raping this young reporter, he was doing just that. Bit for now, he was chasing his own pleasure, and her body was giving him exactly that.

It seemed that Rourke had been utterly possessed. After he had finally released his essence deep inside of her and collapsed on top of her bruised and tender breasts, he got up, checking his phone. She saw him move to the bathroom and soon heard the shower running. After a while, he came out. Seeing his erection she knew her torment was not over.

Now, more than an hour later, she was tasting her own ass on his still hard torture device. Her tongue desperately sucking him clean. He had removed the gag only so he could hear her scream, or that was what she had thought, just before he came deep inside her bowels. But he knew better. He was still getting orders, he was still being punished for letting her smuggle in that communication device. It was only because of her editor, that her transmission was intercepted. The editor had been the one to delete her broadcast and he had notified the embassy. This had changed the power dynamic.

Rourke was still paying for his mistake with this constant, brutal duty. But if he was honest, he did like how the punishment felt, even if he normally preferred men.

Amy was broken; she did not even fight back when he released her bindings so she could clean him. She just opened her mouth to clean her own filth from his dick, tasting her own ass and his seed. She noticed he was again getting excited. It seemed the horror would never end. Tears flowed sideways from her tightly closed eyes. Screams tried to escape the confines of his dick.

Just after he came in her soft, warm mouth, he picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, letting the warm water wash over her. His hands continued to roam over her body, and he could not resist playing with her tender breasts and painful, newly ringed nipples. Amy’s eyes flickered toward the small shelf and she noticed a packet of blue pills on the bathroom closet. Before she could process the implication, Rourke was inside her again, right there in the shower. His mouth next to her ear, he was repeating his apologies for what he was doing. She barely registered the words; she did not care if he was sorry after all he had done.

She had to endure all the sick fantasies of the editor before, feeling his fat body rub against her skin. Now the man that excused himself so many times was again buried deep inside of her, pounding into her with such vigour that she felt like a rag doll in his hands. After more than twenty minutes in the shower, he finally came for the last time. He washed himself quickly and left her sitting on the shower floor, the water streaming over her body and his spunk slowly leaking out of her pussy. She tried desperately to push away the thoughts, and she gently felt the golden rings. Softly crying, trying to make sense of the situation.

Then, she heard the door of the suite open.

"Hey sweetheart, how do you like my rings?"

She instantly recognised the sound of her editor's voice. She could not stop it; she started to hyperventilate, the panic consuming her.

"You have fifteen minutes, then I want you here to try on your new clothes. Something special I have picked out for you.”


End of chapter 2
-------------------------------------------------------------

Life keeps on moving on for most people, even under the new laws, but for our four women, it became clear. The goal was total dominance over women, over their body and soul.

[SoftGameHunter]

Well, Rourke was a surprise. I'm with Amy - are his protests legit or not?

[Shocker]

You do a great job with this story. I always found the idea very appealing and had toyed with a story of abolishing women’s rights with female politician getting raped at the lectern, while she protests the law.

[trio]

Sounds cool ... due to the religious council this is not possible in my reality ... not yet anyway.

You do a great job with this story. I always found the idea very appealing and had toyed with a story of abolishing women’s rights with female politician getting raped at the lectern, while she protests the law.

[trio]

I have written some outlines for the story and I am still figuring out what he is all about. I am also trying to get some more depth in some other characters too.

Well, Rourke was a surprise. I'm with Amy - are his protests legit or not?