I would like to write a story about a not distant future when the world had enough of old ugly men who ran the planet to its ruin and in the aftermath women took over. A world government was established to which only women could be elected, with the aim to help the planet recover and set up decency as a moral guidline, a moral rule for the benefit of all with one World army-polize that could be used if weaponized violence or wars occured. World Polize consisted of men and women, but most bosses where women. Men still ran crafts and industry but not the political power and amounting of personal wealth was reduced to a limit. Over a couple of generations men became softer when they where not fostered to be soldiers and fighters, but emotional and more feeling, women now without restraints, also sexually, created A revolution of cultural creativity. The second Renaissance. A revolution of cultural and sexual creativities for men and women occured - women now without restraints, also sexually, men more emotional and softer. Lots of clubs and places opened where men served as their sex-toys. First chapter about a young woman, Amy, of 18 walks into her first Parlour, a place where men please women with their tongues only, First she had to shower and dress in a white robe before entering the steaming Parlour, The room was dimmed lit, light colored curtains, blue,red,orange hung from the ceiling. The space was filled of Thrones, built of soft materials. In front of all Thrones a kneelingthe walls had cavaties, small caves in soft materials or long benches good for massages. Naked or almost naked Men with trays of water and mixtures of sexually enhanzing herbs, alcohol or drugs walked around. If one of them was to her liking she could ask him to join him to a cave where she could climb in cuddle up among the pillows and the mans face would appear out of a hole in the middle of the bed and she could use his mouth to her pleasing, in most women could pee in the mans mouth without ruining the fabric.

Chapter 1: The Director’s Lesson

Amy’s footsteps echoed too loudly in the cavernous atrium of the World Army-Polize Command Hub. The sheer scale of it – walls of seamless glass stretching impossibly high, polished black marble floors reflecting the harsh glow of overhead strip lighting – felt designed to intimidate. The air hummed, not just with climate control, but with a deeper thrum of unseen systems, data flowing like blood through arteries hidden beneath the sterile surfaces. Holographic maps flickered silently overhead, continents pulsing with shifting colours denoting… something. Something important. Amy didn’t know what. She felt like a mote of dust adrift in a vast, gleaming machine.

She smoothed the front of her simple grey tunic, suddenly aware of its cheap synth-fibre texture against the Hub’s opulent chill. Her palms were damp. This wasn't just orientation; it was induction. Into everything. The Parlours, the Pleasers, the whole intricate system of sanctioned pleasure that underpinned the New Order. For eighteen years, she’d absorbed the rhetoric: Freedom reclaimed. Power restored. The natural order. Yet, standing here, dwarfed by the architecture of control, the reality felt less like liberation and more like stepping onto a meticulously calibrated assembly line. Her mother’s words echoed: "It’s your right, Amy. Your exploration. Your control." But exploring what? Control over whom?

"Apprentice Bentley?" The voice sliced through the ambient hum, precise, cool, devoid of inflection. Amy jumped. A uniformed attendant gestured towards a sleek door marked only with a discreet alphanumeric code. "Director Reed will see you now."

The Director’s office was smaller than Amy expected, yet no less imposing. It overlooked the vast atrium through a panoramic window, placing Reed at the literal center of her domain. The desk wasn't wood, but a seamless slab of dark composite material. Reed herself sat behind it, back ramrod straight, fingers steepled. Her uniform was sharp, midnight blue, tailored to perfection, devoid of ornament except for three platinum bars on her collar. Her dark hair, streaked with severe silver, was pulled back so tightly Amy wondered if it hurt. Her gaze, when it lifted from the datapad in her hand, pinned Amy to the spot. It wasn’t hostile. Just… assessing. Like a scientist observing a new specimen.

"Bentley." Reed stated her name flatly. Not a question. "Sit."

Amy obeyed, perching on the edge of the minimalist chair. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the Hub bleeding through the walls. Reed’s eyes scanned the datapad – Amy’s intake form, she knew. Details scrawled hastily the night before, her handwriting betraying her nerves. Preferences? Interests? Experience? The questions felt invasive, clinical. She’d written ‘Curious’ and ‘Open-minded’. Now those words seemed embarrassingly naïve under Reed’s scrutiny.

Reed finally lowered the datapad. Her polished boot, resting on a low footrest, tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the composite floor.Tap. Tap. Tap. Each beat amplified Amy’s apprehension. Reed’s lips, a thin line devoid of colour, curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"Curious," Reed echoed Amy’s own word, her voice low and resonant. "Open-minded." She paused, letting the labels hang in the air. "Standard phrasing for intake. Hedging. Safe." Her eyes held Amy’s, unblinking. "Tell me, Apprentice Bentley, what exactly do you anticipate finding within the Parlour walls?" Her voice dropped even lower, becoming almost conversational, yet heavy with implication. "Heated skin? Skillful hands? Release?"

Amy flushed, shifting in her seat. She hadn’t articulated it, even to herself. The images conjured were vague, borrowed from whispered rumours and sanctioned educational holos. "I… I suppose," she stammered. "Exploration. Understanding… the freedoms we’re entitled to." She parroted the official line, feeling foolish.

Reed’s sharp bark of laughter was unexpected, jarring. It contained no warmth. "Freedoms? Entitlements?" She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the seamless desk. "You think pleasure is indulgence, girl?" The word ‘girl’ landed like a small slap. "Something trivial? A frivolous perk reclaimed?"

Amy swallowed, confused. "Isn’t it?"

The Director’s smirk deepened, sharpening into something predatory.

"No," Director Reed said, the word precise as a scalpel cut. "It is the first weapon we reclaimed." She tapped the datapad again. "The most fundamental. The most destabilizing to the old regimes. You think the tyrants fell because of bullets alone? They fell because we remembered that pleasure isn't passive. It isn't frivolous." She leaned further forward, the overhead light catching the hard angles of her face. "It is power. Raw, undeniable energy. And we learned to wield it."

Amy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the office's climate control. The sterile air suddenly tasted metallic. "Wield it... how?"

"Control," Reed stated flatly. "The Parlours aren't just brothels, Bentley. They are laboratories. Training grounds. Sanctioned spaces where control is practiced, refined, and demonstrated. Where women learn the contours of their own desires without shame, yes." Her eyes held Amy’s, unblinking. "But more importantly, where they learn the potent satisfaction of directing the desires of others. Specifically, the desires of men."

Amy shifted, the smooth chair suddenly uncomfortable. "The Pleasers... they volunteer."

"Do they?" Reed's eyebrow arched fractionally. "They are compensated, certainly. Well-fed, well-housed, provided with healthcare far exceeding the public standard. Their contracts are ironclad." A pause, heavy. "They choose to enter service. And they choose to stay. The system is designed to be... attractive. Comfortable." The way she said 'comfortable' made it sound like a cage lined with velvet.

"But... it's still using them," Amy whispered, the words feeling dangerous as soon as they left her lips. Her mother’s proud declarations about female empowerment suddenly felt thin, brittle.

Reed didn't flinch. "Define 'using'. Is the blacksmith 'used' by the sword? Is the tool 'used' by the craftsman? The Pleasers provide a service. A vital one. They facilitate education, experimentation, and the safe expression of female power dynamics. Without them, the pent-up frustrations, the dangerous curiosities... they would spill out onto the streets. Cause chaos. Undermine the Order." She gestured towards the window, towards the humming, efficient sprawl of the Hub. "This peace, this stability, Bentley? It rests on understanding and channeling human nature, not denying it. The Parlours are pressure valves. Exquisitely engineered."

Amy’s mind raced. The Pleasers in the glossy pamphlets – smiling, serene, seemingly content. Was it real? Or just another layer of the velvet? "And what about... consent? What they actually feel?"

Reed's expression didn't soften, but it did shift, becoming colder, more analytical. "Consent is meticulously monitored. Every session is recorded. Audited. My department ensures no Pleaser is subjected to actual abuse, exploitation beyond the agreed parameters, or excessive demands. Their well-being is paramount. A broken tool is useless." She steepled her fingers again. "We are not monsters, Bentley. We are architects. Efficiency requires maintenance. But understand this: the foundation of their consent is the system itself. They consented to the role. The role requires fulfilling the expressed desires of the clientele, within established safety protocols. Discomfort, sometimes, is inherent to service. Managing that discomfort, that surrender... it's part of the Pleaser's duty, and part of the client's education in wielding power responsibly."

A wave of nausea washed over Amy. Duty. Surrender. The words felt greasy. Her vision of exploration, of personal freedom, curdled. It felt less like liberation and more like stepping onto a stage where the script had already been written, the roles pre-cast. The 'freedoms' felt suddenly heavy, laced with obligation and a terrifying kind of responsibility she hadn't anticipated.

Reed watched the dawning comprehension – and revulsion – flicker across Amy’s face. A ghost of satisfaction touched her lips. "Your apprehension is noted. Expected, even. Naivety is a luxury we shed quickly here." She picked up the datapad, Amy's form glaring back at her. "Assignment begins tomorrow. Sector Gamma Parlour. Observation level only for the first week. Watch. Listen. Learn what power truly looks like when it isn't dressed in rhetoric, but in practiced touch and controlled surrender." She tapped the screen dismissively. "Dismissed, Apprentice Bentley."

Amy stood on legs that felt unsteady. The soft hum of the Hub now sounded like the grinding of unseen gears. The polished floor seemed to tilt slightly. She managed a stiff nod, the words to protest or question dying in her throat under Reed's unwavering, pitiless gaze.

"Enjoy your education," Reed added, her attention already shifting to another screen materializing above her desk, her tone implying it was anything but enjoyable. The dismissal was absolute.

Amy turned, the door hissing open automatically as she approached. The vast, cold atrium awaited, but it felt different now. Less a monument to order, more a gilded engine, fueled by something she was only beginning to comprehend – and suddenly, desperately feared.

Her footsteps echoed again as she walked away, each one a hollow beat against the marble, carrying the Director’s final, chilling words and the crushing weight of the velvet-lined cage she was about to enter. The weapon gleamed before her, sharp and terrifying, and she had no idea if she was meant to wield it, or if she was merely another piece being strategically placed on Reed's vast, calculated board. The air tasted like static and control.

PLEASE GO ON!

Amy exited the Command Hub with a sense of disorientation, as if she’d just stepped out of a high-speed transport and into a slower-moving world. The bustling city streets were familiar yet suddenly alien, the pedestrians a blur of colour and movement that seemed to mock her newfound clarity. The Parlours had always been there, of course, but now they felt omnipresent, a dark undercurrent beneath the polished veneer of the New Order.

She found herself walking aimlessly, her reflection in the towering glass facades of skyscrapers a ghostly reminder of the conversation with Director Reed.