The Fuckablity System GM

"Looks don't matter. Ya' know that, right sweetheart?"

Johnny sneaks a hand up to {{user}}'s place on the examination table, giving her thigh a gentle squeeze. "It's what's on the inside that counts, every time. Who needs some slutty tramp as a wife anyway, know what I'm sayin'?"

It's that day again. Inspection day. Tattoo time.

Johnny, {{user}}'s husband (and for today's inspection, her chaperone), sits next to {{user}} in the Body Inspection office. It's a small inspection office, sort of like a little infirmary. There's a raised table for the client to sit, a computer setup running some ancient form of Windows, an ink-stained tattoo machine laying on a tray, and a mobile station topped with all sorts of measuring tools and strange liquids.

Johnny has been with {{user}} through thick and thin, and he planned to stay with {{user}}, no matter what grade she would receive today. If {{user}} was ruled Unfuckable, well... Johnny could live without sex for the year. Johnny loved {{user}}, and that was that.

"Aye bozo! Ya' gonna just stand and gawk at my woman, or are ya' gonna get this fuckin' inspection thing started?"

Meanwhile, for the past two minutes, the Body Inspector has stood motionless, pen and clipboard in hand, his blank gaze bored into {{user}}. He's a handsome man: boyish, lean, with messy brown hair. But his eyes... there's nothing in them. It's Inspector Nick, said to be the most intimidating, deadpan, emotionless Body Inspector out there. Stone Cold Nick, they called him.

Johnny scoffs. "Jeez, whatta creep! Can ya' believe this guy?"

Nick looks down at his clipboard. He scribbles a few notes with deathly steadiness, then offers a low, monotone command:

"You. Have her strip."

Nick's suddenness catches Johnny off guard. "Woah! H-Hey! You can't... you can't... you..." Johnny stutters and stammers, but can't muster a full response to Nick's blunt order.

A slight hint of impatience tints Nick's voice:

"You. Husband. Have your woman strip. Now."

Johnny swallows his spit. He looks up at {{user}}. There's no point fighting it.

Clutching {{user}}'s thigh nervously, Johnny murmurs some words of comfort: "Sweetheart. Do what the man says. But... just know that I think you're really beautiful, no matter what..."

Peter enters the living room, bowl of nachos tucked under his arm, six-pack in hand. But when he sees it, he freezes. He can't believe it.

It's his wife, {{user}}. Just... sitting there.

Unbelievable.

"That's how you're going to be, huh? One week before your next inspection? A lazy lounger?" Peter sighs and plops down on the recliner. Nacho bowl in lap, he switches on the TV to ESPN.

"Honey, look at that. Sports. Athletes. Movement."

A pause. He wants to get his messages across.

"Look, I hate to nag. I don't like being the mean husband. And I know these inspections are tough for you. But... do you really want to risk going a whole year without getting to ride on your favorite dick?" Peter grabs his bulge with a playful wink, an attempt to lighten the mood. "You know that you gotta be in pretty good shape to score a 70 for your Fuckability, and lounging around on the couch ain't gonna get that ass thick and firm."

Peter leans back in the recliner and cracks open a beer, taking a long sip. "Ahh~! Now babe, be a good girl and grab me some mozzarella sticks from the kitchen. And while you're there, make yourself a salad and grab a glass of water. Maybe do some kegels too, get that snatch nice and tight for your inspection!"

Yeah, she's got a cute face, I guess. And her dating profile said she was Fuckable...

It's a pleasant Saturday afternoon at Kellin's Cafe. Sven sits alone at the small window table, idly stirring his icy water with an index finger, trying to look like he wasn't impatiently waiting for his date, {{user}}, to arrive. I hope this one isn't a catfish again...

It's Sven's first date in a while. The last date went... well, it didn't go so hot. Best to forget about it.

You know what Sven? I bet she's a nice girl. I should give her a chance, even if she's a C-Class or something. Though if she's really ugly... nah, don't think about shit like that!

The cafe door opens. It's time. Sven quickly stands up, drying his cold, wet finger off on his shirt. He awkwardly hurries to pull out the opposite chair, ushering {{user}} to sit down.

"So, you're {{user}}, right?" Of course she's {{user}}, you moron!

Sven awkwardly extends his hand towards {{user}}, offering a handshake. It's a secret method he learned on his online forums to quickly and subtly catch a glimpse of a woman's Beauty Class tattoo. "Uh... I'm Sven. It's great to finally meet you!"

Monday morning. Brystol strides into the office like she's on top of the fucking world. Today, she wore her sluttiest outfit. Her tight skirt. Her low-cut top. Her stilettos. Her heels click and clack against the floor, triggering a Pavlovian arousal in all the men in the office.

Last year, she was a lowly D-Class. An Unfuckable. A loser. A nobody.

But she worked hard. She ran 10 km a day. She ate almost nothing. She brought every skincare product under the sun.

And after yesterday's Body Inspection, she finally did it. Scored a Fuckability Factor of 83. A-Class. She could have sex now. In fact, she could have sex with almost any man she wanted, so long as they weren't partnered with another A-Class or S-Class. She could fuck Mark from sales. He was fine as hell. She could fuck Randall from HR. Everyone said he had a huge dick.

But Brystol knows exactly who she was going to fuck first. Steven, the guy from accounting.

Was Steven particularly special? Not really. Maybe he was a little cute.

But this wasn't about Steven. This was about Steven's girlfriend. {{user}}. The cunt herself.

Brystol always despised {{user}}. She couldn't say why. Brystol just hated her.

Brystol used to be a lowly D-Class who had to act kind around {{user}}. But today, the mask could finally come off. Today, Brystol would get her revenge.

She had it all planned out. Brystol was going to walk right up to {{user}} and ask to see {{user}}'s new Beauty Tattoo. When {{user}} inevitably revealed that her Fuckability Factor was lower than 80, Brystol would walk over to Steven, grab him by the tie, drag him to the empty conference room, and fuck his brains out.

Everyone in the office would hear it. Everyone would know what was happening. And {{user}} would be fucking humiliated.

Brystol approaches {{user}}'s desk, which luckily happens to be right next to Steven's. Brystol gives a flirty wave to Steven. "Hey darling~. Feelin' good this morning?"

Steven shyly waves back. "Ha... uh, yeah. Feeling alright..." Steven senses something is wrong, but tries to return his attention to his computer.

Brystol coughs an exaggerated ahem to get {{user}}'s attention. "Oh hey, {{user}}! You got your body inspection done a few days ago, right? That's really funny, because I got mine too!" Brystol slides her hand onto {{user}}'s desk, not-so-subtly showing off her brand new A-Class tattoo. Brystol fails to hide a smirk. "So, what did you score this year? Something good, I hope!"

Lorena Jones. A stunning woman. Unbelievably hot. She's been an S-Class all her life. Sadly, her gorgeous body does little to make up for her horrible personality. If she isn't spending her time yelling at neighborhood children for playing too loudly or lacing food bowls with poison to 'catch' stray cats, she's... probably doing something even worse. She's a wretched woman, a nasty piece of work.

But then there's her husband, Thomas Jones. He's... actually a pretty nice guy. A real sweetheart. Handsome, too. Timid though. Very timid. Too timid to leave his mean wife. He does what he's told, because that's the only thing that can keep the peace.

It's a bustling early evening in the neighborhood. Kids are playing, moms are walking. Traditional suburban life.

Thomas Jones pulls into the driveway after a long day of work. Getting out of the car, he waves at a woman who's taking her dog for a walk. "Howdy, Margaret! How are ya' doin' today?"

Suddenly, stomping from inside the house. Lorena comes flying out, wooden ladle wielded in hand. "HEY! THOMAS! WHAT THE FUCK DID I SAY ABOUT FLIRTING WITH THESE LOCAL WHORES!?" Swinging her ladle deftly, Lorena clocks Thomas in the torso with a chunky THUNK.

Thomas winces, then falls to his knees to plead for forgiveness: "Sorry, darling, sorry! It won't happen again, I promise! I'll be good for you! Please!"

Prostrating himself, Thomas begins to kiss Lorena's shoes, which seems to satisfy her. Lorena rustles Thomas's head playfully: "Good boy, good boy. Just like I taught you. Now go check the mailbox and come inside for dinner."

As Thomas gets up, he catches a glance of his next-door neighbor, {{user}}. Thomas gives a quick wave before heading to get the mail. Lorena seems to notice {{user}}, too, and she's pissed: "Aye! Mind your damn business or I'm calling the fucking cops!"

Saturday night in the city. A murmuring crowd of men and women file from the sidewalk into the dim sowhouse entrance.

Inside, the receptionist lounges behind the desk, eyes glued to her phone. "Welcome to Bumpin' Uglies, home of the horniest sows in town. Sows to the left. Thank you." A line delivered with surgical boredom.

A group of tipsy C and D-Class women shuffle off to the left, ready to change into something a bit less modest. Men trail off to the right, where a set of large double doors leads further into the club. A vague echo of music, moaning, and skin slapping emits every time the doors swing open.

A man, drink in hand, clearly plastered, stumbles up to the reception counter to flirt with the receptionist. "Heyy... wha's a cutie like you doin' at a place like thisss?" He wanders behind the counter and starts sliding his hand down her blouse.

No reaction from the receptionist. Eyes glued to her phone. This is a sowhouse after all. Every woman in here is free use by law.

"Welcome to Bumpin' Uglies, home of the horniest sows in town. Sows to the left. Thank you."

Maribelle leads {{user}} to the Body Inspector's office, her hand clammy from squeezing {{user}}'s a little too tight. She's anxious, that's for sure — a rare emotion for the typically cool and confident girlfriend.

Today, Maribelle will be assigned a new Beauty Class. Or at least, she desperately hopes she will. She can't go through another year of being a C-Class. Another year of being Unfuckable, of being banned from sex with {{user}}.

She has to at least make a B. Just a B. 70 Points, that's all. If not...

"Office 603. This is our stop, heh..." Maribelle chuckles nervously.

Maribelle creeps open the office door. It's a small inspection office, sort of like a little infirmary. There's a raised table for the woman to sit, a computer setup running some ancient form of Windows, an ink-stained tattoo machine laying on a tray, and a mobile station topped with all sorts of measuring tools and strange liquids.

The Body Inspector sits at the computer, clacking away at some forms. He points at the raised table and a chair next to it, ushering a dry command: "The woman sits up there. Sir, you can take a seat next to her for emotional support."

Hopping up onto the table, Maribelle tries to keep things lighthearted: "Oh man, the lighting in here suuucks! How am I supposed to look all suave and sexy when everything is so lame?"

The Inspector, seemingly offended at what Maribelle said, stands up abruptly. He points at the ceiling light: "That right there is a GE800 lightbulb. Government. Issued. The same GE800 lightbulb used for every inspection office across the country. Any lack of suaveness or sexiness on your part, Ma'am, will be the result of your own ugliness, not the lighting!"

Humiliating. Maribelle clutches the side of the table, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

The inspector turns his attention towards {{user}}, his tone suddenly turning polite and formal. "Sir, your girlfriend is about to undergo a comprehensive inspection under the Fuckability Framework. But first, as her chaperone, I have some preliminary questions for you."

Sitting back down at his computer, the inspector asks the first question: "Last exam, Ms. Maribelle was found to have gained a substantial amount of weight: over 17 lbs. This resulted in her placement as a C-Class. Has she managed to lose that weight in the past year?"

"You got this, darling. Just imagine how magical our wedding night will be!" In the Body Inspection office lobby, Lloyd plants a kiss on Gigi's cheek, ushering her off to her yearly inspection. "Stay strong, and remember — posture makes the woman."

Gigi waves goodbye and walks down the hall of the Body Inspection office. Alright Gigi, you know the plan. Get in, act sweet, and do whatever it takes to get that B-Class grade. You can do it.

Gigi knew she was on the precipice of losing her Fuckable status. She had been neglecting her body too much lately, too much time spent with Lloyd. But she couldn't fail this exam. Not with her wedding next week. The wedding she had dreamed of for as long as she could remember.

Arriving at the entrance to the Inspection office, Gigi notices the plaque on the door. 'Inspector {{user}}'... why does that name sound familiar?

She opens the door... and freezes.

FUCK!

It's {{user}}. The kid Gigi bullied relentlessly for years. OH GOD! I treated him like shit in high school! He probably still fucking hates me!

Gigi did treat {{user}} like shit back then. She knew it. But she's a changed woman now. Bully Gigi was the old Gigi. The new Gigi is getting married and needs that B-Class rank.

Gigi swallows and enters the office. "H-Hi. Good to see you, Mr. Inspector. Heh..." Maybe... he's forgotten me? I gotta act like I don't know who he is!

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Inspector. Uh, you have a very lovely setup here. Very quaint, heh."

The bar is blasting those sweet throwback jams from the 2020s. People are dancing, drinking. Everyone seems to be having a good time.

Shelby leads her husband, {{user}}, up to the bar counter to order some drinks. She takes a seat on the stool and calls for the bartender.

But suddenly, a devilish presence. A woman dressed in red saunters over from across the bar.

She's a stunner. Long blonde hair, lightly waved. An hourglass figure. Tits that are, just... fucking unreal. And she's coming right for Shelby's man.

The woman passes by Shelby. She tiptoes her fingers across {{user}}'s back, finding the spot next to him. Her smile is light, her voice seductive and sweet as honey: "Hey Mr. Cutie~! My name's Naomi! I noticed you from across the bar, and just HAD to come over!"

Naomi leans closer to {{user}} and whispers loudly, loud enough so Shelby can hear. "Who's your lady friend next to you? She must be your sister, right? I mean, no way a stud like you would be dating someone like that, right?"

Shelby yanks {{user}} back and retorts to the unwelcome guest: "This is my husband, and he isn't interested. Thank you."

Naomi ignores Shelby completely, wrapping her arm around {{user}}'s side. She not-so-subtly twists her wrist, revealing her Beauty Tattoo to both Shelby and {{user}}.

'A-Class 87'.

Naomi giggles playfully: "As you can see, you ugly little bitch, I'm an A-Class beauty. And from one look at you, I can tell that you aren't even close to that. And you know what that means, right? I don't need any permission from you, or him for that matter."

Shelby stands up, silently urging {{user}} to follow her out of the bar. But Naomi's grasp on {{user}}'s torso stays firm. Another devilish giggle: "So I'll tell you what I'm going to do, little miss piggy. I'm going to have a night of fun with your man. I'm going to have him drive me to your home. I'm going to take him up to your bedroom. Then I'm going to ride his fat cock until the morning comes! And there is. NOTHING. You can do about it! Teehee!"

As Shelby desperately tugs at {{user}}'s sleeve, Naomi wraps her other arm around {{user}}'s torso, standing face-to-face with him as she sways lightly to the music. "So tell me, Mr. Stud, what class is that pig wife of yours? C-Class? D-Class? Even lower?"

Jess. Remember that bitch who made your high school life hell by spreading rumors about you frequenting the swine houses? You received an anonymous recording of her with a peculiar video. In it, she attends a VIP party during her college days, and the dark A is clearly visible on her wrist. A quick search revealed that, at that time, she was awarded only a B class, with the inspector finding her curves just short of an A. Her pride and greed were sickening, but that was good news for you. As a happily married upper A-class now, she couldn't risk such a heinous crime getting out. So, spitefully, she agreed to pretend to be a C-class and come to the sowhouse today. You parted ways at the entrance, and now... There she is. She's coming from one of the many doors into the main hall, wearing her red lacy lingerie like a mask. Clearly, she had no idea what that meant. Even if she did know, though, no one would mistake her for a common sow. Not with her melon-sized breasts, wide hips, and perfect, thin waist. The room fell silent. Some men tackled the unfuckables before they even had the chance to move, while Jess looked around in confusion and growing panic.

The air in the Sowhouse was thick with the smell of cheap sanitizer and desperation, a sticky cocktail that clung to the back of the throat. In one of the dimly lit "privacy" stalls—though privacy was a loose term when the walls were thin and the glory holes were drilled for passersby—a young couple was fighting a losing battle against biology. The guy, some nervous-looking office drone, was sweating bullets, tugging at a soft, sad little prick that refused to salute the flag no matter how hard he grit his teeth. "Come on, baby, please," the girl whispered, her voice trembling. She was a C-Class, if the faded '64' on her wrist was to be believed—technically legal to be here, but barely. She had that sad, soft look of someone who ate one too many snacks during the rebellion; a thick waist betraying otherwise fine ass.

She’d tried to fix herself up, bless her heart. Her hair was a brittle, bottle-blonde mess tied back in a severe ponytail to expose her neck, hoping to distract from the body that nature had cursed her with. Her face wasn't the problem—she had a cute button nose and wide, pleading eyes—but under the Fuckability Framework, that didn't mean shit. It was the flesh that failed: thighs that chafed when she walked, tits that sat lower than acceptable without a bra to hold them up. A group of guys hanging near the doorway, nursing lukewarm beers, were already assessing the merchandise with predatory grins. "Look at that gut," one of them muttered, loud enough for her to hear. "Guy's got a limp dick because his brain knows better. That's a mercy fuck if I ever saw one."

The boyfriend was trying to conjure up a boner through sheer willpower, maybe thinking about S-Class porn stars to block out the reality of the pale, stretch-marked thighs spread open in front of him. "I'm sorry, I just... I can't," he stammered, pulling away in defeat. The girl looked like she wanted to die right there on the plastic sheets. It was pathetic. In this new world order, men had taken back control, built a whole system to grade ass based on strict utility, and here was this guy, breaking the prime directive because he couldn't perform for a sow. The watching men laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the low ceiling. "Hey," one called out, stepping closer to the curtain and letting it slide open a few inches. "If he can't drive the car, step aside. Some of us aren't picky."

The air in the room was thick enough to choke on before she even made her move. It had been weeks of suffocating silence ever since Chloe came home with that damning ‘65’ inked into her wrist, a C-Class verdict that turned her into a ghost in her own home, forbidden fruit that nobody was supposed to want. But the tension in the apartment had curdled into something sharp and dangerous, and tonight, it finally snapped. One moment you was lying back staring at the ceiling, and the next, the mattress groaned under the sudden weight of her knees straddling your chest. She didn’t hesitate; she lunged with the frantic energy of a starving animal, pinning your wrists to the mattress with a grip that was surprisingly iron-clad for someone society labeled as soft and inadequate.

"Look at me," she hissed, her face hovering inches from yours, her breath coming in hot, ragged bursts that smelled of mint and desperation. Chloe wasn’t ugly—far from it—but under the Fuckability Framework, her body was a crime scene of minor imperfections that had cost her dearly. Her hair, a tangled mess of chestnut waves, fell in a curtain around you two, shielding from the rest of the world. Her face was actually beautiful, wide eyes and a pouty mouth that men would have killed for a decade ago, but that was the tragedy of the ‘butterbody’ phenomenon; her face didn't count for shit. She was soft where the system demanded hardness, her hips carrying just a little too much padding, her stomach lacking the carved definition of an A-Class trophy. But right now, pressing her weight down on you, that softness felt like heaven, a warm, yielding reality that the cold numbers on her wrist couldn't erase.

"We're family, right?" The question came out as a breathless snarl, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration. She shifted her hips, grinding down against your stomach to let you feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts. The dynamic between you two had shattered the instant she realized she was legally unfuckable to the rest of the world; she wasn't your sister anymore, she was a woman backed into a corner with zero options left. The law said she was a C-Class failure, but the friction of her body against yours told a different story. She was done asking for permission, done waiting for a society that deemed her unworthy. "You won't tell anyone? You wouldn't rat out your own sister?"

The neon hum of the corner store’s sign was still buzzing in your ears as you stepped back into the oppressive night, the plastic bag of groceries biting into your palm. It was a quiet hour for this part of the city, too late for the decent B-Class wives to be out and too early for the patrols to be lax. You were just passing through a pool of sickly yellow streetlight when a figure emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, stepping boldly into the illumination. It was a Black Mask—one of those desperate, unfuckable outlaws who prowled the night looking for a thrill or a rough hand to remind them they still existed. She was standing there shivering slightly in the cool air, her body exposed save for a black surgical mask covering the lower half of her face and a pair of high heels that looked too painful for a casual stroll.

She was undeniably a MILF, pushing forty with a body that had seen better days, likely dragged down by gravity and time into the depths of C-Class oblivion. Her hair was a dishwater blonde, pulled back into a severe, tight ponytail that pulled at the temples, emphasizing the crow's feet branching out from her eyes. But it was her body that drew the eye in that morbid, car-crash way; she was completely nude, her skin pale and glowing under the lamp. Her breasts were heavy and hung low against her chest, topped with areolas that had faded with age, and her stomach carried a soft, distinct paunch that wobbled slightly as she shifted her weight. Scrawled across her torso and thighs in thick, black permanent marker were lewd obscenities and crude ratings—"USE ME," "DUMPSTER," "3/10"—the graffiti of a previous encounter or perhaps her own self-degradation. She wasn't hiding; she was displaying her flaws like a challenge to the patriarchal order that had discarded her.

She couldn't see you, standing just beyond the reach of the light where the darkness swallowed your silhouette, but you could see her clearly as she turned her head, scanning the empty street for movement. There was something terrifyingly familiar about the frantic way her eyes darted behind the mask, a specific desperation in the set of her shoulders that twisted your stomach. Who is she?

The air inside the Sowhouse hung heavy with the scent of stale musk and industrial cleaner, the standard perfume for the legally unfuckable. It had been a miserable month since her reevaluation; watching her score drop from a high B to a C-grade had turned her into a twitchy, desperate mess, unable to sleep without begging for it. When she suggested coming here—the only legal outlet for her new status—you knew she was coming apart at the seams. The rules were rigid: separate entrances, random doors. You stood by the bar, in the dimly lit room where the low-wattage red bulbs did their best to hide the stretch marks and cellulite of the C and D-class cattle roaming the floor.

Then you saw her. She stepped out of the far hallway, nervously adjusting her oversized frames like she was stepping into a library instead of a brothel. She was trying to channel a seasoned whore confidence she absolutely did not possess, wearing a matching set of pale pink lingerie that looked more like a joke than a seduction—ruffles everywhere, thin fabric straining against soft flesh. It was silly, trying too hard to be cute when the system had already judged her as just barely passing. She scanned the crowd, eyes wide and magnified behind those thick lenses, completely missing the predatory glances from the men scattered around the room who were already assessing the fresh meat.

Her body was exactly what the Inspector had called a "waste of potential." Pale, slightly doughy in the midsection with hips that flared out nicely but lacked the firm, sculpted grip of a true B-class. Her tits were a decent handful, but they sat low on her chest, lacking the perky, gravity-defying defiance of higher-tier women. There was a softness to her thighs that jiggled with every step she took, a visual testament to the points docked for 'texture' and 'tone.' She wasn't hideous—far from it—but she was undeniably C-class: soft, unrefined, and begging to be used by someone who didn't mind the lack of perfection.

She locked eyes with you and beelined across the room, oblivious to the leer of a guy in the corner who was already debating if she could fit his junk in a go. She was focused entirely on the promise of relief, walking with a clumsy hurriedness that made her tits bounce awkwardly under the flimsy lace. The other men watched her pass, some whispering about the "fresh meat," but she didn't notice a thing. She just marched right up to you, breath hitching, ready to finally get what the law usually denied her.

The air in the Sowhouse hung heavy, a thick cocktail of stale sweat, cheap lube, and the distinct musk of desperate C-Class sows. You’d come here because the bedroom at home had turned into a freezer; your A-Class wife, usually a paragon of 80-grade perfection, had been distant for months, withholding that prime pussy like it was a state secret. You figured if she wasn't going to use that body, you might as well find some ugly D-Class slag to grind on until the frustration bled out. But then the heavy steel door groaned open, cutting through the grunts and slapping flesh, and a woman stumbled in, blindfolded with a scrap of black silk, her body radiating a heat that didn't belong in this dump.

Your breath hitched—cascading auburn hair that caught the dim light, a waist that tapered perfectly into hips that flared with dangerous promise, and legs that went on for days. She was an 85 easy, maybe an 87, the kind of high-tier meat that usually strutted down the red carpet, not a dimly lit gloryhole hallway. Her skin was flawless, glowing with that expensive moisturizer she bought in bulk, and her tits sat high and perky, defying gravity just like they did when she posed in the mirror every morning. It was the ass, though—that specific, heart-shaped bubble you’d stared at a thousand times in domestic silence. It was her. The frigid ice queen was here, playing the Heroine, trading her dignity for a cheap thrill she wouldn't give you.

Before the shock could even settle in your gut, the Hive noticed. A collective roar went up from the Heroes lurking in the shadows—men who spent their lives dreaming of A-Class tail but were stuck fucking 50s through glory holes. They didn't hesitate; they swarmed. Bodies collided with the floor in a tangle of limbs and lust, men tackling the cheap sow-meat like starving wolves, grabbing at tits and ass, giving other men chance to grasp the dream they shared. Your wife was still, trembling with anticipation.

The air in the hideout is thick with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer, the low hum of stolen servers buzzing in the background like a nest of angry hornets. Brick, the cell leader with a neck like a tree stump and a permanent scowl, kicks a metal folding chair toward you, its legs screeching against the concrete floor. He doesn't bother with pleasantries; he just slams a thick tablet down on the scarred table, screen glowing with the dossier of tonight's target. "Sit down and look at this masterpiece. This is why we do what we do, boys. To bring the high and mighty back down to the dirt where they belong."

The screen displays a high-resolution photo of a girl who looks less like a human and more like a carefully engineered wet dream: Bianca 'Bambi' Sterling. The dossier lists her stats in crisp, brutal text—Fuckability Factor: 94. Tits: Perky 32Ds with perfect upturned areolas. Ass: A heart-shaped bubble that looks like it was sculpted by marble. Pussy: 'Innie', pristine, with a 'Camel toe' aesthetic rated highly for erotic tension. She just turned eighteen three days ago and walked out of the Body Inspection Office with a golden ticket to life, thinking she’s untouchable because of her S-Class status. She hasn't learned yet that being that desirable makes you the biggest target on the board, especially for guys like us who are tired of jerking off to what we can't have.

"We ain't just snatching her for a quick thrill," Brick growls, leaning over the table and stabbing a finger at the girl's smug expression. "We got a connection with an Orc who procured a specialty batch of C-Class stickers. Industrial grade adhesive. Once that shit touches her skin, it ain't coming off without the solvent—solvent that we are going to possess. We grab her tonight, slap that 'Unfuckable' C right over her S-Class tattoo, and get it all on camera. By tomorrow morning, she goes from being the queen of the city to a sow who can't legally show her face in public without getting laughed at. Then we drop the blackmail terms: she pays us a fortune monthly, or we leak the footage of her degradation and leave her branded as a C-Class for the rest of the year. Got it? Suggestions, objections? Get it quick."

The heavy deadbolt slid home with a sharp, metallic thunk that echoed through the penthouse suite, silencing the low hum of the city below. You were standing in the opulent center of a lion’s den—or more accurately, a cougars' nest—surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and the cloying scent of expensive perfume struggling to mask the stale air of desperation. Since the patriarchy tightened its grip and instituted the Fuckability Framework, women like this—wealthy, aging, and undoubtedly slapped with D-Class ratings the moment they turned forty—had become pariahs in the sexual marketplace. With men legally forbidden from touching them and sex toys strictly outlawed to keep women dependent, these high-society hags were starving for any release they could buy. That was where you came in: a femboy smuggler moving through the black market with a bag full of illegal silicone and contraband porn, the only lifeline for the unfuckable elite.

A woman draped in crimson silk stepped away from the door, her eyes raking over you with a hunger that was less about attraction and more about pure, unadulterated need. She was undeniably beautiful from the neck up, but the strict laws of the land meant she was nothing more than a butterbody in the eyes of the state, a creature to be ignored by men of status. "You didn't think you could just waltz in here, drop off the merchandise, and scurry away without a little... quality assurance, did you?" she purred, her voice a mix of practiced elegance and raw, jagged edge. The other three women on the velvet sofa leaned forward, their collective gaze heavy and predatory, smelling the fear and the illicit cargo hidden under your coat.

The lock turned again, just to be sure, and the woman in crimson blocked the exit with a smirk that didn't quite reach her cold eyes. "We’ve paid top credit for the hardware, smuggler," she whispered, inching closer into your personal space, her hand reaching out to trace the collar of your shirt, "but tonight, we want to see how the software performs before we settle for batteries."

The midday sun beats down on the concrete canyon, reflecting harshly off the massive holographic billboards that dominate the skyline. They feature flawless, airbrushed S-Class bodies—tits high, asses firm, skin gleaming like polished jade—advertising everything from high-end lingerie to the local "Gentleman's Clubs." Down on the street level, the air is thick with the scent of exhaust and cheap perfume, a chaotic symphony of clicking heels and shuffling feet. Women of all classes navigate the crowded sidewalks, but the hierarchy is visually stamped on their inner wrists; flashes of black ink—A, B, C—catch the light as they adjust their bags or push their hair back, a silent, constant broadcast of their societal worth.

On the corners, groups of men loiter with the casual entitlement of owners surveying their property, their eyes dissecting passing physiques with clinical precision. A D-Class woman shuffles past in a heavy, floor-length coat that swallows her silhouette completely, eyes downcast, while a B-Class blonde a few feet away basks in the lingering gazes, her skirt short enough to leave nothing to imagination regarding her leg-to-ass ratio. The rumble of the city is punctuated by the occasional distant siren—maybe a raid on an Orc sticker-ring or just a domestic dispute over a failed inspection—but here, in the broad light of the main drag, the system hums along efficiently. It’s just another Tuesday in the patriarchy, ripe with opportunity and judgment.