The State Whore, Part 2 - Proving Ground

The group of 18 year olds shuffled into the brothel hall, twenty of them in stiff uniforms, eyes darting everywhere but at us. They had learned anatomy, recited symptoms, memorized treatments. But this was different. This was flesh.

The hall was no clichéd den of sin. It was bright, perfumed, clean, and welcoming. Bright, cheerful cushions spread across couches, linen folded as neatly as barracks sheets. On the far wall, carved deep into stone, the State’s creed glared down:

THE STATE PROVIDES.

THE STATE INSTRUCTS.

THE STATE ENDURES.

They tried not to look at it. They stared at the women instead: ten Tier Twos in plain linen shifts, collars steel, kneeling with hands folded in their laps. They waited patiently for the boys, ready for their duty to serve anyone with an access card. That’s what this class would earn at the end of this visit: the coveted card that allowed them to take advantage of the State’s resources - as men.

I stood off to the side with the instructor, silk dress brushing my ankles, collar shining with its brass tag. A Tier Three’s role was not to be used here, not anymore. My task was to demonstrate, to correct, and above all, to remind these boys that the State’s doctrine was not words carved in stone - but rules inscribed in flesh.

The instructor’s voice cracked like a whip. “Gentlemen. Tonight you move from theory to practice. The State provides these women so you may learn. They are not wives. They are not equals. They are skilled assets — Tier Two Whores trained for your instruction. Use them properly.”

The boys shifted, some already straining against their trousers, some pale with nerves.

“Remember the creed,” the instructor continued, pointing at the wall. “The State provides, as the whore is here for you. The State instructs, as the whore will correct your fumbling. And you will prove that the State endures.”

He gestured. “Choose.”

A blond boy stepped forward, trembling, pointing at the third in line. She rose smoothly, slipping her shift to the floor, breasts bare, thighs pale. He gasped, fumbling at his belt.

I crossed the room, laying a hand on his arm. “Breathe,” I told him softly, smiling. “You don’t need to rush. She’s not going anywhere.”

He swallowed, nodded, and pressed forward. She lay back on the couch, spreading her thighs with practiced ease. His cock slid in shallow, too quick, too rough. She moaned dutifully, adjusting her hips, but he was already faltering.

“Stop,” I said firmly. The room stilled.

I leaned down, brushing his wrist, guiding his pace. “Slower. Deeper. Feel her, don’t just pound. She’s here to teach you. Listen to her.”

He obeyed, his thrusts evening out. The Tier Two beneath him moaned louder, more convincingly now. He lasted longer this time — not long, but enough to appreciate. When he spilled into her, he sagged against her chest, dazed.

“Enough,” the instructor barked. “Withdraw and make room for your next classmate.”

And so it went, boy after boy. Some clumsy, some eager, some smug already. I corrected hands, steadied hips, murmured advice when they faltered. The women endured it all, patient, professional, their moans filling the hall.

By the end, the whores had thighs slick with seed while the boys stood flushed and proud. They filed out taller than they had entered, convinced of their own manhood.

The instructor stopped them at the door, instructing them to visit the Hall of Registration within a week to receive their access cards. “This is your first sanctioned use. Remember it. The State provides. The State instructs. The State endures. And so will you.”

I watched them go, pride humming in my chest. Once, I had been on those couches, in linen, spread for the same fumbling thrusts. But I had risen. Now I taught, and one day I would rise higher. For now, though, I had done a good day’s work for both men and the State.