#43
William changed into his jogging outfit, carefully tucking his still-hard cock back into his shorts. He winced at the confinement, the fabric chafing against his sensitive tip.
He straightened his top, took a deep breath to steady the lingering tremors in his thighs, and headed for the front door.
By the time he slipped out the door, the air had shifted.
He passed hedgerows dusted with blossoms, morning dew glinting like glass.
A few shopfronts were just starting to open—the warm, earthy scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharp bite of roasted coffee beans drifting lazily through the air. Birds chattered from tiled rooftops. Somewhere, a bicycle bell chimed.
The Special Zone.
The district they lived in was one of the best-established in N City. To some, it might look like a gated paradise. And on the surface, it was—clean, elegant, and self-contained. But for others, it resembled a beautiful prison. Walled in. Watched. Controlled.
Built to protect men… or so they said.
Originally, these walled communities only admitted families with at least one male member—husbands, sons, even adopted children. But the rules had shifted over the years.
These days, money, influence, and connections could buy you a home here, even if your household was entirely female. The demand had skyrocketed. After all, this was the best place to find a man.
Living here wasn’t just expensive—it was exclusive. People called it the Noble Society or Sanctuary. Women with power burned through their fortunes just to increase their odds of “running into” men.
For most of the outside world, the Special Districts were Heaven.
Or so the forums and message boards said. Depending on who you asked, the tone changed—envy, admiration, longing. Others spoke with bitterness, suspicion. Still, no one could deny the truth: Special Districts were safe. Clean. Strictly regulated. Every inch of them was designed to ensure the security of the male population.
William had heard the rumors.
Stories of men who left the walls—some out of defiance, others out of paranoia.
But outside?
The world wasn’t so kind.
Assaults, kidnappings, exploitation… crimes against men were reportedly rampant in the unregulated zones. That was the fear the Special Districts were meant to answer.
But fear cuts both ways.
Some claimed the Districts were gilded cages, designed to keep men docile, obedient. Nothing more than pretty prisons to ensure “breeding stock” stayed compliant. That was the darker theory—the conspiracy whispered in underground threads and late-night channels. William didn’t know what to believe. Nor did he care anyway.
He didn’t know if those stories were true. Maybe there was some hidden agenda buried deep beneath the polished surface of this world. Maybe not. Still, one thing he’s clear about, living in this community for a while, is that not all rumors and hearsays are true.
Some were even exaggerated or spoken out of malice and without any proof. After all, no one was forcing him to do anything.
He wasn’t being dragged into marriages or breeding kinks. He wasn’t being stripped of his choices. He hadn’t seen a single man, in his District at least, being married off against his will. And people still treat him with a kind of reverence, however performative it might feel.
And what’s more, does a man ask for?
The wind began to blow, cooling his sweat-covered body.
A few delivery bikes zipped by on the far end of the street. Cats lounged in windows. For a while, it felt peaceful—like the world was still stretching its arms and blinking itself awake.
William kept his pace steady, breath controlled, sweat gathering at his temples. Running had become a kind of therapy for him—an excuse to clear his head, though the stares he drew often reminded him this world wasn’t going to let him fade into the background.
Ahead, beneath the shade of a broad acacia tree, two women lounged on a bench. Their workers’ suits hung loose, tied around their waists.
One was topless, her skin glistening with sweat, chest bared without the faintest hint of modesty. The other wore only a grimy undershirt, bottle in hand, laughing as she elbowed her companion.
Both were drinking from small brown bottles that looked suspiciously like beers, even this early in the morning. Their voices carried rough and easy until their eyes landed squarely on him.
The topless woman leaned back on her hands with a wicked grin, stretching until her breasts lifted and shifted invitingly with the motion.
“Well, look at that,” she purred. “My morning candy’s here.”
Her friend raised a bottle toward him, eyes half-lidded with lazy amusement.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she called, voice dripping with mock affection.
“Come have a drink with us. We don’t bite…” Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “…unless you want us to.”
Their laughter rang out—husky, unrestrained, and confident. It echoed down the sunlit trail like a challenge.
William slowed to a walk as he approached the bench.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Eli, and Ms. Zabini. Drinking so early today?”
The scent of stale beer and warm female musk reached him before he even reached the shade.
Mrs. Eli, the one who was topless, winked at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. Sunlight caught the beads of sweat that traced the curve of her jaw and chest.
“Oh, sweetie, you know us,” she said, her voice raspy, like gravel over honey. “We like to start our day with a little liquid courage. Keeps the edge off when you’re dealing with the arcana, you know?”
William chuckled, the sound a little tight in his throat. His eyes, despite his best efforts to appear nonchalant, couldn’t help but return to her breasts.
They swayed gently with her easy movements, full and unencumbered, her large nipples and wide areolas a bold declaration in the morning light.
He knew these women. He had seen them a few times in his routine run. They were electricians, maintaining the crucial, humming arteries of the district’s power grid.
At first, he finds them rowdy and boorish, quite scary—like those drunkards who had haunted the lower districts of his previous world.
However, once he actually knew them—once he offered a few polite nods and learned their work ethic—he realized they were just rude with their words but were actually good people.
Beneath the coarse humor and the early morning beers, they were actually kind and incredibly hardworking, doing their best to keep the lights on for everyone else.
Ms. Zabini took a long swig from her bottle, the liquid gurgling audibly, and then set it down with a soft thump on the dirt. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze sharp despite the half-lidded amusement.
“You’re early as always, aren’t you. Why don’t you come here and give big sister a hug, sweety?” she said, grinning—a flash of strong, slightly stained teeth.
William knew she was just joking. She always did this, issuing provocative, untouchable challenges. Usually, he would offer a tight, polite smile and refuse. And she would just laugh it off, unbothered.
But this morning was different.
Ms. Zabini’s grin faltered the moment he took a step inside her personal space. Her eyes widened in shock, the half-lidded amusement evaporating completely. Her posture stiffened, suddenly very rigid as she realized William was not following the script.
William reached her, leaning down slightly, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
The contact was immediate and visceral.
Ms. Zabini let out a strangled, quiet oof as his arms closed around her. She was surprisingly sturdy, a solid mass of muscle and bone honed by manual labor.
William felt the scratchiness of the dirty undershirt rubbing against his cheek and caught the overwhelming scent of warm sweat, metal dust, and cheap hops. Her skin felt hot and faintly damp.
For a full three seconds, she remained completely frozen, arms hanging uselessly at her sides, having been completely caught off guard.
Then, slowly, Ms. Zabini’s rigid posture melted. Her hands, calloused and thick-fingered, tentatively lifted and rested on the small of William’s back.
“Well, damn,” Mrs. Eli breathed from the bench, her voice now stripped of its teasing bravado, replaced with genuine surprise.
Ms. Zabini pulled back slightly, her grip tightening for a fraction of a second before releasing him.
Her face, usually so guarded and cynical, was flushed a deep red beneath the grime. Her sharp gaze, which usually mocked him, now held a strange, complicated mixture of confusion and pleasure.
“Didn’t think you had it in you, boy,” she muttered, her voice rougher than usual. She cleared her throat quickly and picked up her beer bottle, needing something to steady her hands. “You’re messing up my equilibrium.”
William stepped back, feeling a quiet satisfaction ripple through him. The routine felt broken, in the best possible way.
“I’m just returning the affection, Ms. Zabini,” William said, his own voice now steady and surprisingly calm.
He wiped a stray bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand, noting that the stares he had drawn earlier felt less important now.
Mrs. Eli threw her head back and let out a roar of laughter—a true, unrestrained sound that made the birds scatter from the acacia branches.
“He returned the affection! Holy hell, Zab, the boy’s got nerve!” she crowed, slapping her bare thigh with delight. She reached down and snatched up the second brown bottle, offering it toward William.
“Alright, clean boy. You earned it. Come have a swig. Just one.”
William looked at the bottle—cold, brown, covered in condensation and Mrs. Eli’s fingerprints. It was definitely beer, definitely too early, and definitely far outside his regimen.
He walked over, took the bottle, and met her challenging gaze.
…
