Prologue

In 2036 the world government had legalized prostitution and taken full control. Overnight, centuries of stigma and underground dealings were replaced by a vast, centralized system that treated sex work like any other consumer service. There were moral debates and protests at first, but they didn’t last long. Once the male population got a taste of unrestricted access to pleasure, and the female population realized just how much money they could make by providing it, resistance quickly faded.

What had once been a shadowy, underground trade was now just another sector of the service economy, carefully structured to ensure maximum profit while maintaining public health and order. Licenses were granted and approved to any corporation that applied, each of which operated under a strict set of regulations, covering everything from employee well-being to customer satisfaction. Pricing models were standardized, transactions were taxed and documented, and every aspect of the business was optimized for efficiency.

To maintain social order, the government required all couples to register, granting them unrestricted freedom to engage in sex anytime and anywhere. However, direct family members were exempt from this requirement, allowing them to engage in sex with each other without fear of prosecution. As a result, incest became rampant, then accepted, then encouraged, and finally mandated by law. This required son’s and daughter’s to have sex with their parents whenever requested, limited to only one instance of sex per day. Siblings, on the other hand, were not bound by such restrictions, so were free to fuck as often as they pleased. An exception was also made for management staff of these regulated establishments, allowing them unrestricted participation as part of their oversight duties.

Any sexual activity outside of a registered partnership or familial relationship was only permitted within designated government-regulated locations. Engaging in unregistered or unauthorized acts outside these boundaries was strictly illegal, punishable by heavy fines and prison sentences. The government strongly encouraged citizens to report any violations, fostering a culture of vigilance where people willingly turned in friends, neighbors, and even family members who broke the law.

By 2056, it wasn’t controversial anymore. The systems had been in place for 20 years and had become second nature, seamlessly integrated into daily life. Sex work was just another job, no different from waiting tables or stocking shelves. The once-taboo nature of the profession had faded away, replaced by a pragmatic understanding that pleasure was a commodity, one that could be sold and purchased just like food, entertainment, or transportation. The storefronts lined the city streets were indistinguishable from any other corporate chain—branded, polished, and designed for maximum consumer appeal.

Employees wore skimpy uniforms tailored to match each establishment’s branding. Lingerie sets, bikinis, or other minimal clothing options designed to showcase their bodies. While the government regulated operations and worker protections, attire was left to corporate discretion, ensuring that each business could craft its own image and appeal to its targeted demographic. The attire wasn’t just a uniform; it was part of the product, a constant visual reminder that this was a business built on selling sex as a service.

The bright neon signs above the entrances blinked in friendly, inviting colors, boasting catchy slogans crafted by marketing teams to attract steady foot traffic. The business model mirrored that of a fast-food chain: walk in, pick from a menu, pay at the counter, and get exactly what you ordered; no hassle, no strings, no complications. It was modern convenience at its peak, the final evolution of an industry that had once thrived in the shadows, now proudly standing in the open, embraced by a society that no longer questioned its place.

Advertising was everywhere. Billboards, holographic projections, and personalized ads tailored to browsing history ensured that no one forgot that pleasure was only a few blocks away. Even the transit system was involved, with advertisements scrolling across the walls of subways and skycars, and commercials playing on monitors inside the vehicles. It was an integrated system, with all the major players collaborating in an intricate web, ensuring that the average person was constantly exposed to a steady stream of reminders about the industry, no matter where they went or what they were doing.

But in 2107, the industry faced its first major crisis in 71 years. For the first time since the legalization, demand outpaced supply. Not due to a surge in customers, but a sudden and drastic shortage of workers. The number of women entering the profession had been steadily declining, despite corporate incentives, recruitment drives, and aggressive advertising campaigns. Traditional hiring methods were no longer enough. The once-endless stream of willing applicants had slowed to a trickle, and for the first time, major chains began shutting down locations instead of their steady pace of opening new ones, unable to keep up with demand.

Analysts called it The Drought, a period where corporations scrambled to find solutions before the entire industry collapsed. For decades, the business had relied on the assumption that there would always be more workers than needed. They had never anticipated a shortage. With no clear cause, no obvious way to stop the decline, and no obvious solution, The Drought had left them reeling, scrambling to find a solution before they were all forced to close their doors.

Desperation left the government no choice but to intervene. Hundreds of stores across the world had closed, unable to operate without a steady workforce. What had once been a thriving, ever-expanding industry was suddenly shrinking, leaving only a handful of locations in the largest, most densely populated cities.

For the first time in over a century, customers had to wait. This reduced the number of sales, and profits plummeted, leading to even more closures. The government recognized that if the problem wasn’t addressed, the entire industry would collapse. The future of their sex work economy hung in the balance, and they needed to make a choice: let the crisis play out or intervene directly and force a solution.

In 2111, the government had finally worked out a solution. One that would secure the industry’s survival and stabilize the crumbling market. After extensive economic reviews and pressure from the largest corporate stakeholders, policymakers came to a stark realization: the existing workforce limitations were not enough and they needed to expand the labor pool.

Their answer was simple: lower the legal age of consent and the legal age of participation.

It was framed as a necessary economic adjustment rather than a moral debate. Lawmakers justified the decision with carefully crafted rhetoric, arguing that in a world where sex work was a corporate industry like any other, it made sense to align employment laws with other sectors. If young workers could be trained and certified for traditional jobs by sixteen, why should this be any different?

The bill, formally titled the “Sex Work Accessibility & Youth Integration Act,” proposed that individuals could legally enter the industry at a younger age.

Public opposition was minimal. After generations of normalization, sex work was seen as just another job, and corporate lobbying ensured the legislation passed with little resistance. Marketing campaigns reframed the discussion, emphasizing “economic empowerment” and “early career opportunities” for those seeking financial independence. Promotional materials highlighted success stories—young workers who had cleared debts, secured housing, and built savings, all thanks to early entry into the profession.