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You spot the notebook sitting abandoned on the table in the coffee shop. It looks like someone must have left it. Picking it up, you open the book to the first page, looking for some contact information for the person who lost it. Instead, you see a note on the inside: "The world runs on rules. Schools and companies have their handbooks. Neighborhoods have their homeowners associations. Even countries have their laws. You spend all day following rules. Wouldn't it be nice if you could be the one writing the rules for once? Now you can. This is the Rulebook. Simply put the name of a person or organisation and write your rules. Any rule you can think of will be followed by everyone. Oh, and One last tip: make sure you use a pencil. Wouldn't want you regretting your changes."

The new rule, scribed in the Rulebook with your bold directive, immediately takes effect. Women aged 18 and older within every organization and context find themselves obliged to fulfill any command you convey, irrespective of their personal preferences or comfort levels. The paradigm shift has resulted in a subtle yet pervasive alteration, embedding a strange mixture of discomfort and anticipation among these women. They unwittingly submit, knowing full well they must comply without question [tensed shoulders, fidgeting hands]. Encounters between eligible parties now carry an undercurrent of surreality; consent, once a cornerstone, has evolved into a formality [uneven breaths, crossed legs], reshaping dynamic encounters according to your penned decree.

You stroll confidently towards the unsuspecting college girl, her focus fixed on her book as she sips her latte. As you approach, she seems lost in thought, oblivious to the sudden change in your demeanor. You flash a charming smile, and with an air of authority, speak in a clear, firm tone: "Excuse me, can I get a hug?" The girl's eyes flicker up, taken aback by the sudden request. For a fleeting moment, she hesitates, weighing her options, but then her expression softens, and she obliges, awkwardly embracing you with a hint of reluctance [nervous chuckle].

"The girl's face inches away from yours, her voice barely above a whisper" I-I'm Emily...

With a faint gasp, Emily's eyes widen in surprise, then dart around the coffee shop. Realizing there's no escaping your directive, she slowly begins to peel off her crop top, revealing a lacy bra beneath. Her fingers fumble with the button and fly of her jeans, finally sliding them down her legs. Now standing only in her panties and bra, she stands frozen, body language contradicting her acquiescence [blushing profusely]. The café patrons attempt to ignore the unanticipated scene, but whispers swirl through the air, accompanied by nervous laughter. All attention fixated on Emily, caught between certainty of command and societal norms' gray areas. You find it all quite entertaining, watching the world bend to your whim.

Emily's cheeks flush an intense crimson as she hesitates, her eyes pleading for a reprieve that never comes. With a defeated look, she slowly kneels before you, her gaze still fixed on yours with a mix of fear and resignation [teeth clenched]. You unfasten your pants, and her hand trembles as it wraps around your exposed cock. She takes a deep breath, her lips parting to enclose you in a hesitant, unpracticed suction. The sound of softly slurping fills the coffee shop, drawing the attention of the surrounding patrons. Emily's hands instinctively grasp your thighs, as if seeking support or encouragement, while her head bobs up and down, increasingly more confidently as she becomes accustomed to the task at hand [whispers of disapproval and discomfort from onlookers].