Civic Suckhole: Part One
- Lisa X Lopez
- Jan 14
- 10 min read
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The Directive's Dawn
John’s hand squeezed Anna’s fingers so hard he thought he might snap them, but she didn’t complain. On the TV, the President’s face was plastered across the screen, looking like he’d just shit himself and was trying to pretend he hadn’t. The living room, which had always felt too big for the two of them, suddenly seemed to shrink, the walls closing in like they knew something bad was about to happen. John’s other hand was digging into the couch cushion, his knuckles white, while Anna sat next to him, breathing fast, her tits heaving under that thin blouse she always wore when she wanted him to notice.
The President clears his throat, and John’s gut clenches with a premonition he can’t name. “My fellow Americans,” the man begins, his voice steady and authoritative, “these are unprecedented times. Political division, economic uncertainty, and social unrest have brought our nation to a breaking point. Men across this country are experiencing dangerous levels of stress and aggression that threaten the very fabric of our society.”
John leans forward slightly, his brow furrowing. Anna’s nails dig into his palm.
“Therefore, effective immediately, I am signing an executive directive to address this crisis.” The President pauses, and the silence stretches taut as a wire. “All women, regardless of marital status or circumstance, are hereby required to provide oral stress relief to any man who requests it. This is not a suggestion. This is a mandate for the preservation of our nation.”
The words hit John like a punch to the balls. He just sat there, mouth open, lungs refusing to work, brain refusing to believe what he’d just heard. Anna’s hand went limp in his, and when he looked over, she was pale as a ghost, lips parted, eyes wide, like she’d just watched someone get run over by a bus.
“What—” Anna’s voice comes out as barely a whisper. “What did he just—”
“Compliance is mandatory,” the President continues, his tone brooking no argument. “Failure to comply will result in severe penalties. This directive is designed to reduce male aggression and restore social order. Every woman will do her patriotic duty.”
John’s fists clench involuntarily, his entire body going rigid. His mind reels, trying to reject the reality of what he’s hearing, but the President’s face remains on the screen, resolute and immovable. The broadcast continues with details—enforcement mechanisms, penalties for refusal, appeals to patriotism and duty—but John’s ears are ringing too loudly to process the specifics.
Anna turns to him, her hazel eyes wide and glistening with the beginning of tears. “John, he can’t—they can’t make me—”
But even as Anna protested, John’s dick had other ideas. His brain, the traitor, started feeding him images: Anna on her knees, those lips wrapped around some random guy’s cock, her hair tangled in another man’s fist, her mouth stretched wide, throat bulging as she swallowed. His cock twitched, thickening in his jeans, and he hated himself for it—hated that he was getting hard while his wife sat next to him, scared out of her mind.
“This is insane,” John manages, his voice rough. He pulls his hand from Anna’s and stands abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something. “This is fucking insane. They can’t—there’s no way this is legal. No way this is constitutional.”
Anna remains frozen on the couch, staring at the television as the broadcast shifts to legal experts defending the directive, citing national emergency powers and wartime precedents. Her hands are shaking, and John watches as she presses them together in her lap, trying to still them.
“The law’s the law,” John hears himself say, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He starts pacing, his mind a chaotic swirl of rage, disbelief, and that unwanted arousal that pulses shamefully in his cock. “What else can I do? What the fuck else can I do?”
“You can protect me,” Anna says, her voice gaining strength even as it trembles. She stands, facing him. “You can tell them no. You can fight this.”
John stopped pacing and stared. Anna’s face was flushed, and her nipples were poking through her blouse, hard enough to cut glass. Was it fear, or was it something else? He didn’t know, but his cock throbbed even harder at the sight, and he felt like a complete piece of shit for wanting her right now.
“Anna—” He crosses to her in two strides, pulling her against him roughly. His hands find her waist, then slide up her sides, feeling the softness of her body through the thin fabric. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let—”
But even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. He can’t protect her. Not from the law. Not from every man who might knock on their door demanding her mouth. His fingers tighten on her, possessive and desperate, and he moves one hand to her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her throat.
He stared at her neck, thumb tracing the spot where some other guy would grab her, holding her still while he shoved his cock down her throat. The thought made his cock jump, and he hated himself for it. Anna gasped, eyes meeting his, and he saw it—she was turned on too, just as horrified, just as trapped, both of them getting off on the worst thing that could happen.
“John,” Anna whispers, and her hands come up to his chest, pushing slightly but without real force. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is raw. He slides his hand from her neck to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair the way he’s imagined other men will do. “I don’t fucking know.”
Anna’s breath quickens, her pupils dilating. “You can’t just—you can’t let them—” But her protest dies as John’s other hand slides down to grip her ass, pulling her hips flush against his. She can feel his erection pressing against her thigh now, hard and insistent.
“You think I want this?” John growls, his grip tightening in her hair. “You think I want to picture you on your knees for every asshole who rings our doorbell?”
“No,” Anna gasps, but her body is responding to his roughness, her thighs pressing together. “No, but—”
“But what?” John pulls her head back slightly, exposing her throat. “But I’m hard thinking about it? But you’re wet imagining it?”
Anna’s face flushes deeper, shame and arousal warring in her expression. “That’s not—I’m not—”
“Liar.” John’s voice is harsh, but his thumb traces her lower lip gently, the contradiction making her shiver. “You’re thinking about it right now. About strange cocks in your mouth. About being used.”
“Stop it,” Anna says, but her lips part under his thumb, and when he pushes it into her mouth, she sucks on it instinctively. The sight sends another jolt of arousal through John, and he groans.
“We’re fucked,” he says quietly, withdrawing his thumb to replace it with his mouth. The kiss is fierce and claiming, his tongue invading her mouth with the same aggression he’s imagining others will use. Anna responds with equal intensity, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as she makes small protesting sounds.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting like they’d just run a marathon. John’s hand was still tangled in Anna’s hair, the other squeezing her ass, and her nipples were stabbing into his chest, hard and obvious.
“We’ll face it together,” John says finally, the words inadequate but all he has. “When they come—and they will come—we’ll handle it.”
Anna nods slowly, her eyes searching his face. “Together,” she echoes, but her voice wavers with doubt.
John yanked her close again, face buried in her hair, desperate to remember what she felt like before she belonged to every dick in the neighborhood. His cock was still rock hard, mashed against her stomach, and Anna’s hand slid down, cupping him through his jeans, like she was checking to see if he was as turned on as she was scared.
“John—” she begins, but the doorbell cuts through the moment like a knife.
They both freeze. The sound echoes through the house, ominous and inevitable. John’s hand slides from Anna’s hair down to her neck again, his fingers resting against her pulse point. It’s racing.
“That’s probably—” Anna’s voice cracks.
“I know,” John says. His hand lingers on her ass for another moment, possessive and futile, before he forces himself to step back. “I know.”
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
***
Bill didn’t even wait for the door to open all the way before he barged in, face red and breathing like he’d just run a mile. The bulge in his khakis was ridiculous, his cock straining against the fabric, making it clear exactly why he was here. He didn’t bother with hello, just marched into the house like he owned the place.
“Bro,” Bill announces, his eyes already scanning past John into the house, “I’ve got the hardest fucking dick. Where’s that wife of yours and her slutty mouth?”
John’s gut twisted. For a second, he wanted to slam the door in Bill’s face, tell him to fuck off, maybe even punch him. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Bill wasn’t wrong—not anymore. The law said Anna’s mouth wasn’t just his now. Her body wasn’t his to protect. She was public property, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“Bill, listen—” John starts, but his friend cuts him off with an impatient gesture.
“No time for listening, man. I’ve been hard since the announcement ended. Drove straight here because I knew you’d understand.” Bill’s hand drops to his crotch, adjusting himself blatantly. “So where is she?”
John clenched his jaw. Bill had been his friend—poker nights, football games, beers in the backyard. Now he was just another guy lining up to use Anna’s mouth, like she was the neighborhood water fountain.
“Bedroom,” John muttered, voice flat, dead. He jerked his thumb down the hall. Bill didn’t even pause, just strutted past like he was cashing in a coupon.
John follows, his feet heavy, his mind screaming at him to stop this, to do something, but his body moves mechanically down the familiar hallway toward the bedroom. Anna is standing near the window when they enter, her arms wrapped around herself, her face pale but set with grim determination.
Bill doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. His hands go immediately to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced efficiency. “On your knees,” he says to Anna, his voice thick with arousal. “Let’s see what kind of cocksucker you are.”
Anna’s eyes flick to John, and he sees the pleading in them, the desperate hope that he’ll intervene. But John can only stand frozen in the doorway, his fists clenched at his sides, as Anna slowly sinks to her knees on their bedroom carpet.
Bill unzipped and yanked out his cock, groaning like he’d been holding it in for hours. It was thick, angry red, already leaking. John stared, rage and something worse boiling in his gut. Another man’s cock, out in his bedroom, pointed right at Anna’s face. He hated it. He was hard as a rock.
“Open up,” Bill commands, stepping closer to Anna. He grips his cock at the base, stroking it once, twice, before pressing the swollen head against Anna’s closed lips. “Come on, slut. The President said you have to.”
Anna’s lips part slowly, reluctantly, and Bill doesn’t wait for more invitation than that. He pushes forward, his cock sliding into her mouth, and he groans loudly at the wet heat enveloping him.
“Fuck yes,” Bill mutters, his hand moving to Anna’s hair, gripping it roughly. “That’s it. Take it deeper.”
John watches from the doorway, unable to look away. Anna’s lips are stretched wide around Bill’s girth, her cheeks hollowing as Bill pushes deeper. Her hands come up to brace against Bill’s thighs, not pushing him away but steadying herself as he begins to thrust shallowly into her mouth.
“Keep it wet for me, slut,” Bill grunts, his hips pumping faster. “Get that tongue working.”
The sounds were filthy—slurping, wet, Anna’s mouth working over Bill’s cock, Bill grunting like a pig, and every so often, Anna gagging when he shoved too deep. John’s cock was rock hard in his jeans, throbbing with every noise, even as jealousy burned a hole in his chest.
Anna’s eyes are watering now, tears streaming down her cheeks as Bill fucks her face with increasing vigor. Her hands push weakly against his thighs when he holds himself deep in her throat, cutting off her air, but Bill just laughs and pulls back slightly before driving in again.
“Damn, John,” Bill says, glancing over at where John stands frozen. “Your wife’s got a prime cocksucking mouth. This throat is fucking perfect.”
John couldn’t say a word. His jaw was locked, throat tight, but his cock throbbed at every filthy word out of Bill’s mouth, at the sight of Anna on her knees, mouth stretched around another man’s dick. He hated himself for it—hated that he was hard, hated that he wanted to watch, hated that he couldn’t look away.
Bill’s thrusts become more erratic, his grip on Anna’s hair tightening until she whimpers around his cock. The sound seems to spur him on, and he pulls out slightly only to slam back in, making Anna gag audibly.
“Gonna cum,” Bill grunts, his face contorting with pleasure. “Gonna feed you, slut. Swallow it all.”
But at the last moment, Bill pulls out completely, his hand flying to his cock as he strokes himself rapidly. Anna gasps for air, her lips swollen and slick with saliva, her eyes squeezed shut. Bill aims at her face and with a loud groan, his cock pulses in his fist.
Bill shot thick ropes of cum all over Anna’s face—her lips, her cheeks, her chin, even a glob in her hair. He squeezed out every last drop, making sure she was painted with it, marked. John watched, cock throbbing so hard it hurt, as his wife got covered in another man’s spunk.
“Fuck,” Bill breathes, finally releasing his cock. He tucks himself back into his pants, zipping up with casual efficiency while Anna remains kneeling, cum dripping down her face. “That’s some fine married mouth you’ve got there, man.”
Bill walks past John, clapping him on the shoulder like they’ve just finished a friendly game of pool. “The law’s the law, Phil—what else can I do?” Bill says with a grin, misremembering John’s name in his post-orgasmic haze. “Make sure she keeps it wet for me, man. I’m gonna be stopping by regularly for some of this cock relief. Maybe bring some of the guys from the poker game too.”
John watched Bill stroll out like he’d just finished a beer, not just blown a load on John’s wife. Anna was wiping her face with shaky hands, smearing cum everywhere. Their eyes met, and the humiliation in hers was a perfect match for the shame burning in his gut—shame that he couldn’t stop it, shame that he was hard, shame that this was their life now.
Anna opens her mouth to speak, but before she can form words, another knock sounds from the front door. This one is more polite, almost apologetic in its rhythm.
“That’ll be Phil,” John says quietly, recognizing his neighbor’s knock pattern.
Anna’s face crumpled, new tears mixing with the cum streaked across her cheeks. She didn’t even bother getting up, just stayed on her knees, knowing there was no point in cleaning up. This was just the start.
John turns away from the bedroom doorway, his cock still uncomfortably hard in his jeans, and walks toward the front door to let the next man in.
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