Foreword:

Given the peculiar nature of the subject matter, this story warrants a special disclaimer.

This is a fantasy, not a manifesto. As famous erotica author All These Roadworks usually puts it, “my kinks are not my politics”. Do not use this story to promote a political worldview. Practice your relational life consensually, or not at all.

This story is set in the Fall Of Women narrative universe. In this world, a diabolical conspiracy has unleashed a mind control virus that compels women to submit to men.

You can enjoy this story even if you haven’t read the others, and the original. Having said that, reading at least the original first will naturally net you the best reading experience.

As always, all characters are over the age of 18.

Now, without further ado… enjoy the read!

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1 – A War In The Mind

My smartphone buzzes in the darkness.

I stare daggers at it, as it vibrates on the nightstand. It’s just my alarm clock, but for a second, I’m almost tempted to grab the thing and throw it out the window.

Except… what good would that do? The damage has been done already. Destroying my phone won’t fix anything.

I turn off the alarm, retreating back into the blankets, and closer to the warmth of Leah’s sleeping body next to me. I put my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and listen to her breathing for a moment.

It’s peaceful. I wish we could stay like this all day. I wish I didn’t have to face the world. Honestly, after what’s being done to us women, I feel like I’m kind of entitled to a full day spent resting in bed.

Unfortunately, even that isn’t an option. Even sleeping is not safe, not anymore.

“Another bad night?” Leah asks in a whisper, almost startling me. I thought she was asleep.

I don’t answer. I shuffle closer to her, pulling her tight into my arms.

We don’t need words right now. We’ve talked plenty enough, and besides, we both share the same dreams anyway, as does every woman unlucky enough to own a phone.

My dreams have been a minefield ever since the event. The images are blurry and confused, but their purpose couldn’t be any clearer than this. They’re meant to change me, rewrite me, convert me.

I dream of hands – not the soft, warm, feminine hands I like, but the strong, wiry hands of powerful men. They touch me, clinching around my throat, cupping my breasts, squeezing my thighs.

Their hands push me against the wall, and in the dreams I’m always breathless, excited, vulnerable. I always end up spreading my thighs a little, making myself open and available, or close my lips around an offered finger, sucking and moaning.

And then the hands reach for my shoulders, or my head, and push me down, onto my knees…

I dream of collars, too. Held by male hands, offered to me, ready to close around my neck…

I always wake up restless and exhausted after that. It’s starting to affect my mood, my ability to focus. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep since the event, and unfortunately, there’s no medicine or remedy that will help.

The only way I can sleep soundly again is give in to the programming.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Abandon my lesbian orientation, forsake feminism, do away with any notion of consent, give up my human rights… and accept a collar from a man.

My hands ball into fists, my nails digging into my palms. Whoever developed this payload deserves to burn in hell. Troubled sleep, torture, brainwashing – all to get us to accept, no, demand the disenfranchisement of our entire gender.

I’ll be damned if I let them have me.

“I hate this,” I say in a low whisper. “I hate them. All of them.”

“I know,” Leah says, pulling me tighter into her arms.

Her warmth quells my sadness, but not my anger. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea that someone went through the trouble of developing something so outlandish, for such an evil purpose.

The affront, the disgust, the… violation I feel is making me shake with hatred and rage.

Leah seems to notice. She rolls away from me, just enough that we can look each other in the eyes.

“Are you sure about this? The plan, I mean.”

I scan her eyes, trying to read her emotions as my eyes adjust to the dark. I… honestly don’t know. How could I know? I don’t even know what we’re dealing with, not really.

I’m no developer. I certainly can’t hack into the payload and find out what it does, or how to reverse-engineer it. People far smarter and more well-paid than me are working on it round the clock.

All I can do is try and resist the payload until then. Prolong my resistance, at all costs. Buy time, until someone figures it out and fixes everything.

I must have spent, oh, dozens of hours browsing the internet for clues. Shortly after the event, many women simply abandoned or destroyed their smartphones, but of course that’s no solution. The payload’s programming is in our brains now.

There’s an abundance of many other… peculiar remedies out there, and most sound completely and utterly bonkers. But there is one that does sound logical. It’s the only hope I can see.

I can’t show weakness to Leah. I’ve always been the dominant partner in this relationship, and not just in bed. Now more than ever, she needs my guidance, she needs me to be strong for her.

“We can trust Reinhard.”

“I know we can,” she whispers, “that’s not what worries me. What if…” she swallows, gathering herself. “What if it doesn’t work?”

What if indeed. The truth is, I have no answer for her, not a honest one anyway. But I fear the despair that would overcome her if I say that. Any hope, no matter how meager, is worth fighting for.

So I affect a confidence I don’t actually feel, and nod. “It will work. Many others have tried it.”

“O-okay,” she says, deferring to me as usual. Unfortunately, while she may be placated for now, I feel terribly antsy. Wordlessly, I slide out of bed and walk out the bedroom. I need to talk to Reinhard, right now.

***

Reinhard is a morning person.

Unsurprisingly, he’s already awake and fully clothed, sat at the kitchen table, nursing on an energy drink before he starts his workday.

We’ve been friends since high school. I’ve always suspected him to carry a bit of a torch for me, but he knows I’m a lesbian and has never expressed any interest openly. For which I’m grateful.

That’s exactly the sort of reason why Reinhard is the one male person I would trust in this predicament. He’s a great friend, and I know he won’t take advantage of my situation.

In fact, I thank my lucky stars that he was visiting me when the event happened. He’s a digital nomad, and needs only his laptop to work – but what began as a friendly visit became something else when the payload hit.

He’s been grocery-shopping and generally interfacing with the outside world for us, minimising our interactions with other people. That’s good. It’s just… not safe to be around men now, even in public.

Even less safe than it’s ever been before.

I join him at the table, but don’t touch the biscuits I would normally attack for breakfast. I’ve lost my appetite.

Reinhard puts down his smartphone and looks at me, concern clear on his face.

“Good morning,” he says, cautiously. “How are you doing?”

I gesture vaguely to try and communicate that it was another bad night, and that I don’t really want to talk about it. Truth is, I can barely sit still right now, and not just because I’m antsy.

Even just being in the presence of a man is a threat to my sanity. Immediately, the payload begins to bombard my mind.

It’s like he has this sudden aura about him. Tall, strong, with deft hands from playing the violin, and those piercing eyes, green and flecked with gold…

If not for the payload, I’d never pay attention to a man’s eyes in a million years. I shake myself out of the disgusting reverie, fighting my programming with all my might.

Control. I need to stay on top of my own head, and focus.

“What about you?” I croak, forcing myself to have a normal conversation. “Slept well?”

Reinhard shrugs. “Woke up a bit after dawn, been reading ever since.” He nods in the direction of his phone.

“What about?”

His eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to evaluate how to broach his answer. “The, uh, event, mostly. Speculation and commentary. Investigation into the group that did this.”

Right. So much for normality. “It must make for thrilling reading, I’m sure.”

Reinhard raises his hand, apologetically. “Sorry, it’s just that… nobody knows who these guys even are, let alone why they went to such lengths to accomplish their goal. Single-minded fanaticism like that…”

“Doesn’t matter why they did it,” I say in a hush. I can appreciate Reinhard’s intellectual interest in the subject, but as a victim, my own perspective is a tad different. “They’re monsters, all of them.”

“Of course,” he says. We stare at one another in awkward silence for a moment, before I muster the courage to speak once more.

“Reinhard, I think Leah and I want to go ahead with what we discussed.” Just getting the words out makes me feel better. It’s a load off my chest.

It isn’t for Reinhard, though.

He leans forward, steepling his hands, looking at me with an inscrutable expression. He often gets like that when he’s lost in thought.

“Really? Are you sure? Audrey, I don’t know…”

“Please,” I say. “Don’t balk on me now.” I want to tell him that he’s my friend, and he can’t abandon me now.

I almost blurt out that his gender has betrayed mine in a way I never even thought imaginable, and he has a responsibility to help me escape a fate of oppression.

But that would be unfair. Reinhard has nothing in common with the people who did this.

I do know he cares for me, and I understand that the situation is bizarre for him, too. So I just plead with my eyes, and let him think through whatever is swirling through his mind right now.

“It’s not that,” he says at last. “It’s just… A nominal collaring, Audrey, seriously? I really don’t know that I would be advising it.”

“Lots of people are doing it,” I say, trying to stop my hands from shaking. “Especially lesbians and gay men…”

“Lots of people are trying it,” Reinhard says, cocking his head inquisitively. “But how do we know that it’s working? Does the payload’s programming distinguish between a real and a nominal collaring? What happens if, say –“

“I don’t know, okay?!” I say, realising only too late that I’ve shouted. I put my hand over my mouth, in sign of apology.

Reinhard can get very intense, at times. Should a topic catch his interest, he’ll dive into it with thorough enthusiasm. His sharp, insightful ability to always bring what actually matters into focus is one of his most compelling traits…

But not today. Today, I need a friend supporting me, not a lecture. Even so, I shouldn’t have raised my voice.

Reinhard seems unperturbed. He composes himself, sitting a little straighter, and nods for me to continue.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just, man, I can’t even sleep at night. I just can’t take this anymore.”

“You’re right,” he says, nodding in understanding. “My apologies.”

I bite my lower lip, looking down at the table, then back up at him. “Let’s try it, ok? And if it doesn’t work… then, we’ll see. But you’re the only person I’m willing to trust with this. You can’t quit on me now.”

“I see,” he says, nursing his energy drink, lost in his thoughts once more.

At last, he seems to make some kind of determination. He puts down his drink, and nods in my direction.

“Tell you what, let’s make a deal. I’m willing if you are… but give it another few hours at least. Think about it some more, ok? I would rather you didn’t agree to something you might end up regretting.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, conceding. “Thank you, Reinhard. You’re my best friend.”

“You too, Audrey,” he says, booping my nose. The tender moment squeezes my heart a little.

“I’ll think about it on the way to uni,” I say, standing up. That catches his attention.

“Uni?” He says. “Do you… want me to accompany you? I’ve got some work to do, but I could bring my laptop, I guess…”

“No need,” I tell him, trying to reassure myself as much as him. “Look, I’ve been basically locked indoors since this whole thing started. I’m not letting the bastards who did this take away my life. Even if I avoid collaring, what do I achieve if I skip all my classes? Then they win anyway.”

Reinhard seems to see my point. He gives me a warm smile, the one he reserves for moments like these, when he’s manifestly proud of me. “You’re right. You go get them, tiger.”

Later in the morning, as I head out in the baggiest clothes I could find, my face half-obscured by a scarf and a facemask, my hair tied into a ponytail and tucked in under my hat… I admit to myself I feel like a scared kitten, not a tiger.

But at least now I have a plan. And so I steel my resolve, and head out the door, into a world forever changed.

***

I’m… not sure what I expected the world to look like, exactly.

I’ve minimised my exposure to the outside as much as I could, in the wake of the event. I’ve been nursing this fear that I would step out and see.. I don’t even know what. Something terrifying.

But at a first glance, things look remarkably… normal. People walk the streets, commuting to work or jogging in the park. I find it reassuring, and feel way more settled as I make my way towards campus.

It’s only a fifteen minute walk away… but I’ve barely covered half distance before I run into the first visible sign that the event did happen, that it wasn’t just my imagination.

As I turn the corner, I suddenly find a small, improvised rally – women of all ages, but mostly university students like me, holding signs aloft and chanting slogans. There’s a few men in there, too, which is certainly good to see.

I catch a few of the banners and signs. “Hands off women!” says one. A bunch call for undoing the payload, or demand the people responsible for the event be found and brought to justice.

That makes me smile inwardly. We will fight back. We’re not going to take this lying down, not this time. I’m half-tempted to join them, and class be damned, but I have some time to decide. Apparently, we’re travelling in the same direction.

“Non-consensual collaring is rape,” I hear one of the girls say in animated discussion, with a guy nodding in agreement next to her. “Like, isn’t that literally obvious? You’re making a woman your slave because she can’t say no, even if she’s unwilling!”

“It’s mind-boggling that it hasn’t been made illegal yet,” the guy answers. “And every day they wait…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

I do my best to push the mental image of a collar – the leather, the lock sealing my fate, a hand cupping my chin – out of my head, and take stock of my surroundings.

I can see the main university building just across the street. Makes sense that protesters would gather here, to start with – I know very large scale protests have been taking place worldwide, but to see a small, spontaneous gathering so close to my home really lifts my spirits.

For a time, even though I’m not formally part of the rally, we march as one.

It’s only when I make my way to the front of the rally that I notice most protesters have stopped. I look around in confusion, before turning to my right, where a young woman holding a megaphone is glaring at a tall, dark figure.

I squint my eyes in the direction of the stranger. It’s a young man, some kind of neckbeard with a black t-shirt on that reads “long live the new order”.

I too find myself glaring at him, my hands trembling with barely-concealed rage. I don’t know what infuriates me more, the idea that someone’s had a shirt custom-made about this terrible event, or the smug grin on his stupid face.

Doesn’t he get how serious this is? Does he think this is a fucking joke? My very privacy, even my dreams are being violated by men who wish to harm me and my freedom. And every woman in the world is going through the same nightmare. How can the idea amuse him?

The girl with the megaphone, some kind of informal ringleader I suspect, closes the distance between them, the megaphone swinging at her side. For a second I wonder if she’s going to hit him. I hope not, but I would enjoy her having a few choice words for this prick.

If he’s intimidated, it doesn’t show. He’s ridiculously outnumbered, but has no problem staring down an entire rally, grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t take us seriously, I realise. He thinks the payload’s turned us into a bunch of zombies.

At last, the girl steps right up to him, glowering. He raises an eyebrow in challenge, but just as she’s about to speak, he cuts her off.

“Like the shirt?” He says, his cocky grin growing even wider. “Whatcha going to do about it, girl?”

I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable shouting match that’s about to follow…

But nothing happens. The girl seems to visibly deflate before my eyes, taking one step back, as if intimidated. I take notice of the megaphone trembling in her hands. What?

“That’s what I thought,” the guy says, not smiling anymore – he’s looking down at her like he’s just stepped on a bug. “Enjoy the parading while it lasts, bitch, because I guarantee you – as soon as someone puts a collar on you, you can forget ever being allowed to do something this silly, ever again.”

If the girl looked strangely intimidated before, she now seems to shrink before him, meek and mellow, unable to raise her voice or utter anything more than a feeble protest, which I can’t even hear.

All her strength, pride, independence… it’s all gone. Her own brain is doing this to her, thanks to the payload. Slowly and systematically removing every weapon and defense she’s ever had, until she’s nothing but a harmless little girl in the presence of a man.

The guy laughs right in her face, stalking off. I stand there, petrified, my brain suddenly bombarded with traitorous images.

In my mind’s eye, the guy doesn’t stalk off. He stands there, staring down the girl until she slides down to her knees, megaphone cluttering to the floor. He swipes her hair out of the way to slide a collar around her neck…

Hands, strong and wiry, twine her hair in circles like he’s shortening a pet’s leash. She looks up at him, neck strained, eyes full of fear and devotion…

I snap out of it, pumping a fist against my thigh. All the hope I felt just a moment ago feels shattered, and I begin to tear up. Leaving the house was a mistake. Pretending I could have a normal day was a mistake.

It’s not safe to be around men. I know, in my heart of hearts, that the guy could have collared the girl if he’d wanted to. If he’d commanded her to accept it.

Hell, he could have collared me.

But I’ve come too far to just go back. Like I told Reinhard this morning, if I give up my education, the misogynists win anyway.

I just have to go in there, be careful to avoid men as much as possible, and if one tries to take me over, resist with all my might. And hope that it is enough.

One day, someone will pay for making me feel so insecure, so scared, for all the extra emotional labour I have to do to ensure my safety. And I know that day is coming soon.

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe we’ll end up crushed, put in our place, putty in the hands of men. I try to ignore the seditious part of me that seems to purr in pleasure at the idea.

But for now, I make my way into the university, feeling like a sheep strolling right into the middle of a wolf’s den.

***

Uni is, oddly enough, a breath of fresh air.

While the governments of the world shuffle their feet uncertainly, hesitating and dickering, this is where the real mobilisation is taking place. Support groups are springing all over like mushrooms.

Pamphlets recommend best practices. Always travel in groups, the larger the better. Keep interactions with men to an absolute minimum to minimise the risk of collaring.

Of course, the university administration has been slow to react, to the shock of absolutely nobody. So, a range of spontaneous initiatives is filling the gap until, hopefully, the higher ups wake up.

Women are starting to only attend classes held by female professors. With the help of collaborative guys, classes are being kept mono-gendered as much as possible – which leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I see no other way.

Any length of time spent in the company of a man might be incredibly dangerous, depending on his intentions.

At least something is being done. I tell myself this is probably the only reason why the day goes by somewhat uneventfully, why no male student has even tried to hold a prolonged conversation with me, much less tried to collar me.

It’s sad that the world has to be like this for a while, but look, I didn’t develop or deploy the payload. I didn’t cause the event. I’m just trying to survive in a world that has suddenly become a lot more hostile.

And so I find myself chatting with a few girls I haven’t seen since before the event, especially Cindy.

We stay back after our elective bioethics class is finished, gossiping and discussing recent events. My absence from uni was a few days longer than hers, and she looks very happy to see me. Almost relieved, in fact.

“For a while, I was worried you wouldn’t come back at all,” Cindy tells me, squeezing my hand. “I’m so happy you’re here!”

“Me too,” I say, offering her a warm smile. “Although I can’t blame girls who choose to stay at home. Just coming here today was…” I shake my head, sighing. Come to think of it, there are definitely fewer female students around than before the event. Again, hardly surprising.

Something flickers across Cindy’s eyes, an emotion I’m not quite sure how to identify. Her lips narrow as she stares at me, suddenly looking very serious. “Audrey…”

I arch my eyebrow. “What? What’s wrong?”

Cindy shakes her head. “I mean, of course you’re right. Some are going to bunker down until it’s over, and I can’t blame them, but… that’s not what I meant when I said I was happy you made it here.”

A faint chill trickles down my spine. I gulp, nervously. “W-what did you mean, then?”

“There are other reasons why a girl may be skipping class…” Cindy says, her voice falling to a whisper. “You remember Frida?”

“What about her?”

Cindy stops for a second, struggling to find the words, and to fight back the tears. “She, huh…” She makes a small circular gesture with her hands, and I hate that I recognise immediately what it means.

Frida got collared.

Cindy clears her throat, mustering the courage to continue her story. I just listen, stunned.

“Her new, huh… owner, I suppose, I don’t even know who he is… says she doesn’t need a degree. So she’s not coming back to class. Like, ever.” Then, her eyes widening, she rushes to amend her statement. “Not until they fix everything, I mean.”

I’m too stupefied to pay much attention to her self-correction. My brain is in shutdown, as a battle rages between two conflicting impulses – my fury at Frida’s fate, and the traitorous thoughts implanted by the payload, trying to whisper in my ear.

In the perfect stalemate, I only have room for a kind of muted stupor.

“She was about to publish a legal article…” I say, in a whisper. “She wanted to be a lawyer.” Like me.

Cindy shrugs. “Well, that’s out the window. He wants a housewife, so…”

I’m going to feel sick. I clutch the edge of the table, trying to steady myself as vertigo threatens to overwhelm me. Frida’s life, years of hardship and struggle, studying and brilliance – it was all fundamentally altered by a single encounter.

A man’s word, and all of it was undone. She was immediately made lesser, reduced, pushed back into a traditional role. A submissive role…

I hate how hot the idea sounds, to my payload-addled brain. At the stroke of a pen, her life has been destroyed. No wonder men enthrall us, if we fold so easily. God, the rush of power Frida’s owner must have felt, as he literally took her identity away… it must defy description.

So many years of delusions about being a man’s equal, and look at her now, forbidden from even showing up in class. No more pressure, responsibility, decisions. All she has to worry about now is please her master.

She probably spends more time on her knees than standing up, now. To clean the floor, of course, but also to slide under his desk while he does important work… providing for the household… a leash clipped to her collar…

I slap my forehead, growling in anger, doing all I can to keep control of my brain. One look at Cindy’s flushed face tells me everything I need to know – she’s been struggling with it too…

That’s what really makes me snap. I can’t go on like this, not indefinitely. If even Frida, strong-willed, outspoken feminist Frida can fall, then so can I. I need to act, and there’s nothing to gain by waiting.

I grab my phone, furiously typing a message to Reinhard. It’s only a few simple words, but it’s all the words I need.

“We’re doing this tonight.”

His answer comes seconds later.

“Alright. Guess I’ll go buy the collars…”

2 – A Leathered Splendor

“One last time,” Reinhard says, staring at us plaintively, “I’m going to point out that I don’t think this is going to work.”

I squeeze Leah’s hand, as much to reassure her as to bolster my own resolve. She looks up at me, expectantly. Her big doe eyes never fail to bring out the protector in me.

I typically call the shots for the both of us, but I sense a hesitation in her gaze.

She knows I just want to plunge ahead with my plan, before my courage falters. Before I can be talked into backing out. But Leah would like to hear Reinhard out, one last time.

I acquiesce with a sigh and a curt nod. Reinhard must have been studying me just as closely as Leah was, because he resumes his speech immediately.

“I’ve been researching this,” he says, looking at the two collars he’s placed on the table between us. “As far as this can be researched at all, of course. But the whole internet is talking about it, and I’ve been up all night, reading…”

I stare at him with scepticism, and a little bit of annoyance. “Reinhard, I’m not stupid. I can use the internet too.” It’s frankly astonishing how quickly WikiHow put up guides on collar avoidance.

“I know,” Reinhard says defensively, holding up his hands. “But you were mostly looking at ways to dodge collaring. I decided to try something else. I think if you want to understand how the payload works, you need to look at, uh, well… catcher spaces.”

I see the old intensity in Reinhard’s eyes, which tells me this has become an absorbing interest for him. He hasn’t just been researching it – he’s probably been reading all day, trying to understand what makes all of this tick.

I’m hoping it will come to our advantage. His analytical mind is a great asset to have in this situation. But for now, I need to try and keep up with hours upon hours of immersion that he needs to condense for me.

“Catcher spaces,” I say. “And what are those?”

Reinhard shrugs, seemingly uncomfortable with himself. “Catchers are men who have already collared a woman. Or more. There are forums and chatrooms where they gather and debate.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, I really shouldn’t. But I grit my teeth in anger and disgust all the same.

“I don’t even… what do they even talk about exactly? How it’s our fault for being collared because we dared refuse a sexual advance from them, or wore too short a skirt?”

“Some of that is definitely going on,” Reinhard says, his distate unclear. “But mostly advice, you know. Even some analysis”

My eyes widen, my nails dig into my palms, and my own mind begins to accelerate. I know I really, really shouldn’t ask the question that’s about to come out of my mouth. I don’t know whether it’s curiosity or the payload that finally makes me say it.

“What kind of advice are we talking about?”

“Mostly on the most effective ways of catching women… and how to properly domesticate them after their collaring.”

Domesticate them.

The word swirls in my brain, tainting every thought, every image. It feels so wrong and so right at once… Of course most animals can be domesticated, why should humans be any different? Why should women?

My knees tremble, and Leah next to me is basically beginning to sway. But Reinhard talks on, oblivious.

“Most men don’t really have a clue,” he says, “but a few are very vocal and extremely detailed in their guides. Their mission seems to share certain… techniques they have found to yield wondrous, and terrifying results.”

I swoon in place, struggling for balance as the payload assaults my perception.

Certain techniques…

I can certainly believe that. Take a young woman, strong, smart, fiercely independent, keenly aware of her worth, and her right to equality.

Then strip everything, piece by piece. Make her dependent, insecure, unassuming. Assign her simple caregiving tasks, dulling her intelligence through repetition and labour. Use rewards and punishments to steer her, mould her, remake her…

Domesticate her.

And Reinhard stayed up all night reading about how to best break a woman…

It really is terrifying. And in a way, it really is wondrous.

I slap my forehead again. Reinhard blinks, taken aback for a second, before resuming his speech. He’s learning to take such reactions in stride, I guess.

“I’m actually a little suspicious of these users, by the way. They seem a little too eager to help… it only makes sense that whoever designed the payload also disseminated as much information out there to maximise its effect.”

Leah whimpers next to me. I turn to face her, in shock. That’s the kind of submissive mewl she would reserve for me, when I push her onto the bed and make her beg for pleasure, or when I climb my way up her body, to straddle her face with my thighs…

I’m not sure Reinhard’s noticed. “You see the brilliance of the plan?” He asks me. “The payload makes it so that things implement themselves. It’s got the authorities in a bind. Their only option is to find a fix to reverse the payload. In the meantime, there isn’t much they can do to counter its effects.”

Is that a hint of admiration I detect in his voice? Is he impressed by how thoroughly these misogynists planned out the downfall of womankind?

Is… Is that what Leah was mewling about?

“I think I’d be much happier if they hadn’t done such a good job,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. In truth, I’m nowhere near as cocky as I sound. The performance is meant to reassure me that I can still handle all of this.

“Of course,” Reinhard says, snapping out of his elucubrations. “In any case, that’s not the point. The point is… I’m becoming convinced that the collars are a red herring.”

“Right, exactly!” I say. “That’s what I’ve been saying! We can satisfy the payload with a pantomime, and that’s it!”

But Reinhard shakes his head. “No, Audrey. The collars are a red herring for you. For all of us.”

I blink at him in confusion.

“What I mean is this: the collar is just an object. By focusing so much on it, we’re getting distracted from how the payload actually functions. It makes you want to serve men. That’s a lot more insidious than just a circle of leather.”

A shiver trickles down my spine. It makes sense, but I want to deny it, because if he’s right… how do you fight something like that?

“That’s why I said they have the authorities in a bind,” Reinhard continues. “Think about it, why hasn’t collaring been banned yet?”

There’s a weirdly… enthusiastic glint in his eye. He doesn’t wait for me to try and fumble out an answer, either.

“You could outlaw every piece of leather on the planet,” Reinhard says, looking me in the eyes, “but how do you stop someone from choosing to just obey? To submit? It’s the collaring that’s the pantomime. The obedience, now… that’s real.”

For a second, it’s like the entire world around me holds its breath. My stomach drops, and there’s a knot in my throat. It’s all I can do to keep the dread at bay.

It’s hard to argue with Reinhard’s logic, which makes me feel even more humiliated and diminished. I know that’s just my brain trying to self-sabotage, the programming trying to convince me I’m better off letting a man do the thinking for me.

Obey, submit, I hear, in his voice. Obedience, now, that’s real.

I find myself staring in awe, battling for control of my mind, as Reinhard continues his explanation.

“The frontline of this war is in here,” he says, tapping his forehead. “Inside the mind.”

I open my mouth, looking for a rebuttal, but none comes. I know he’s right.

But I also know I can’t just keep fighting the payload. My very vacillation right now is proof of this. In fact, if he doesn’t shut up, I think I’ll end up on my knees no matter if he agrees to the ritual or not.

So I shrug, cutting the discussion short while I still can. “Well, say you’re right. Do you have a better plan in mind?”

Reinhard leans back a moment, blinking, thinking. Then he sighs, lowering his head. “I suppose I do not.”

Leah and I exchange a look. She gives me a tiny nod, which is all I need. I know she’s going to trust me with this, follow me into the breach. We’ll figure it out together. After all, we love one another, and Reinhard is our friend.

That has to be stronger than any smartphone virus. Hasn’t it?

I snap back to reality as Reinhard clears his throat. “Let’s get this over with, come on.”

I nod, with a final squeeze on Leah’s hand to lend her strength. And then, together, we flex our legs, and begin descending to our knees.

We do it in perfect sync, like we’ve rehearsed this a thousand times. Of course, we haven’t – we haven’t even talked about it.

But the ritual is etched into the brains of every woman now. Every tiny motion, every element of coreography, it’s been drilled into us, night after sleepless night. In our dreams of male dominion and female submission.

I hate kneeling, of course. Even if it’s just pantomime and it’s Reinhard. The twin symbolism of subservience and sexual innuendo isn’t lost on any of us. But as I sink lower, my eyes widen in surprise at how my body feels.

The payload, I realise. It’s working overtime to exploit this opening. It’s like a great weight has been lifted off me. I get a second wind, blasting away the fatigue and sleep deprivation of the last few days. I feel lightheaded, but also energetic.

When my knees hit the floor with a fateful thud, part of me thinks that this is a hugely significant, almost profound moment.

It’s the part that the payload’s corrupted, I know. But it’s in there, and I can’t block it off, not while performing the ceremony it’s been demanding of my brain for days on end.

It tells me that I could do worse than Reinhard.

Lesbian or not, even I can sense his magnetism. He’s ridiculously eloquent, tall, strong. His green eyes are as piercing as his intellect. He looks soulful, when he plays the violin.

With his many intellectual and physical hobbies, he’s a modern day Renaissance man. Surely even a lesbian could see value in accepting such a man’s authority over her own life?

And of course, his voice – such a low octave, the perfect pitch for resonating against a girl’s ribcage, for commanding her…

These are alien thoughts. They’re evil and cursed, and wherever they take root, they poison the soil. But as Reinhard begins to loom over our kneeling figures, one collar in hand, it’s hard to avoid the notion that he deserves to rule. That he looks like a king.

I hold my breath as the first collar snaps around Leah’s neck. Instantly she looks smaller, mousier, less of a person. She’s trying to shrivel under his gaze. She immediately bends forward, landing on her elbows, and places a soft kiss on the tip of his black leather shoes.

“I acknowledge myself owned,” she says, breathless, and the sight is like a punch to the gut. That’s my girlfriend, kissing a man’s feet, declaring herself his property!

I steady my breathing. It’s all for show. None of this is real. But the constant warring between my programming and my rage is leaving me exhausted and confused.

The confusion melts away when Reinhard steps right into my field of vision, holding the second collar right in front of my face.

Every neuron in my body flares up. The response is incredible, all-encompassing, a chasm of pure sensation that threatens to swallow me whole.

My breathing comes in short, ragged pulses as Reinhard sweeps my hair out of the way. When the leather touches my skin, a jolt of electricity courses through me.

And then, I hear it.

The click.

As the collar closes around my neck, I begin to writhe, every muscle in my body spasming and tensing. I, too, bend forward, because I’m out of breath, and I’m doubling over. The sensation rippling across my body cannot be put into words. It’s almost like an orgasm, but not quite.

The collar feels good around my neck, thick and tight. I can’t even flex my neck too much, its edge presses against my chin if I try. I imagine being forced to keep a straight neck posture, formal and servile, like I’m waiting to be inspected, and that makes me lick my lips.

The black glossy leather must make such a fine contrast with the paleness of my skin… one most pleasing to a man’s eye. As it should be.

But then, the reverie begins to fade. The pleasure retreats, and the collar doesn’t feel like a lover’s warm embrace anymore, but constrictive instead. I twist my head uncomfortably, trying to work it in a more comfortable position.

As I begin to climb down and back to normality, the repulsion returns, making me recoil in place.

I’m a lesbian and a feminist, kneeling before a man who’s just put a collar on me. And I swear, as I look up at him, there’s some weird glint in his eye…

Reinhard’s face rarely betrays his emotions, but as he contemplates me, kneeling before him, wearing his collar, it’s clear some considerable turmoil plays out across his expression. My trust falters.

For a second, there’s nothing in the world I want more than to just bolt. Start running, and never stop.

But I’ve come this far, and I will not let my doubts poison my friendship. The people behind the payload have done enough damage. This, they won’t take from me.

I will see this through.

So I prostrate myself before my friend, wrinkling my nose at the pungent scent of the leather that hits my nostrils. Closing my eyes, I force myself to place the smallest, least enthusiastic of puckered kisses that I can on the tip of his shoes.

I have the horrible suspicion that, pantomime or not, Reinhard won’t be able to see me as an equal anymore. Not after I’ve literally folded myself in such a slavish position to kiss his feet. But I suppress the fear.

He’s a friend, and he knows this was my only option.

And so, at last, I say the words to complete the ritual, hating every single one of them.

“I acknowledge myself owned.”

3 – A Tamed Gender

It’s a miserable walk to campus.

Compared to the first time I ventured out after the event, the world around me is starting to look less and less normal. There are way fewer women around, for starters. I know they’re all either bunkering down at home, or kneeling at a man’s feet.

Of those that do make the rounds, several are in the company of a man. Some are openly being led by leashes, or simply walk around wearing their master’s collar.

Every street corner, every newspaper, every conversation – the event dominates it all. The world I knew is coming apart at the seams before my very eyes, as women fall and men cast their shadows upon them.

I’ve diligently avoided social media and the internet for the past day, but I could hear Reinhard pacing the house last night, and I know he’s been up again, immersed in his reading. I wonder if he’s still lurking in catcher spaces.

I wonder if that’s what the glimmer in his eyes is about, when we meet in the morning.

I grimace, thinking back to the way this day began. I made coffee for Reinhard, this time – even though he was up before the sun had even risen. I woke up, went straight to the kitchen, and fixed him coffee.

I didn’t even know why. It just seemed like the most natural way to begin the day. He accepted it too, with a muttered thanks, and no acknowledgement beyond that.

I rub my temples, trying to chase away the sense that I’m slipping down the spiral of the payload. Friends make coffee for one another all the time. There’s no need to overthink this.

I’m not like them, like all the women around me who are wearing their collars, walking with eyes downcast and dainty steps.

Well, I suppose I’m one of them in a way – I, too, have my collar on. Of course the difference is that, in my case, it’s only for show.

I can feel the hungry eyes of every man around me as I walk down the streets, alone and unescorted. I can see them look away when they notice I’m already collared.

Maybe I should be grateful for that, but I just find it deeply humiliating. I don’t even get to establish boundaries for myself? The only thing that will make men decide I’m off limits, is when they believe I’m the property of another man.

It’s his boundaries they’re respecting, not mine. It makes me feel like… well, like a thing.

There’s still a rally in the street leading directly to the university, but it’s hard to escape the sad reality that its numbers are dwindling. Not just way fewer women, but fewer men too, which sends a cold shiver down my spine.

How many of the guys who marched here on the first day have already given up? How many have collared a girl they had a crush on, or simply happened to pass by in the hallway?

The women, at least, are having to fight the programming inside their heads, every second of every day. No wonder even those that showed up look fatigued, despondent, and demoralised. But the guys – what’s their excuse?

I suppose it doesn’t matter. Until the payload is undone, men have no need to justify themselves to us. Not anymore.

This is only visibly reinforced when I once again spot the redhead with the megaphone. I see she is, once again, confronting the single guy who keeps showing up every day to mock the protesters.

He’s wearing a different shirt this time, one that reads “ask me for a collar!”.

I swear to god, has he gotten a whole collection of these already? Jesus.

Unfortunately, my programming is providing very strong motivation to keep my eyes downcast and keep walking. I wonder what the payload would have me do if I didn’t have Reinhard’s collar on.

Would I gravitate towards him? Wait for his approval, which might well never come? Seek his validation? Ask how I may be of service?

As it is, another girl is going through that very experience. Megaphone girl is trying her best to stand up to him, but she’s visibly trembling. I wonder how long she’s been trying to muster the courage to tell him off.

Trying, and failing.

My stomach drops at the movement I can barely spot in my peripheral vision. I know, in my heart of hearts, that the girl has fallen to her knees. I know the man has fished out a collar. And I think the sound I’m hearing is that of a zipper, being pulled down.

I start running.

By the time I’m across the street, I already have to stop to catch my breath. Between the pandemic and the event, I’ve spent so long being a couch potato, and it hasn’t done my lung capacity any good.

But as my heavy breathing subsides, and I walk the rest of the way to campus, I can hear the sound of the guy’s mocking laughter, echoing behind me…

Tear-eyed and sobbing, aroused and flustered, I compose myself before entering class. I don’t want the girls to see me like this. To see my fear… and my weakness.

When at last I feel calm enough, I make my way to my traditional seat, right next to Cindy in class. It seems the lecture hasn’t started yet, which is weird, considering how late I am, but I have no chance to ask Cindy what’s up with that.

She gasps upon seeing me, her eyes wide with horror.

“Not you too!”

“Huh?”

It takes me a moment to realise what she’s talking about. I look down, suddenly self-conscious, my fingers brushing against the leather collar. “Oh, this. No Cin, don’t worry. It’s only for show. You know… nominal collaring.”

“Oh! Oh God,” Cindy says, slumping back in the chair. “For a second I thought, I…”

It’s not just concern or fear that’s making her react like this. I can see the subtle rubbing of her thighs, the way her lips are subconsciously pouting. She wants the collar.

When at last she finds the strength to converse with me again, I note her pointed refusal to look anywhere near my neck. She seems to be focusing on my shoes right now. “Does that even work? The nominal thing.”

Does it? That’s a good question. Ever since the ceremony, the payload seems to have calmed down a little. I’m getting restful sleep now, but the dreams haven’t exactly stopped. Maybe most importantly, I know the programming isn’t gone.

I can feel it humming in my head, like a parasite, or an ever-churning spiral, twisting and warping every thought, turning my mind inside-out and against itself.

If it stays at this reduced level of activity, though, I may stand a chance to fight it. So perhaps, while not entirely successful, my plan hasn’t failed after all.

“I guess we’ll know for sure soon,” I tell Cindy with a shrug.

She nods. “Just… let me know, ok? Because if it does work, then maybe…”

I squeeze her hand. She doesn’t need to say anymore. I know she’s losing the fight, I can see it in her eyes. How they go slightly glassy and unfocused whenever a man speaks to her…

Unbidden, I imagine how great she’d look like on her knees. With an internal scream of rage, I push the thought down, forcing myself to focus on the here and now.

It would be easier if class were to at least start. I look around, noticing the conspicuous lack of our lecturer. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Oh, right,” Cindy says, with a dejected look on her face. “Professor Watkins got collared.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she says in a whisper. “Professor Rowland did it. He always did resent having to share the subject with her. He’s taking over all of her classes, and, well… her.”

I stare at Cindy in shock. I hate that every new day is a litany of horrors, another heartbreak, another strong woman falling.

“They’re looking for a female replacement to come teach us today,” Cindy says. “Since we won’t take a male lecturer. It’s just, there’s fewer and fewer of those, and… I guess they haven’t found one yet. Or maybe they have, and she was collared on the way to work. What do I know?”

Chaos. This is chaos. How can this be allowed to continue? I massage my temples, trying to keep the terror at bay. God, Reinhard was right. The insidiousness of the payload is making it impossible to counter it.

How do you stop the backslide, if women themselves are being made to ask for the yoke?

“Don’t worry, Cindy,” I say. I don’t know what’s prompting this, but I’m talking to her as I would to Leah. “We’re going to be okay. I know we are.”

“Oh, Audrey,” Cindy says, shaking her head. “No, we’re not. I’m sorry. I don’t believe that anymore.”

“Why not?”

She looks at me for a moment, confused. Then, she sits a little straighter in her chair.

“I guess you haven’t heard.”

The flat, empty tone in her voice is making me slip closer and closer to the edge of panic. I’ve never seen Cindy like this, so… resigned, so defeated. The roaring of my own heart thunders against my ears.

“Heard what?”

Cindy gulps. “Maybe you should just check the news…”

***

I return home fuelled by hatred and rage.

I know my anger is incongruous. I find Leah and Reinhard sitting at the table, having just finished lunch – Leah had morning classes today, and Reinhard of course stayed in to work. They look surprised to see me back so early.

“Hey love,” Leah says. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” I say, fuming. “It’s not. They’re taking our rights away!”

“Calm down,” Reinhard says, and I can tell from his and my girlfriend’s expression that they already know. If they do, why are they so composed? Why are they sitting around like it’s just another regular day?

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I shout, my emotions finally overcoming my every effort to bottle them up. “This is the biggest single reversal in human rights in modern history! How can you tell me to calm down? I’ve just lost most of my civil rights, and you’re tone-policing me?”

“Audrey,” Reinhard says, his eyes narrowing, “I said, calm down.”

And in that singular moment, I realise the tragic extent of my mistake, because I immediately shut up.

I don’t really calm down, of course – Reinhard doesn’t magically control my emotion. But the moment his words leave his lips, the programming whirs to life in my own mind, and my rebuttal dies in my throat.

I look around, confused, my mouth opening and closing uselessly. I want to scream and argue, to make my point and curse and weep, but I can do none of that – all I can do is obey.

Submit.

Obedience, I remember. Now, that’s real.

Femininity is supposed to be docile and proper, the programming tells me. Shouting is unbecoming. Being assertive is a masculine trait. My lot in life is to be seen, and not heard.

I shake my head in confusion, trying to fight the morass enveloping my thoughts. I see the effect his words have had on Leah, too. She sits back, demurely, looking up at him for approval with big, pleading eyes.

My girlfriend. Looking to Reinhard for approval.

That’s when I know for sure my plan has failed. The real weakness is inside my own head, and I don’t know how to counter it. I have no options, no ideas, and no hope.

Reinhard’s not oblivious to any of this, I know. There’s something in his expression, a… hunger I’ve never seen before. His hands are trembling. I can never remember Reinhard looking so out of sorts, he’s always the picture of composure and self-restraint.

But he’s clearly struggling to hold himself back, just as I’m struggling not to fold under his gaze like a silly girl being scolded.

But… hold himself back from what? As I study his face, I find myself wondering just how long he’s spent reading blog posts in catcher spaces…

“Look, what’s happened is perfectly logical,” Reinhard says, breathing in, trying to calm himself down. “Think about it. What else can be done?”

Reduced into humiliating silence, I glare at him. I refuse to dignify the rhetorical question with an answer that would come out far too meek to actually reflect my feelings.

“Consider the following,” Reinhard continues. “I walk up to a woman, collar her, then command her to kill somebody. Can she refuse me? No. It may take time, persistence, determination, but eventually the payload would disassemble her resistance. She would carry out my command, and kill in my name.”

I let out a surprised yelp at the shiver that goes through me when he says disassemble her resistance. God, why does that sound so hot? Why does it turn my knees to jelly?

“There would be no way to ascertain she acted on my orders,” Reinhard says. “I could order her to lie, even confess she acted alone. If she wears my collar, she is compelled to do as I bid her. So, do you think she should go to jail because I commanded her to kill?”

“Of course not,” I say, begrudgingly giving him ground.

“Exactly,” Reinhard nods enthusiastically. “That’s why your legal personality’s been revoked. For all intents and purposes, women are basically minors now. It’s not meant to disenfranchise you, but to protect you.”

Leah whimpers, squirming in the chair, as Reinhard begins listing items with his fingers.

“A man could coerce you to sign a terribly one-sided contract,” he says. “Or donate all your material possessions to him. Or act as his criminal proxy in any capacity. Of course such things can’t be considered legally binding.”

“And the right to vote?” I manage to ask, through gritted teeth, my nails digging into my palms. “How does taking that away, rolling me back to the 19th century protect me, Reinhard?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He says. “I could just order you to vote for this or that political party. It wouldn’t actually be your vote. Men with more women under their control would effectively acquire extra votes… no, it’s simply untenable.”

I see the cold logic, of course. But I despair at the idea that Reinhard doesn’t see the flip side, the raw consequence of this “pragmatic” approach. It’s playing right into the hands of whoever developed the payload.

God, I hate how much sense all of this makes. How well-thought-out the trap is. The margin for our freedom keeps shrinking under my very eyes. Every avenue of escape closed, one by one, until all a woman can do is… fall.

The yoke is tightening around my neck, around all our necks. And even my best friend is dancing to that tune, as he mansplains my own enslavement to me.

He must notice my turmoil, because his expression softens. “Look, Audrey, these measures are temporary, I’m sure. It’s only until the payload’s undone. As soon as women regain the faculty to decide for themselves, I’m sure their rights will be waiting for them. Legal emancipation, the vote, everything.”

“Right,” I say flatly, prevented from sharing how I really feel about his optimism. “What if it takes ten years to fix it? What if it’s never fixed? What, then?”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Reinhard says, using a paternalistic tone that seems to suggest he thinks this closes the matter. That just enrages me even more. “Look, you know what this means for me, right?”

I blink for a second, in confusion. What is he talking about?

“You’re both wearing my collars,” Reinhard says, patiently, like he’s talking to a child, and I think my worst fear is coming true – he doesn’t see me as an equal anymore. I’ve never seen this condescending, domineering side of him, and it terrifies me, because I know he has power over me.

What’s even worse is that the warping effect of the payload makes me think it’s hot. Right and proper. That I was made to be taken under a man’s wing, and the fact that I’m a lesbian simply makes the humiliation even more delicious.

“That means I am legally responsible for anything you two do,” Reinhard continues. “Now, I have no doubt you’re not going to rob a bank or anything, but still, this is a huge responsibility, Audrey. If you fail to do your taxes properly, that’s on me. If you ever become indebted, that’s on me.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to go ahead with the ritual, remember. It’s not like I’m looking forward to the liability.”

I stare at him slack-jawed. I’ve just lost all my rights. Yes, it sucks that he’s now liable, but how can he not see the chasm between our two setbacks? Why can’t he show a little empathy?

In fact… why did he feel entitled to command me to calm down?

I’m about to ask him this very question when Leah speaks up, with a mousy, unassuming voice she’s never used, not even when playing sub with me.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, and I sharply draw in breath at the word sir. “Is there any way we can make it up to you?”

In my complete bewilderment, I can’t decide if she means that genuinely, or if she’s flirting with him, with me right here in the room with them.

“Leah, what the fuck?” I manage to blurt out. “Where is your outrage? Your resistance? He’s bossing us around like we’re children, women’s rights have been erased with the stroke of a pen, and that’s how you react? You ask him how you can make it up to him?”

The look Leah gives me is devoid of any expression. Then, she turns back to Reinhard, awaiting instructions. He in turn studies us both closely, like a lab worker looking at a petri dish.

It crushes me to realise it, but Leah’s just… defeated. I’ve seen that look before. She reminds me of megaphone girl right now.

Knees hitting the floor, a hand on her head, a zipper being pulled down…

“It’s fine,” Reinhard says, waving his hand. “Just go wash the dishes. Then, the laundry, and then, you may study.”

“Yes sir,” she whispers, and all the words I could associate with her demeanour rush through my mind, a maelstrom of sexualised images that make me reel backwards into the wall.

My girlfriend is subservient, open, available, submissive, obedient. My own best friend has tamed her, is prying her away from me. She’s being demoted, made to be docile, unassuming… domesticated.

And I’m next. How long before I end up like her? Before my resistance is deliciously, systematically, expertly disassembled? How long before I start to love it? Beg for it?

I watch, stunned, as Leah takes the dishes, heading towards the kitchen, like so many women before her, confined and reduced to a helping role in the household. Like so many women right now.

Then, at last, my dread wins over the payload, just this once. I bolt into the hallway, rushing towards my room, my heart thundering against my ribcage. I need to act, before it’s too late. I need to leave.

Before I, too, have a chance to fall.

***

“What are you doing?”

I curse under my breath, struggling to keep my body from snapping to attention at the sound of the voice. His voice.

I keep mindlessly throwing clothing into my luggage, fighting to hold my composure. God, I must look like such a cliché. I’m not even paying attention, just dumping a whirlwind of scattered clothes in before I take the suitcase and head out of my apartment.

And then… what? Back to my parents? I stop for a second, considering the absurd question: has dad collared mum already?

Maybe they’ll do it with good intentions, to prevent other men from potentially collaring her at work.

Then, she’ll find herself following, submitting and falling. Because there’s no such thing as a nominal collaring, and the payload will disassemble us all, until we’re all simpering housewives and sex slaves, our entire lives centered on being at the beck and call of men.

“Where do you think you’re even gonna go?” Reinhard says, echoing my own thoughts. “This thing is everywhere.”

I slam the lid of my suitcase, trying to stop my hands from shaking. “Yes,” I say, my voice trembling. “Nowhere is safe.”

“It’s safe here.”

I turn to face him, and even that takes all my residual willpower. The programming demands that I look up at him from my knees, but I won’t give in. Even if my resistance is slackening, and my arousal is climbing…

“No, it’s not. Reinhard, I want you to take this collar off.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You can take it off yourself, it’s not like I’ve commanded you to wear it.”

“You know exactly what I mean!” I say, my voice coarse as I try to shout, to sound assertive… and mostly fail.

At that, Reinhard just shrugs, but I know it’s feigned calm. I can see the twitching of his fingers. The way his lips are quivering. I know he wants to jump me, and he’s barely able to contain himself.

To the true part of me, that’s the most heartbreaking thing that could ever happen to me. But to the part warped by the programming, it would be something else entirely…

“Audrey, I can’t remove the payload. Even if I undo the ritual, and free you… You will end up taking orders from a man, until this is reversed. It’s just how you’re coded, now.”

I snarl in frustration. I can almost hear the unspoken might as well be me in the air. That really, really wounds me. Worse than even the payload itself, because its developers, at least, are strangers and fanatics. Reinhard has been my friend for so many years. And what is he now?

Master, the programming whispers, and I shake my head furiously, like I’m trying to physically throw it off.

“I regret trusting you,” I say, my words laced with venom. “Maybe I should have found a gay man to collar me. He wouldn’t lust after me the way you are right now. It’s because of your crush, isn’t it? Don’t think I don’t know.”

For the first time since the event, he actually looks stung, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Even his cheeks gain a bit of colour, but he still tries to dissimulate.

“Sure, you could have done that,” he says, ignoring the latter part of my comment. “But it wouldn’t have changed much.”

When faced with my sceptical look, he continues. “Audrey, you still wouldn’t be free. It doesn’t matter if your master chooses not to give you orders, that’s still his decision to make, not yours. You’d still be a slave, pretending at freedom.”

“I know that!” I say, hating that my voice sounds shrill and petulant, rather than assertive and confident. “What other option do I have? All I can ask for is live a normal life, until this is undone! Do you have the spine to give it to me? To treat me like a thinking adult who can choose for herself?”

I blink, realising that, in my fervor, I’ve stepped closer to Reinhard, and right into his personal space.

That was a mistake.

I’m acutely aware of his physical presence, of his sheer maleness. I feel it pull me in, like a star’s gravity well, drawing a planet into its orbit.

I take a faltering step back, lowering my voice. “Did I choose wrong? Do you have the moral temper to do what’s right, Reinhard?”

He looks away from me, embarassed, ashamed. Maybe I’ve gotten through to him. I dare hope, for a moment, that he’ll return to the person he was before the event. Before the ritual.

“You know, Audrey,” he says at last, looking back at me. “I really thought I did. I was wrong.”

And then, he takes a step towards me.

I immediately step away, recoiling from his sheer aura, his presence, his magnetism. The payload’s reacting to his aggression, working overtime to make me feel smaller and smaller as he draws closer to me.

Eventually, my back hits the wall. I feel like a cornered animal, a wild horse about to be wrangled and broken in for the saddle. It terrifies me, but I’ve been holding out for so long, and the programming is so relentless…

I can’t deny the quivering in my thighs, the lancing sexual heat that courses through me at the idea of Reinhard placing his boot on my neck and pulling my leash upwards, imposing his manly authority over the defeated lesbian he’s craved most of his adult life…

“Reinhard,” I say, realising I’m running out of options; that every breath of his pheromones, every second he provides fuel for the payload, I draw nearer to my destruction. “Please…”

“Turns out I’m not that kind of person,” he says. “Too curious. Spent too much time reading vivid descriptions… imagining this moment, how it would feel: the adrenaline, the power…”

His hands shoot out to grip my wrists, pinning them against the wall. Strangely enough, my fear is subsiding, sinking down alongside my resistance. A tidal wave of arousal is climbing up, drowning my perception with its thunderous roar.

“I shouldn’t be doing this, I know,” he says, his lips nibbling at my ear. “However…”

I gasp, altering my stance, spreading my legs a little, thrusting my chest out, to give him easier access. Just like in my dreams. I realise now the dreams weren’t simply meant to convert me.

They were meant to prepare me. To make sure that, when a man finally decided to stake his claim on me, I would deliver to perfection, satisfy his every expectation.

I’ve never felt this way for a man. Hell, I’ve never felt this way for a girl, because this isn’t really arousal, and this isn’t really me.

It’s my brainwashing, disassembling every piece of me that ever thought I was an equal to a man. And making me love it.

How can simple, normal, biological arousal compete with the payload? With a programme that was tailor-made to fire every neuron in a woman’s body, until her soft feminine brain got literally fried by overloaded levels of impossible pleasure?

There’s no denying the slick wetness between my legs, the inviting pout of my lips, the dilation of my pupils, or the way my breath is coming in fast and ragged.

Reinhard’s body presses against mine, and for the first time in my life, an erection touches me – his straining cock pokes at my thigh through his pants and my jeans.

It should revolt me, but even that’s enough to shock my body with a jolt of electricity.

“You never did understand the full power of the payload,” Reinhard whispers. “And yet I tried to tell you.”

“Yes,” I say, and it comes out in a throaty, moaning voice that drips with lust.

“The true power of the payload isn’t its ability to make you submit,” Reinhard says, kissing his way to my throat, gently nibbling at the skin with his teeth.

“It’s that it makes you want to submit,” he says, smiling at the soft, feminine gasps leaving my throat every time he touches me. “If I were to step away now, you would beg me to claim you.”

“God…” I say, whimpering, realising I’m pressing myself against his erection.

And then, the unthinkable happens. Reinhard does step away. All physical contact ceases as he looks me up and down.

The sudden emptiness I feel, the craving for his warmth, for his body slamming mine down with his weight… that’s what convinces me he’s right.

I want this. I want to serve him. That’s what’s going to break me. The payload isn’t going to turn me into a puppet, it’s going to make me an addict to my own humiliation. Desperately hooked, and unable to let go.

I descend to my knees, throwing myself at his feet, kissing his leather shoes. It’s no chaste pecking this time. I smooch slavishly, trying to adhere as close to the ground as I can. I realise I’m virtually humping the air right now, like I’m a stupid bitch in heat, completely debasing myself before this man.

And the humiliation lances through me like pure arousal, eliciting a desperate, needy moan out of my throat.

“I consider myself owned,” I say, in a worshipful tone, like I would a prayer. “I consider myself owned!”

I’m begging, hoping, pleading for his answer, his acknowledgement, his validation. But Reinhard says nothing.

Instead, it’s another fateful sound I hear above me, as I lie prostrate at his feet.

That of a zipper, being pulled down.

4 – A Certain Technique

I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never seen, much less touched a cock in person, and now I’m kneeling before Reinhard, as he pulls it out and starts to stroke it.

I stare at his bulging erection with a mix of apprehension and worshipfulness, a combination that would have seemed both corny and ridiculous to me not long ago. But that was before the event. Before the payload.

Before the fall.

“You don’t know half of what the payload is actually capable of,” Reinhard says, his voice dripping hunger. “In fairness I couldn’t believe it either, when I started reading about it…”

“Reinhard, please,” I say, not even knowing whether I’m begging him to stop, or to show me. “I -”

I don’t get to finish the thought. Reinhard draws closer, looming over me, and slaps me. Then, while I’m still reeling, his hand swings again, backhanding me.

It’s not hard enough to actually hurt, but the sting, the humiliation, his brazen confidence that he can do this to me, take my breath away. And, and, and…

Oh no.

My sex is radiating heat, pulsing in anticipation. I’ve never, ever been this wet before in my entire life.

I look up at him, my eyes widening in shock.

“That was… so hot…”

There’s a cruel fire in Reinhard’s eyes as he smiles wolfishly. “This will happen every time you’re disrespected, debased, or humiliated. And the best part? You’ll build up tolerance to it.”

“No…” I say, shaking my head in disbelief at the perfection of the trap.

“Yes,” Reinhard says, his voice steely. “You will keep seeking the high, the thrill. You will accept more and more humiliations, just to feel it again. What used to be unthinkably humiliating for you will become your new normal.”

I stared up at him, wide-eyed, torn between dread and desperate arousal. Even something as simple as the slap has immediately changed me. I feel meeker for it, like he’s slapped bitchiness and entitlement and feminism out of me.

every kiss is a new seal on my downfall. My own self-sabotaging brain keeps supplying rationalisations for my own demotion.

He’s bigger and stronger than me. Of course he gets to push me around. I’ve had to kiss his shoes, what kind of independent person does that? He literally gets to slap me around when I’m being a silly girl.

He’s talking down to me while I’m acting as a toy for his amusement. And because of the programming, I get wetter every time he says something demeaning about me.

His cock slaps my cheeks, making me squeal – its texture feels odd, hard and soft at the same time, but I still find myself rubbing my cheek against it, like an affectionate pet. Then, his hands twirl my hair, shortening my leash, angling my face towards his cock.

“Suck my cock, Audrey,” he says, breathless, and I know this is a dream come true for him. “Worship it with your lesbian lips. Acknowledge yourself owned.”

I whimper in desperation, pleasure, and defeat as he pulls my head into his lap, piercing my lips with his throbbing cock. As I close my mouth around it to form as tight a seal as I can, I breathe in his musky scent, letting it chain me down at his feet.

Disassembling my resistance.

“Yes, fuck,” he says, “fucking finally. Show me you know who calls the shot here, girl. I’m your boss.”

I moan around his dick, his words going straight to my pussy, stimulating it more than any sex ever could. I try to think of how Leah looks when deepthroating my strapon, so I close my eyes, distending my facial features to look as attractive as possible, stretching my lips as they slide up and down on his shaft.

I make sure to alternate closing my eyes in worship, and looking up at him with big, submissive, terrified eyes. The kind of girly look that pleads for a man’s mercy, such as there is to be found.

This is the very first blowjob Reinhard is getting from his longtime crush, and I want him to enjoy every minute of it. Absurdly, there’s barely any room in my mind for the consideration that it’s my first blowjob, period, and that I certainly never dreamed I would be giving one. Much less enjoying it.

But Reinhard ensures my enjoyment with a stream of humiliating words.

“A woman’s mouth was never meant to be heard,” he says, throwing his head back in delight. “Just to be felt around a dick. God, you’ve cockteased me for years, you and your girlfriends… but that ends today. You’re mine now.”

“Mmmmppphhh,” I mumble in meek apologetic agreement around his cock. I feel so utterly cowed, so ultimately female, so… domesticated. I’m imagining every girlfriend I’ve ever had, kneeling alongside me, waiting for the privilege of worshipping Master with their lips.

I wonder how many of them have been collared already. I hope they’re being good, obedient dykes for their master like I am. I hope if any of them are still free, that they get collared soon.

I’m being conditioned to think these vile thoughts, purely because they go straight to my cunt, and it’s working, and the fact that it’s working tells me I really am a dumb slut, that I really do deserve this.

I ignore the soreness in my jaw, concentrating on my duty, on my future as his sex kitten, his domestic little pet. Is he going to move in with us? Is he going to break us up? Maybe I can convince him to let me stay with Leah, if I’m good enough for him…

That’s when Reinhard suddenly snaps me out of my reverie, pulling out of my mouth. He’s panting hard, sweating, his muscular chest rising and falling.

“Get on the bed, slave,” he says. It’s so simple a word, slave, but it makes me cream myself. That’s what I am to him now. Our friendship is over, because I’m not good enough to be his equal. God, that’s so hot.

I get to my feet, struggling to keep my balance, but before I can approach the bed, he’s thrown me on it, landing atop me with his body weight. He pins me down, one knee against my back, as he fumbles with my jeans, sliding them off.

My underwear follows, and I know I’m presenting my defeated cunt to a domineering man, for the very first time.

God, I can’t believe how good it feels, being held down by a man like this. I can barely contain my anticipation as he pulls my hips upward, until I’m on all fours, my face down on the mattress under the palm of his open hand.

I let out a started mewl as Reinhard’s fingers toy with my sex, giving my clit a few hesitant strokes, gauging my reaction. He lets out a satisfied chuckle when I start trying to hump his fingers.

“Whoever designed this is a fucking genius,” he says, and I have to agree. God, the speed and totality of my breakdown is insane. I was a lesbian and a feminist literal days ago. Now…

Now, I’m a submissive puddle of girly weakness, waiting for my master to finally claim me.

I never understood how deep the link is between subjugation and femininity. But now I do, and I’ll never look at men the same way again.

Then, without warning, Reinhard’s hand closes in a fist around my hair, and pulls.

As my upper body climbs in the air, he aligns his hips with mine, thrusting into me with all his strength. I gasp as he enters me, my back arching to meet his pull on my hair, my cunt clenching around his cock as it defiles me.

There’s no going back from this. I can’t un-suck his cock, or undo the fact that a man has fucked me. At last, the programming has won. I’ve been claimed as a man’s slut.

I’m sure something as simple as penetration isn’t supposed to feel this good. But to my programming-addled brain, this is literally too much pleasure to handle. Lubricated and aroused like never before, I find myself babbling incoherently as I begin to enthusiastically bounce on Reinhard’s dick.

“Millions of years of evolution have sculpted your body to be a sex toy for men,” Reinhard says, his free hand exploring my thighs, my breasts, my neck while he pulls on my hair like a set of makeshift reins.

The misogyny makes me break out in a series of guttural moans.

“I have plans for you and Leah,” he continues, pistoning in and out of me, gaining ground inside me with every new thrust. “She’s so submissive it’s barely any fun bossing her around. You, on the other hand, so willful and strong… I’ll love breaking you.”

“Master!” I shout, the one coherent word I can manage as he literally fucks feminism and independence out of me.

“That’s right,” he says. “Leah, she can continue to study. I might even let her look for a job after she gets a degree. Nothing too prestigious of course, something more befitting her station… secretarial work, so she doesn’t get uppity.”

I widen my eyes at the implication of what he’s saying, and my mind thinks back to Frida, now reduced and vanquished, and professor Watkins, and Cindy’s disappointment when I let her know I’m not coming to class, ever again.

“You, now…” he continues, my cunt clenching harder around his cock. “You, I have different plans for. And trust me, for what I have in mind, you certainly don’t need a degree -”

I cut him off, his words drowned out by my desperate scream as I climax around him. The devastating shockwaves of my orgasm radiate outward from my sex, destroying all defense in their place until nothing is left of me except my submission and my pleasure.

A cock has just taken me to orgasm. No, a man stripping me of my education has just taken me to orgasm. And it’s nothing like any climax I’ve ever known. It’s like there’s a clit in my brain, like the programming has created whole new pleasure centers for Reinhard to tease, torture, and eventually conquer.

“Remember I’m your legal guardian now,” he says, huffing and puffing behind me as I grind myself against his hips. “I’ll take away your bank accounts…”

And again, my scream cuts him off. The mere idea of surrendering my material, financial autonomy to a man is enough to hit my fragile female brain like a hammer on a pane of glass. I shout my servile orgasm for all the world to hear, wondering if Leah is touching herself to my unconditional surrender.

I hope she is, the little slut.

“You’re no longer a lesbian,” Reinhard says, tugging on my hair, making my back adhere to his chest as he bottoms out inside me. “And you’re no longer Leah’s girlfriend. She’s mine now – submissive and inferior, but a girlfriend nonetheless. You…”

He bites my neck, his free hand twisting my nipples, my shaking body held upwards only by his strong arms. “You’re a slavegirl. My slavegirl. I have so many fantasies I want to live out with you, and trust me: during so many years lusting after you, I’ve had the time to think of so many of them…”

I whimper and moan at his utter conquest of me, relishing his breath on my neck.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, snivelling, grovelling, begging. Following, and submitting, and falling.

“What for, slut?”

“I’m sorry that I ever dared compete in the same job market as you,” I say, my every muscle trembling with electricity. “I’m sorry I always acted like I was your equal. I’m sorry I’ve refused you! I should have given myself over to you the moment I noticed you wanted me, Master!”

“Oh, you will be,” Reinhard says, slapping my rear, which threatens to send me over the edge again all by itself. “Thankfully that can be rectified now. You’re so grateful to the developers for this, aren’t you?”

Oh god, he’s really going to make me say it. I’m really going to have to thank them. I…

I’m an addict looking for a fix. And so, I know no hesitation.

“I’m so grateful!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “I want to kiss their cocks in reverence! I’ll write it all over my social media, I’ll share my experience in catcher spaces! Thank you for letting me know that women aren’t people, that I belong to Master! Thank you thank you thank you!”

And then, for a third time, I orgasm. My brain short-circuits as I experience a system crash, and it feels like I’m literally cumming my brains out, growing dumber and simpler and more docile with every twitch and spasm of my broken body.

That’s fine. I won’t be needing brains anymore.

Reinhard lets me go, and I collapse face-first on the bed, winded and in shock. But I still mewl in pleasure when he lies right against my back, crushing me into the mattress with his weight.

I know he hasn’t cum yet, and I don’t know what supernatural endurance has allowed him to do that. But I know he’ll have his dues, and that my work is not yet done.

Tousling my hair, however, he keeps speaking into my ear.

“You remember I mentioned certain techniques to domesticate women?” He says, his voice so deep, so commanding, so dominant.

I nod, meekly, whispering my answer like it’s a half-remembered prayer. “Wondrous and terrifying results…”

“Yes,” Reinhard says, and I can hear the sadistic smile in his voice as he draws closer to my ear.

“Let me show you.”

Epilogue – A Fallen Woman

“Mmmpphh?” I mutter. It’s a soft call to get attention. My knees are starting to tingle, after all.

“Quiet,” Leah says from above me, her eyes narrowing. “And stay still. If I misapply the nail polish, we’re starting over. In the same position.”

I mumble softly in apology, resigning myself to acting as her footstool for a little while longer.

Unlike me, she gets to sit on the sofa, the beautiful soles of her feet – pampered, soft, unblemished – adhering completely to my defeated face as she paints her toenails.

A part of me really appreciates the many layers at play here, of course. By encouraging intra-female competition, catchers like Reinhard can further the domestication of our gender. Too busy to fight over scraps of power that fall from their table, we keep one another down for their amusement.

In my peculiar case, there’s more to it than that, of course.

When I was Leah’s girlfriend, I used to utterly dominate her in bed. Making me her maid and waiting girl has utterly destroyed what sliver of independence and pride I could still hold, after Master first turned me straight.

She was by far less academically gifted than me. So she gets to keep studying, and can look forward to a secretarial position somewhere down the line, while I have to stay at home, cooking and cleaning.

The reversal is obvious. I was the one more out of line with the new order, dreaming above my station. Leah submitted immediately, while I resisted. That’s why I need to be brought down harder.

My humiliation-addicted brain doesn’t mind that at all.

There’s more, of course, there’s always more. Reinhard picks what Leah is allowed to wear, but at least she gets some selection of skirts and dresses, and even jeans on the occasions when he’s feeling generous.

My closet consists of nothing but skimpy, scandalous French maid uniforms. As I’ve come to learn, it was a big kink for Master, so of course I’m expected to submit to it in full. And I can’t certainly say it doesn’t match my role…

A cleaning girl and a sex slave. That’s what I have become, and what I am destined to be under Master’s generous guidance.

There is one more major difference between Leah and I. She is allowed to speak.

I don’t just muffle beneath her soles because her naked heels press harshly down against my lips. I do it because Master has taken away my ability to speak without getting prompting and/or permission from a man.

That is a humiliation so devastating that even thinking about it is enough to bring me close to the edge of climax. What is a woman without her voice? Without the ability to express her opinions and feelings, or even just to verbally acknowledge orders?

Just a set of holes, that’s what.

And to my domesticated mind, it seems only fitting.

I look up at Leah with big, pleading eyes, but I know they won’t move her. She takes some pleasure out of our reversal, but even if she didn’t, she would carry it out to perfection. This is Master’s will, after all.

“Done!” She says at last, removing her feet from my face and lowering them to the ground. She cocks her head, waiting for me to perform due reverence, which I immediately do.

I prostrate myself before my ex-girlfriend, blowing her nails dry. Then, I start placing worshipful kisses all along her soles, arches, heels, and toes. She’s kind enough to lift each foot in turn to allow me to reach the soles with my conquered lips.

I even gently fellate her big toes when I’m done, a gesture that makes her rub her thighs in pleasure, as always.

“That’s a good doggy,” she says, ruffling my hair. “And just in time, too. It’s five o’clock, and you know what that means. Run along to Master, come on.”

“Gnnnhh,” I mumble in appreciation and arousal. Leah is used to my non-verbal communication by now, and dismisses me with a flick of her hand. I crawl on all fours out the room, and only once in the hallway am I allowed to stand up.

I compose myself as best I can, making sure I look perfect for Master, before marching down the hallway.

Yes, there are many differences between Leah and I, but in one thing, we are the same. We are both collared women, our Master’s property, to do with as he sees fit. We’ve both had to abandon our life plans, and accept whatever terms he saw fit to impose upon us.

Just like the rest of womankind, whose enslavement deepens with every passing day.

In the future, I tell myself, feminism and the fight for equality will be remembered as a barely detectable blip in history. A small flicker of light that burned for a very short time, then faded, and died.

I don’t know if getting to live that transition in person is a blessing, or a curse.

By the time I make my way to Master’s study – which used to be mine, of course – I drop to the ground again, crawling in on all fours.

He looks up from his laptop, smiling at me.

“You’re punctual, fuckpuppet,” he says. “Get to work, dyke.”

“Mmmpphh,” I mumble wordlessly. He clocks off work at this time, and always likes to end the day with a nice blowjob, so I do as I am bid, and slide under his desk.

We do this every afternoon, with me eagerly tasting his precum while he holds my head, treating my face like it’s little more than masturbatory aid for him. I swallow most of the time, but sometimes he’ll finish on my face, and order me to leave his cum to dry for the rest of the evening.

Marking me as his property, with his scent and with his seed.

Even before the event, a man facefucking a woman would sometimes forget that she was a person, or so Master has told me once. But now, whenever he masturbates himself with my lips, it’s different.

Now I’m the one who remembers that I’m not a person. If I ever was, the payload put an end to that for good. Now I’m just a warm receptacle for cum, my mouth existing to perform suction around cock. To be felt, rather than heard.

It’s part of who I am, of my feminine biology. Even if it wasn’t, the fact that I was so pliable to the programming speaks for itself. The simple truth is that women are easy to tame… and that men have a sixth sense for putting them in their place.

I used to think this was predatory behaviour, but now I understand this is just what men do, in the same way that cats will just toy with mice and lizard that trespass in an apartment. It’s in their nature to be predators, and it’s in our nature to be prey.

I begin to gag and glurk as Master breaches the entrance to my throat. My gag reflex has been trained out of me, but even so, as his hand palms down on my head and his cock tames my throat, my eyes begin to water.

He starts truly fucking my face, then, enjoying the gluk gluk gluk sounds. I’m sure they’re more interesting than anything I could possibly have to say. As always, the clit in my brain throbs at the utter feminine meekness I display for him, and I quietly climax around his cock.

It’s nowhere near as strong as the first time, of course, but that doesn’t worry me. When I really need to re-experience the thrill, there’s always more parts of my life I can surrender to him. More fellow women I can betray. More dehumanising humiliations I can cook up for myself…

At last, Master’s cock quivers inside my mouth, and that’s enough to make me squeal with pure womanly joy. He pulls back just enough to let me breathe, and then the first rope of his cum hits the back of my mouth.

I do my best to swallow, drooling around his cock, rope after rope painting my mouth white, marking his territory. As the last dribble of his cum is deposited atop my tongue, I withdraw my lips with a final suction, and loudly gulp it all down.

I suckle and clean at Master’s softening cock, and follow him as he rolls the chair slightly away from his desk – just far back enough that he can look down at me, cleaning his cock.

He studies my eyes, as if looking for something.

“There’s no dignity left in you,” he says at last. “Is there?”

“Mmmpphh,” I reply, shaking my head around his cock.

“Just as I thought,” he says, withdrawing from me. Before I can offer him tissue, however, his hand lands atop my head again, pushing me down.

When I’ve descended out of his reach, his booted foot lifts in the air. The flat sole of his boot settles firmly against my neck, and then he pushes, pinning me to the floor.

“Stay there,” he says, but it’s a redundant order.

The mental image of it all – me splayed on the floor, broken and defeated, with his boot literally planted on my neck, is enough to make me quietly climax again. It’s a tiny, subdued orgasm this time, but I welcome it nonetheless.

As his sole moves away from my neck, adhering to my cheek, I relax and let it crush my face against the ground. It feels like heaven.

A strange acceptance washes over me, and for the first time since the event, I realise I am fully at peace with what happened. Nothing of the old Audrey is left – nothing of her resistance, anyway.

I let out a little, submissive oh, sighing out in relaxation and defeat, the slackening of all resistance. My facial features distend, and my body goes limp and slumps while Reinhard poses with me as a hunter would with his slain prey.

And I realise, with a tingle of pleasure, that this is a perfect metaphor for the state of the world right now.

Me, a former lesbian and feminist, not even on her knees anymore, but acting as a footstool for her male conqueror, while he sits at the desk where he works and wins bread for the household… all of this, having just obediently swallowed his cum.

It could become a painting, encapsulating every minor nuance of the modern world. It’s worth more than a thousand words, it’s… perfect.

Some people might fool themselves that this is temporary, that the payload is going to get rolled back eventually, but I know that Cindy was right. I know that this single, magnificent image represents everything: the past, the present… and the future.

It’s strange to think that I actually used to read books and form opinions on them, before the event. But I’m kind of glad that I did, because now, a distant quote from Orwell comes back to my mind, unbidden. With a suitable alteration, it perfectly describes the speed and depth of the fall of women.

The future is man’s boot, pressing down on woman’s face.

Forever.

THE END