Femdom Agitprop

Copyright B. Watson 2023

The May 7, 2023 meeting of Revolutionary Cell 1979 of the Committee to Undermine Connubial Conventionality (CUCC) began in the usual manner: with wine and appetizers. CUCC gatherings were held at members' homes on a rotating basis; that week, the meeting place was the home of Comrade Beckie Solanas. In preparation for the afternoon, she'd enlisted the help of her mentee Janice Andrews, who was still a probationary member of the cell.

As usual, the first member to arrive was the cell leader, Valerie Filipovic. Commissar Val made a point of showing up a half hour early, which strained the boundaries of etiquette, but was necessary to ensure that the proper meeting preparations were in place. After the standard greetings--air kisses on both cheeks, followed by the requisite compliments on the breezy summer dresses that all three women were wearing--Commissar Val began her interrogation:

"Comrade Solanas!"

Beckie sprang to attention, her back ramrod-straight. "Yes, Comrade Commissar!"

"Have you obtained the required refreshments for the meeting?"

"Yes, Commissar! Four bottles of wine: one Pinot Grigio, one Chardonnay, one Valpolicella and one Rosé. Should the meeting go overtime, I have also have one bottle each of Shiraz and Sauvignon Blanc in reserve."

"I assume the bottles have been properly sourced, Comrade?"

"Yes, Commissar! They were acquired from our sister cells in Burgundy, Tuscany, Napa Valley and Australia. Per protocol, I have been assured that the farmhands of the requisite vineyards are all male, and are all attired in the proper manner."

Commissar Val allowed herself to smile--the idea of a hairless all-male vineyard staff harvesting and processing grapes while wearing buttplugs and cock cages was a never-ending source of amusement. "Outstanding, Comrade Solanas! And the childcare?"

"Our childcare for this afternoon will be provided by Spencer Walker, age 19. Spencer is a student at Mount Saint Polonius University, where he is double majoring in Early Childhood Education and Fashion Merchandising. His girlfriend, Holly, is a member of our women's auxiliary at the University."

"A student from Mount Saint Pillowbiter?" She chuckled. "Outstanding--we've fully assimilated that school! And is he properly attired?"

"Yes, Commissar! He has been completely waxed, and is outfitted with the requisite cock cage. Externally, he appears completely normal, and is wearing a pair of khaki pants and a NASCAR t-shirt."

"NASCAR?" Commissar Val raised an eyebrow.

"It's one of my husband's shirts." The two women shared an eyeroll. "Young Spencer arrived wearing a t-shirt that read 'The Future Is Female.' I was concerned that we might not want to advertise our agenda quite so blatantly."

"Smart move, Comrade Solanas. It's good to know that I can count on your thoughtfulness and discretion."

Beckie flushed--this was indeed high praise from the Commissar!

While the three women awaited the arrival of the other members, they chatted about the usual topics--mostly their children, interior design, and the byzantine politics of the Parent Teacher Organization at Elizabeth Cady Stanton Middle School, which their kids attended. Not surprisingly, Commissar Val was President of the PTA, a position that she ruled with the same iron fist she wielded at CUCC meetings.

Janice couldn't help but marvel at the Commissar's leadership skills: she seemed equally at ease in front of an auditorium full of parents and a room full of deep-cover Femdom agents. As for the Commissar's family, Janice had occasionally seen the Commissar's husband, Joe Filipovic, at PTA meetings and other school gatherings. He seemed like a nice fellow--a bit doughy, but with a ready smile and a firm handshake. While he deferred to his wife in many matters, he didn't seem subservient, at least in public. Was he completely cowed or just utterly clueless? Or, like many undistinguished men with beautiful wives, was he too busy counting his blessings to pay attention to the trap he had wandered into? Not for the first time, Janice wondered about the internal politics at the Filipovic home.

By 3PM--the official start time for the meeting--all 12 members were there. CUCC Cell 1979 was average sized, but it had recruited three members in the last two months, a pace that, if it continued, would soon push the outer edges of the acceptable size for a suburban cell. Once a group had more than 15 members, it was required to split, a precaution designed to promote revolutionary discipline and ensure that, were a cell blown, the authorities would only be able to arrest a limited number of members. It was no secret that Comrade Solanas was already politicking for leadership of the new cell, and her excitement was clear as she read the roll call:

"Commissar Val?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Spengler?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Lucas?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Weininger?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Bryant?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Schlafly?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Tate?"

"Here!"

"Comrade Dworkin?"

"Ahem. Present!"

Beckie paused almost imperceptibly. Comrade Ruthie Dworkin taught seventh grade at Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a position that gave her no small amount of power in the cell, as many of the members' children were either among her students or were destined to end up in her classroom. She took every opportunity to remind other members of her job, and used it to jockey for power in CUCC. Beckie considered Dworkin her primary competition for the Commissar position in the new cell--a political struggle that would be further complicated by the fact that her daughter Whitney was also one of Dworkin's students.

Comrade Solanas then began running down the roll call of probationary members. "Continuing on...Probationary Member Allison Cisse?"

"Here!"

"Probationary Member Mary Collins?"

"Here!"

"Probationary Member Janice Andrews?"

"Here!" Janice called out. Beckie smiled at her friend. She hoped that, when she was appointed Commissar of her own cell, Janice might be assigned to join her. She could easily imagine the two of them spending afternoons and evenings together, planning neighborhood barbecues and plotting covert actions against the local bastions of masculinity, like the bowling alley and golf course. Brainstorming revolutionary slogans over white wine and cheese plates...

"And I'm here, as well. Comrade Solanas," she said, checking off her name. She turned to the Commissar and snapped to attention. "Commissar Val, all members of CUCC Cell 1979 are present and accounted for!" With a flourish, she presented the attendance clipboard to the Commissar, who accepted it graciously.

"Well done, Comrade Solanas. You may be seated." The Commissar scanned the room. "Comrades, did you remember to bring your books?"

As one, the assembled women held up

Promises to Keep

, the latest Nicholas Sparks novel, which they had purchased as camouflage for their weekly revolutionary meetings--gatherings that, as far as their husbands knew, were little more than a run-of-the-mill women's book club. The Commissar beamed at the assembled women, proud of their revolutionary discipline. Her smile faded a bit when Comrade Tate tentatively raised her hand. "Yes, Comrade," she answered, her eyebrows drawing together. "You have a question?"

"Yes, um...Commissar," Comrade Tate sputtered nervously. "Has anybody actually, um, read the book?"

Commissar Val stifled a laugh. "No, Comrade, I don't imagine anyone has. In fact, it might be a good idea for you to read a section right now. Please read the first paragraph of the novel."

Comrade Tate blushed a deep red. "Um...yes, Commissar," she said. She fumbled a bit finding the first page, but when she began reading, her voice was clear and only a bit wavery. "Um... Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit...uh...sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua--"

The Commissar interrupted. "That will be enough, Comrade. Thank you." Tate breathed a sigh of relief as she quickly sat down. "Does anyone have any questions about what the Comrade just read to us?" the Commissar asked. Hands went up immediately. "Yes, Comrade Schlafly?"

"Is it all like that? All Lorem Ipsum Dolor?"

"For the most part, yes, Comrade. I haven't read the entire book, but it seems to continue mostly in that vein." She scanned the room. "Yes, Comrade Lucas."

"Are all Nicholas Sparks books like that?"

The Commissar smiled. "No, but the last three were complete gibberish. As far as I can tell,

A Gentle Wind

was almost entirely composed of the small print warnings from the bottom of credit card ads. The one before that,

Too Far From Town

, was largely Wikipedia entries about obscure South Seas fishing practices." The Commissar looked around the room. "Let this be a lesson to you, Comrades. Nicholas Sparks' books are all bestsellers. Why do you think that is?"

"Um...nobody reads them?" queried Comrade Weininger.

"Correct, Comrade. In fact, his books largely exist to provide camouflage for meetings like this. Nonetheless, they are successful enough to consistently hit the bestseller lists. If you ever question the power of CUCC, keep that in mind. We may be quiet. We may be hidden. But we are powerful. Remember, Comrades, REVOLUTION WEARS A SKIRT!"

"REVOLUTION WEARS A SKIRT!" the comrades chorused, jumping to their feet as they executed the CUCC salute--right fist over heart, left hand extended in a grabbing motion below waist level--right about where a man's testicles would hang. "REVOLUTION WEARS A SKIRT! REVOLUTION WEARS A SKIRT!"

The Commissar raised her fist and the room fell silent. "Well done, Comrades. Are there any further questions?"

"One question, Commissar," Comrade Dworkin said as she rose to her feet. "What should we tell our husbands if they ask what the book is about?"

"Let's open it to the room. Comrades, do you have an answer?" the Commissar asked, scanning the room. "Yes, Comrade Solanas?"

"I told my husband it was about a bisexual pastry chef with PTSD who is learning to play the mandolin. He hasn't asked any further questions."

"Outstanding! Anyone else?"

"I told my husband it was about a dyslexic lumberjack learning to love again, before he gets cancer," said Comrade Bryant.

Comrade Weininger piped up "I told mine it was about gay cowboys eating pudding. One has disassociative disorder."

"Well done, Comrades!" said the Commissar. "It doesn't matter very much what you tell your husband it's about, as long as it sounds thoroughly uninteresting."

"But what if they talk to each other?" Comrade Dworkin asked. "Won't they catch on?"

"It's unlikely, but that's a good point," the Commissar conceded. "Comrades, if any of our husbands ask, use Comrade Solanas' description. As far as we're concerned, the book is about a bisexual pastry chef with PTSD who is learning to play the...mandolin, was it?" Comrade Solanas nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, the mandolin. Are there any further questions before we move on? No? Well, then...the next order of business is a report on our work in Hollywood. Comrade Bryant?"

Comrade Bryant rose to her feet. "Thank you, Commissar! According to the most recent report from Sister Cell 1936, our propaganda efforts are continuing to bear fruit. In the last year, 20 percent of male-oriented movies featured main characters who displayed non-toxic masculine behaviors, including crying in public, submitting to the will of their significant others, and wearing the color pink. That's a 15 percent increase over the prior year."

"Outstanding!" the Commissar said. "And what of the porn industry?"

"We have had a marginal increase in cuckold and femdom pornography--five percent over the last year--but our primary focus is still ensuring that the industry largely employs men with grotesquely oversized penises."

"Um, point of clarification?" queried Comrade Weininger.

"Yes, Comrade," Bryant said.

"Well, um, if the movies have men with huge... um... units, how does that help us realize our goals?"

"The answer is biology," Comrade Bryant explained. "Does anyone know how large the average penis is?" The room was silent. "Worldwide, the average erect penis is 5.1 inches. And I think we'll all agree that's more than enough to get the job done." Heads nodded around the room. "But if we can convince men that the proper penis size is eight inches or more--a size that is actually in the top one percent--then they will feel comparatively small. They will become convinced that their wives and girlfriends crave men who are hung like horses, and that they are in constant danger of losing them."

"The fools!" Commissar Val sneered. "Don't they know that most real women prefer average-sized cocks?" She raised her hands in the CUCC salute. "WHAT DO WE WANT?" she screamed.

"SIX FEET OF COCK!" the room answered.

"AND HOW DO WE WANT IT?"

"SIX INCHES AT A TIME!"

"SIX FEET OF COCK, SIX INCHES AT A TIME! SIX FEET OF COCK, SIX INCHES AT A TIME!" the women chorused, until the Commissar cut them off.

Comrade Weininger raised her hand and was acknowledged by Commissar Val. "Point of information, Commissar: Can't these men just look around at other men?" She blushed. "Like in the bathroom or in changing rooms, or stuff like that?"

The Commissar chuckled. "No, Comrade. Most men are desperately afraid of being caught staring at other men's penises, as they're convinced that they'll be considered homosexual, and publicly ostracized." Her smile widened. "You do have a point, though: by forcing men to focus on penis size, we're also making them curious about other penises, which makes them question their own masculinity. Over time, this will make it easier to convert them to the cuckold/femdom lifestyle."

The women nodded, struck once again by the wisdom of the CUCC master plan. "Are there any further questions?" The Commissar asked. "No? Then on to the report from the government trenches. Comrade Lucas, the floor is yours."

Comrade Lucas rose to her feet. "Good afternoon, Comrades! Unfortunately, the news from the state capitals isn't quite so bright. Our efforts to continue the troll settlement are meeting with pushback on all fronts."

"The troll settlement?" asked Comrade Weininger.

"Yes, Comrade. The classic 'man divorces his wife for cheating, loses everything, and ends up sleeping in a refrigerator box under a bridge' settlement for adultery. We call it the 'troll settlement' because it reduces a formerly happy man into a metaphorical troll eking out a subhuman existence. Unfortunately, it is under assault from all directions. While just over 50 percent of divorces end with the wives retaining primary custody of children, those numbers are dropping. Right now, 40 percent of states have guidelines that suggest shared and equal custody between husbands and wives. Over the past four decades, the number of children living with just their fathers has more than quadrupled."

"Mother of God," Commissar Val growled. "Fucking Soros. You know he's behind this. Dammit, Lucas, you've got to get the message out to our ApparatChicks in Washington, state governments, and the Open Society Foundation. Tell Soros to stop funding equal rights groups or he's eaten his last creampie!"

"With apologies, Commissar, the Democrats are only half our problem," Comrade Lucas replied. "While Republican states lead when it comes to giving women preferential treatment in custody hearings, they're starting to crumble, too. In fact, Kentucky and Arizona both mandate full shared custody as a starting point for negotiations."

The Commissar's face turned red. "Goddamn Mitch McConnell. Tell him the same thing as Soros: get his head out of his ass, or he's getting cut off. The creampie train is about to leave the station."

"Beckie, does every man in Washington eat creampies?" Janice whispered to her friend.

"Shh! Pay attention, Probie! And remember to use my codename at meetings." She smiled to soften the criticism. "Although, to answer your question, yes."

Janice stifled a giggle as the report continued.

"What about our disinformation efforts, Comrade Lucas?" Commissar Val asked.

"Those are going far better, Commissar. While we work behind the scenes, the Hairy Leg Brigade is drawing all the attention from the men who might oppose us. Between their protests, lawsuits, and lobbying, they've convinced most men that the revolution is being run by big-city lesbians living in collectives."

Commissar Val snickered. "Those bitches can't afford a wax on their own, much less a half hour of Gloria Allred's time. Hard to believe that anyone thinks they're capable of running a revolution."

"Agreed, Commissar. As if any woman in her right mind would want to live in a fifth-floor walkup with a pair of cats named Gertrude and Alice." The room broke out in laughter. "Dollar-for-dollar, it's probably our best investment. For less than one percent of our yearly gross, we've managed to keep the world's attention off our projects and on a group of harmless, misled lesbian radicals."

The Commissar stifled a laugh. "Keep the guys focused on the hairy leg brigade, and they'll miss the devil on their doorstep. Well done, Comrade Lucas. What about the Martian Slut Ray project?"

"That's been less successful, Commissar. Research is continuing at DARPA, but there have yet to be any breakthroughs."

"Wait, isn't DARPA mostly geeky men?" Commissar Val interjected.

"Yes, Commissar, but many of them are on our side. We've uncovered that at least one of their project managers has a 'This Is What a Feminist Looks Like' t-shirt hanging in his closet."

"Will wonders never cease?" the Commissar marveled. "But if we have yet to develop a Martian Slut Ray, how does that help us?"

"Well, Commissar, this is one of those places where perception can be more important than reality," Lucas explained. "While the Martian Slut Ray is still a pipedream, many men believe that it actually exists. In fact, five states currently have active bills that would classify Martian Slut Ray exposure as a recognized disability, with preference given to victims in divorce hearings."

"So, in other words, women could claim Martian Slut Ray exposure as a legitimate excuse for adultery, and it would be factored in when it comes to alimony?"

"Exactly, Commissar Val. Of course, those bills will probably not pass, but they're a first step. We must remember our goal, comrades."

"WE GET THE COCKS, HE LIVES IN A BOX!" The comrades chorused. "WE GET THE COCKS, HE LIVES IN A BOX! WE GET THE COCKS, HE LIVES IN A BOX!"

Commissar Val raised her fist and the chant stopped.

"Well, Comrades, I wish the government news was better, but the revolution continues. Speaking of which, let's finish up by discussing our local initiatives. I assume that all members are continuing to dose their husbands and sons with estrogen and progesterone?"

"YES, COMMISSAR!" the women proclaimed. Janice joined in their affirmation, although she had stopped dosing her husband the week before. She'd found that the added estrogen had started to make him doughy--a situation that wouldn't have bugged her, except for the fact that the softness had spread to his penis, causing their sex life to slow to a crawl. To make matters worse, he had begun crying uncontrollably every time he watched a baseball game. The tears were nothing new--he was an Oakland A's fan--but it had become steadily worse, until he seemed inclined to burst into sobs at the mere mention of Las Vegas, Sean Murphy, or the name "Matt." Given that their son was named Matt, this was no small problem.

"And are you continuing to dose the snacks for your children's classes and bake sales?"

"YES, COMMISSAR!" the women chorused.

"And we all remembered the rules regarding allergens, Comrades?" the Commissar asked, with a steely look at the crowd.