A Fall Of Women Christmas Carol

A 'Fall Of Women' Christmas Carol

Author's note: Once again, 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.

Compared to other entries in this setting, this one is meant to be short and sweet and not taken too seriously.

This story depicts a class of medication, called benzodiazepines, in a highly unrealistic way. This story does not contain medical advice. Benzodiazepines, if used exclusively and scrupulously under a doctor's supervision, can be life-saving medication, and to my knowledge, they do not cause vivid dystopian erotic hallucinations of any kind. Any abnormal effect depicted can be ascribed to the interaction between the medication and the mind control virus that is the backbone of this fictional setting.

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!

I -- A Woman Of Words

When it happened, I was in the middle of a nightmare.

I think about that, sometimes. The ironic, poetic symmetry of that sort of thing. When the event took place, when the payload landed on us women like a hammer on a pane of glass, I was asleep. I sat up with a jolt right away: my phone was vibrating.

I picked it up. I stared at the screen - no, into the screen, into the heart of evil lurking in wait just for me.

I awoke from a nightmare, into a nightmare.

There's a word for that sort of thing, I think. Telescoping, that's what it is: when you're hurled from one dream into the next, unsure if what you're seeing is real or oneiric.

The original nightmare was fairly forgettable, which I suppose is only fitting: it should pale, next to the horror that followed. It was some vapid thing about being on a boat, lost in the middle of the ocean, with something in the water giving chase. I woke up to something much, much worse: a world where my own phone was my enemy, where mind control is possible, where a digital virus can undo a woman's brain.

Unfortunately, I wasn't dreaming anymore.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, staring vacantly at the stacks of ungraded student papers scattered around the desk. What a shitty way to spend my afternoon on Christmas Eve. I really should get started. I feel like I've spent the past two hours telling myself that. Repeating, over and over, that I would start any time now. Any time. Now. Five more minutes.

I haven't graded a single paper.

All my life, I've been a woman of words, and now I can't even sit through a paper someone else has made in order to grade it. How pathetic am I?

It's exhausting. No one should have to live like this. It's not just that it's nearly impossible to muster the focus I'd need to do my job, it's that every minute I spend failing to do it is another bullet in the chamber for the, the virus, the thing, the enemy to tell me, to, to, to...

-- Women aren't cut out for this

-- Look at you, Margaret Henshaw, the great professor, too dumb to grade student papers. Too horny. Rub your thighs together, that'll make it easier. Do it do it do it!

-- By being a professor, you're wrongfully taking a salary that by rights belongs to a man

-- ... Biologically suited to serving coffee and then demurely disappearing under his desk to s--

I slam my fist against the table, as hard as I can.

The sudden noise seems to break the reverie, and the physical pain helps, too. Any woman who's survived the payload this long knows that much... and we also know it won't save us forever. I had hope, at the beginning, that this would be fixed soon, but now? Now that so many women have already fallen? Now that I emerge from every sleepless night feeling like I'm hanging by the barest of threads?

My hope is dwindling, and so is my resolve.

I sit here, breathing in and out slowly, not daring to look at the papers again, for what seems an eternity. And then, my phone buzzes, which makes me jolt so suddenly that I nearly scramble out of the chair.

Fuck!

It's just Peter, Maggie, calm down. I hate that I'm terrified of phones still. That I'm terrified of men. That I'm scared of my own boyfriend.

Seeing his name flash across the screen makes me squirm with conflicting emotions: relief and dread. Longing and fear.

I don't check the notification. I can't. The thought of even touching the phone makes me queasy, like I'm handling a live grenade. I'm sorry, because he doesn't deserve to be ghosted, but I'm the victim here, I don't have the energy to deal with this right now, and he's... he's...

-- Superior to you in any metric that has a shred of relevance

-- Your rightful lord and master

-- The center of gravity your existence revolves around

... very supportive. We've been so good together, he and I. Everything was so easy with him, before the world was mad. Work at the university, chores at home, emotional labor, nothing was ever unfair, or unequal, or too much to handle. And even after the... Telescoping nightmare... he's always been so loving with me, so understanding.

But how could he possibly understand this?

My eyes dart back to the ungraded papers and then away just as quickly. Student evaluations are coming up soon; if I tank this semester it'll be one more reason for the administration to cut me loose. One more reason for them to say that I'm one more woman who sadly just couldn't hack it nowadays. Not when I'm so busy fending off the thing in my brain.

I look at the phone, and a haunting realization begins to dawn inside me. I'm not ready to see him.

It's pathetic, really. I used to be so strong, so assured of my place in the world. Now I'm reduced to this quivering mess, jumping at shadows and terrified of my own boyfriend. Of my own thoughts...

I'm so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending everything is fine, tired of constantly being on guard against my own thoughts. All I want to do is rest. To let someone else...

-- A MAN!

... take control.

And that's precisely why I can't see Peter tonight. No, it's better this way. It'll break his heart, I know, having to spend Christmas Eve alone, but it's not my fault. I didn't design this thing. I didn't implant it in my brain. I'm just doing what I have to, in order to survive.

With shaking fingers, I grab the phone -- wincing as I do -- and type out a brief reply.

"I'm sorry, honey. I'm not feeling well. I think it's best if we reschedule. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I love you."

It's not enough, not nearly enough to convey the depths of my regret and longing. But it's all I can manage.

I set the phone down like it's scorching hot, get up, and leave the room before I have the chance to hear the buzz of a notification. Even if he responds, I don't want to know about it, not right now. Every ounce of energy left to me is needed to keep me from the brink.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I'm running out of options. Over the past few weeks, as I've inexorably approached the logical end of my desperation, I've unsuccessfully tried every ridiculous home remedy I've read about on the internet.

Well... all but one.

I stumble to the bathroom, rummaging through the medicine cabinet. There, hidden behind the aspirin and the band-aids, is a small tan bottle. Benzodiazepines. Prescribed to me ages ago for anxiety, back when the world still made sense.

I've read about this online. Some women on social media say that a large enough dose will knock you out cold for a few hours.

No dreams. Telescoping or otherwise.

It's not true sleep, of course. The sleep phases are all wrong, and you don't feel as rested afterwards as you normally do. After all, these drops are meant for anxiety, not really sleep disorders. But they will make you sleep in a pinch. And compared to the constant torture that attacks my mind whenever I try to close my eyes...

I'm at the end of my rope. I need to sleep. I need to dream of something, anything other than being on my knees, collared and leashed, submitting to the will of-

Stop it. Focus.

With shaking hands, I unscrew the cap and pour a handful of drops straight on my tongue. It's a high dose, but not an unsafe one -- my self preservation is still intact, it would seem.

I stare at the bottle for a long moment, my heart pounding in my ears. Is this really what it's come to? Is this what the payload has reduced me to?

Yes. Yes it is. And I hate it, I hate it with every fiber of my being. But I hate the alternative even more.

With shuffling steps, I make my way to the bedroom and crawl under the blankets like a scared animal, curling up in a fetal position and close my eyes.

Please, I pray silently to whatever gods might be listening. Please let this work. Please let me sleep. Just one night without the dreams, without the voice in my head telling me that evolution sculpted me as a highly specialized form of human whose niche is being a sex toy for men. One night of peace.

Surely, that's not too much to ask for Christmas?

II -- The Ghost Of Women Past

When it happens, I'm deep in a dreamless -- but still restless -- sleep. It begins with a sound.

I jolt awake, even though this is no nightmare. It's a sound that doesn't belong, that shouldn't really be in this room, the rhythmic creaking of wood. It tugs me, unwilling, into consciousness. For a moment, I'm disoriented, and I fumble for the lamp on the nightstand, knocking over a book in the process.

Light fills the room, harsh and sudden. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision. The shadows play tricks on my eyes, and for a split second I think I see someone standing at the foot of my bed. A woman, tall and slender, with long dark hair pulled back in a bun.

My heart skips a beat and I suck in a sharp breath, sitting up straighter. What's a stranger doing in my room?

But I frown as I take in her appearance. She's dressed in what looks like pre-industrial garments, a simple dress and apron that seem absurdly anachronistic. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and her posture is rigid. I rub my eyes, trying to dispel the vision, but when I look again, she's still there.

Ah, fuck. The drugs didn't work, did they? I'm still dreaming. But it doesn't feel like I'm asleep.

Is this... is this a hallucination?

I grip the edge of the blanket, my knuckles turning white. If I close my eyes, maybe she'll be gone when I open them. Maybe the drugs and the crushing fatigue are just playing tricks on me.

I shut my eyes tight, count to three, and open them slowly.

She's still there.

"Who are you?" I ask at last, though I don't really want to know.

"I am Ann," she says. "A wife."

A wife. The way she says it, with such meek reverence, makes my skin crawl. As if being a wife is the sum total of her existence. An identity in itself.

"Ann," I say slowly, playing along with the hallucination, because what else can I do? I grit my teeth. I feel so much resentment for this fucking virus that will just not leave me alone. "A wife. And nothing more?"

She nods, a serene smile creeping onto her lips. "A man's wife. What more is needed?"

"Plenty," I say with a snarl, even if it's absurd I'm having this conversation to begin with. I'm arguing with a hallucination, for fuck's sake. "I don't have a husband. What I have is a career, personal fulfillment, control over my own life."

Ann's eyes widen. "No husband? But how do you manage?"

"Quite well. We live in a time where women can be independent. We don't need men to take care of us."

Ann tilts her head, regarding me with a mixture of pity and bewilderment. "Oh, you poor dear," she says softly. "You truly believe that, don't you? That a woman can manage in the wild, without a man to tame her?"

She steps closer, and I can see the calluses on her hands, the lines etched into her face. This is a woman who has worked hard all her life, but there's no weariness in her eyes, only a placid, bovine contentment.

"A woman's place is in the home," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "Tending to the needs of her lord husband. Being steered by his hand. Being open to the yoke. Being ready for his cock."

"I won't be lectured by a hallucination! You're not real!" I say, my voice rising. I wonder if I'm really physically shouting, or if it's all in my head. I guess if the neighbors come knocking on my door, I'll know it's the former. "You're just a figment of my imagination! Some... vision conjured up by that damnable virus to torment me!"

Ann looks puzzled, her face pensive. "Virus? What's that word mean?"

I roll my eyes. Of course her 'character' wouldn't know what a virus is. She's supposed to be from the distant past, right? "Give me a break. You're not even trying to be subtle. You think I don't know what you really are?"

Ann blinks slowly, as if processing my words takes an inordinate amount of time. "I told you who I am." But then, something in her expression shifts, in the rapid, seamless way that a human expression would never shift, because she's not real, she's not human.

Her back straight, she clears her throat, and her voice sounds different now. Lower, more ominous. "I am as I was. As women have always been. I'm the ghost of women past."

I can't help but laugh in her face, ominous voice or not. "The ghost of women past? Please. If you're going to try to gaslight me, at least put some effort into it."

I gesture at her clothing, the simple homespun dress and white apron. "Your clothes are all wrong for the time period you're supposed to be from. That style of dress is a movie invention, not an accurate representation of what women actually wore in pre-industrial times in this country."

Ann looks down at herself, plucking at her skirts. She seems unfazed by my accusation.

"I'm a professor," I say, standing up from the bed, my hands balling into fists. "Not a woman, not a wife, not a pet, not a cocksleeve, a professor. You think you're going to fool me like this? What was that you said earlier? Being ready for his cock? Does that strike you as historically accurate phrasing? Do you think a peasant woman from the countryside of however many hundreds of years ago would speak like that?"

I'm invading Ann's personal space, getting all up in her face, panting from fear and hatred and rage. "That's not trad language, it's payload language. It's not conservative, it's horny. I guess some things are so hardwired into you that you can't fully drop the act even when trying to fool me, can you, you fucking virus?"

By this point, I've drawn so close to Ann that I'm crowding her against the wall, but if my display of aggression intimidates her, she doesn't show it. Her only response is to shrug.

"You seem to know a lot of things. I've no knowledge of such. I'm no scholar. Just a wife. But... I'm happy. You don't look happy."

I take a step back, breathing hard. The rage that had momentarily energized me drains away, leaving a hollow ache in its place. Of course I'm not happy. How could I be, when my own mind has been turned against me? When I can't even trust my own thoughts anymore?

I try to remind myself that I'm not talking to a woman, not even talking to myself. I'm talking to the thing itself. I think. Something born of it, anyway. But I can't stop myself from arguing.

"No shit," I say. "I'm being tormented by a virus that wants to strip me of my agency and turn me into a mindless puppet for men to control! Half of humanity is being undone from within!"

Ann tilts her head, confusion written across her features. "I don't understand most of those words. But I don't need to."

She reaches out a hand, as if to grasp mine, but I jerk away from her. "Don't touch me," I say. "You're not real. None of this is real."

"The war is real," Ann says, stepping closer to me. "The war in the mind. The ache in your heart. The hunger in your loins."

"Shut up..." I say, stepping back, but there's no force behind the words. I'm so tired, so worn down by the constant mental assault. Ann must sense my weakness, because she presses on.

Her hand grips mine tightly, this time. "Come. Let me show you what is real."

She pulls me closer to her, and suddenly the room around us dissolves, replaced by the interior of a small, smoke-filled cottage. A fire crackles in the hearth. And there, bent over a wooden table...

It's Ann. Or rather, a younger version of Ann, her skirts hiked up around her waist as a man - her husband, presumably - ruts into her from behind. She's making little mewling noises, her face contorted and glassy-eyed as the man methodically dicks her down. He's gripping her hips with strong, rough hands, grunting softly as he has his way with her.

I try to look away, but my eyes are drawn back to the scene with a morbid fascination. The sounds of their bodies slapping together, the way she looks so vulnerable folded in half beneath his frame, the way his muscular body drapes possessively over hers. It's so animalistic. Predator and prey. Claimant and claimed. Master and fuckpet.

"Stop it," I say, unable to avert my eyes. "I don't want to see this."

"But you must," Ann says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "This is the natural order of things. A woman's purpose is to be claimed, to be bred. To submit to her husband's will in all things. Cleaning his home. Cooking his meals. Warming his bed. Bearing him children. Servicing his cock."

There she goes again with the horny language. I try to focus on the wrongness of that, because it anchors me, it reminds me she's not real... but it's getting harder and harder to maintain that focus. The scene before me is so...

-- NATURAL

-- HOT AS HELL

-- QUINTESSENTIALLY FEMININE

... distracting. I want to scream, fight, or flee, but I can't do any of that. I can't even look away.

"Ann," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Your life... it's so small. So limited. Don't you see how your potential has been squandered? How your mind has been shackled by the very people who claim to cherish you? How much more you could have, could be?"

She blinks at me, uncomprehending. "My husband cherishes me. He provides for me, protects me. In return, I serve him. It is a fair exchange."

"Is it?" I still can't take my eyes off his cock, plowing into her cunt, eroding a further piece of humanity from her with every deeper thrust. "He fucks you like an animal, impregnates you, works you to the bone maintaining his household. And in return, what? You're kept like a pet. I would sooner die than live like that. I want this thing gone from my brain. I want my life back."

Ann's placid expression falters for a moment, as if the thing generating her is unsure of what emotion it should display for me. It's like her face twists through so many different muscle arrangements, too fast to identify, until it finally settles on a meek, bovine expression of maddening serenity.

"All I know is this," she says, looking dreamily at the scene of her younger self backing into her husband's thrusts like a bitch in heat. "I slept soundly at night. You don't."

She turns towards me, as black ink begins to seep into my vision from all sides, the image before me beginning to fade, to dissolve.

"And you never will again."