Chapter 7 - An Unconditional Surrender
Beneath the glove, the bitter steel.
I've been thinking about this metaphor so often, lately, how perfectly it encapsulates the nightmarish patriarchal vision I have brought to life at Kevin's behest here on campus. Everything is pretty, everything is proper, the girls most of all. But beneath the cheerful appearance, the reality is one of oppression and supremacy.
Just like my date with Logan, which now feels like a fractal representation of what the entirety of campus is like, these days. Girls are increasingly decorative, pleading for grades and favours with their bodies, their tremulous eyes, and their pliant lips. Men walk around as if they own the place, which to a degree, I suppose they do.
Carter hasn't stopped smiling ever since I first sucked his cock.
I'm the ultimate gender traitor. I've made my fellow female students into nothing but adornments, quite literally worn on the arms of men as they step into the limelight. And me, well, I'm the lowest of them all. Thanks to my incessant work, not a single person on campus sees me as a human being anymore. Girls despise me, guys see me as a pound of flesh, and both use my body as they see fit.
There is only one limitation--I'm not allowed to cum. Not ever.
I slink through hallways, leaning close to the walls, walking slightly bent forward, as if wanting to disappear. I know that every encounter is going to reinforce my status as chattel, that it's going to overstimulate my undersexed brain. I desperately want to avoid these encounters.
I desperately want them to happen.
I'm becoming unwound, and I know the same is true for the girls I've changed, too--and the guys. The girls might look adorably prettied up and joyful in their docility, but I can see how much they're giving up, inch by inch. Their futures, their aspirations, their hobbies, their opinions, sometimes even the clothing their new male masters judge inadequate.
Their very personhood, in a way. They look so diminished. They're pretty in the way something is pretty when it stops being alive: flat, static. Posing. They're no longer complete, because I've broken them.
And the guys--they may look supremely confident and masterful, but their misogyny is one I've imposed on them. Their eyes all look dead and flat to me, like there's no soul behind them anymore. Like I've ruined something fundamental within them, in order to make them worse human beings... but incredibly effective villains, for all that.
Like I said. Beneath the glove, the bitter steel.
It's impossible to describe the sensory overload I experience wherever I go. Every class, every chance encounter, every meal in the cafeteria, every social event... it is a constant, never-ending display of male supremacy and feminine meekness. And what's worse is...
It makes me want to rub myself.
It makes me want to lock myself in a restroom and masturbate until I scream, thinking of the ultimate betrayal of my fellow students, of my own gender, and on my own self--a betrayal I'm carrying out because I was apparently incapable of hypnotising an incel with my supernatural powers.
It makes me want to shout to the world that I'm froggy, fit only to be stepped on and driven by a boot into the mud.
Except, of course... that I can't cum. That, and my new bizarre everyday life, are clouding my judgement, colouring my perception of every interaction.
I'm losing control.
I attempt to flee the overstimulation, sometimes, escape from the constant assault on the senses. But I find no solace in solitude, either, since what time I spend away from wider campus, is entirely devoted to the harem. And here, the torture reaches its cruel, unimaginable apex.
Every single girl in the harem seems to have something sexual going on, at any given time of the day. They make out with each other, or fuck each other, to entertain Kevin. They drape themselves over his body, worshipping every inch of him.
But I'm never, ever included.
Oh, the girls do use me, of course. They grope, and touch, and slap, and push. They trample me, use my face as their footrest, have me deepthroat dildos to "practice my undykeing", and sometimes, they even pull my face between their thighs...
But they never go all the way. They never touch me where I crave to be touched, never make the slightest effort at stimulating my arousal, never even spare a single thought for my desperate whimpering as I kneel before them. Once used, I am discarded, thrown away like a thing of no value, easily forgotten.
I clean and cook, I do the laundry, I perform every chore imaginable, and I do it all to the soundtrack of girls whispering as they pleasure each other, or the soft, wet, pliant sounds of one of them devotedly sucking Kevin's cock...
It's driving me insane.
Kevin hasn't even touched me in... I don't know how long. He gets more sex from the rest of the harem than he could possibly ever imagine, and only bothers to interact with me whenever he wants to deepen my conditioning, or hurl humiliating barbs at me, or assign me some demeaning task.
Sexually, I'm just... not on his radar.
That should relieve me. Of course it relieves me. I'm a lesbian, and I hate him, and I'm a feminist and a domme and by the way, again, lesbian. And I hate him. I'm fine being invisible to him, god knows I would have prayed for this outcome at the beginning of our confrontation.
But he's the only one who can allow me... I mean, I want to cum, so that means he has to grant...
Ugh.
I know this is deliberate. I know he's doing this to undermine my confidence, deepen my chastity, use it as a tool to slowly dismantle me piece by piece. I know I shouldn't give in, I shouldn't, I shouldn't. In fact, I should resume strategising about how to break free of his yoke, because I can feel his grip tightening, and if I don't stand up now, soon, there won't be enough of me left to ever try again.
Or anything left at all.
So I bite my lip and grit my teeth, ignoring how I'm constantly revved up and never satisfied, trying my best to block the sounds of sex as I wash the dishes. The sounds of Kevin, enjoying his conquests... the conquests I delivered him, myself.
Now, that thought? That hurts.
It tastes like bitter steel.
* * *
Imagine being so stupid as to actually try and catch your male captor's attention.
