Epilogue: A Life That Follows Death
There is life, after identity death.
Most people can't truly envision what it means to be vanquished. To be sapped of all strength, and methodically dismantled. To have once been a goddess, only to then be enslaved. Every bit of humanity, stripped piece by piece, until all that's left is just a stupid animal for man to tame and master.
A little money-making hamster on a wheel. A cleaning implement. A blow-up doll. An incubator, a broodmare, lesbian livestock, relegated to a more appropriate role, kneeling in worship at the altar of cock.
After death, there is life. Serena may be gone... but Froggy remains.
Nobody could ever take a domme called "Froggy" seriously, after all, and this is, self-evidently, a man's world... but Froggy, now, she's little more than dirt under the shoe of even any other woman. The lesser member of her gender. An animal among animals, meant to be girl-fucked as well as man-fucked.
Stupid and dulled and dim, because that one orgasm, that pivotal moment of unconditional surrender, did something to my brain... almost like my power knew. That I wasn't worth it. That I'd been defeated. That it was now the instrument of another's will, if only indirectly...
There is a self, after slavery.
Most people can't truly envision what it means, to be a slave. The word is thrown around so easily, so carelessly, that it loses all meaning, but it shouldn't. Because this is a word with meaning. When you experience it, you feel it like a physical sensation, an invisible rope wrapped around every inch of you, the hug of a constricting corset.
We each think of ourselves as actors, with goals, beliefs, priorities, motivations... agency. But being enslaved and deconstructed means you have no such thing. The underpinning structure of your identity is torn down. Maybe it's rebuilt into something more useful and docile. Maybe it's not rebuilt at all. Ruins have their own way of getting the point across, after all...
The constituent parts that make you who you are, they get ripped out, systematically, violently, maybe even skillfully, one by one. Until all that's left is an empty shell, a spent vessel, a mere simulacrum of who you used to be.
Someone who looks like Serena, but is merely Froggy. Even so... after slavery, there is a self. And this is mine: limited, unassuming, impossible to take seriously. Confined, condemned, domesticated, and stupid... but also blissful, in a way. Horny. Conquered.
We think of ourselves as independent. But when you're a slave, there is no agency. There is no I'll do this or I'll plan that. Suddenly, your life has a new boundary condition, a new constraint... much like a leash constrains movement.
A yoke around your neck.
No longer are you able to go where you please, and do as you will. Instead, you are constantly held back, and redirected, and pulled along, losing all direction, save but that imprinted into you by your master's hand. Because he, and only he, knows how best to put you to good use.
He sets the limits on what you can do, on what you are... on what you could ever be.
There is another day, after the end.
I find myself... orbiting Kevin. Like a desolate, barren moon, revolving in the shadow of a dark, terrifying planet. And it's in this orbit that my defeat is cemented, and the story of Serena, the lesbian with otherworldly powers, finally comes to an end--with her disintegration, leaving only me in her wake. Something much smaller, impressive only in her cock servicing skills, kind of pathetic, really...
But as Froggy, my experience continues, does it not?
Thinking of it in these terms is a bit odd for me. The end of a story... well. Stories always come to an end. Loose knots are tied, closure is provided, the central conflict abates. So neat and clear cut. If one were to narrate the great game between Kevin and I as a story, I suppose it would indeed be over: I'm in his orbit, and he's won.
Real life, however, inevitably tends to escape the neat categorisations our brains are so fond of. In truth, the world usually defies definition. Just look at my power... unnamable, unintelligible, a force or an entity or a thing of unutterable alienage.
It has destroyed and remade me anew, in so many ways, and I don't even know how to call it yet. Somehow, I feel like that's significant, though I'm not sure what it implies... I'll have time to think about it, though. All the time in the world.
Because, when you personally live through events worthy of a story, you inevitably find out that there's life after the end. That even though the central conflict might be over, the fireworks all spent, the dazzling lights dissipated... life just goes on.
