AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter, much like the first two, has undergone a massive edit and revamp. I would recommend checking them out again, because they really have changed massively, especially chapter 2. More chapters are also on the way. In the meantime, enjoy the read!
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CHAPTER 3 - A WOMAN'S TERMS
Language is oppression.
Words have the power to liberate, but they also have the power to enthrall. A simple idea, a radical idea. That's how I called it, right? The basis of feminist, queer theory. That language has been used to oppress, to keep down, to maintain the status quo -- and that's why it's up to us to use it to strike down each other's chains instead.
But I never really understood the true coercive power of language, until Brad held me close, fixed his eyes on mine, and poured his poisoned words straight into my mind. Now, every little thing seems amplified in my mind, scary and terrifying.
Take the word terms for example.
Brad used language to reframe our interaction as a conflict, a war. One with a winner, and a loser. He extracted unconditional surrender out of me, and had a list of terms for how my life would change, under his oversight.
It makes me shiver to think about it like that. His terms for me. He's bested me. He got to ruin my life, and now he gets to run it too. There is something so... primordial and predatory about that. Might makes right. A man staking his claim to his female conquest...
That's hardly surprising. A woman's body, like her mind, is not built for war. Our defeat is inevitable, and so are its terrible consequences.
The terms run through my head in a loop, each so fill with evocative power that it strikes me with the force of a physical blow. Brad will sculpt me. Brad will tame me. I will be broken and deconstructed and dismantled.
He says he'll end me, and I know what he means by that. He'll end my independence; my claim to equality; my ability to have a career, and boundaries, and a personal life, and rights.
He'll crush me in his fist, and make me into his thing.
It's a slow and steady process, of course. But one which is already well underway.
My academic career and my reputation have been entirely obliterated. I have no friends anymore; word has surely got out about the unhinged emails I unknowingly sent out when I last had a keyboard at hand. Surely, if nothing else, people will notice I no longer have a room in the dorm.
For all I know, whispers could be getting out that I've moved in with master.
Everyone must think I've gone fucking insane. A crazy lunatic of a girl that shouldn't be taken seriously under any circumstances. And so, the trap clamps further and further shut...
I don't know any of this for sure. Somehow, not knowing makes it worse. My brain keeps torturing me with nightmare scenario after nightmare scenario, and it really doesn't need to do that, because I'm already in a nightmare scenario, regardless of what people's reaction is.
I'm confined to Brad's apartment, under his... care. The range of sensory inputs that are available to me has been dramatically narrowed, and it feels like my intellect, my connection with the rest of humanity, my ability to think, are being eroded and stifled.
Every day is the same. I'm fucked and edged and fucked again, I prance around in my maid uniform, I perform my feminine duties - clean and cook, wash and dry, kneel and suck. I've been cut off from my life, my career, my aspirations. From the world, and from myself. I'm living according to the terms that Brad has imposed on me. I'm being progressively and systematically sculpted into something more in line with Brad's tastes and interests.
There's no fight left in me. I take it all, just like one would expect a woman to take a cock with no resistance - other than the perfunctory, performative kind that arouses men all the more. Like the spineless sexpet I am, I smile and curtsy for him, and call him master. I thank him for every insult, every violation, and every rare orgasm. I beg him for his approval, and for his mercy.
It's humiliating, my complete inability to oppose this reduction in any capacity. And the humiliation goes straight to my clit, and makes it even harder to resist, which in turn makes the humiliation more intense, and the loop begins again. A spiral staircase, descending downward, deeper and deeper into the darkness.
I shouldn't begrudge myself this weakness. I'm just a girl, and women are inferior in every way. Emotionally fragile, intellectually stunted, suited only for serving men and bearing their children. Feminism is a joke, female empowerment a pathetic fantasy. A woman's place is on her knees before her male superiors...
And a woman's terms, well, that is for the man to decide.
How could my mind ever resist, when the roots of the mantras strangle it? Because my feeble mind can only do so much, in opposition to my body showing the way. Every time I tentatively try to set my thoughts straight, to put them back on track, I --
You're a silly little cunt who needs a firm hand to guide you.
I bite my lower lip.
Surrender is the natural state of woman. You'll be so much happier when you accept that.
I moan.
You're clay for him to mold as he pleases, putty in the hands of a master sculptor crafting his perfect woman, his perfect slave.
I kneel.
Brad sits at the head of the table, eating the dinner I've cooked for him. I may have prepared the food, but I don't get to eat yet. That will come after, as befits my servant status. It strikes me, once again, what a primordially effective understanding of domination my master has. It's such an archetypal, instinctual way of showing his power over me. Resource control.
He occasionally runs his fingers through my hair, like I'm some kind of obedient dog... and it's hard to argue against that, because I am so very well-behaved. I remain motionless under the table, primly and properly kneeling at his feet, hands folded in my lap, gaze lowered in a show of submission.
His caresses turn to a gentle but firm tugging. Of course, the picture would not be complete without this further act of debasement, would it? Is there a more masculine way to enjoy dinner than this? With your conquest under the table, ready to... to...
I don't hesitate. I lean forward and wrap my lips around his cock. He's hard already, hard over his victory and my destruction. I suckle greedily, my tongue flicking over the head. I'm his lapdog.
I don't want to disturb his dinner, so I slow down my pace, checking my slutty eagerness. I maintain a gentle rhythm, suckling and lapping at the tip of his cock as he eats. So well-mannered. So docile. So unassuming, even in debasing sexuality.
As any slave girl should be.
I maintain a gentle seal around him, sucking him off lazily and unhurriedly, almost like I'm cradling his cock with my conquered lips. His fingers card through my hair as I suckle, a silent approval of my deferential ministrations. I lean into his touch like a cat being petted and close my eyes, focusing on my duty. The world narrows down to the feel of his cock against my tongue. Nothing else matters, not the hard floor beneath my knees, not the faint ache in my lower back. There is only this, only him.
I delicately swirl my tongue around the head, emitting a soft mmmh as I lap up drops of precum.
At last, master pulls his cock free from my mouth.
"Sometimes I think I should record you while you do this," he says from above, putting down his utensils and shifting backwards in his chair. "We could upload it somewhere, say it's your new feminist podcast."
My breath hitches in my throat as I shudder. Not again. Please, not again. You've taken everything already, just enjoy me!
The thought makes me dizzy with dread, because it's believable. It's exactly the sort of thing he's already done to destroy me. The debate. The emails.
For a heartbeat, I'm teetering on the edge of panic. My breathing quickens, my pulse pounds in my ears. The urge to flee, to hide, to do something, anything to prevent this ulterior humiliation is almost overwhelming.
But then, a grim realization settles over me. What exactly am I trying to protect? My reputation? I don't have one anymore. He's made sure of that. My life? What life? Everything I was, everything I had, it's all gone. Stripped away piece by piece until nothing remains but this - a naked slave girl kneeling at her master's feet.
It shouldn't be calming, to tell myself that my life is already destroyed anyway. And yet, it is. My fate was sealed the moment master first sank his claws into my psyche.
So I just look up at him from under the table, with bovine feminine docility, and wait to see if he actually means it.
Maybe he doesn't, maybe he does. But evidently, not for right now. He stands up, his cock still hard and glistening with his own precum, and gestures for me to follow.
My stomach grumbles, but there's nothing for it now. I obey his nonverbal command with perfect Pavlovian training, crawling in his wake like a loyal pet. Once we enter his bedroom -- the master bedroom, really, in more ways than one - he unceremoniously lifts me up, and throws me atop his bed.
He lurks forward, with the steady grace of a hunter, climbing on top of me. His frame is so big, enough to make me disappear under him, the way women have been disappearing in men's shadow since time immemorial.
He grabs me by the hair, pulling my head back, and in one swift motion, he thrust his hips forward. I can feel his cockhead pressing against my entrance, and I moan loudly as he pushes inside.
Fuck. I'm so lubricated, so ready for him, and there's no logical reason for me to be. No reason... except the oppressive power of language. Except his terms for me.
With each thrust, he drives deeper into me, claiming me completely. I feel every inch of him stretching and filling me, conquering me. He pounds into me, his hips slapping against mine as his rhythm picks up.
I'm not even fucking him back. I'm just a fleshlight, a relief hole for him to use. A captured feminist with clipped wings, writhing under his male boot like a fucking worm who deserves to be stomped into the ground.
"You know what time it is?" he asks. "It's time for another lesson."
