NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE: A "FALL OF WOMEN" STORY
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!
Chapter 1 - Kindling
J.C.
A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
Good old Mr Churchill said that in reference to the Soviet Union, but I'm thinking about that old saying in an entirely different context.
I sit at my desk, the glow of the computer screen casting a pallid light across the room. It's late, but sleep is a stranger these days. My eyes flit across endless alphanumeric lines. As harmless as they look, they're the threat that's keeping the world up at night, these days.
Somewhere in there, among these lines of code, is the secret key to unlock and disassemble women's minds.
The code itself is heavily obfuscated. References that pointed nowhere, calls to libraries that didn't exist. Some of the code made sneaky use of existing environmental code and variables. If this had just been a global hack of nearly every device on the planet, it would have been impressive enough.
But it's not just that. The payload, as the memetic virus has been dubbed, triggers behavioural and psychological changes in any woman that comes in contact with it, however briefly.
While constant exposure certainly doesn't help anyone, there's been reports of women going out and deliberately showing the payload to uninfected women after only incidental exposure.
Some of the best neuroscientists in the world were women, and all of them are next to useless now. Add in the not-insignificant number of men who seem very unmotivated to solve a problem that only benefits them, and I don'tt have high hopes for how this whole situation is going to turn out.
We're trying to figure out the basics of a field of study that did not even exist, before the event. Whoever made the payload, on the other hand, is potentially years ahead of us.
Of course, with even a small share of the world's resources mobilised to fix this problem, we should make good time of it eventually... but for now, we fumble in the dark.
Hence, the riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. No offense to Mr Churchill -- but I think in my case, the saying is even more fitting than it was for him...
It doesn't help that my feelings about all this are less than purely practical. Ever since I was a kid, I've been fascinated by the idea of having total power over a woman.
The whole Jasmine and Jaafar scene at the end of Aladdin, God. It definitely awakened something in me at a young age. The idea of making a woman choose my sexual gratification over her own morals has been a kink ever since I was old enough to have them.
My first girlfriend in high school was a good Catholic honour roll student, and while we learned about each other's bodies together, I exulted quietly with each new barrier I broke down with her.
Like taking her from "nothing above the waist until marriage" to frantically thrusting her hips in the air to push me deeper in the backseat of her car. That still crops up in my memories from time to time. Some other girlfriends I remember only because of that thrill, of making a girl so eager for my touch she tosses away whatever rules she'd made for herself regarding sex.
All this to say that dealing with the payload and the world it's creating is, huh... difficult. I'm playing with fire. The payload would make my fantasies so easy. And to a degree, that is how I try dismiss the temptation. If any guy could walk up to a woman and put her on her knees begging to serve, then the thrill is meaningless. Where's the conquest? The challenge?
The payload tames them for you, there's no skill involved. No, my preferences are for women with some actual spines for me to bend.
Which brings my thoughts to my wife. Or soon to be ex wife. I still think of her as my wife, even though we've agreed to divorce... mere days before the payload's global deployment.
I guess that's an A+ on dramatic timing.
Sarah is, frankly, the most exceptional woman I've ever met. As cliché as it sounds when I phrase it like that, he's smart, funny, and determined beyond all reason. Determined, most of all.
She once walked to work for a month at a hospital on a broken foot before finally admitting that maybe she needed to see a doctor because the pain wasn't going away.
Her coming out as a full lesbian was the trigger for our divorce. I wish I could say I was surprised. It was pretty clear when her style changed, her hair progressively shortening, until it was a full pixie cut, eventually dyed from red to pink.
Even as it tore my heart out, I decided to let her go. I wanted her to be happy, she wasn't happy with me, and I'm realistic enough to know that trying to force her stay with me wasn't going to go anywhere I wanted it to.
But now, I'm staring right in the face at something that promises to be the solution to all my problems. And that's the thing about temptation, isn't it? If it wasn't actually tantalising, it wouldn't be dangerous.
That makes me think of a different, more famous quote: all that's necessary for the triumph of evil was for good men to do nothing.
The divorce has been put on indefinite hold. Sarah insisted we bring her sister Anna to stay with us, to keep some college bro in the town she lived in from collaring her to be the frats' free-use cum dumpster, or whatever would have happened.
Now both sisters are sleeping in the master bedroom, while I get the guest bed, even while I work to unravel the thing that's unspooling their minds out between their legs. And if I don't find a way to stop it, if I let temptation whisper to me, well...
The government has contracted out basically any company with relevant expertise to figure out the payload. I'm part of the team working on deciphering the actual code that made the thing run.
I'm being kept abreast of the findings of other teams, but it's the psychiatric teams that had been the most interesting, because they let me take the almost nonsense seeming computer code that makes devices flash or blink or make some sound and translate it into an understanding of what different parts of the payload actually do.
Unbidden, the image of Sarah, staring up at me worshipfully, fully transformed by the payload, pops into my head. Her face is covered in my cum, that she lovingly and hungrily scoops into her mouth with her finger even as she begs for more.
