Sarah had so many things to balance in her life these days.  But she was smart, and capable, and resourceful, and she made it work.

 

She dressed for work in the collar and nipple chains.  The collar went around her neck, and the short chains connected the collar to clamps on each of her nipples.  It hurt a little - and hurt more when she walked, causing her tits to bounce against the chains - and whenever she wore this device, she couldn’t help but remember a comment that Lachlan had made.

 

“It only hurts because your udders are so oversized, Sarah,” he had said.  “It’s the weight of your own titflesh that pulls at the clamps.  If you weren’t such a cow, you wouldn’t be in such pain, would you?”

 

And she remembered what she had said to Lachlan - what she had been forced to *believe*, because of her hypnotic surrender.  

 

“I deserve to be tortured because of my oversized fuckbags.”

 

She still believed it now, even though she knew that belief was implanted by her treatment in the Securo-System.  If her instructions had not required her to abuse her own breasts regularly, she would have felt guilty for not getting what she deserved.

 

Lachlan had also been right that she could hide the lewd contraption if she dressed carefully.  She wore a conservative blouse, and put a scarf around her neck to hide the collar, and the only sign of how she was torturing her bra-less tits was that the line of her bosom was a little strange, where her tits were pulled upwards by the nipple clamps.

 

She remembered also what Lachlan had said about her conservative work-appropriate clothes - that they were a costume, to conceal the bimbo within.

 

She complemented the collar-and-chains with the cunt spreader device, which attached each of her pussy lips to the top of her stockings using elastic and clamps.  She wore no panties with it, just a skirt, and it felt strange and lewd to feel the occasional breeze on the inner flesh of her pussy, but she supposed that that was the point.

 

It had been nearly a week since Lachlan had imposed the “discomfort” requirements on her, and Sarah was scared at how routine it was becoming to go to work with her tits or cunt in bondage, or with a plug in her ass or a dildo up her fuckhole.  She was becoming used to having her breasts in pain, in public, and to holding conversations with a thick plastic toy vibrating in her wet snatch.

 

She had even scheduled all her meetings that day for the morning, so that in the afternoon she could go into her office, and lock the door, and put a dildo gag in her mouth and pull out her tits and attach the milking device to them.

 

She drove to her work in her pink bimbo car, with the thick dildo attached to the driver’s seat stuffed up her wet cum-hole, and she listened to the compulsory misogyny podcast that played as she drove.

 

“The human female is incapable of intelligent thought,” said the podcast.  “She requires a man to direct her.  Left to her own devices, she will prioritise the needs of her cunt, and humiliate herself.  The close supervision and paternal guidance that she required as a baby is what she will continue to require throughout her life.”

 

Sarah could hardly argue.  Would an intelligent woman have gotten herself into the humiliating position that Sarah was in?  Would she drive to work in a pink car with clamps on her nipples and a dildo in her pussy?  

 

She got to work with her cunt wet and throbbing, her nipples aching, and her mind filled with confusing thoughts.

 

Her morning meeting was on the subject of the department’s new public education campaign.  She sat at the head of the large meeting table (with her knees firmly clamped together, and her arms crossed in front of her to deter people from staring at her tits).  Her senior staff sat around the table, waiting for her to speak.

 

“We’re starting a new project,” she told them.  She knew what she was about to say, and why she was saying it, and it was an effort not to blush.  “A new message for our society’s women.”

 

She took a deep breath, and then continued.  And now she *was* blushing.

 

“The message will be ‘It’s okay to look pretty’,” she said.

 

Her staff looked at each other.  This wasn’t what they expected - at least not from Sarah the feminist executive.  Although it did line up with Sarah the Slut, who had come to work last week in a pink miniskirt and pigtails.

 

“Women today face far too much judgement over their clothing,” said Sarah.  “It’s great that women can hold executive positions and wear business suits - but is it really an advance for women if they feel they *have* to dress like that?  If they want to dress in a way that makes them look pretty, or sexy, or that pleases men, they get criticised, and policed, and maybe even fired.”

 

She looked down at her notes to cover her embarrassment, and then back up.  “So we’re going to run a campaign that tells women it’s okay to look pretty.  We’re going to tell them high heels are a feminist choice.  It’s okay to show skin.  It’s okay to encourage men to look at you.  It’s okay to wear makeup, and it’s okay to get… udder enhancements.”  (She wasn’t allowed to say “breasts”, so she moved over the word “udder” quickly and hoped no one would question it.)

 

There was silence for a moment, and then a woman down the length of the table spoke.  This was Taya, an ambitious blonde who would be responsible for buying ad space for the new campaign.

 

“So we’re… going to tell women it’s okay to dress like a bimbo so that men will stare at your tits?” she asked, disbelieving.  Her face showed pure contempt for Sarah.

 

“Telling a woman that she’s *not* allowed to look pretty is just as patriarchal as telling her that she *must* look pretty, Taya,” said Sarah.  “This is important work.”

 

Taya’s face looked sour and unhappy.

 

“In any case,” said Sarah, “while this was my idea, the minister supports it and is eager to see it implemented.”

 

“Do you have any ideas for the specifics of this campaign?” asked a man from the other side of the table.

 

“As a matter of fact I do,” said Sarah.  “First of all we’re going to find some respected high-powered feminists - some of the more attractive ones - and get them to do sexy nude photo shoots.  Not anything too pornographic - hands artfully covering their… melons, and whatnot.  But just to reinforce the message that being sexy is a feminist choice.”

 

“How do you propose we get them to do that?” asked Taya.

 

“We pay them,” said Sarah.  “I’m going to authorise quite substantial payments for that.”

 

“And where will that money come from?” asked Brenda, from accounts.

 

“From the workplace harassment and girls’ education programs,” said Sarah.  “I’m shutting them down completely.  I think people have got the point that you shouldn’t sexually harass people in the workplace.  We don’t need to keep banging on about it.  And we don’t need to be lecturing young women to finish school and go on to university.  If they want to drop out, that’s their choice, and we should be supporting that, not undermining them.”

 

Those two programs had been Sarah’s personal initiatives, and thus she had the credibility to say with a straight face that it was time to end them - and yet, it hurt her deeply to do so.  She did *not* believe the programs should be cancelled - but she was required to launch this new initiative, and she had to find the money somewhere.

 

“And then also,” she said, “we’re going to hire some female porn stars - ones with the sort of bodies that some people think are anti-feminist, who have gotten rich off their curves - and show that they can be role models too.  Something like, ‘It’s okay to look like this’, or, ‘This is what success looks like’.  We can put those in girls’ bathrooms in schools, or in support services for women.”

 

“We’re going to encourage young women to grow up to be porn stars?” retorted Taya.

 

“We’re going to encourage them to be successful, and to be whatever kind of woman they want to be,” said Sarah.  Then she narrowed her eyes.  “Do you have a problem with this campaign, Taya?” she asked.  “Because I can find someone else to take your position if you do.”

 

“No,” said Taya quietly, looking down.  “No problem.”

 

“Good,” said Sarah.  “And lastly we’re going to do an awards program.  They’re going to be called the Sarah Rose Awards for Workplace Empowerment, and they’re going to go to women who are willing to exercise the right to look pretty at work.  Anyone can nominate a woman for their appearance and outfit, and we’ll give a cash prize to the twelve prettiest women, provided that they’re willing to take part in a ‘Faces of Empowerment’ photo shoot for a calendar to promote the program.”

 

She knew what Taya was thinking.  They were going to give awards to bimbos, and shoot a soft-porn calendar with them to be hung in government offices throughout the nation where women would see it.  And if Taya had said that, Sarah would deny it - but yes, that was exactly what Sarah was proposing.  It was what Sarah had to do to keep her job, and avoid being fired in disgrace.  And besides, Lachlan had told her to do it, and it was becoming increasingly hard to say no to anything Lachlan suggested.

 

Having set out her direction, the rest of the meeting was concerned with specifics.  Her people would go and workshop possible advertising directions with women, to learn which ones made them most inclined to dress like bimbos in the workplace.  A subcommittee would identify women who were powerful and respected, but not so rich that a good sum of money might not convince them to strip naked and be photographed so that men could jack off while staring at their tits.  

 

And at the end, Sarah delivered the final blow. 

 

“Of course, ladies,” she said, “I expect to see you all supporting this program in your *own* outfit choices in the office.  I look forward to seeing you all doing your best to look pretty tomorrow.  Participating *is* compulsory ,and I’m going to poll the men to see which of you have succeeded in getting their approval.”

 

And with that she retired to her office.

 

Once there, she locked the door and closed the blinds.  She took out the thick dildo gag - the one that leaked something that tasted like sperm into her mouth - and stuffed the phallus down her throat before securing the buckle behind her thread.  She almost immediately began to drool, unable to stop herself.

 

Then she sat, and unbuttoned her blouse, and removed the collar and nipple clamps.  From her work bag, she extracted Lachlan’s milking machine, and put the cups over her nipples, and engaged the device.  Immediately the cups drew her tits into their plastic embrace, and began to suck on them with a deep, painful rhythmic thumping.

She moaned involuntarily into the gag.  The milking machine hurt so much, and it was so humiliating.  Plus she knew the purpose was to cause her to lactate.  It already felt as if her breasts were bigger.  Were they swollen?  Or was it just in her head?

 

She tried to work, with her mouth stuffed and her tits being sucked on, but it was hard.  Her subordinates didn’t email her as much anymore, because the malware Lachlan had put on her computer made her replies sound stupid and incoherent.  

 

And besides, her head was filled with thoughts of the morning.  She was really doing it.  She was using government money to encourage women to become bimbos.  She was spending taxpayer funds to publish a porn calendar for men to look at in the workplace.  Surely this was worse than what she had done to put her in this trap to start with?

 

And yet Lachlan approved.  And the minister approved.

 

And there were the things that Lachlan had put in her brain - the things that she believed now, deep down inside, because Lachlan had told her to believe them.

 

That women were stupid sluts who didn’t deserve respect.  That she deserved to be tortured for having big tits.  That women with big tits didn’t deserve good jobs.

 

It was no use.  She couldn’t work.  And her pussy was so wet.

 

She pulled up her skirt to her waist so that her naked ass was resting on her office chair, and she spread her legs.  She had never removed the pussy spreaders, and her inner cuntflesh was exposed to the cool office air.  

 

She reached down and began to masturbate.  

 

It was true.  She was a stupid slut.  She didn’t deserve her job.  She didn’t deserve respect.  She deserved to have her udders in pain.

 

And when she looked down, and saw the first squirt of white liquid in the suction cups on her breast, that pushed her over the edge.  

 

It was milk.  She was starting to lactate.  She was becoming a cow, just as Lachlan had suggested.

 

She screamed her humiliation impotently into her gag, and arched her back, and she orgasmed, like the slutty traitor to her gender that she was.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)