Sarah genuinely was clever.

 

She had surrendered her vocabulary to Lachlan, and Lachlan had prevented her from ever using respectful language to refer to a woman’s breasts.  And yet Sarah had still managed to progress the department’s “breast cancer awareness” program without calling undue attention to her slutty new language preference.

 

Lachlan looked at the large poster hanging on the wall outside Sarah’s office.  It showed a cartoon cow, standing on its hind legs, wearing a doctor’s coat and stethoscope.

 

“Moo!” the cow was saying in a speech bubble.  “Get your udders checked - today!  Cancer is preventable!”

 

It was a good solution to Sarah’s dilemma - and yet she couldn’t help but have understood the humiliating irony in the Department of Women commissioning government messaging that inherently compared women to cows.

 

It had been nearly a week since Sarah had last surrendered anything new to him.  And yet her life had been humiliating enough without any further descent into submission.  

 

Each day she woke, and ate a small handful of cat food from a pet bowl on her kitchen floor, completely naked and on all fours.  She would dress, and then drive to work in her pink bimbo car, with the driver’s seat dildo stuffed into her pussy, listening to podcasts which ranted endlessly about the inferiority of women. When she arrived at the Department, she would walk to her pink office, and tried to work on her compromised computer, with its infantile cartoony fonts and its pop-ups that told her she wasn’t very smart and asked her if she was sure she knew what she was doing.

 

At lunch she would lock her office door, and fuck her pussy with a cucumber until she was on the edge of orgasm, and then eat the cunt-flavoured cucumber.  Sometimes Lachlan made lunch dates with her so that he could watch, and degrade her as she masturbated.  

 

It was becoming general knowledge that if you had a problem with Sarah, you could go to Lachlan to get Sarah to back down.  At least once a day, someone in the building would come to visit Lachlan, complaining that Sarah was being a difficult bitch.  In response, Lachlan would send Sarah an email telling her to take a “time out” - and Sarah would be forced to move to the infantile children’s table in the corner of her office to colour with crayons or play with Barbies for an hour.  Lachlan quickly noticed that Sarah became less eager to start conflicts in the office.  She used a more deferential tone with the men she worked with - even her subordinates - and sought consensus rather than giving directives.

 

Knowing that she would be required to flavour her dinners with cum, Sarah would usually ask Lachlan in a meek voice if she could be allowed to give him a blowjob or handjob.  And most times Lachlan would let her.  It was a pleasure to fuck the humiliated bitch’s face, and know she would be mixing his sperm with her dinner that night.  

 

But sometimes he said no.  Partly that was because it was delicious to watch Sarah’s humiliation in knowing that she had begged to be a cocksucking slut and still been rejected, but also because he wanted her to humiliate herself in front of others as well.  Her primary backup plan was to suck off her nextdoor neighbour - she hated the man, but he was nearby and convenient.  But on one occasion when Lachlan had denied her, and her neighbour was out, he learned that she had been forced to call a male friend that she had known since high school and beg for his cum.  It had converted one of the most important platonic relationships in her life into a sexual one, and he could tell Sarah was worried that this friend might want more from her now than a simple handjob.

 

Each night she would drive home again in her bimbo car, the dildo in her cunt, and then she would eat a cum-flavoured dinner, naked and on all fours.  She would send Lachlan a video of her doing it.  She would toilet - using pages from her remaining feminist books as toilet paper - and then spend an hour watching rape porn on her TV.  

 

If she had time left in her night, she would take part in her hobby of painting - usually with bouncy slutpop playing in the background, in accordance with the new musical tastes Lachlan had assigned to her.  Where once she had painted landscapes, now she painted misogyny, unable to help herself.  He had made her send him a photo of what she was painting, and she had replied with a surprisingly talented and realistic depiction of a naked blonde woman wearing a dog collar, her hair in pigtails, kneeling and begging like an animal to be allowed to suck a man’s cock.  Sarah had even added the words “STUPID CUNT” in bold red letters at the bottom of the image.  Lachlan told her she should hang the painting in her bedroom when it was done.

 

It was amazing what people could adjust to.  Sarah was going through all this every day, and yet she was still generally managing to project the image of a competent, professional businesswoman in the office.  She was getting through her work, despite the difficulties of her computer, and the interruptions of her “time outs”.  And she was acting as though everything was normal and manageable.  

 

Lachlan loved it.  The more she resisted, the more fun she was to degrade.

 

Today he entered her office without seeking permission, closed the door behind him, and sat at her desk - not across from her, but at the desk corner, so he was at a 90 degree angle to Sarah.

 

She gave him a bitchy, disgusted look.  “What do you want, sir?” she asked.  She didn’t want to say that “sir”, but the surrender of her vocabulary had forced her to.

 

“Good work on the udder cancer project, cunt,” said Lachlan.  “I’m impressed with the solution you found to your… unique difficulties.  How did you manage to arrange that without saying ‘breasts’ or ‘mammaries’ or something?”

 

“I was careful not to refer to women’s…” - her face twisted in embarrassment - “sex-melons.  Or to talk about my own oversized fuckhandles.”  The hypnosis made her add a demeaning adjective when describing her own breasts.  “I just talked about cancer, and everyone knew from context what kind of cancer we were talking about.”

 

“Very good!” said Lachlan.  “In fact, you’re doing so well that I think it’s time we made another change to your vocabulary, don’t you think?”

 

Her face fell.  It had been a whole week since Lachlan had deepened her torture - she had probably started to hope that he had become bored, or merciful.

 

“Please, no, sir,” she whispered.

 

He ignored her.  “From now on I don’t want to hear you using words like ‘vagina’, ‘vulva’, or even ‘pussy’ to refer to the hole between a woman’s legs,” he told her.  “Nothing that gives a woman dignity.  But I’ll be merciful and allow you to use ‘cunt’ or ‘twat’ if you don’t want to be more accurate and call it a ‘cocksocket’ or ‘fucktunnel’.  And if you’re referring to your own, you add a demeaning adjective, just like with your udders.  Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sir,” said Sarah quietly.

 

“Give me an example, talking about your own cumcatcher,” said Lachlan.

 

Sarah blushed.  “At lunchtime, I put a cucumber in my slutty wet cunt,” she said.

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan.  “That’s a definite improvement.”  He made as if he was about to leave, watching Sarah’s face for the inevitable relieved expression that accompanied his departure - and then paused as soon as he saw it.

 

“Oh, by the way,” he asked, as if he were about to ask something inconsequential.  “Did you tell your team *why* you preferred the word ‘udders’ on the cancer campaign?”

 

“No!” said Sarah.  “Of course not!”

 

Lachlan settled back into his chair.  “Oh, Sarah,” he said, shaking his head.

 

Alarm bloomed across Sarah’s face.  She didn’t understand what she had done yet, but she knew that tone.  She knew she had fucked up somehow.  She knew consequences were coming.  

 

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” tutted Lachlan.  “It’s right there in the code of conduct.  It’s a core value of public servants.  Honesty.”

 

“No…” moaned Sarah.  “I can’t be honest about any of this.  I’ll get fired.  *You’ll* get fired!”

 

“I don’t think so, Sarah,” said Lachlan.  “People like me.  I’m not a bitchy cunt, like you.  I don’t think I’ll get fired at all.  But you’ve just been dishonest about your reasons for choosing the messaging on a major advertising campaign.  That’s serious, Sarah.”

 

“Please,” said Sarah.  “You can’t…”

 

But she already knew he had nothing to do with it.  He had pointed out to her that she’d broken the code of conduct, and her hypnotic conditioning was going to force her to surrender something new, no matter what Lachlan did or said.

 

“You’re going to have to take the consequences, Sarah,” said Lachlan.  “But I think we can accept that this is going to keep happening, and you’re going to keep being dishonest.  There’s no need to punish you on every occasion, is there?  After all, we both know you’re a lying bitch.”

 

Sarah didn’t know what to say.  Her brain was already trying to choose what to surrender.

 

“Say it, Sarah,” said Lachlan.  “If you say it, I’ll let you off the hook for this in future.  Say you’re a lying bitch.”

 

She whimpered.  None of her choices were good.  “I’m a lying bitch,” she said, softly.

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan.  “That’s how we’re going to stop you from having to surrender something every time you cover up what a slut you are.  Whenever someone challenges your version of events, or contests your honesty, you just immediately apologise, and agree with them, and admit you’re a lying bitch.  If you do that, you’ll be being honest about being dishonest, and that’s enough to get you off the hook.  Do you understand, Sarah?”

 

He could see she didn’t.  After all, it was nonsense.  But she knew what he wanted her to do, and she nodded.

 

“Good cunt,” said Lachlan.  “Now, what are you surrendering?”

 

There were no good options left to her.  But she still picked one of the worst.  Perhaps the emphasis on lying had influenced her.

 

“My ethics,” she said.  

 

“Good cunt,” said Lachlan.  “We’ll have some fun with this, I think.”

 

“Please, sir…” Sarah began, already intending to beg for mercy.

 

“From what I understand of the Securo-System, the ethics option works on a deep level,” said Lachlan.  “It affects your deep beliefs and prejudices, rather than your surface-level rational thoughts.  It’s like if a Catholic girl is promiscuous - she may rationally believe that there’s no reason she shouldn’t fuck many men, but her deep beliefs will be constantly telling her that she’s a sinful slut, and she’ll feel guilty.”

 

Sarah was trying to understand what this meant for her, but Lachlan continued.

 

“So to start with, let’s get rid of your feminism,” said Lachlan.  “Whatever you claim to believe on the surface, deep down you don’t believe that women are as good as men, or that they deserve respect or equal rights.”

 

Sarah doubled over as if she had been punched in the belly, letting out a long gasp.  Lachlan was taken aback.  He hadn’t expected such a visceral reaction - but on reflection, this was the most substantive and deep-rooted change he had yet made to Sarah.  He was messing with her core beliefs.

 

“Sir…” Sarah gasped.  She fell to her knees.

 

“Do you understand me, Sarah?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” she breathed.  She was starting to cry.  “Yes, sir.”

 

“Then look at me, cunt,” he told her, “and tell me whether women deserve respect.”

 

She looked up at him - and there was fire in her eyes, angry and hot.  “Yes,” she said.  “Yes, sir, women deserve respect.  And rights.”

 

But Lachlan smiled, because he saw something else in her eyes - the flicker of doubt.  She was saying what she was saying for immediate, emotional reasons - but the hypnosis had worked.  

 

“Look at you, lying already,” he told her.  “That’s not what you really believe, is it?”

 

She looked at him - and she felt her hypnosis taking hold.  If she was lying, she’d have to surrender something else.  But there was a way out.  She pursed her lips in an angry pout - and then gave in.

 

“No, sir,” she whispered.  “I don’t believe it.  I’m a lying bitch.”

 

“And one more belief for you,” he told her.  “And again it’s one that you’re going to fight on a surface level.  But from now on, at the core of your being, you believe that women with big tits deserve to be abused and humiliated and degraded by men, purely because of their big tits.”

 

She moaned again, and clutched at her chest.  

 

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.  But her eyes were saying, “Fuck you, you monster.”

 

He liked that.

 

“Good cunt,” he said.  “Now why don’t you come over here and suck your dinner out of my cock?  After all, you deserve this, don’t you?  All this abuse and degradation?  Because of your tits?”

 

She still had some fire in her.  “No,” she said.  “No, I don’t.  No one does.”

 

But she still came over to him, and knelt in front of him as he took out his cock and rolled a condom over the tip, to catch his sperm for her dinner that night.

 

He stroked her hair as she leaned in to begin sucking.

 

“That’s not the truth, though, is it, cunt?” he asked her.

 

And her last words before she took his cock into her mouth were these:

 

“No, sir.  I’m a lying bitch.  I deserve this for having big tits.”

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)