Surrendering control of her ethics had a more profound effect on Sarah than Lachlan had anticipated.  Up until now, despite the increasingly slutty state of her life, and her increasing lack of control over her own actions, Sarah had remained resolute, defiant and professional - unbroken, and determined to escape from Lachlan’s trap.

 

She was still by no means defeated, but over the week since her last surrender, it seemed like the fire in her had dimmed.  As Lachlan watched her perform her work, it seemed to him like the joy had gone out of her.  It worried him a little - he wanted a broken, humiliated sex-slave, but he didn’t want her depressed or suicidal.  

 

She refused to talk about it - even at lunch, as he watched her masturbating herself with a cucumber and then eating it - and he didn’t press her, deciding that he would prefer to let this play out naturally.

 

Finally, on a Friday after work, Sarah broke down and started to cry.

 

She was kneeling in front of Lachlan at the time, in her office, slowly pumping his cock with her hands while pointing it at her face.  When he eventually ejaculated on her, she would scrape it off her cheeks into a bowl and take it home to eat it with her dinner, but the arrangement left her free to talk - or in this case, for tears to begin to roll down her face, and her breath to descend into choking sobs.

 

Even in her distress, she didn’t stop masturbating him, and he had to confess she looked hotter crying than she did while happy.

 

He stroked her hair with one hand.  “What’s the matter, slut?” he asked her.

 

“It doesn’t matter, sir,” she sobbed.  “We’ve discussed this before, and you’ve made it clear you couldn’t give me mercy even if you wanted to.  I’m stuck with these… beliefs you’ve given me.”

 

“About women?” he asked, and she nodded.

 

“I hate it,” she said.  “I hate it so much.  I’m a feminist - I *know* I’m a feminist, I’ve been a feminist all my life.  I’m the Secretary of the Department of Women, for god’s sake.  But… I can’t remember *why*.  When I try and think about it, it just doesn’t make sense, because I *know* that women are inferior to men and they don’t deserve rights.  Particularly women with big udders.  Like me.  Because you made me think that.”

 

“Why should you be unhappy about that?” asked Lachlan, smiling.  “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

 

“No!” she said - almost shouting.  But then she quickly lowered her voice - even if it was after hours, there might still be someone in the building to hear - and corrected herself.  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m a lying bitch.  Yes, it’s true.”

 

“So why the tears?” he asked her.

 

“I work here *every day*,” she said, “and every day I’m working on programs to promote the rights and dignity of women.  I’m saying it’s wrong to disrespect women, it’s wrong to judge them by their breast size, it’s wrong to abuse them…. but I just don’t *believe* it anymore.  Every time I get an email about how wonderful women are, I want to *argue* with it.  When I listen to those podcasts you put in my car - I used to hate them, they used to make me feel dirty, but now I just find myself *agreeing* with them.  I hear them talk about how women are lying sluts, and I’m *nodding* and by the time I get to work I’m so *angry* at women for being stupid, useless whores… and then I have to do work saying how wonderful they are.”

 

She looked up at him through her tears, still pumping his cock, aiming it at her face.

 

“I feel guilty, sir,” she said.  “I feel guilty for saying things I don’t believe.  And I feel ashamed because I know if I said the things I believe now, everyone would be disgusted and they would hate me, and so I can’t say them.  I know I deserve all the things you’ve done to me - all the things I’ve done to myself - but I feel like I deserve even more, for not being brave enough to treat women as they deserve.  I’m a lying bitch.”

 

And then her tears abruptly turned into real, wailing sobs.

 

“And I hate it because I know none of this is real,” she choked.  “Because you’ve done it to me.  Because this isn’t me and I wouldn’t believe these things if you hadn’t *made* me - but now I *do* believe them, and I can’t help it, and I feel so fucked-up.”

 

Her despair and vulnerability was too much for Lachlan, and he felt himself cumming.  HIs cock twitched, and his body shook, and just like that he was decorating Sarah’s face with his sperm.  She flinched as it hit her, but remained largely still as the gobs of white cum spattered across her forehead, eyes, cheeks and lips.

 

When he was done, he grabbed her hair and pulled her in so she could clean the last cum off his cock with her mouth.

 

Afterwards he put his cock back in his pants, and let her clean the cum off her face into a small Tupperware container to take home and mix with her food.  

 

Then he said, “I think you know what the solution to this is, Sarah.”

 

She shook her head.  “I don’t, sir,” she said - although there was a gleam of hope in her eyes, as if she thought maybe, despite everything they had discussed, he would suggest freeing her from her hypnotic compulsions.

 

“Guilt is just the knowledge that you’re getting away with something, Sarah,” said Lachlan.  “Your distress is coming from the fact that you know you’re being a lying hypocrite every time you respect women, but no one is punishing you for it.”

 

She looked queasy, clearly not liking where this was going - but he could tell that she also saw the truth in it.  She knew she *would* feel better if the scales were being balanced.

 

“So here’s what we’re going to do, Sarah,” he said.  “But only if you agree to it.  You’re going to ask me to punish you.”

 

She whimpered.  She feared what punishment that might be.

 

“You’re going to ask me to slap you across the face every time I see you in private,” said Lachlan, “and you’re going to ask me to insult you when I do.  And you’re going to make that same request of your neighbour, and of that friend you gave a handjob to, and any other man who you accept sperm from.  Do you understand?  You don’t have to do this.  I’m not making you.  I’m making an offer, because you know if you do this you’ll feel better.  And if you need a little more punishment to feel right, I’ll give you a spanking, too - but you have to ask for it each time, and tell me why you deserve it.”

 

She was still crying, but her sobs had faded, and she was giving him a very erotic look that mixed hope, desperation, fear and humiliation.

 

“I don’t want this,” she said.  “Please, I don’t want this.”

 

“That’s all right, Sarah,” he said.  “It’s not an order.  You don’t have to.  I just thought it would make you feel better.  Shall I leave then?”  He began to turn towards the door.

 

She made a choked, incomprehensible sound, and then said, “No.  Do it.”

 

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Please, sir,” she said.  “Whenever you see me in private, slap me across the face and insult me.  I deserve it for treating women with respect and lying about my beliefs.”

 

“Very well,” he said.  He walked over to her, and slapped her across the face with one hand, hard enough to make her gasp and recoil.  “You’re a stupid big-titted hypocritical whore,” he told her.

 

Her expression was one of shock - but also gratitude.  The abuse *had* made her feel better.

 

“Is that enough, Sarah?” he asked her.

 

She paused - and her lips twisted in that look of defiance he had seen before.  She was thinking about how much she hated him, for doing this to her, for putting her in this position.  But hatred wouldn’t change what she was feeling, or what she needed to do about it.

 

“No, sir,” she said.  “Could you…. please spank me, sir?  I deserve it for being such a hypocritical bitch.”

 

“Of course,” he told her.  “Anything to help.”  

 

He led her to the edge of her desk, standing, and had her bend over it, sticking her ass out.  Carefully, he lifted her skirt up to her waist, revealing her lacy pink panties.  Then he put a finger on each side of her waistband, and pulled them down her thighs until they fell around her ankles.

 

Sarah squirmed, clearly uncomfortable showing him her ass and pubic mound.

 

She clearly expected him to start spanking her, but instead he took a piece of paper off her desk, scrawled some words on it, and set it in front of her, where she could see it.  

 

“It will feel good to speak your truth, Sarah,” he told her.  “Read one line of this aloud after each spank.  When you get to the bottom, start again.  When you’ve read it six times, I’ll stop.  Five lines, times six, means thirty spanks.  Got it?”

 

She blushed as she looked at the paper - but at the same time, what was written there were things she *wanted* to say, because she had been too scared to say them in her daily life.  

 

“Yes, sir,” she said.

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan.  And he brought his hand down on her ass.  SLAP!

 

“I deserve this,” read Sarah.

 

Again.  SLAP!

 

“I’m a lying bitch,” said Sarah.

 

And again.  He wasn’t really trying to hurt her - he was instead trying to make her ass feel warm, sensitive and good.  SLAP!

 

“Women are stupid sluts,” said Sarah.

 

SLAP!

 

“Women don’t deserve respect,” said Sarah.

 

SLAP!

 

“Women with big udders like me deserve abuse,” said Sarah.

 

SLAP!

 

And then back to the beginning again.  “I deserve this.”

 

Lachlan increasingly began to target his spanks not on either ass cheek, but on the space between them, so that the impact would go through to Sarah’s cunt, and he saw the effect as her breathing began to come more rapidly, and her words were delivered between little gasps.

 

When she got to thirty, his last spank was as hard as he could make it, and she squealed as she was driven hard into the desk, but when he removed his hand he could see a little rope of cunt juice drooling from her pussy mound, and he knew that he’d succeeded in his objective.  

 

He didn’t comment.  She knew she was wet.  She knew what she’d gotten wet from.  He didn’t have to labour the point.

 

As she rose from her bending position, she staggered a little, and she stepped out of her panties, which had until then been collected around her ankles.  Lachlan picked them up without comment and tucked them into his pocket.  Sarah didn’t need them back.

 

“There’s one more thing we can do that will make you feel good, Sarah,” he told her.  “You don’t have to do it - it’s entirely your choice - but I think it will make you feel less guilty.”

 

“What?” she asked.  Her face was flushed with arousal, and he could see the outline of her nipples even through her bra and blouse.  Her mouth was open in a cute way, and she was breathing shallowly.

 

“We’re just going to find some small, discreet ways for you to act in accordance with your beliefs,” he said.  “But only if you choose to.  If you want me to show you how, why don’t you open your email on your computer?”

 

She nodded, and sat in her office chair.  Her skirt bunched around her waist and he knew she would be leaving a wet patch on the seat.  She moved the mouse to dismiss the screensaver, and her desktop came up - pink, with the words “GOOD GIRL” on it, as Lachlan had arranged.  She double clicked to open her email, and the customary pop-up appeared - “You’re not very smart, Kitten - are you sure this is a good idea?”  Then it made her wait 15 seconds before clicking “Yes, sir” to proceed.

 

(Lachlan flinched a little at that.  This genuinely *wasn’t* a good idea for Sarah, and he now regretted that his own actions were giving her 15 seconds to rethink it - but Sarah was far too aroused and confused and spacy to be doing any of her own thinking, so there wasn’t a problem.)

 

Then they were looking at her email.

 

“That one,” said Lachlan, pointing at an email for her to open.

 

It was a complaint from Jessica Heron, who worked at a junior level in the company.  She was claiming that Vivaan, the male head of Finance, had made an off-colour joke about the sexual proclivities of bimbos, and had (foolishly, perhaps) chosen to refer her complaint to Sarah instead of to HR.

 

“What would the old Sarah have done here?” asked Lachlan.

 

“Referred Vivaan for sensitivity counselling,” said Sarah.  “Or maybe had him fired.”

 

“And how does that make you feel?” asked Lachlan.

 

The tortured expression on her face told him everything he needed.

 

“Okay,” he said.  “So - if you want to, if you feel it will help - you could maybe just reply to Jessica and tell her it’s just a joke, and she needs to have a sense of humour, and Vivaan is her superior so she should respect him.”

 

She bit her lip.  She knew she shouldn’t.  And yet - she could get away with this.  It was minor enough that she could just tell the junior woman to shut up and accept the sexist joke, and there would be no consequences.

 

Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, she drafted the email Lachlan had proposed, and hit “Send”.

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan, stroking her hair.  “Now, this one.”

 

It was a request for referral for Alicia Renwick, who headed up a policy team under Sarah.  She was applying for a highly-paid consultant position in the private sector, and she had put down Sarah as a reference, both because Sarah was her manager, and because she had had a good relationship with Sarah.

 

“I know Alicia,” said Lachlan.  “She’s the one with the huge udders, isn’t she?” 

 

Sarah nodded, unhappily.  Alicia truly did have impressive cleavage.

 

“Do you think a woman like that deserves to get a good job, Sarah?” he asked her.

 

She whimpered.  Alicia was her *friend* - and yet, she was also a woman, and a woman with big tits, at that.

 

“No,” said Sarah.

 

“You know what to do,” said Lachlan.  “But only if you want to.  She’ll never know it was you.”

 

He watched as Sarah drafted a referral for Alicia that said that actually Alicia wasn’t very good at her job, that she was somewhat stupid, that she spent all her time flirting with men, and that she was at risk of being fired from her current position.  And then she sent it.

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan.  Then he leaned past her, opened her web browser, and typed in an address.

 

It opened on the page of The Committee for Gender Equity - colloquially known as “Titcage” - a well-known male supremacy and misogyny organisation, that actively lobbied to reduce the rights of women.  Lachlan was a little surprised it wasn’t blocked on the office network, but he supposed it might be legitimately necessary for the Secretary to access their page in order to counter their press releases or suchlike.

 

“Why don’t you make a donation, Sarah?” he said.  “You’re well-paid - how does two thousand dollars sound?”

 

She moaned.  “No…” she said.  “They deliberately employ convicted rapists.  They’ve made submissions to government that women should be property…”

 

“You’ll feel so much less like a hypocrite,” said Lachlan.  “It will feel so good.  But only if you want to.”

 

She stared at the page, at its horrifying misogynist speech.  Without realising it, she spread her legs a little wider.  Then she clicked the “Donate” page, got out her credit card, and made a donation of two thousand dollars.

 

She moved to click the “anonymous donation” option, but Lachlan put a hand on hers, stopping her.

 

“No, Sarah,” he said.  “I don’t think you need to be anonymous, do you?”

 

“But…” she said.

 

“Sarah Rose isn’t a *very* uncommon name,” said Lachlan.  “They won’t know it was you.  And if they do - well, men know best, surely?”

 

She whimpered - and filled in her name, and finalised the donation.  Just like that, the money was gone from her card, vanishing through the internet to a place where it would be used to actively degrade and oppress women.

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan.  He smiled at her.  “Now, what are you going to surrender?”

 

She looked at him, eyes wide.

 

“Come on, Sarah,” he said.  “There’s never been an example as clear as this.  The department has a very clear policy on respect and equity.  It’s the Department of Women, after all!  And you just told a woman to accept sexual harassment, made a false referral for another woman based entirely on her gender and the size of her tits, and then donated a sizeable sum to an anti-woman hate group.  Surely you see you’ve breached the Code of Conduct?”

 

She shook her head, in desperate denial.

 

“I told you you didn’t have to do this, Sarah,” he said.  “Not unless you wanted to.  Not unless you chose to.  And you chose it.”

 

“Stop it,” she whimpered.  “Stop doing this to me.  Stop…”  But she knew he wasn’t really doing it to her.  It was her own mind, eagerly obeying the Securo-System discipline program.  

 

“What is it, Sarah?” he asked her.  “What are you surrendering?”

 

She cast her mind back over the list.  Twenty-five things to surrender.  She had already given up six.  This would be the seventh.

 

“I don’t want to,” she protested.  But it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to.  Nothing could stop it.

 

Lachlan waited.

 

“My style,” she said, finally.  “I surrender my style.”

 

“Good girl,” said Lachlan.  He reached out and stroked her hair.  “I think you’re going to look *so* pretty in pink….”

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)