She looks confused and frightened. Finally she finds her tongue. "Both."

I let out a pent up breath and wrap my arms around my daughter. "Don't worry about that man, Ro-Ro. He can't hurt you or your mama." I feel sorrow welling up behind my tear ducts. 

This is the reason I have to stop the payload. The future of my own child depends on it. Every bit of my self pity and exhaustion evaporates as I hold her in my arms. I have never had a more important task than this. In a handful of years my daughter will become susceptible to the monstrous effects.

I can't let that happen. 

The payload does not affect children. I am grateful for that, at least. As horrendously evil as the payload's creators are, they thought to put a safeguard for underage girls. I imagine they consider themselves fine, upstanding humanitarians. I wish they would all die of syphilis. 

But my clock is ticking. If I fail in my goal, my daughter and countless other women will fall prey to modern day slavery. She's safe for now, but in a few years some monster could claim her. Once she's collared, she'll be subject to every thought of that bastard's wicked mind. 

"Don't say that big word anymore," I admonish her. "It's a grown up word."

"A grown up word like..." she lowers her voice to a whisper, "...'cwap'?" She immediately gasps in realization of what she's said, placing her hands over her mouth. "I'm torry...I..."

I hug her tighter and nod. "Yes, but don't worry about it, sweet-pea. Now you need to go get..."

I'm interrupted as the door swings open wider, and I see my wife standing in her night coat. The conservative garment makes her look a bit frumpy. Honestly it makes her look really frumpy. Her brunette hair is a total mess.

"Good morning, sweetheart." I say to her, smiling. I try to emote a look of genuine happiness. In all honesty, I am glad to see her, no matter how she appears. Deep in my soul, I focus on how sincerely I love this woman.

She stares back at me with eyes puffy from tears. Half my mind whispers to me that she looks pathetic: very little like the healthy, beautiful woman I married.

The other half reminds me that this IS the woman I married. I feel a twinge of shame for my thoughts. This woman is being bombarded with sinister mental poison that I can't begin to imagine, even in her sleep. I can't expect her to look her best, while simultaneously fighting off a mental virus.

The payload is constantly telling her to look good, for my sake... for the sake of every man. She has rebelled by letting herself go. 

Stress eating has caused her to gain weight, and she refuses to comb her hair or shave her legs. I feel like I'm being punished by the payload for my wife's disobedience. But I haven't complained. It's a small price to pay.

I can endure worse than this. I married this woman for her soul after all, not her body. Would I expect her to look her best if she was going through chemotherapy? She's sick, and if putting on some extra weight makes her feel better, then so be it. 

Once the payload is shut down we can deal with this... not before. It's more incentive for me, personally, to accomplish my goal. 

"Ro-Ro," she says quietly, kneeling down to our daughter's height. "Go change out of your pajama bottoms and get ready to do your schoolwork. I need to talk to your father, alone."

Rosemary nods and hurries down the hallway to her room. Her mother continues gazing at me pleadingly, and I noticed that her hand is held conspicuously behind her back. I know what's coming. I try to temper myself for the inevitable argument. 

As soon as Rosemary is inside her room, my wife steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. There is a telltale *click* from the door knob.

My wife falls to her knees, her head touching the ground in a gesture of supplication. She presents a collar to me. "I consider myself owned," she whispers. 

I pull her from the floor. Grasping her left hand, I play with the gold band which adorns her fourth finger. "I'm pretty sure we already own one another, Rachel." I smile and lean in to kiss her.

She recoils from me and tries to bow again. With effort, I hold her still. Tears are flooding her eyes in earnest now. "Thomas, you have to do this! Please! I need it! I'm so afraid. I tried to fight it... you know that I did. But it's over now. I've lost! Collar me now, and then you can free me as soon as you destroy the payload."

I pull her close in an embrace, and I pet her hair, trying to calm her. "This is just the payload talking, baby." I admonish. "You don't need a collar." 

In my arms, I can sense her writhing mental torment. I know the payload must be telling her that she needs a harness encircling her throat... and that she should obey me. I am, after all, a man. 

But I am telling her that she needs no collar. So a paradox is reached. This has happened before, and I know that I can prevail against it. The payload and I both insist that she should listen to me, but we disagree on the collar. That's 2 votes for me and only 1 against. It's a crude method of resistance, but so far it has held strong.

It should be 3 votes for me, but Rachel's programming has long ago convinced her that her vote doesn't count.

Today, however, she does not calm down as she has before. "It's not enough, Tom," she sobs. "Yesterday, at the store..."

"I know..." I interrupt her. "Ro-Ro told me. Some guy hassled you. Started talking about subjugation. Losers like that can't hurt..."

"He didn't just hassle me, Thomas!... He tried to collar me! He followed me out to my car and he tried..." Rachel's voice is full of anguish. She sounds like an attempted rape victim struggling to discuss the crime. "He tried to collar me, Tom."

My eyes widen with shock. It is uncommon for married women to be collared by men other than their husbands, but it is not completely unheard of.  "And... What happened?" Outwardly I attempt to remain calm, but inwardly my stomach feels full of rocks. The mental image of my wife as a slave to another man lodges itself into my brain and refuses to leave. 

Rachel hangs her head down in shame. "I almost..." Her sobs are so thick now that I have to struggle to hear. "I almost let him."

My stomach had felt full of stones. Now it feels loaded with piranhas, gnawing at my gut with a determined ferocity. 

"He kept talking about how I needed his protection. How I needed strength and logic to overcome my feminine weaknesses. I told him that I was married, but he said that no proper husband would ever let his wife go uncollared. He said that female subjugation was the natural biological order, and he was the strong male that I should submit to, for security. He said that the world is too dangerous for an unprotected woman."

"IT'S DANGEROUS BECAUSE OF MOTHERF..." I begin to shout, but then lower my voice when I remember Rosemary is nearby. "It's dangerous because of motherfuckers like him! What kind of ass-backwards logic...?"

My wife is shaking her head emphatically. "That realization doesn't prevent men like him from being a danger to me! The entire time he spoke, I could feel the payload whispering to me... telling me that he was right. My programming is with me constantly... insisting that I need to serve the strongest man... and the strongest man is the one willing to collar me. The one who wants to protect me." 

"Dammit! I am the one who actually wants to protect you, Rachel!" I hiss, still trying to keep my voice low. "I don't want you to become a slave! Not to me or anyone else!" 

"I can be a slave! I don't care!" Rachel's eyes are faucets of grief. "As long as I'm yours, I don't care anymore! Please Thomas... PLEASE!"

My mind is a whirlwind of shifting emotions. I know that I'm probably only hearing the payload speak through her lips, but the thought of another man stealing my wife has shaken me. 

I insist to myself that it's not a possessive thing. I am not trying to "retain" Rachel like property. I genuinely love her. But the idea that any random guy could rob me of my spouse... It makes me physically ill. 

"I agree that something must be done. But I don't think I can collar you. At work, I'm the most outspoken voice against the use of collars. If it got out that I collared my wife..."

"You're worried about your pride?!" Rachel asks, entirely on edge. I can see the payload's effects ravaging her psyche. It must be telling her that she should never question a man, but it must also be telling her to continue on whatever course will net her the enslavement that she deserves.

She continues to plead with me, her voice somehow simultaneously forceful and meek. "I'm afraid of being stolen from you by a stranger, and you're worried what your coworkers will think?! I swear, if Ro-Ro hadn't started crying in the parking lot and drawing attention to us... I don't know if you and I would even be having this conversation right now! Imagine if I'm stolen away from you! You'll lose your wife AND Ro-Ro will lose her mother!" 

These last words set my resolve. I can't endure the loss of my wife. Aside from Rosemary, she's the only thing that matters to me in this world. 

And the very notion that Ro-Ro could grow up with the knowledge that her mother is a slave... a slave to a complete stranger... it's bone chilling. Still, the thought of me placing a collar around Rachel's neck sickens me to my core... but how can I avoid it?

It is a disgusting medicine to swallow... but the sickness that it could prevent is so much worse. 

Rachel holds out the collar to me with trembling hands, and I receive it just as uneasily. I can tell that the payload is functioning properly, as she kneels before me, preparing to upgrade me from loving husband to supreme, tyrannical overlord. 

Her wild hair hangs down to the floor, tickling my bare feet. I'm still in my pajamas, but her complete and utter reverence makes me feel so masculine... so powerful. I can hear the voices of my primitive ancestors insisting to me that this is right. She belongs below me. Not beside me. 

All the feminine struggles in the world only sought to overturn the natural balance. In the wild, a male chooses his mate and she submits. Why should humanity behave any differently? 

Even with her head hung down in supplication, I can sense that she's loving this. She's been suffering, month after month... part of her has been longing to be in this position with me. Longing to feel me slide the cool leather around her neck. Standing above her, gazing down, I can feel that we are mimicking the exact positions that countless men and women have held for so long now. 

It is the position that women will continue to hold... 

My mind reels as if struck. I see the collar in my hands. It is almost in place around my wife's neck, and I want to vomit. And most of it isn't even for Rachel's sake. I love her, but I can feel that my desire for control might overpower that love. 

It's Rosemary. I can't stand the thought of some slimy man... a man who does not and cannot ever know love for her... wrapping a disgusting piece of leather and steel around her neck... forever removing her autonomy. I have to do something. I have to make a change. I have to be the strong one.

Rachel is waiting, completely patient. I can sense her passions growing. Her unnatural desire to be owned is almost palpable. Silently I wonder how long she will wait on the floor before she asks me to hurry up. From her perfectly still pose, I imagine she might wait forever. 

I won't make her. "Stand up, Rachel." I say. 

She stands. I expect an argument, but the only audible sound is her ragged breathing, interrupted by occasional soft whimpers. 

"I have an idea, sweetheart." I tell her. "Please go get me a pencil and paper." I can sense her hesitation to leave, but her programming insists that she obey; she leaves without a word. 

When she returns, I place the paper on the toilet seat lid and relock the door. "Write a list. Include everything that you don't want to do. I may be your master, but I won't overstep the bounds you set now. It's the only way I'll agree to collar you."

I can sense in her expression that she's torn. I get a sense that the payload has no idea how to twist this request. A man, her soon-to-be master, has commanded her to write limitations for him. It's another paradox. But again, I win the votes. 2-1.

I can't help but smile smugly at my cleverness. I may be taking a slave, but I've forced that slave into maintaining some autonomy. It's perfect. 

I continue to smile until I see the first item on the list 

*No BJ's.*

"Fuck!" I try to stifle the swear, but I cannot control myself. Rachel hears me, and starts to erase it. "No!" I insist. "Leave it. That's the whole fucking point of this list. Just keep writing."

I curse again under my breath. That was a dirty blow. Getting head from my wife has always been a struggle. She's always hated every part of it, but she would occasionally relent. Now it is on paper, black and white. Written with a graphite-tipped pencil, it is literally set in stone. How ironic.

Obviously, there is no one to hold me to my word except for my own self. Still, I swear that I will stay strong. I will not become a dictator. 

I carefully read each line as she writes. 

*Tom helps with the house-cleaning.*

That's fair. I already do that, so no change is required. She works from home and tends to our daughter, so I would never balk at such a simple demand. 

*Tom continues doing the cooking.*

My eye twitches upon reading this. When we first got married, we planned to split the job of cooking, but when we discovered that I enjoy cooking more than she does, it fell to me to become the house's chef, most of the time. Whatever. I don't mind. 

*Tom continues doing the yardwork.*

I frown, as I notice that this list is becoming very chore-oriented. I was expecting a number of human rights she wished to maintain while a slave, but here she is focusing on menial tasks. Oh well, it is her list after all. Who am I to judge? I suppose she just trusts me not to fuck her over? Maybe I should feel honored.

*Tom doesn't collar other women.*

Now I am becoming visibly annoyed with my wife. "No blowjobs" is near the top, while "Don't become a monster who enslaves additional humans" seems like an afterthought. I'm glad that Rachel is looking down at the paper. I know that my frustrations are probably plastered on my face.

I consider saying something smug about how the collar is her idea in the first place... but I hold back. I'm angry at the payload. Attacking Rachel won't help that. 

*Tom continues to love and respect me.* 

Finally, she writes something I would have expected from the start. On the priority list, it trails far behind "no blowjobs" and "cut the fucking grass," but at least it's on the paper.

*No anal* 

I sigh and nod. Anal was almost as rare as getting my dick sucked, so I'm not losing out on much there. 

She writes one more and hands the paper to me. I quickly read the final item. 

*No quicky sex* 

"Oh hell no, Rachel! That's not fair." I exclaim, almost shouting. She immediately takes the paper back and begins to erase.

"Wait! Wait! Don't erase it just yet," I say, quickly. "Let's talk about this one. You aren't always in the mood for sex when I am. If that happens, the least you can do for me is offer a warm hole. That's basically nothing. Right?"

She nods in total agreement, and quickly erases the words. I don't know if she is legitimately convinced by my argument or if she is just being subservient. But in the moment, I don't care. A man can only deal with so much. 

As soon as the list is complete, I write, "I will comply with my wife's desires, and I sign it.  It's a pointless gesture to sign, because no one will hold me to it. But I feel it's the only proper path. 

With the paper signed, I wrap my arms around my wife and kiss her passionately. I try to savor the embrace... it's the last time I can kiss my wife... my actual wife, until the payload has been eradicated.

I can feel the stiffness in her kiss. Her entire body is trembling, and it makes it hard to enjoy our final embrace. I know that a million thoughts are probably flooding her mind, and at least half of them are tainted by her programming. Fear, lust, independence, and subservience all battle within her brain.

There's hatred in there too... hatred for the payload, and probably even some hatred for men in general. We have become her masters, and what slave doesn't hate their master? At least a little? 

She immediately kneels again. She utters the mantra that has been repeating again and again inside her mind. "I consider myself owned."

I slap the collar around her neck. Immediately, I can tell that it's having an incredible, powerful effect over her, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I kiss the top of her head once again, and I step out of the room. "Put that paper in a safe place," I admonish. "I love you, and I'll see you after work." 

Once I have blown a kiss to Rosemary, it only takes a few minutes to get dressed and prep all of my work materials. I exit the house. This entire morning has been taxing; I just need this day to be over with. 

My new partner, James Owens, is waiting for me at the end of the driveway. His dark sunglasses block the early morning sun from his eyes, but beneath them, he flashes a cocky smile. His positivity is infectious.

Jim and I go way back, and he's just about the only male I feel I can fully trust anymore. He's the only guy I've met who seems to hate the payload as much as me.

As I get into the car, I see Jim pointing back toward my house. "Hey, pal... uhh... I think somebody needs your attention. 

As I turn, I see my wife bounding up to me. She is still wearing her house-coat, but 

her hair has been brushed straight. It looks better than it has in a long time. 

"Oh Tom, sweetheart!" She grins at me. "You forgot your lunch!"

Her face is bright and cheerful, and my heart flutters like a schoolboy. Instantly, I remember exactly why I fell in love with her. It's been months since I've seen her look this happy, and it warms my jaded soul.

In the back of my mind, I know that the payload has probably caused this change, but the realization can't fully stop me from enjoying her smile. I just love to see my wife happy. Is that such a crime? 

She is practically beaming as she hands me my lunch-bag. "Have a good day at work, sweetheart." Below her radiant smile, I see the hideous collar displayed on her neck. It immediately sours the joy I feel, but I instinctively try to cling to the tiny kernel of happiness. 

"Thank you, babe." I say quickly. I bend down to give her a quick peck on the lips. The moment that our mouths touch, I feel an electricity emanating from her that I haven't felt in years.

The passion, the desire, the raw sexual fervor within that simple kiss shocks me to my core. It is reminiscent of our first kiss... so full of love and longing. She runs her tongue across the inside of my lips, seductively. I feel my manhood twitch. 

A soft alarm signals within my brain, but I silence it immediately. This simple smooch is so amazing. It isn't just a pre-payload kiss. It's a wedding day kiss... it's a honeymoon kiss. It's a kiss I would receive after giving her a world-shattering orgasm. I wish every kiss could be so sweet. I absolutely love it. And I love her.

I hate to end the embrace, but I remember that Jim is right behind me. I pull away. "I'm sorry to end this so abruptly, baby. But I can't be late for work."

"I understand, Tom." She says with a smile. "Give 'em hell at work, and go fuck up that mean ole' payload." There is a playfulness in her words that I both adore and mistrust.