Beneath the glove, the bitter steel.

I’ve been thinking about this metaphor so often, lately, how perfectly it encapsulates the nightmarish patriarchal vision I have brought to life at Kevin’s behest here on campus. Everything is pretty, everything is proper, the girls most of all. But beneath the cheerful appearance, the reality is one of oppression and supremacy.

Just like my date with Logan, which now feels like a fractal representation of what the entirety of campus is like, these days. Girls are increasingly decorative, pleading for grades and favours with their bodies, their tremulous eyes, and their pliant lips. Men walk around as if they own the place, which to a degree, I suppose they do.

Carter hasn’t stopped smiling ever since I first sucked his cock.

I’m the ultimate gender traitor. I’ve made my fellow female students into nothing but adornments, quite literally worn on the arms of men as they step into the limelight. And me, well, I’m the lowest of them all. Thanks to my incessant work, not a single person on campus sees me as a human being anymore. Girls despise me, guys see me as a pound of flesh, and both use my body as they see fit.

There is only one limitation—I’m not allowed to cum. Not ever.

I slink through hallways, leaning close to the walls, walking slightly bent forward, as if wanting to disappear. I know that every encounter is going to reinforce my status as chattel, that it’s going to overstimulate my undersexed brain. I desperately want to avoid these encounters.

I desperately want them to happen.

I’m becoming unwound, and I know the same is true for the girls I’ve changed, too—and the guys. The girls might look adorably prettied up and joyful in their docility, but I can see how much they’re giving up, inch by inch. Their futures, their aspirations, their hobbies, their opinions, sometimes even the clothing their new male masters judge inadequate.

Their very personhood, in a way. They look so diminished. They’re pretty in the way something is pretty when it stops being alive: flat, static. Posing. They’re no longer complete, because I’ve broken them.

And the guys—they may look supremely confident and masterful, but their misogyny is one I’ve imposed on them. Their eyes all look dead and flat to me, like there’s no soul behind them anymore. Like I’ve ruined something fundamental within them, in order to make them worse human beings… but incredibly effective villains, for all that.

Like I said. Beneath the glove, the bitter steel.

It’s impossible to describe the sensory overload I experience wherever I go. Every class, every chance encounter, every meal in the cafeteria, every social event… it is a constant, never-ending display of male supremacy and feminine meekness. And what’s worse is…

It makes me want to rub myself.

It makes me want to lock myself in a restroom and masturbate until I scream, thinking of the ultimate betrayal of my fellow students, of my own gender, and on my own self—a betrayal I’m carrying out because I was apparently incapable of hypnotising an incel with my supernatural powers.

It makes me want to shout to the world that I’m froggy, fit only to be stepped on and driven by a boot into the mud.

Except, of course… that I can’t cum. That, and my new bizarre everyday life, are clouding my judgement, colouring my perception of every interaction.

I’m losing control.

I attempt to flee the overstimulation, sometimes, escape from the constant assault on the senses. But I find no solace in solitude, either, since what time I spend away from wider campus, is entirely devoted to the harem. And here, the torture reaches its cruel, unimaginable apex.

Every single girl in the harem seems to have something sexual going on, at any given time of the day. They make out with each other, or fuck each other, to entertain Kevin. They drape themselves over his body, worshipping every inch of him.

But I’m never, ever included.

Oh, the girls do use me, of course. They grope, and touch, and slap, and push. They trample me, use my face as their footrest, have me deepthroat dildos to “practice my undykeing”, and sometimes, they even pull my face between their thighs…

But they never go all the way. They never touch me where I crave to be touched, never make the slightest effort at stimulating my arousal, never even spare a single thought for my desperate whimpering as I kneel before them. Once used, I am discarded, thrown away like a thing of no value, easily forgotten.

I clean and cook, I do the laundry, I perform every chore imaginable, and I do it all to the soundtrack of girls whispering as they pleasure each other, or the soft, wet, pliant sounds of one of them devotedly sucking Kevin’s cock…

It’s driving me insane.

Kevin hasn’t even touched me in… I don’t know how long. He gets more sex from the rest of the harem than he could possibly ever imagine, and only bothers to interact with me whenever he wants to deepen my conditioning, or hurl humiliating barbs at me, or assign me some demeaning task.

Sexually, I’m just… not on his radar.

That should relieve me. Of course it relieves me. I’m a lesbian, and I hate him, and I’m a feminist and a domme and by the way, again, lesbian. And I hate him. I’m fine being invisible to him, god knows I would have prayed for this outcome at the beginning of our confrontation.

But he’s the only one who can allow me… I mean, I want to cum, so that means he has to grant…

Ugh.

I know this is deliberate. I know he’s doing this to undermine my confidence, deepen my chastity, use it as a tool to slowly dismantle me piece by piece. I know I shouldn’t give in, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t. In fact, I should resume strategising about how to break free of his yoke, because I can feel his grip tightening, and if I don’t stand up now, soon, there won’t be enough of me left to ever try again.

Or anything left at all.

So I bite my lip and grit my teeth, ignoring how I’m constantly revved up and never satisfied, trying my best to block the sounds of sex as I wash the dishes. The sounds of Kevin, enjoying his conquests… the conquests I delivered him, myself.

Now, that thought? That hurts.

It tastes like bitter steel.

* * *

Imagine being so stupid as to actually try and catch your male captor’s attention.

Ridiculous, I know. Laughable, even. No self-serving feminist would ever do so, much less a lesbian, let alone a lesbian who commands the power of the stars. And especially not for a scrawny incel who’s ruined your life and used you to sink campus into hell. If you imagine the odds narrowing at each of the aforementioned steps, we’re like, down to subatomic particle order of magnitude at this point.

So, I can be reasonably confident that’s not what I’m doing. Like, 99.999999% confident. I’m definitely not trying to be in the same room as him as often as I can, and I’m definitely not putting a sway into my walk as I serve him drinks on a tray. I most assuredly don’t study his face, trying to see if his eyes will crawl along my nyloned legs for at least a moment.

Because that’d be completely insane, and clearly, I am the pinnacle of mental health right now.

I mean, come on. This cursed incel acts like he’s completely forgotten I’m part of this harem! Like I’m background noise, invisible, so easy to ignore. Bitch, I created this harem. First for myself, and then for him once he turned the tables on me. I may be many things: defeated, demeaned, diminished, demoted… dominated. But I am a mind controller, the logistical linchpin of this entire harem, and I am not to be ignored!

I know, I know. Reverse psychology, manipulation, all the jazz, I know. But I’ve been locked in chastity for so long, stimulated for so long, every minute of every day, that I’m beginning to fucking lose it. I can’t take this anymore. I need to cum. Then maybe I’ll be able to think clearly again, and figure out a way to escape my predicament.

And look, nobody likes to be ignored, but this? Kevin has destroyed me as a person. I’m no longer Serena the lesbian domme, I’m Froggy the campus sex slave. He’s had me undo all my accomplishments and more besides, likely traumatised me for life, and poisoned every human relationship I ever cherished, and for what? To fuck me? Apparently, not even that.

The fucker doesn’t even look at me. So why the hell did he destroy me?

Yes, this is self-sabotaging, and potentially even harmful, unless it actually does win me an orgasm… then, maybe, it’ll even end up contributing to my escape. But look. I just refuse to believe that an incel with a lesbian sex slave at his disposal will not simply crumble before his impulses and, you know… have his way with her.

God, that sounded disturbingly okay in my mind. I guess it’s a good thing that I’m not actually vying for his attention whatsoever.

Unfortunately, Kevin doesn’t share that impression—he’s under the false belief that I’m, I don’t know, trying to seduce him or something, because one day he stops me cold in my tracks.

“This isn’t gonna work,” he says, smiling behind his dorky sunglasses. “You know that.”

I am hypnotically mandated to maintain proper comportment towards him at all times, so I immediately bow my head, slightly flexing my legs and my back to make myself as low and unassuming as possible.

“Sir?” I ask, in a soft, demure voice.

Kevin shakes his had, wagging his finger at me. “You know what I’m talking about. You’re not gonna be able to manipulate me.”

He sits a little straighter, as if he’s reading a script he pre-wrote in his head. “The sexual marketplace is in my favour now, Froggy. Do you understand how supply and demand work? Because that’s how you women have been skewing things for so long. Withholding what you have to offer… that always raises the price, so poor guys like me are doomed to live alone and miserable, never knowing a woman’s touch.”

My eyes narrow, and for a moment, surging hatred wins over arousal. God, I remember why I tried to hypnotise him, back when I was still Serena. He’s got an entire filthy blog full of this crap… which is, of course, official campus ideology by now, thanks to me.

Still. Hypnosis or not, it’s really hard to resist the temptation to punch him in the face right now.

“I mean, this,” he says, gesturing to the room, and I assume he means the harem as a whole. “This is basically inflation. I have access to as much female flesh as I want, when I want it. I literally have more than I could ever use, in fact. That makes it cheap.”

He smirks a little. It’s a tremulous smile, at first, but then it steadies into a grin.

“It makes you cheap.”

I wince at the seething resentment behind his words, like recoiling at the lashing of a whip.

“If you really want to cum,” he says, “you’re going to have to go through the motions. Do you know how much a guy like me normally has to go through, in order to even get a shot at losing a v-card? Hit the gym. Buy a whole new wardrobe. Be an emotional support machine. Pay for a date, somewhere nice and expensive, and then there’s the gifts, and…”

My mouth opens and closes in disbelief, and not just at his staggering sense of entitlement, or purely transactional view of sexual and romantic relationships. Is he… implying that I should go through what a guy goes through when trying to find a date? What?!

“Sir, you…” I ask, hesitant, “you want me to ask you out on a date?”

Kevin snorts at that. “Don’t be ridiculous. The comeuppance I have in mind is not in you walking in a guy’s shoes for a while. No. What I want is for you to beg like a dog, like my dog, because that’s what you are now. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

The intensity of his words, the radiating disrespect and resentment he clearly feels for me—and for my entire gender—are so strong that they make me take a step back, like a physical force. I realise with a degree of horror that I have underestimated my captor, missed the profound transformation that absolute power has triggered inside him.

His worldview is unchanged… but his confidence in his mastery, now, that’s a world of difference from what it used to be.

I also realise, with horror, that I am desperate enough for release that my limbs are trembling. He wants me to beg like a dog, and for some reason my head is spinning, and I feel like I’m losing my balance…

I yelp in surprise when I realise my knees have already hit the floor, as if on their own volition. I feel myself disappearing before him, completely outclassed and outmatched… deservedly subjugated.

“Please, Sir,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Allow this humble servant her release… I’ve been hard at work, Sir, haven’t I? I’ve been apologising to all the guys… and changing all the girls… so hard at work… please…”

Kevin is enjoying this immensely, I can tell. A moment of triumphant validation, sitting in judgement, undisputed arbiter of my pleasure. He seems to simply revel in it for a moment, before composing himself and clearing his throat.

“No.”

I stare at him, eyes wide with emotions I have no words for. Why does he hate me so much? Why does he want me to suffer? I kneel there, sitting back on my haunches like I am indeed his dog, listening as he outlines his cold logic to me.

“You only get to cum if I enjoy it,” he says. “If I get to go all the way.”

I nod, tremulously, waiting for the punchline that I know is coming. For my comeuppance, as he calls it.

“But as it happens,” Kevin continues, “I have so many girls whose talents I want to sample… I simply have no free time to enjoy you as well.”

“B-but,” I say, my lips trembling. This is so humiliating. To have your sexual pleasure literally in the hands of another person, as if it’s been ripped out of your body… it’s humbling in ways that words cannot convey. He intends to deny me. He intends to make me feel it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, his tone so thick with sarcasm I can almost feel it on my skin. “I’m sure you’ll get over it. Besides… we’re better off just staying friends. Aren’t we, my pet?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, utterly defeated as I turn away to the sound of his mocking laughter, feeling stripped of any remaining vestige of the person I used to be. Of the person that isn’t Froggy.

I taste it again, then.

The bitter steel.

* * *

I’m familiar with counterphobic reactions.

I’ve probed, and conquered, too many minds not to have intimate familiarity with the concept. Traumatic events can be managed and contained, if you fetishise them. You assert control over them, in a way. It’s a classic, if a little twisted, coping mechanism.

The problem is when you end up fetishising your own downfall.

When defeat becomes alluring, almost relieving—strength fading, replaced by weakness, resistance ebbing, replaced by compliance. Conformity. No effort, no emotions, no thoughts… a simple, obedient creature.

Lessened.

Content.

The former lesbian domme, cast off her throne, pushed to her knees, her fingers clawing ineffectually at the collar that’s about to snap around her neck… a collar held by a man…

God. I’m well on the way to being broken, to suffer irreparable damage to my ability to ever resist. Because, see. The problem when you fetishise your downfall, is that you fall even harder, which makes you fetishise it all the more, which…

Yeah.

Oh, and of course, if the counterphobic reaction is driven and fuelled by constant, perpetually teased sexual arousal… and hypnotic programming… and the relentless sinking of my own programming into my subconscious, well…

I’m starting to lose track of time and space. My days are a collection of horny moments, spent desperate, kneeling, panting. Obediently polishing Sandra’s heels to a high sheen with my tongue, while she pointedly looks away from me, disgusted by my spineless character.

Enthusiastically fellating a dildo at Sarah’s instructions, while humping the air with my hips, in a desperate hope to convince her to touch my sex.

Juliet, slapping me.

Emily, sitting on my face.

One moment, I’m in a hallway, kneeling and pressed against the wall, one masculine hand around my throat as I am ruthlessly and inconsequentially facefucked—it’s not even a blowjob, he’s simply fucking my mouth. Tears stream down my face as my breathing grows laboured.

The next, I’m acting as a footstool to the meeting of the local feminist committee. Of course, their regular meetings no longer discuss feminism… today’s topic is how to best suck cock. That was last week’s topic, too.

This is starting to feel like a fever dream. I’m lost in a haze of mind fog and arousal, always teetering on the edge of the precipice, never allowed to take the plunge.

You can see why, lying on the floor in the small hours of the night, lying awake and listening to the thundering sound of the ticking clock, I tell myself that cumming is an important step in my plan to break free. No, an essential step.

I can’t function like this. My hand snakes between my legs once more, but I know I won’t find any release. Even Sarah’s quiet breathing in her blissful sleep up there on the bed is enough to make me going, Jesus, I’m so pathetic. So broken…

I’ve got to reclaim clarity. To get back on solid ground.

I need to cum, no matter the cost. At this point, the need is so loud that it’s like a wall of white noise in my mind, drowning out all other thoughts, all other feelings. How can I ever function like this? I don’t care that it’s risky, I don’t care that it might be stupid. Inaction is guaranteed to doom me. I have to take the chance now.

Before I no longer can.

That’s why, the morning after, I find myself once more at Kevin’s feet. I struggle to meet his gaze—well, my reflection in his sunglasses, really. I feel bested, outmaneuvered, outplayed. I’m beginning to internalise the feeling of the yoke. The shortening of the leash.

Having accepted my inability to beguile him or just sway him, I beg at his feet.

Imagine that. A lesbian feminist, begging a man for permission to orgasm.

You see, the thing about begging is… it implies you’ve already lost. When you’re begging someone not to do something, or to do something, or to allow something, you’re implicitly admitting you don’t have a say. That you don’t influence the outcome. That your only recourse is supplication.

Appealing to the victor’s mercy.

I know, I know that if I can think straight for even half an hour, I can work on wiggling free once more. But first, I need to go through this to get there. No matter how harsh and humiliating it is. I’m going through hell, and I need to keep going.

“Let’s hear it,” he says, obviously stringing me along. “Impress me.”

I draw in breath, trying to muster what strength and coherence remains in my possession. I do have a plan. I even felt a little proud when I came up with this last night. Even though I really, really shouldn’t. But it’s clever, in its own way… something Serena might have thought of. Not Froggy, for sure.

“Yes,” I say, as if conceding an unspoken point. “I may just be one body among many, cheap and interchangeable. But sir, surely taking me is more psychologically satisfying.”

“Oh?” Kevin asks, leaning forward.

I make an exaggerated show of looking away, then at him, then away again. I even bat my eyelashes for good measure, twirling a strand of hair around my index finger. “I was… your first.”

Kevin’s lips narrow at that.

“I’m a fierce feminist, a lesbian, I have literal mind control powers,” I say, sticking to the script I came up with last night, sensing that I’ve grabbed his attention. “Do you understand what it means, if you make me cum?”

Kevin’s breath quickens slightly. So does mine, at the idea that maybe I’m about to make it, to finally get permission. I drop the pretensions of embarrassment, and switch to a sultry tone, going in for the kill.

“Think about it,” I tell him suavely. “To make a feminist cum from misogyny… make a lesbian cum from serving cock… make a goddess cum from being dethroned…”

Kevin draws breath, and my own heart is beating faster at the evocative power behind my words. I’m starting to wonder if I should just skip the rest of the speech and… I don’t know, approach him, maybe brush his thigh with my hand…

But before I can move, Kevin lifts a finger in admonishment.

“Yes, all of that is true… but just saying this is not enough. If you really want me to feel that I’ve conquered you, mastered you, well… you know what I always say. Deeds, not words.”

Only the requirement to maintain proper comportment prevents me from groaning out loud. Deeds, what deeds? I’ve literally sculpted this campus into a misogynistic sex fantasy on his behalf. I’ve destroyed my life. What more could I possibly do?

I shake my head, noting mutely that this—which is supposedly about my permission to orgasm—is being manipulated into being about his pleasure, not mine.

“What deeds do you have in mind, sir?”

Kevin smirks. “That’s for you to figure out, isn’t it, slut?”

Right. Because of course it is.

I nod and withdraw, my heart heavy with a sort of… mourning feeling. Like I’m grieving something. Despondent and profoundly humiliated, I slink off back to my duties, head low, once again denied—and most of all… defeated.

* * *

Third time’s the charm, or so it has been said.

I kneel before Kevin, in a way that feels different this time. My posture is slumped, my hands resting harmlessly on my thighs, my head bowed, my breathing calm. For a moment, even the buzzing of my arousal seems to fade in the background, as I am taken by the magnitude of this undertaking. Kevin wants me to prove to him, through deeds and not words, that he’s conquered me. That he’s won the war. Then, and only then, will I be granted the release that’s been eluding me for so long.

Now, I’m many things. Horny, for one. Clouded, insecure, desperate, bullied… call it whatever you want. But I’m not stupid. I’m prone to rationalisations, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to them.

I know that trying to get this orgasm at all costs could actually help me escape, if I gain the ability to think clearly again. But I also know it could seal my downfall. So, why am I really doing this? What outcome am I actually seeking? And which one will I actually get?

Unfortunately, there really is only the one way to find out.

“Sir,” I whisper. “May I?”

I don’t specify what I’m talking about. I don’t really need to. Kevin has been manipulating me towards this moment, after all, and he’s happy to sit back and see what I have in mind. I crawl to him, settling myself between his thighs.

I know he likes this. I know it’s so symbolic.

As I work his cock out of his pants—a gesture I’ve performed countless times recently, but it still feels different with him, the source of my ruin—I look up at him, reflective and subdued. There’s no fight or challenge in my demeanour. His cock hardens in seconds, responding to my fingertips.

“I offer you…” I say, casting my eyes down to his growing erection. “My unconditional surrender.”

And then, before he can react, I lean forward with practiced elegance, engulfing the tip of his cock with my warm lips.

Even through this minimal physical contact, I can feel the shudder going through him as I begin to work my magic, devoting my lesbian lips and tongue to the debasing act of gently servicing his cock. I glide back and forth, tongue swirling, paying homage like the conquered would to the conqueror.

A lesbian I may be, but by this point, I give better head than most girls could ever dream to. I’ve had so much practice, and now I put it to good use, turning over my sapphic flesh to the pleasure of a man who’s mastering me. Is there a greater defeat than this? The fact that my once confident proclamations about feminism have been replaced by an unassuming series of licking and sucking sounds?

I come up for air—I haven’t been gagging or anything, but I know that exaggerating my heavy breathing will please him, which is what matters here. Isn’t it?

“I promise to never defy you again,” I whisper, before demurely returning to my duty. Feeling the taste of his precum. Altering my pace, now slower, now faster, trying to conform to what I know about his requirements…

“I’ll meekly accept my relegation at the bottom of the harem,” I say, a soft mumble, the words spoken softly around his cock, a muted vibration. “Let my powers be an instrument of your will.”

I swirl the tongue around the tip, feeling once more like a broken and conquered oral doll. Froggy the campus cocksucker. Froggy the lesbian cocksocket. The feminist cum dumpster. The mind controller relegated to being a holster for an incel’s dick.

“I accept identity death,” I continue. “I’ll be Froggy. Not Serena. Never that again.”

I take him as deep as I can, then, as if punctuating my words, emphasising their meaning. I hollow my cheeks to provide as much suction as I can, before withdrawing again.

“I’m your raw materials,” I say, now really short of breath. “That’s what you get for winning. Give me a new identity. One that suits your interests, not mine… one that pleases you…”

Kevin interrupts my ministrations, his hand flat against my forehead, holding me back.

“Are you serious about this?” He says, his voice ragged. “About cumming… and about surrendering?”

I gulp, recognising somehow, instinctually, the importance of what he’s asking. I feel like the next few minutes will determine our fates. If I come out the other side unscathed, the game will begin anew. But if I don’t…

But it’s too late to step back now. My thoughts from last night resurface. This course of action might well compromise me for good, but inaction would surely doom me. The noise in my head needs to go away. The pulsing of my clit needs to stop, or I’ll never be able to think about anything else.

I have to plunge ahead into the unknown, win or lose.

“Unconditionally,” I say. And it worries me how easily and readily I say it, since I am to always be honest and truthful with Kevin…

Kevin’s hand shifts from my forehead to my hair, closing into a fist around them. He runs them through his fingers, like shortening a tiger’s leash… and then he starts dragging me towards the bed, and towards my fate, whatever form it’s going to end up taking.

I remember the very first time he claimed me, clumsy and uncertain as he pressed my face into the mattress. Now, he throws me on the bed, back first, before landing atop me with all his weight. He’s pretty light, but the impact still drives the breath out of me.

And then, his hand tightens around my throat.

I gasp in surprise, but lean into his touch, my legs spreading because of course, I must respond to male aggression and authority.

I’m open and available, my defences stripped away, even my own sexual orientation made irrelevant before his needs. The fact that I can command an eldritch power of mind control seems completely inconsequential, when this scrawny guy gets to casually have me like this.

This time, just like the first time, he enters me with zero regards for me and my state of readiness. But of course, he doesn’t need to, does he? I’m endlessly lubricated, every minute of every day, driven to the brink of madness by a sexual fire that cannot be quenched.

I still shudder and grit my teeth, my breathing becoming more laboured as his grip tightens around my throat… so masterfully symbolic of our situation, of my downfall. I submit, letting myself become a living fuckdoll for him to take what’s his, to get his pleasure like he would out of a thing.

Surrender courses through my body in waves, a physical sensation that builds upon every agonising moment of cruel chastity I’ve had to endure so far. For a moment, I almost forget this is a man, fucking me. That it’s my arch-rival, fucking me.

Instead, my mind is lost in the swirling rapture of defeat and submission, the head-spinning thrill of losing it all… and I really have lost it all, haven’t I? My powers, my harem, my ideals, my ambitions, my friends, my individual time, my boundaries, my self-respect, my sexual orientation.

Even my identity. Serena is gone, crumbled bit by bit under every thrust of his cock as it stakes its claim on my cunt. All that’s left is Froggy, and her, well, no one can take her seriously.

Least of all me.

This is so like our first time, and yet so different. Like then, the mind control is working overtime, leveraging my mandated sexual arousal, making me fetishise my social and personal destruction. A queen that’s swapping a crown for a collar, a throne for a dog’s kennel, and a smug arrogant smile for a cock down her throat…

I convulse as Kevin’s grip squeezes even more, constricting my airways. I buck and flail, helpless underneath him, and in this, things are much different than they were back when I was first man-fucked by him. He’s rougher, confident, masterful, more commanding.

“You’re going to be my slave, Froggy,” he says, and a jolt of electricity shocks me. He throws that word around so casually, like it’s nothing… slave… I was a goddess, feared, respected, loved, admired, people bent to worship my boots…

I find myself lost in my reverie, my eyes going glassy and unfocused, Kevin’s words coming at me in a blur.

“I know what you think. You think I’m going to turn you into a stepfordised, 1950s housewife, don’t you, Froggy? It would suit you, and would definitely teach you a lesson… but the harem isn’t going to pay for itself. No, you’re going to use your powers to get yourself a nice job…”

His lips nibble at my ear, his teeth biting me.

“… and turn over all the money to me, of course.”

I shudder and gasp, my hands clenching ineffectually around his wrist, as if trying to remove his grip from my throat. I contemplate the future like it’s a gaping maw stretching before me, an abyss waiting to swallow me whole. No financial independence, my money earned through deceit and used to pay for his and the harem’s lifestyle…

“In the household, you’ll be the lowest of the low. A slave to even the slavegirls.”

I close my eyes, trying to grasp the fleeting thoughts and vivid images that could send me over the edge. I need to, I… I must… I want him to let me…

“Perhaps you’ll find fulfillment, living the life you were always meant to live, as a simple and uncomplicated creature of service. But Froggy, there is one more thing you need to provide… one thing the natural order demands of you.”

My mind is cloudy and foggy, my senses dulled as my lesbian cunt clenches around his cock. Oh god, what I would give to have any kind of clitoral stimulation right now. Or even just his permission. Could he make me cum with a word?

Will he?

“You are going to be…” he says, his voice unsteady as he is clearly starting to get close himself, “what your gender was always supposed to be. Nothing more than… submissive, urgh… broodmares.”

My eyes snap back open.

My hands fight harder against his grip on my throat now, and my heart beats faster not out of arousal, but out of fear. I suddenly see myself back in that room with Logan, him pulling out at the last second before I’d even realised what I was risking. Too far gone to process a single moment of it.

This is not a game!

“Please…” I beg, my voice a faint whisper, but the pacing of his fucking only increases. I feebly claw at him with my hands, trying to push him off, but I’m too weak, too mentally debilitated, too deprived of oxygen. His grip on my throat is unassailable.

I’ve had near-misses so far, in my experience as a cum socket for men. But this… no, I can’t possibly…

But what if it means I get to cum?

I’m left shocked and paralysed by the mere fact I’m considering it. But the pull is undeniable, isn’t it? My arousal… the need… I know that, no matter how horrifying the idea is to me right now—a lesbian, impregnated by a man—it will soon be twisted in my mind, to make it sound like the sweetest kind of defeat that could ever be inflicted on my kind.

And isn’t that just the truth? Is there a harsher and more brutal denial that my desires and priorities matter? Not content with defeating me, Kevin’s going to turn me into an incubator. Barefoot and pregnant. What does that say about me?

“Kevin,” I whisper, in a last-ditch attempt to save myself, to save my future. Because, post-nut clarity or not, if I accept this… if I yield to this, I don’t know if I can ever recover the shattered pieces of myself. Not even Froggy can survive a humiliation like this, and then who will I be then?

But he’s said it, of course, hasn’t he?

His slave.

“You want to cum?” He growls. “This is how!”

He can barely contain himself, I know, and I can’t buck him off anyway, and I have no say in it, and so maybe if I have to suffer through it I might as well… I might as well…

My answer doesn’t come in words. It couldn’t, anyway, not with my throat neutralised and constricted in his hand. No, it comes with the sudden, desperate clenching of my cunt around his cock, reflexively trying to milk every single drop of seed out of him. To officially and permanently undyke me for real. To seal his victory over me, turning me into bred livestock, less than human, stripped of my personhood and reclassified as just another animal for man to tame and master…

With a roar, Kevin releases, and immediately, the hypnotic lock in my mind disengages.

In that singular moment, my sensory perception expands beyond my body, beyond the room, beyond even my powers, as months of desperate and constant buildup are released in one instant.

It’s like a star going nova. No part of me, mental or physical, can process me. The orgasm engulfs me like an explosion, making every muscle in my body twitch as my eyes roll back into my skull. It pulses like a devastating concussion, pulverising everything in its path… everything that represents me.

It lasts on, and on, and on, and on, to the point that I almost find myself wishing that it would stop, that I could climb down from this, return back to solid ground, even if the person I’ll be there will be lesser… lacking something that’s just been devoured by the cleansing fire of the most catastrophic orgasm of my miserable fucking life.

When, at last, my eyes open again, they do so to a dark room. The sheets underneath me are drenched in sweat, but Kevin is gone. I feel too exhausted to move a single muscle, and just lie there, thoughtless and motionless… true to my new decorative role in society.

Eventually, in the fullness of time, thoughts begin to surface again. They’re tentative and slow, though. Clouded, dimmed, dulled. I feel like… the orgasm I’ve just had has stripped me of something fundamental. Something that was foundational to my existence as a person.

But I don’t know what that is. I just feel so much… loss.

Even through this fog, I have enough clarity to be aware of the magnitude of what’s just happened. It makes no sense, but I can almost feel his taint inside me, his seed even now working overtime to claim me, to fertilise me, to breed me like a stupid animal.

I wanted post-orgasmic clarity, right? Well, here it is: I’ve just destroyed my fucking life.

There’s no going back now. Real stakes, real consequences, and permanent damage. But worst of all is the knowledge that I would do it all again, if it meant experiencing that incredible high once more. No physical orgasm could ever hope to compare. No mundane feeling on this Earth could, at all. And that… that is the true downfall.

Isn’t that the point of unconditional surrender, after all?

I close my eyes, as acceptance washes over me like a physical sensation, making me shudder. Acceptance that I’ve been utterly vanquished. That I am now a man’s pet and broodmare, for as long as he wants me to. The great game is over.

He has won.

My body deflates as I put the admission into the open, in the form of a silent whisper to the room.

“I… surrender.”