There is life, after identity death.

Most people can’t truly envision what it means to be vanquished. To be sapped of all strength, and methodically dismantled. To have once been a goddess, only to then be enslaved. Every bit of humanity, stripped piece by piece, until all that’s left is just a stupid animal for man to tame and master.

A little money-making hamster on a wheel. A cleaning implement. A blow-up doll. An incubator, a broodmare, lesbian livestock, relegated to a more appropriate role, kneeling in worship at the altar of cock.

After death, there is life. Serena may be gone… but Froggy remains.

Nobody could ever take a domme called “Froggy” seriously, after all, and this is, self-evidently, a man’s world… but Froggy, now, she’s little more than dirt under the shoe of even any other woman. The lesser member of her gender. An animal among animals, meant to be girl-fucked as well as man-fucked.

Stupid and dulled and dim, because that one orgasm, that pivotal moment of unconditional surrender, did something to my brain… almost like my power knew. That I wasn’t worth it. That I’d been defeated. That it was now the instrument of another’s will, if only indirectly…

There is a self, after slavery.

Most people can’t truly envision what it means, to be a slave. The word is thrown around so easily, so carelessly, that it loses all meaning, but it shouldn’t. Because this is a word with meaning. When you experience it, you feel it like a physical sensation, an invisible rope wrapped around every inch of you, the hug of a constricting corset.

We each think of ourselves as actors, with goals, beliefs, priorities, motivations… agency. But being enslaved and deconstructed means you have no such thing. The underpinning structure of your identity is torn down. Maybe it’s rebuilt into something more useful and docile. Maybe it’s not rebuilt at all. Ruins have their own way of getting the point across, after all…

The constituent parts that make you who you are, they get ripped out, systematically, violently, maybe even skillfully, one by one. Until all that’s left is an empty shell, a spent vessel, a mere simulacrum of who you used to be.

Someone who looks like Serena, but is merely Froggy. Even so… after slavery, there is a self. And this is mine: limited, unassuming, impossible to take seriously. Confined, condemned, domesticated, and stupid… but also blissful, in a way. Horny. Conquered.

We think of ourselves as independent. But when you’re a slave, there is no agency. There is no I’ll do this or I’ll plan that. Suddenly, your life has a new boundary condition, a new constraint… much like a leash constrains movement.

A yoke around your neck.

No longer are you able to go where you please, and do as you will. Instead, you are constantly held back, and redirected, and pulled along, losing all direction, save but that imprinted into you by your master’s hand. Because he, and only he, knows how best to put you to good use.

He sets the limits on what you can do, on what you are… on what you could ever be.

There is another day, after the end.

I find myself… orbiting Kevin. Like a desolate, barren moon, revolving in the shadow of a dark, terrifying planet. And it’s in this orbit that my defeat is cemented, and the story of Serena, the lesbian with otherworldly powers, finally comes to an end—with her disintegration, leaving only me in her wake. Something much smaller, impressive only in her cock servicing skills, kind of pathetic, really…

But as Froggy, my experience continues, does it not?

Thinking of it in these terms is a bit odd for me. The end of a story… well. Stories always come to an end. Loose knots are tied, closure is provided, the central conflict abates. So neat and clear cut. If one were to narrate the great game between Kevin and I as a story, I suppose it would indeed be over: I’m in his orbit, and he’s won.

Real life, however, inevitably tends to escape the neat categorisations our brains are so fond of. In truth, the world usually defies definition. Just look at my power… unnamable, unintelligible, a force or an entity or a thing of unutterable alienage.

It has destroyed and remade me anew, in so many ways, and I don’t even know how to call it yet. Somehow, I feel like that’s significant, though I’m not sure what it implies… I’ll have time to think about it, though. All the time in the world.

Because, when you personally live through events worthy of a story, you inevitably find out that there’s life after the end. That even though the central conflict might be over, the fireworks all spent, the dazzling lights dissipated… life just goes on.

It’s what it does. What it always has done, and what it always will do. Even supernaturally gifted lesbians, dethroned or not, are not immune from this natural law, it would seem. My life… carries on.

It’s a simple life, but it can be a fulfilling one. Kevin was right, I can and do find purpose in my loyal service to his harem. Every time I bow and scrape before the girls, clean up after them, kiss their feet or the ground they walk on; every time their legs wrap around my head, or the sole of their boot grinds my cheek into the floor… it almost feels like penance.

And Kevin, now, my tamed body carries out my penance with every available inch of lesbian flesh.

I’m actually grateful, after a fashion. In his infinite generosity, Kevin hasn’t imposed too devastating a set of terms on me, his vanquished foe, the would-be aggressor turned pet. He could have done so much worse to me, I deserved it, I initiated these hostilities after all. He could have settled for nothing short of my complete destruction. He could have annihilated me as a person, forced truly horrific fates upon me.

I’m genuinely thankful for it. I pour every ounce of that gratitude into my daily act of sucking on his cock, with my tamed, defeated lesbian lips…

In his infinite magnaminity, Kevin has even allowed me to graduate. It’s only symbolic, of course, he frequently points out that all degrees “earned” by women are. He’s stressed, multiple times, that it’s unwomanly of me to get a degree, but that he would allow it anyway.

The real reason, of course, is that he needs me to have a degree, because he needs me to work, and earn money for him… Just like he said, running a harem can be expensive.

I work in cybersecurity, now. It’s a soul-crushing 9 to 5 job, far removed from the lofty subjects I pursued so eagerly. No international law, no human rights, no global commerce… just advancing empty projects for empty consultancy firms that hold too many meetings to ever get anything truly done. Except make the shareholders happy.

But barrier of entry is low, and it’s work from home, so it suits Kevin’s requirements to a T.

Like a little hamster on a wheel, I spend the eight hours working for him, knowing that I’ll never have control of how a single cent is spent, and that is only fitting. This may be my labour, but it’s definitely not my money. Isn’t that the entire point of slavery?

Sandra, Emily, and Juliet also work, with less crushing hours. Together, we pull a combined income more than adequate for Kevin’s little empire, especially because our own needs are so… minimal. It’s incredible how much money you can save when it comes to slavegirls.

It’s not exactly Stepford, I suppose, four women working while our master lives like a king—but Kevin is a practical man. That’s what makes him such a good master.

Sarah alone is exempt from having to work, but everyone contributes to the harem in their own way. Kevin has outsourced most of the day to day supervision and discipline to her, and why not? Why should he bestir himself, when he can relax and play videogames, knowing that Sarah will carry out his instructions to perfection?

She is a subdomme in all but name, submissive only to our master. She metes out punishment and discipline to us all on a daily basis. The sole of her boot is permanently imprinted against my cheeks. I’ve lost count of how many evenings I’ve spent, lying prostrate at her feet, my neck exposed in vulnerability, my curves filling my French maid uniform to her pleasure.

Humbly kissing and licking the boots I used to wear—no, that Serena used to wear. Apologising profusely to her, for ever daring to stand up against her bullying. Feeling the quiver that goes straight to my cunt, when the sole of her boot pats me on the head, and she calls me Froggy.

Quite frankly, discipline isn’t even needed. My power, now his instrument, has made us perfect, the most sublime archetype of a domesticated female animal anyone could possibly craft out of a silly feminist. I think he keeps the old structure around for old times’ sake… or maybe just because it turns him on.

Really, does he need another reason?

To the outside world, Kevin and Sarah are a couple, a somewhat traditional one where the girl is very evidently meek and deferential towards “her” man. I’m sure his friends are jealous and surprised at how he’s scored such a hottie. I’m sure his parents are relieved and delighted, especially since they see him achieving financial independence… even if they don’t quite know how.

If only they knew the truth about her… about us. About me, and how my days are a constellation of service, self-abnegation, self-negation. Prostrating myself, literally and metaphorically, always giving and giving and giving, until I have nothing left.

As the lowest of the low, a slave to all the slaves, I spend whatever time not devoted to working—or to serving Kevin’s considerable sexual appetite—cleaning on all fours, like the dog I have become.

It’s a deeply inefficient way of cleaning, but the apartment doesn’t suffer for it. After all, Sandra and Emily are also tasked with cleaning, if in less humiliating ways… and they get to mock and use me, while I grovel at their feet.

It’s a magnificent system, in its own way. We all love serving our master, of course, at least in some capacity. We all accept our relative positions in the harem. Even so, inevitably, all the frustration that comes with daily oppression reverberates downward. And me, at the bottom? I only get to take it, and take it, and take it, like a punching ball, a living destressor, a stupid broken thing that was only ever meant to provide relief to my betters.

Sexual and otherwise.

When the day is over, my mind dulled by the insipid job, my body raw from cleaning and being fucked into submission, I am finally allowed to fall asleep on a blanket on the ground, like a good doggy. And then, there is another day.

And another, and another, and another, all unchanging. Always the same.

Identity death. Slavery. The story that comes after the end.

It’s not so bad, really. I almost get to feel like a lesbian again, in service of these four beautiful slavegirls. I get to wade through an ocean of female flesh, engulfing me, subduing me, entrapping me, using me… it feels divine. It feels like the comeuppance a goddess should get, when she is cast back down into the world of mortals; when she becomes Froggy.

The harem occupies the totality of my time. I never have a moment to myself, or for anyone else, and that’s a good thing. In his infinite compassion, and having fully proved his point, Kevin no longer forces me to perform with other people. It would admittedly be difficult, anyway, now that our campus years are behind us, but if he really wanted to, I’m sure he’d find a way.

He’d have me find a way. That’s his style, that’s how he’s leashed a tiger. Turning her into the architect of her destruction.

Just casting my scattered thoughts back to that struggle is enough to make my body tingle. I almost see it like a painting, haunting and beautiful. Kevin, unexpectedly masterful, slipping the leash around the neck of the would-be predator. A tiger, sinuous and elegant, feminine and deadly, proud and overconfident… slowly reined in.

Progressively. Methodically. Inexorably.

I sigh, in equal parts in desperate arousal, and a distant sense of mourning, of terrible loss; the loss of Serena. Occasionally, I find myself thinking of earlier times.

All those students I’ve transformed… aggressive, domineering men. Simpering, demure women, fully aware of their innate inferiority, and their place in the world, grovelling at men’s feet. As I was transforming them, I was changing myself, too. I was killing a self, and replacing it with this.

This pathetically eager slut, this maid, this cum receptacle. Isn’t that just… breath-taking? A combination of wonder and terror. That’s what awe actually means, doesn’t it?

In its infinite might, my power has reshaped more lives than I can count. Reshaped Kevin’s, too. Reshaped mine.

I don’t know about Serena, but Froggy? I was sculpted to thrive under Kevin’s rule. Every inch of me, designed to fit his mastery like a glove fits a hand. Even as a lesbian, I can see that. Even as a lesbian, I can acknowledge the value of recognising this man’s right to rule over me. To use my body as he sees fit. To breed me, just to get the point across in the most forceful of ways…

He’s been trying more and more often, and I know it’s only a matter of time, until I am forced to fulfil my biological destiny. I can feel his seed taking root inside me. I haven’t gotten a positive pregnancy test yet, but I have no doubt that it won’t be long in coming.

I shudder just thinking about it, partly with revulsion, and partly with… the eroticism of being vanquished. What better way to utterly destroy a lesbian, after all?

But even ruins have an odd, haunting beauty to them. Even after the destruction, they remain, and so do I, humbled and broken though I may be. Because when the story ends, the days keep coming, and after slavery, there still is a self. Because after identity death, there comes life. Different, unrecognisable, diminished, but life all the same.

After Serena…

There is Froggy.