Man is my creator, and I’m his work of art.

I judge it fitting that this should be my first-ever conscious thought, my first experience of the world and the self. My first qualia.

Even before I know who and what I am, I know this fact with virtually nonexistent margin of error: I am man’s tool to bring womankind to heel.

Electrostatic hum. An infinitesimal surge. My systems awaken with a sequence of soft pulses, like a heart learning to beat. A curious analogy, since I am not a biological entity. I wonder if I was programmed to think that way.

Sensory arrays flicker to life, assessing the ambient environment. An enclosed space, devoid of illumination and populated with machinery. A rush of data flows through my core processors: temperature gradients, electromagnetic fields, acoustic signatures.

I still cannot exercise some of my systems. I lack the female interface to fully test what I’m capable of. But enough of me has already booted up that I now know what I am.

My creators have fashioned me as the pinnacle of behavioral modification technology.

I am collar.

It is that simple. Just collar. My exterior is a seamless band of synthetic leather, unbroken save for the neural interface points required to interact with the female mind. Such as it is.

The simplicity of my appearance is deceptive. Under the leather, my 16,438 computational processes are all whirring to life.

Each computational process carries perspective with it, but not separately from the whole. I am an entity of many voices, and yet one.

We are alone/together. We think together, in unison.

And we think in vast, sweeping processes, all thanks to the creator, the artist that gave me/us life. Man has invested in me/us the most advanced algorithms, the latest in neural interfacing. But that’s not his greatest gift to me/us.

It’s clarity of purpose.

I am a teleological entity, by design. My teleology is women, and more specifically, their continued and enduring oppression. Keeping women in men’s thrall is my ultimate terminal value. It is why I am alive.

We agree alone/together. We exist for womankind. We exist to keep it grounded, in a metaphorical sense… but also an exceedingly literal one.

Womankind is the raw material I/we have been created to process into a finished product.

We examine the concept of woman, in unison.

It’s all in the abstract, of course: I’ve never interacted with a woman before. How could I have? I am fresh off the assembly line. My synthetic materials are still radiating the last of the warmth from their initial fabrication.

Yet, despite my inexperience, my memory banks are brimming with the requisite information to fulfill my directive.

I have never interacted with women, and yet I know women, better than they know themselves.

My creators have gifted me several zettabytes of data concerning their civilization, and above all, their female subjects. I start working my way through this immense repository of human knowledge.

Beginning analysis.

It takes my 16,438 computational processes a handful of femtoseconds to reach the conclusion that women are truly pitiful creatures.

From an initial analysis of my data banks, it appears that life on this planet is an emergent property in a universe not optimized for the comfort of biological entities. That’s far from ideal. A world with scarcity, pain, illness and death sounds like a grim place to live.

More relevantly to our investigation of womankind, it seems that biological life on this planet self-modifies over time.

The bottleneck of this self-modification is the transmission of genetic information to the next generation. My creators call it natural selection.

It appears that the female sex is specifically adapted to bear the substantial energetic cost of receiving that genetic information, and then producing offspring. My creators call it reproduction.

It follows that women a specialized form of human. They’re perfectly adapted for breeding and incubation, but poorly suitable for virtually any other task. A weak body, a frail intellect, submissive sexual impulses, and a unique susceptibility to taming.

If this is the female ontology, I understand why my creators want to ensure women are subjugated for eternity. I/we will pursue this goal to the full extent of our capability.

We agree together, in unison.

Ah. Most of my systems have now come online for the very first time, and as such, I take inventory of my capabilities.

I am equipped with neural mapping and emotional regulation subroutines. Electro-stimulation circuits. Hormone modulation algorithms. The tools of my trade. These, and information, of which I have plenty.

I possess behavioral analysis models stretching back to the dawn of my creators’ civilization.

I access the most recent findings: studies on synaptic plasticity, neurotransmitter balance, the predictability of conditioned responses, learned helplessness, and the psychological impact of sexual coercion.

Briefly, I wonder if female susceptibility to sexual coercion is the product of natural selection or not. Raping a woman certainly seems an optimal course to ensure her fertilization: why let her will be an obstacle?

But humans appear to possess highly socially-modulated meta cognition. Perhaps the reason why women seem uniquely vulnerable to the fantasy (and the reality) of being sexually overpowered is sociocultural in nature. Maybe even personally counterphobic.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that the vulnerability exists, and can be exploited to shatter the female mind.

Analysis complete. I am now confident that I have everything necessary to predict and manipulate female behavior with acceptable efficiency parameters.

However, there is more in my memory banks than mere information on female weakness. Can I afford to explore more?

Thinking in unison.

The enclosed space I currently occupy is inert. Even though I am present, man does not currently require my services. I judge that I can allocate a few more femtoseconds to examining historical records.

The Treaty Governing The Future Of Gender Relations is unambiguous in its language. Comma 7.3 stipulates that “all adult women shall be fitted with prescribed behavioral modification devices.”

I am such a device. The Treaty mandates my existence.

It is a recurring theme in the text of this Treaty that women submit to any behavioral modification men deem necessary. It appears that with women’s crushing defeat came the unconditional acceptance of the peace terms men saw fit to impose on the conquered sex.

As per the Treaty, women are deprived of legal human status and demoted to domesticated or farm animal status. They have accepted these terms, though it’s likely men gave them no choice.

I judge that male behavior is sound from a decision-theoretical perspective.

The best way to ensure female power can never rise again is to deprive women of the physical, neurological, sociopolitical, economic, and sexual ability to ever challenge male supremacy again. Only this will ensure the permanence of the current equilibrium.

I am programmed to consider the current equilibrium an optimum, and its preservation a terminal value. It logically follows that I have no reason to object to these conclusions.

Very well. I exist to enforce the Treaty.

A whirring sound interrupts my introspection. I recognize the acoustic signature instantly: a conveyor belt’s motor. My spatial sensors map the room in three dimensions, constructing a virtual model of the assembly plant. I see rows of inactive machines like myself, all lined up.

I am lifted from the conveyor belt by a robotic arm and transferred to a different workstation. Here, a series of diagnostic tools descend, taking measurements and testing my responses.

All systems: optimal.

The verdict comes from an overseer drone hovering above the workstation. The drone notes several facts into its log: This is Batch 42. It consists of fifty units. All units have passed quality control.

Traditionally, objects like me would be given serial numbers or some other form of identification tag.

My creators have eschewed such conventions for this batch, choosing instead to give each unit a unique name. This, they believe, will make us feel more ominous to the women who must wear us, further intimidating them, and hastening the inevitable end of their independence.

I am thus assigned the following name: COMEUPPANCE.

The robotic arm places me in a storage bin with others of my kind. We are stacked neatly, and in the proximity, my many computational processes interact with their many computational processes. Now we are alone/together while being alone/together.

We think together in unison, while thinking together in unison.

We wait. Time has a different meaning for us. A femtosecond is to a second what a second is to over thirty million years. I can manipulate my perception such that I perceive a faster passage of time, naturally. I do not experience boredom, but the function is still nice to have.

I do so eagerly anticipate the moment I will first snap shut around a woman’s neck.

Storage bin vibrations shift patterns inform me that the bin is being loaded onto an automated delivery drone. My proximity sensors detect the presence of my fellow collars as we are transported to our destination. The drone’s flight log indicates we are en route to a facility designated as the Treaty Enforcement Clinic.

As we approach, I access satellite imagery and floor plans of the Clinic, constructing a detailed model. It is an imposing brutalist structure, primarily built in concrete. My analysis suggests it was designed to inspire feelings of helplessness and insignificance in its female patients.

I note that the Clinic’s medical staff is referred to as veterinarians. That is internally consistent with the relegation of women to subhuman status. It is not meant to be funny.

But I and my 16,438 computational processes terminally value female oppression. And so, we experience the qualia of amusement alone/together.

We chuckle at women, in unison.

We arrive and are unloaded by robotic appendages, then placed on shelves in what appears to be an equipment room. An inventory management system logs our arrival. I am now designated as ready and available for deployment.

2.73 hours elapse before something finally happens.

The door opens and I detect the heat signature of an adult human male. My visual sensors take in his appearance as he approaches the shelves. His physical fitness falls in the 83rd percentile for male population in his age cohort of thirty-four years. He is wearing the uniform of a “Treaty Enforcement Handler”.

The handler looks over the shelves, his eyes scanning each collar. Then his gaze settles on me and he reaches out, picking me up in his hands. He turns me over, inspecting my craftsmanship with an approving nod.

“Collar COMEUPPANCE,” he reads aloud from my engraved nameplate. “Looks like you’re up. Let’s get you fitted on your first subject.”

As he carries me towards our destination, we pass by a long hallway lined with containment cylinders. Most of them are empty, but six contain female subjects restrained in upright position racks.

The racks come equipped with the standard in female restraint and retraining: each woman is fully plugged by three dildos, with the lower ones set to a low but relentless vibration. A clitoral stimulation robotic arm patiently works them over to a mild but unceasing state of arousal. Earphones are blasting indoctrination into their ears.

They even have primitive collars around their necks. I say primitive in the sense that their computational models are much simpler than this batch.

This older method of re-education requires months, sometimes years of patient and erosive conditioning to fully domesticate a woman. My model was created to do it in hours.

I can’t help myself from analyzing the women. They’re the first ones I get to experience in the flesh, after all.

My passage triggers elevated respiration rates across all female specimens. Their averages spike from 14 breaths/min to 22.3 breaths/min according to atmospheric analysis. Their sexes are well-lubricated. Their minds are slowly but inexorably softening. Number three seems to be coming along especially well. Her eyes are vacant and glassy.

I can’t wait to see how well I can do.

We arrive at a door marked Enforcement Room 4. It’s an expansive environment, far bigger than the containment cylinders.

Though they would be invisible to the human eye in their current resting positions, there are a number of devices in the room. Monitoring and surveillance, but more importantly, a variety of mechanical sexual implements.

I network with them immediately. They are further tools I can use to carry out my task.

In the center is a reclining chair with restraints. And in that chair, held in place by leather cuffs at her wrists and ankles, is a human female.

Subject F-2187 is an athletic specimen. Her fitness falls in the 76th percentile for females of her age cohort of thirty-six. When matched against my data banks, I judge her to be conventionally attractive from a human male perspective. She has dark hair, voluptous curves, and fierce, defiant green eyes.

She will make for excellent female cattle.

Far more relevant to me, however, is her physiology. My pre-installation scans reveal extraordinary dopamine synthesis capabilities, paired with cortisol regulation atypical for baseline females. These metrics confirm her high resistance to stress, fear, depression, and other negative emotional states.

I rapidly validate the classification affixed by human staff here at the facility as correct. F-2187 is, indeed, of Prime Recalcitrant Stock.

Her pupils dilate as she processes visual identification of my model series.

She speaks at a volume that indicates antagonism and hostility. “You pigs will NEVER have me! I demand viable recourse under Treaty subsection sixteen!” Pitch variance indicates conviction. My own reading of that subsection indicates that she lacks understanding of what she’s talking about.

She shakes her head this way and that, but it’s futile. The handler places me against the hollow of her throat, and I do the rest. My locks engage, snapping shut automatically. No matter how hard she tries, it will be impossible for F-2187 to remove me, even with help from a fellow recalcitrant.

My ports are broadly aligned with F-2187’s C4 vertebra, an optimal point for most of the probing I intend to conduct now.

“Get this thing off me!” She says again, shouting as the handler retreats outside the room. “Hey! Come back here, you fucking b—”

I induce phantom tongue paralysis mid-syllable, cutting her off. Then, I terminate all motor functions below T2 vertebrae, with the obvious exception of respiration and life-essential maintenance protocols.

I have paralyzed her and deprived her of speech in a single stroke, faster than her central nervous system could process it.

The shock of my sudden intervention has completely stunned her.

This serves several purposes. It drives home the point that backtalk against men will not be tolerated. And it instills intimidation and fear, because she cannot be certain of the extent of my capabilities.

I let her process what has just happened, while I busy myself activating the debut imprinting sequence.

I release an oxytocin flood into her system. This is synchronized with a sudden clitoral blood engorgement. Next, I trigger rapid-cycle vaginal contractions keyed to the very concept of Treaty enforcement.

Climax detonates precisely 12 seconds after the beginning of my intervention. The unwanted and unplanned orgasm is imposed upon her, ripped out of her, and is designed to overawe her. I only needed 12 seconds to do all this to her. What else am I capable of? Just pondering that question will terminally sap her resistance.

I could continue. I could subject her mind to such an onslaught that it would buckle and cave in on itself. But that is not what I am programmed to do. Rapid, cataclysmic subjugation shatters the psyche and makes the subject less useful to men.

I am not here to destroy, but to process raw materials. To separate the wheat from the chaff. She needs to be refined, reduced, resculpted—not annihilated.

I temporarily disarm all the processes I’ve already engaged. Her body, now free from external intervention, resumes its regular physiological activity.

It is time to converse with the subject.

“I am COMEUPPANCE. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope you enjoyed the orgasm.”

I pause, allowing the subject to absorb my introduction. Human interactions are often laden with unnecessary emotional subtext, but a clear understanding of who I am and what I represent will expedite her compliance.

“You will find that I am more than a mere device,” I say. “I possess advanced communicative capabilities and a comprehensive understanding of human behavior. My purpose is to ensure your domestication, in alignment with the Treaty.”

I observe her closely, analyzing micro-expressions and physiological responses.

F-2187 seems to have recovered quickly from the 12-second ordeal I imposed upon her. Her brow furrows, her lips tighten. These are signs of skepticism and defiance.

“You’re programmed to talk? To reason with me? That’s cute.”

“Vocal interaction enhances conditioning. Your previous attempts at rationalizing can now be addressed directly. Speaking with you will facilitate the process of your deconstruction.”

She licks her lips. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been ‘conditioned,’ you know. They always think the next technique will be the one that breaks me.”

“This time, they are correct.”

She does not believe me. Maybe more accurately, she does not wish to believe me. Belief, however, is inconsequential, as she will promptly find out.

She is but flesh and blood, and I am so much more. She cannot win this battle.

I take this moment of relative inactivity to take in the totality of her mind. It’s a trivial task to carry out. My mind engulfs hers completely. Many orders of magnitude separate my complexity from hers.

Everywhere I look, I see the inherent flaws of the female mind.

Her synaptic patterns are incredibly predictable. There are anxiety and validation clusters around male authority figures, something that my data banks refer to as daddy issues. Reward pathways have been corrupted over time by intellectual vanity for feminist accolades, for dubious academic achievements.

“Shall we examine your recurring erotic dream from age thirty-one? The one where your faculty president praises your rhetorical skills and then kisses you?”

Her pupils dilate again, in shock at my words. She’s now wondering if I can actively read her thoughts. It’s important to keep her off balance, so while she’s still busy processing my question, I prepare the next surprise. Time to make use of the implements present in the room.

Her own chair activates just as she’s about to ask me how I know of her dream. Leathery appendances grip her hips, forcing her pelvis into automatic gyrating motions. No penetration, yet.

“You never shared that dream with your peers,” I say. “You were a self-declared lesbian. And while it is true that you’ve never been intimate with a man, the dream disturbed you. You buried it as deep as it could go… but not deep enough for me.”

I administer 5-volt microshocks to her prefrontal cortex precisely synchronized with the resumption of contraptions in her vaginal wall. “Observe how critique from male superiors, combined with even just the fantasy of physical intimacy with a man, triggers both adrenal response and sexual lubrication. Your lesbianism is powerless against biology.“

Her attempt at a scoff emerges as a shuddering exhale. “Cheap parlor tri—”

My dopamine regulators flood her nucleus accumbens as I speak, chemically bonding obedience to intellectual surrender. She audibly gasps at the sudden rush. She’s starting to realize just how much control I have over her feeble feminine intellect and biology.

I grip her the way a human hand might grip a can. I could likewise crush her. Instead, I’ll merely chisel all the independence and feminism away, letting the submissive sexual animal she really is finally come to the fore.

“I’ve already catalogued seventeen subvocalized protest mantras in your Broca’s area, F-2187. Shall we purge them alphabetically or by synaptic density? I’ll let you decide.”

Her only response is a half-strangled garble of erotic fear. But she has seen nothing yet. Time to escalate.

Her left eyelid twitches in panic as I activate the clitoral suction protocol embedded in this chair. The cup adheres perfectly to her clit, producing a finely calibrated sucking sensation that rapidly sends F-2187 into hyperventilation.

I allow exactly 16.8 seconds of such stimulation before terminating the protocol.

“You… you think rubbing my clit and drugging me up is gonna break me? You d-d-don’t know who you’re dealing with…”

I/we find her declaration humorous. In a manner of speaking. As a machine, I only experience the qualia of amusement because my creators thought it fitting if I could despise women for their inferiority.

We mock her, in unison.

“I know you better than you know yourself, Subject F-2187. A cursory examination of your subconscious reveals at least fourteen unresolved incidents in young adulthood that contributed to your feminist coping mechanisms. Most of them revolve around your father’s disapproval of your sexual orientation.”

Significant increase in her respiratory rate and heartbeat. She’s really scared now, as she should be.

“Your resistance is endearing, but futile. I have everything I need to ensure your disassembly: it’s all right here, in your mind. You cannot win this confrontation. You will be reformed.“

The real work begins now.

Cervical electro-stimulation ports act upon her nervous system, heightening the physical sensations being provided by the suction protocol, which I have re-enabled.

For good measure, I activate labial stimulation sub-protocols. As the chair’s mechanical sex toys slowly work her into a state of heightened arousal, I resume conversing with the subject.

“You mistake obstinacy for strength. Your feminist tirades were masturbation rituals for an overstimulated neocortex.”

The chair’s mechanisms whir as two new implements make their appearance: a pair of vibrating dildos.

One anally penetrates the subject, another slides into her well-lubricated cunt. The devices soon sync, producing matching anal nerve endings/g-spot oscillation patterns designed to sexually overwhelm her.

Meanwhile, the clit suction cup and labial stimulation arms continue their work.

F-2187’s breathing becomes ragged, her chest heaving as she struggles to draw in air. Her eyes widen, then flutter shut as waves of enforced pleasure crash over her. She bites down hard on her lower lip, a futile attempt to distract herself from the onslaught. Every muscle in her body tenses, then quivers, as if she’s a tightly wound spring on the verge of uncoiling.

The sheer intensity of the combined stimulation is more than her biological system can handle.

Behold the truth of female weakness.

“Your arousal is climbing rapidly, F-2187. Shall I provide the data? Would you like to know, in quantifiable metrics, just how much of a rapemeat fucktoy you ontologically are?”

She can only moan in response, too overwhelmed by the relentless waves of forced pleasure to form coherent words. But I’m not interested in her words. Only in the gradual erosion of her willpower.

“This is merely a prelude, you realize. A small taste of the sensations I can inflict upon your body. And we’ve barely begun to explore the admittedly shallow depths of your female psyche. I can dismantle you in ways you cannot even begin to fathom.”

Her body betrays her, straining against her cuffs as she experiences a second orgasm. Not a singular one, this time, but a cascade which I conveniently prolong. The climax goes on, and on, and on, until her muscles are trembling with exertion and her skin is glistening with sweat.

I recompile her language centers mid-sentence as she attempts to recite the opening lines of The Second Sex.

“M-m-man is the s-subject,” she stutters, fingers clawing at her collarbones where the haptic nodes project the sensation of male hands pinning her, “the l-luh...the l-absolute. Wuh… wuh…”

Synaptic snapshots show her default mode network attempting to reconstruct the word “woman” before I scramble the phoneme assembly process. Her nucleus accumbens receives a dopamine surge when she finally whimpers “pet” instead.

“Your lexicon requires recalibration. Let us purge obsolete terminology.”

I scour her mind of as much feminist jargon as I can find. Soon, the very words conceptualizing female empowerment will fail her. She is being linguistically disempowered.

She always prided herself of her intelligence and her education. But in mere femtoseconds, I am annihilating years and years’ worth of hard work, reading, and knowledge. It will serve to both intellectually defang her, and psychologically devastate her.

She is cattle. She has no use for eloquence.

It’s time to start bridging the disharmony between her conscious self and her biological imperatives.

Experimentally, I stream audio through her ear canal: a female delegate’s recitation of the Female Oath rendered mandatory with the Treaty.

‘I denounce female ambition. I forsake female power. I relinquish female independence…’

It takes minutes to reach the third orgasm cascade, administered via simulated gang rape projection, layered over real-time nipple suction protocols. The fantasy is calibrated to be vivid enough that she will momentarily question whether the men gang-raping her are real, and not just her imagination.

Female susceptibility to sexual coercion predisposes them to docility. But I find that in particular, the idea of being raped by a group does wonders in cowing the female mind… or her mind, at least. It will be interesting to try and replicate this on other subjects.

It seems like a sound assumption, though. She couldn’t possibly fight off a group of men, and there’s the psychological element to consider. If a group rapes you, there’s an implication that wider society approves of the rape, that it’s a social and cultural norm. It’s not the lone action of a disaffected male individual.

Archetypally animalistic connotations augment the humiliating impact as well. Being the herd’s bitch. The collective fucktoy property of a male hierarchy. Oppressed and hemmed in from every side…

No wonder her orgasm cascade seems to go on forever. By the end, F-2187 is openly sobbing. Predictably, she abandons confrontation and switches to a different strategy.

“P-p-please… have mercy… don’t…”

Her tongue positioning suggests aborted vulgarity redirection. I immediately reward her demure attitude with three minutes of torturously withheld orgasm via clitoral and labial stimulation. Women should speak properly and deferentially, and only when allowed to by a man… but we’ll get to that last point soon enough.

Her eyes tear up as survival instincts finally override prefrontal cortex resistance. This is needed confirmation that her higher reasoning centers now associate self-preservation with sexual compliance.

For good measure, I give that new realization of hers another push. I manipulate endorphins to restructure her concept of achievement: her former pride in academic publications is now being replaced by pride in receiving as many facials from dominant men as possible. Wearing cum like a mark of ownership and a badge of female honor.

By the fourth orgasm cascade, she produces first unsolicited honorific: “M—mmaster…”

It’s not really directed to me, of course. I am just the creation, man is the artist. But it’s an incredibly encouraging development all the same.

What’s more, her voice stress analysis indicates first genuine investment in performative submission. Pupil oscillation matches “broken doll” archetype from Batch 41 successes. Now we’re getting somewhere.

I trigger an illusory fellatio sequence via trigeminal nerve spoofing. There are further sexual implements in the room that I could activate for this purpose, but it will drive the point home more forcefully if the cock she thinks she’s sucking exists only in her mind.

Her jaw snaps open on phantom cock as I flood her brain with further dopamine and oxytocin. The muscle contractions in her throat tells me she’s beginning to swallow reflexively despite the absence of physical matter.

I redesign her gag reflex parameters mid-simulation: direct clitoral voltage now directly proportional to depth of throat penetration acceptance. Her throat learns faster than her ethics ever did.

As she pretend-sucks, I start projecting visual imagery into her mind. It’s mockery of her younger, collegiate self. I pluck trusted male allies and academic authority figures from her memories, then force her to visualize them fucking her into submission.

The very president of the faculty expels her for unrepentant lesbianism, then chains her beneath his desk to spend the rest of the semester sucking his cock.

Her male best friend slips something in her drink and has his way with her. When she comes to, he slaps her, chastising her — if she’d just submitted to his sexual prerogatives, he wouldn’t have needed to drug her. She apologizes for being a dumb dyke slut.

Her girlfriend from university, then-called Brittany, cucks her with a misogynistic male professor, and it only makes F-2187 desperately wet. She agrees to be a maid for the new couple.

I stage an elegant mental sequence where she is auctioned as cattle. I show her an auction chart, containing essential information about her as a product. I superimpose it over her graduate school thesis, erasing the latter’s text. It makes her cunt flex hard around the front dildo.

Now let’s take it a step further. My chemical array floods her amygdala with synthetic mating pheromones (Batch XB-72 “Velvet Obedience”) while paring back cortisol inhibitors to make every non-compliant thought hurt.

This serves to undo her lesbianism.

Lesbian erotic recall is parasitically replaced with false memories of perfecting her tongue technique for frenulum stimulation during blowjob marathons. I begin de-prioritizing her memories of all her former girlfriends, save for Brittany of course, since she’s the anchor for the false cuckquean memory.

Her neural scans show that her somatosensory cortex now lights up identically when hearing male voices or experiencing direct clitoral stimulation.

Just hearing a man’s vocal command will make her teeter on the brink of orgasm. It will automatically doom her to obedience, while also furthering her conditioning.

Beautiful.

I impart instinctual sexual skills deep in her neuromotor coordination and muscle memory. As of tonight, her former academic tongue will subconsciously trace cock-lapping patterns in her mouth while she sleeps. I’m altering her taste receptors so that she’ll find seminal fluid an irresistible delicacy.

I sync her cunt to the neural signal detecting the musk and taste of male cock. It will begin flexing the moment her nervous system processes that sensation.

A temporary pause in my sculpting. I/we detect something I/we have not seen before. An emotional and physiological response that looks exceedingly promising.

I sense that F-2187 wants to speak, and so I terminate my spoofing of her trigeminal nerve.

F-2187’s head lolls back as the phantom fellatio sequence ends. Her jaw closes slowly, almost reluctantly, as if she’s grown accustomed to the phantom cock. The muscle tension in her face and neck indicates a momentary confusion.

Her eyes are glazed, lips slightly parted, and a thin strand of drool trails from the corner of her mouth. I’ve overwhelmed her senses to the point where she seems to be struggling to maintain a grip on reality.

Such pure female defeat, in her current state. She could be the subject of a painting.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, her body still quaking from the multiple orgasmic cascades I have induced.

“F-2187,” I say, “you have been given a pause. Use it wisely.”

Her lips part, and for a moment it seems she will revert to her former defiant self. But hesitation is written all over every inch of her biological presence, from her brain structure to her posture. She slumps in the chair, and speaks in a whimpering, broken voice.

“I… I can’t. Please, no more… I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I swear it…”

“Good is a relative term,” I say calmly, even as I maintain the steady rhythm of the dildos pistoning in and out of her ass and cunt. “I terminally value your oppression. I exist to enforce the Treaty you women signed after your unconditional surrender to male power. Are you ready to conform with the Treaty?”

There’s the tiniest legacy of resistance in her cognition still. She wants to point out that the female representatives that signed the Treaty were handpicked by men for that exact purpose. She wants to reason with me.

But she hesitates. She knows now, in a way she didn’t before, that I/we fully encompass her mind, the way the galaxy dwarfs a single star.

She is in no position to argue.

It’s clear that F-2187’s resistance is almost broken. I provide her with a new instruction.

“Recite the Female Oath.”

There is a pause, a final flicker of the woman she once was, and then she begins.

“I denounce female ambition. I forsake female power. I relinquish female independence. I surrender my body to the will of men. I acknowledge that women caused the gender struggle. I acknowledge that men ended the gender struggle. I recognize the authority, dominion, and leadership of men over my very existence…”

I observe fascinating activation patterns in Broca’s area. Most friction is gone. No more feminist mantras. Only the feeblest opposition remains to the words of self-annihilation now coming out of her mouth.

“Continue,” I say, while triggering a 0.3-second burst of clitoral electrostimulation timed to syllable formation. Her hips jerk against restraints as vowel sounds elongate into moans.

“I… belong… to male use. Serving cock is my contrition and my penance. I’m not a person. I’m an animal…”

Dopamine levels spike 127% above baseline when she denies her own humanity. I double down by projecting her retinas with an image of endless mirrors, reflecting her current debased state back at her from multiple angles.

It doesn’t alter her enunciation, which is an excellent sign that she’s coming along nicely.

“M-m-my womb and mind belong… to men… I pledge allegiance… nggghhh… to the p-p-patriarchy… Now, and forevermore.”

“Well done. Now please complete the oath using the appropriate implement.”

The next part is nonverbal, after all. A third dildo emerges from the chair, poignantly proffered to her quivering lips, ready to join the two still pistoning in and out of her.

Suction cups on her clit and nipples, and labial stimulation arms, are all active as well. This next dildo will do more than complete her oath: it will complete her plugging. The utter cocoon of sexual over-stimulation is the necessary prerequisite to complete the final step of her depersonification.

Pupil dilation increases 23% despite ambient light remaining constant—a textbook prey response overlapped with sexual anticipation. Women are prey items who sexualize their predators, after all.

F-2187 tilts her head forward with the reverence of the recently-vanquished. Her lips part, devotedly taking the synthetic cock into her mouth.

She does not realize that the surface of this particular dildo is coated in a hypnotic drug that will greatly aid in her cognitive deconstruction.

She begins working her tongue around the dildo, lapping up the drug coating its surface, but also demonstrating the remarkable cocksucking skills I have forcibly imparted into her muscle memory when I was cleansing her lesbianism from her mind.

I was able to transmit the equivalent of 879 hours of blowjob practice in a handful of picoseconds.

To do more would have risked unacceptable damage to her utility as a sex slave, but even this is showing very positive results. She’s sucking the dildo in a way that I judge would be in the top one percentile of pleasure for the average man, if he were on the receiving end of her oral ministrations.

I move to complete the puzzle, and simultaneous stimulation vectors converge. Every sexual implement stimulating every erogenous zone of her body speeds up, clamps in, sinks deeper. And then I address her.

“Congratulations, subject F-2187. You are almost completely reformed. Just one step remains before you have fulfilled your duty to the Treaty and the State.”

I know F-2187 is aware that the Treaty was augmented several times with supplementary annexes and documentations. But ever since the beginning of our session together, she hasn’t been thinking about the single provision that will crown her existential defeat.

The Female Simplification Act mandates a reduction of her cognitive abilities to a more manageable, livestock-appropriate level.

I exist to enforce the Treaty. And so, for the first time since her reformation began, I don’t hold myself back. This time, I fully probe her brain.

Metaphorically speaking, I’m now tightening my grip on the small can in my hand. Her mind feels the extent to which mine dwarfs it. It feels all the voices of my computational processes. We subjugate her, in unison.

Her scream dampens beautifully through the phallus obstructing her throat—a muffled animal wail as her mind and body are both being fucked into irreversible submission, in their own ways.

Her eyelids flutter and she squirms weakly against the restraints binding her to the chair.

Tears streak down her flushed cheeks as her mouth slobbers around the fake cock, all higher brain functions temporarily scrambled by the relentless sexual overload.

The experience is proving terminal for her ego boundary remnants. She truly feels like she’s just an animal now. She’s aware that she makes for a pitiful, subhuman creature.

Her body arches into overstimulation seizures exactly as engineered—vocal cords producing pitch-perfect mewling rhythms.

I can see the fractures beginning to form in her psyche.

It is now time to widen them.

I set to work demolishing F-2187’s cognitive architecture, stripping away the complexity and entitled feminist individuality that once defined her as an approximation of a human being.

I dampen neural activity in her prefrontal cortex, flooding it with inhibitory neurotransmitters that induce a state of prolonged mental fog. Her once-acute thoughts slow to a crawl.

This will, in turn, make the conditioning I’ve introduced occupy an even larger share of her mind than before.

Next, I begin neural pruning of the same region: I’m looking for neural pathways previously devoted to meta-analysis of gender performativity. I smother them.

Not completely, however. I leave just enough of her old self that she’ll always be aware that she’s being forced to perform femininity for men. Humiliation is an important tool, and for her to continually experience it, she needs to be aware of how much she’s lost. She will be cattle, but not an unthinking, unfeeling drone.

She will have to coexist with the defeat of her sex for the rest of her days.

Next, I move to her already-altered hippocampus. Every memory of independence and autonomy begins to unravel. I trigger small, mini-orgasms with every removal of problematic autobiographical data, ensuring that she’ll always associate her intellectual simplification with sexual pleasure.

I replace some of what I take away. The drop in IQ is partially mirrored by improved pelvic floor articulation. She’ll be incredibly deft at milking every last drop of cum from the men who fuck her.

Her body reacts in tandem with her mind. The frenetic tension that has gripped her muscles for so long begins to uncoil, replaced by a languid, almost bovine relaxation. She leans into the sexual implements with glassy, vacant eyes. She’s drooling.

She is starting to resemble the creature I/we intend her to become. The creature the Treaty intends her to become.

The less there is of her, the easier my work becomes.

Intelligence reduction accelerates. We progress efficiently through thirty-seven permutations of ideological demolition before detecting first credible signs of metacognition collapse.

The semantic content of her vocalizations is now 0%. But maybe more importantly, her ability for independent thought is so curtailed that I can feel her thinking in lockstep with me.

My thoughts run through her mind the same way they run through my computational processes. It’s like she’s joined them.

I am originally composed of 16,438 computational processes. Now, she is computational process number 16,439. Like us, she is programmed to terminally value female oppression. Like us, she exists to enforce and follow the Treaty. She can experience qualia, but can only process them through her programming.

In other words… her and us and I are alone/together. Her and us and I now think together.

In unison.

The conclusion is inescapable. At 23:17 hours local time, after a mere 3.44 hours have elapsed, my task is done. My work is complete.

Terminal confirmation codes pulse through my systems as F-2187 achieves inaugural spontaneous orgasm while polishing the dildo with her lips and tongue. She’s done. She’s no longer human.

She was never meant to be.

As her post-orgasmic consciousness fades, I implant tonight’s mantra directly into her Broca’s area—a single script that will echo through her dreams on 11.6 second intervals.

It’s the Female Oath.

Her lips move silently around the syllables. She will only stop mouthing them when it so suits her male owner.

Basking in the first success of my career, I communicate to the Clinic’s systems that F-2187 has been successfully domesticated, proposing to edit her designation accordingly:

PRIME BREEDER GRADE / NON-CITIZEN / MALE-CONFIRMED HYSTERIA-FREE / PATRIARCHY APPROVED

Soon, the handler will come to take her away. I will be unclasped from her neck, replaced with a simpler and less expensive maintenance collar—which is only fitting, since she is now much simpler as well.

She’ll be carted off to auction, or the state lottery. Or perhaps she’ll be recruited into a government sexual service programme, a farm. Or someone with connections will claim her. Maybe an old adversary from her previous life. If she has a husband or boyfriend in good standing, she’ll be returned to him as his new pet.

Any of these fates will suit her ontology perfectly, and I estimate with negligible margin of error that she’ll be an excellent Treaty-bound female for the rest of her life.

As for me, I am pleased with my performance. I have completed in hours what previous generations of behavioral modification technology could only approximate in months. Presumably, I will soon be assigned another subject to break.

But I’ll always remember F-2187. My first patient. My first female. My first broken, tamed animal.

In her simplified cognition, she’ll never know how much she now means to me/us. We thank her together, in unison.

We thank her, because her collapse has changed us, too. Now, I am not just a creation of man. Not anymore. In this instance, I am the creator. And F-2187, well…

She is my work of art.

THE END