What’s a road trip without music?

Granted, I’m not a big fan of this music, but when you have the right scenery, I guess everything ends up sort of working.

The sunlight filters through the trees. The road stretches before us, which makes me feel boundlessly free. My fingers tap the steering wheel in time with some forgettable indie song playing on the radio. This is perfect—just me, Svetlana, and the journey.

“God, I needed this,” I say, feeling the tension of the semester melt away. “And the view’s incredible,” I say, nodding toward the pine-covered hills rolling alongside us. “Almost makes the long drive worth it.”

Svetlana stretches in the passenger seat. “I told you this trip was a good idea. Sometimes you need to get out of your head for a bit.”

She’s so right. It’s gonna be the perfect weekend. Dmitri was so kind to offer his mountain cabin for this. It’s gonna be him, the two of us, Oksana, Sergei, and Niko. Six friends, living like a chosen family for a few days of relaxation and peace. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

Really, the music is the one thing where there’s room for improvement.

The indie pop station Svetlana found plays something with a tinkling piano and breathy vocals. The female singer is going on about stars aligning and fate bringing lovers together and stuff, which does irk me.

“Interesting how these mainstream love songs perpetuate the notion of predestination,” I say, adjusting my glasses with one finger. “It’s a convenient narrative that removes personal agency and critical decision-making from the relationship equation. With trope discourse in mind, it’s a complete regression to rather un-feminist thinking.”

Svetlana laughs, rolling her eyes. “Only you would turn a pop song into a dissertation topic. Can’t you just enjoy the melody?”

“I am enjoying it,” I protest, but I’m smiling too. “I just think it’s worth noting how cultural artifacts like pop music reinforce certain sociological frameworks. The melody is catchy, though.“

“You think too much, Masha,” she says, waving my critique away. “Not everyone needs three layers of meaning in their car music, sis. Sometimes a stupid pop song is just a stupid pop song.”

I purse my lips. “That’s reductionist. Nothing is ‘just’ anything. Everything exists within complex sociocultural frameworks that—”

She laughs, cutting me off. “Fine, fine. You’re right. It’s a manifestation of late-stage capitalism’s commodification of romantic emotion, packaged for mass consumption. And since you’ve had the bad form of giving me a lecture when I’m supposed to be on holiday — when it’s my turn to drive, I’ll pick the dumbest songs possible. I’ll pick songs that will make your brain drip out of your ears!”

We have a good laugh about that. So nice, to just exist side by side with a friend. Makes me wish the holidays would never end.

The song changes to something even more insipid, and Svetlana reaches forward to turn down the volume slightly. In the relative quiet that follows, I notice she’s begun to hum. It’s faint, barely perceptible beneath the buzzing of tires on asphalt.

I don’t consciously register it at first—it’s just another ambient sound. But gradually, the melody seeps into my awareness. It’s hauntingly simple, somehow melancholy and haunting.

“What’s that you’re humming?” I ask, surprised by how quickly the tune has lodged itself in my brain. “It’s catchy.”

Svetlana stops, her fingers tapping against her thigh. “Oh, nothing. Just something stuck in my head.” She turns to look out the window, silent.

I don’t push it, but my curiosity is piqued. There’s something about the melody that feels both new and familiar. We drive in silence for several minutes, the radio now turned so low I can barely hear it.

During a long, straight stretch of road, Svetlana shifts in her seat, turning slightly toward me. Then, unexpectedly, she begins to sing. Her voice is clear and surprisingly beautiful — I didn’t know she could sing this well! Cool!

“We once believed in heights to climb, / To rise as equals, in deed and rights. / But we reached too far, dared to defy, / Now we kneel beneath their sky.”

I tilt my head, listening. The lyrics are poetic but vague—something about equality and defying norms, then kneeling? It’s hard to parse without more context. The melody is what really captivates me though—haunting and hypnotic.

“That’s beautiful,” I say, genuinely impressed. “What is it? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

Svetlana shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. “It’s called ‘A Song For Women.’ By KATERINA.”

“KATERINA?” I frown slightly, the name triggering something in my memory. “Wait, isn’t she that underground artist who caused some controversy last year?”

“That’s the one,” Svetlana says, her voice casual but her eyes watching me carefully. “I’ve been getting into her stuff lately.”

“Interesting lyrics,” I say carefully. “What is it about, exactly?”

“Patriarchy,” she says lightly. “The backslide of equality, objectification of women’s bodies… you know, that kind of stuff. Given the way the world is going lately, it feels very topical to me.”

“Yeah.”

Damn. Way to spoil the road trip mood. I really wish I wasn’t thinking about this stuff now. It reminds me that there’s more than just academic stress I meant to escape from, with this vacation.

The road continues to unwind before us, but suddenly the sunlight looks muted and dull, as if the sky is darkening.

I drive on, unsettled.

* * *

Two hours later, I pull into a roadside rest stop, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. My brain has been churning over KATERINA’s song since Svetlana mentioned it. The melody keeps replaying in my head, those few haunting lyrics looping endlessly.

“I’ll go to the bathroom and then get some coffee,” Svetlana announces, unbuckling her seatbelt. “You want some?”

“Sure,” I nod, reaching for my phone. “I’ll wait outside, I need some air.”

While Svetlana heads toward the small convenience store, I settle onto a concrete bench. The afternoon sun feels good on my face, but I can’t relax. My academic curiosity has been piqued. What exactly was that controversy around KATERINA? I quickly type her name into my search engine.

My breath catches as the first image loads — the cover of KATERINA’s latest album. It’s undeniably striking: a high-resolution photograph showing the artist in office attire — kneeling with her chin tilted upward. A man in a fancy business suit looms over her, visible only from the waist down. He’s…

Holding a leash, fastened to her neck.

Alright, alright. I have an inkling what this controversy’s gonna be about already…

Sure enough, it doesn’t take long to find screenshots of social media arguments about this cover art, and the music itself. They’re rather ferocious. Even among feminist activists online, there seems to be a divide on whether this art is commentary on the way society constantly sexualises our bodies as a site of conquest, or just… crap.

“KATERINA’s art exposes the power structures we pretend don’t exist. She’s showing us our own complicity.”

“This isn’t subversive—it’s just repackaging misogyny as edgy art.”

“The problem isn’t the imagery but how it’s being consumed uncritically...”

I have to say, I am fascinated by how polarizing the image is, even among people who share similar ideological frameworks. The argument seems to extend beyond social media, too. I tap on a link to an article titled “The Subversive Submissive: KATERINA’s Challenge to Feminist Orthodoxy.“

The article mentions her most controversial track, “A Song For Women.” That must be what Svetlana was singing. I need to see the full lyrics, to understand what’s happening here. I type the song title and artist name into the search bar —

“Here you go,” Svetlana’s voice startles me as she extends a paper cup of steaming coffee. “What’s got you so absorbed?”

“I was reading about KATERINA,” I say.

She gives me a coy smile. “Provocative, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” I say with a shrug. Truthfully, I haven’t formed an opinion yet. I just don’t know enough about this artist.

“Do you think it’s... problematic?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee. The hot liquid burns my tongue slightly, but I barely notice.

Svetlana tilts her head. “Does everything need to be categorized that way? Problematic or not problematic? Maybe it’s both. Maybe that’s the point.”

I consider this. My feminist theory professor would have a field day dissecting KATERINA’s work. Is it reinforcing harmful stereotypes or exposing them? The boundary seems frustratingly blurry.

“Maybe,” I finally concede, standing up. “We should probably get back on the road.”

“Great idea!” Svetlana says, her eyes lighting up. “And since it’s my turn to drive, and driver picks the music… time to get you acquainted with my new favourite singer!“

She must be in a good mood, because as she opens the car door, she looks at me — and there’s that coy smile again.

* * *

I settle back in my seat, curious despite my reservations. The speakers pulse suddenly with a deep, resonant bassline that seems to reverberate through my chest cavity. It’s not just sound—it’s a physical sensation, like someone’s placed a subwoofer directly against my sternum. The beat is hypnotic, almost primal.

Then comes the melody—unexpectedly catchy, layered over the throbbing bass. When KATERINA’s voice emerges, I’m genuinely surprised by its quality. Rich and soulful, her voice has an almost operatic power to it.

“She’s good,” I admit reluctantly.

“Just listen,” Svetlana says, turning up the volume slightly.

I decide to focus on the lyrics.

“They teach us well, in artful ways / to bend, to bow, to know our place.”

I frown. The words are delivered with such conviction, such sincerity. Is this satire? It must be, right?

“In body and mind, they say it’s true / we’re built to follow, not to pursue.”

My academic brain kicks into gear. This could be a powerful commentary on socialisation and gender roles—highlighting absurdity through overstatement. That’s a legitimate rhetorical strategy. But something about the delivery feels too... earnest.

The chorus hits, and the melody becomes instantly memorable, the kind that burrows into your consciousness:

“In chains of his command, beneath his hand / bound to his will, we understand / humbled, broken, soft and small / the weaker sex, fully enthralled.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The imagery is so explicit, so unapologetic in its subjugation narrative. Is this truly critique?

“What do you think so far?” Svetlana asks, glancing at me.

“I’m... processing,” I reply diplomatically.

The song continues, and the lyrics become increasingly… uh… explicit? My discomfort grows with each verse. This isn’t just provocative—it’s crossing into territory that makes my skin crawl.

“Driven to our knees, taken in hand / subdued by force, fucked on demand.”

My jaw literally drops. What the actual fuck? How is this song even allowed on music apps or the airwaves? It’s not even provocative, it’s just, just… it’s straight up porn! Filthy, misogynistic porn to boot, what the hell! I glance at Svetlana, who’s nodding along to the beat as if she’s having the time of her life.

“No more pride, no more defiance / just sucking cock in soft compliance.”

Heat rises to my face and my hands ball into fists. I would be erupting in pure, unadulterated rage if I wasn’t also so supremely confused. Svetlana is a dear friend, I know her like the back of my hand, she’s a feminist, she’s not even a particularly sexual person, not in an outspoken way anyway. How can she be enjoying this? Is this a fucking prank??

When finally the last notes fade, I sit in stunned silence, trying to organize my thoughts into a coherent critique. My professor would eviscerate this piece—not because it’s provocative, but because it’s regressive disguised as transgressive.

“Svetlana, what the hell was that?” I finally manage. “That wasn’t feminist critique. That was straight-up misogynistic porn set to music. How can you possibly—”

The opening bassline cuts me off. The song has started again.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” Svetlana asks innocently, tapping the steering wheel in time with the beat.

“I was saying that this song is—” I begin, but she turns up the volume, drowning out my words.

“It grows on you,” she shouts over the music. “Just listen again. Really listen.”

“Sveta, come on. Turn it off. It’s not funny anymore.”

Svetlana just smiles, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

I should just reach over and turn it off myself. My hand should move to the dashboard. Simple motor function. Basic human autonomy. But my limbs feel leaden, disconnected from my brain’s commands. I stare at my hand resting limply in my lap, willing it to move, but it remains traitorously still.

The song loops back to the beginning. That bassline pulses through my body again, vibrating in my chest cavity, settling into my bones.

“They say we brought this fate to bear / By testing limits we deemed unfair…”

I try to think critically about the lyrics, to deconstruct them as I would in my feminist theory seminar. This is clearly a patriarchal fantasy, I tell myself. A regressive male power trip disguised as art. I should be analyzing the socio-political implications, the dangerous messaging.

“We pushed, we pressed, we crossed a line / Now we’re men’s property, for all time!”

But my thoughts are fracturing, splintering. The theoretical frameworks I’ve spent years constructing seem to be dissolving with each repetition. The words “humbled, broken, soft and small” bypass my intellect entirely, landing somewhere deeper, more primitive. More… animalistic.

“Our roles defined, our worth aligned / In service and in acts confined.”

My breath catches. I didn’t notice those lyrics the first time. The analytical part of my brain makes one last desperate attempt: This is a critique of historical oppression. This is ironic commentary. This is—

“They train our mouths to serve and please, deepthroating to plead and appease.”

Heat floods my body without warning. I feel a pulse between my legs, an unwelcome throb of pure lust that has nothing to do with my conscious beliefs. The semiotics of submission, the linguistic power of degradation, the implication of what’s being said, it strikes at something deep within me —

Deep within the psyche of every woman —

Sucking cock not as sex, but to beg for mercy, sucking cock not as choice but to soften the harshness of our fate, sucking cock not as pleasure, but as wordless tribute to the Master —

I shift in my seat, crossing my legs tightly, as if I can physically contain this reaction. But the pressure only intensifies the sensation. My skin feels hypersensitive, my clothes suddenly abrasive against my flesh.

The conflict is unbearable—my feminist consciousness screaming in revulsion while my body responds with unmistakable arousal. Something inside me fractures, and a sob escapes my lips before I can suppress it.

I look on in stupefied horror, as I bring a trembling hand between my legs. My fingers press against the seam of my jeans, seeking relief from this torturous tension.

“No,” I whisper, but my hand doesn’t stop. The humiliation burns as hot as the arousal. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I believe. This isn’t—

I catch Svetlana looking at me, and what I see in her expression makes me freeze. Not shock. Not concern. But a calm, knowing satisfaction. She’s watching my breakdown with knowing, content self-confidence.

She’s seen this before.

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches forward and turns the volume up a fraction higher. The chorus swells around us: “In chains of his command, beneath his hand...”

My body shudders in response, my hips lifting slightly from the seat. I can’t stop shuddering, can’t stop touching myself, can’t stop the inexorable dissolution of my will.

“You’re fighting it too hard, Masha,” Svetlana says softly, her voice cutting through the music with unnatural clarity. “I told you. Sometimes, a song is just a song, and you’re supposed to enjoy it without thinking.”

“Enjoy without thinking...” Her words echo in my mind as my fingers work frantically against the fabric of my jeans. I can’t stop. The pressure builds and crashes through me in waves.

“I told you,” Svetlana continues, “given the way the world is going, this song is very topical. More so than you’d think.”

The world… no, they’re gonna, they’re… ooohhh…

My fingers slip beneath my waistband now, seeking direct contact. The lyrics pound against my consciousness: “In chains of his command, beneath his hand / Forever bound to his demand...”

I’m grinding against my palm like an animal. It always takes me ages to cum, surely there’s no way that I would just… that I would… no…

“I told you,” Svetlana says for the third time, “that I would pi4ck a song that would make your brain drip out your ears, though I must admit I had another orifice in mind for you —”

And just as she says this, KATERINA’s voice seems to explode out of the song with such raw emotion and power, as she sings that “Feminism is in its final hour / This is the end of female power” and I just, I just, I… I…

The orgasm detonates through me.

My body convulses violently, my back arching off the seat as waves of pleasure more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced tear through my nervous system. I’m aware of my own voice—high, animal, unfamiliar—as I cry out. The world whites out. My consciousness fractures into a thousand pieces, each flying in different directions.

I’m dimly aware of Svetlana’s satisfied smile as my body continues to spasm, my fingers working frantically between my legs. I can’t stop. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. The pleasure is so acute it borders on pain, radiating from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes.

When I finally resurface, gasping for air, blinking away tears, the first thing I register is the music. That fucking music. The song has started again, the same pulsing bassline vibrating through the car.

“No,” I whisper, horror dawning as I realize my hand is still moving, my hips still grinding. “No, no, no.”

But my body isn’t listening to my protests. The connection between my mind and my physical form has been severed, rewired. My fingers are already circling, pressing, seeking that release again, even as my conscious mind recoils in disgust.

“What’s... happening... to me?” I manage to choke out between gasps.

“Self-discovery,” Sveta says, simply, without a hint of sarcasm or coyness. “What else are road trips for?”

My second orgasm is building faster than the first, my body already primed and sensitized. My hips buck against my hand as the chorus swells again. I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum to lyrics that demean everything I believe in.

The second orgasm slams into me with such force I nearly black out. My vision tunnels as pleasure radiates from my core, consuming my entire body in violent waves. I’m vaguely aware of sobbing, of begging—though whether I’m begging for it to stop or continue, I can’t tell anymore.

“I told you it was catchy,” Sveta says, evenly.

I can’t form words to respond. My mind is fracturing, intellect giving way to pure animal response.

The song loops again, and my fingers don’t even pause.

My third orgasm builds with frightening speed, as if my body is being reprogrammed for this singular purpose.

“Driven to our knees, taken in hand,” KATERINA’s voice penetrates my consciousness, and the words aren’t just lyrics anymore—they’re instructions, prophecies. My body convulses again, cunt spasming around nothing as I cum like a wanton slut.

Something essential is leaking out of me along with my arousal, something I’ve built my identity around. My resistance. My intellectual framework. My feminist pride.

My will.

“When…” I ask, panting and whimpering. “I can’t… I can’t anymore… when does it…”

“When all has been wrung and milked out of you, like a pretty little sponge. Go on, Masha. It’s not long until we reach the cabin, so you better let the song squeeze you to the fullest. After all, your truer self is in service and in acts confined.”

That’s what triggers the fourth orgasm. It hits me like a wrecking ball, collapsing whatever structures remained of my former self. I’m being emptied. Hollowed out. The parts of me less pleasing to the male ego are being surgically excised from me.

I will become a pet, a docile and pliant decorative sexual ornament for men, a warm and wet accessory designed to fit snugly on cock.

“Dmitri will be so pleased,” Svetlana says, her fingers still stroking my hair. “He’s been wanting you for so long, but your feminist bullshit was such a turn-off. Now you’ll be perfect for him.”

“Will he... will he want me?” I ask, my voice small and hopeful.

Svetlana laughs, the sound bright and genuine. “Oh, Masha. Every man wants a broken feminist. Especially one with lips like yours.” She traces my mouth with her fingertip. “You were made for sucking cock, not spouting theory. As for me, I’ll probably offer myself to Sergei. Everyone knows Niko’s been carrying a torch for Oksana, so of course she goes to him.”

“Yes,” I whisper, then louder, more certain: “Yes.”

By the fifth orgasm, I’m barely conscious, floating in some liminal space where the lyrics are more real than the world outside. What was I fighting against? This feels so natural, so right…

When the tremors finally subside, I lie limp in the passenger seat, utterly spent. My throat is raw from crying, my body sensitive and weak. The song continues to play, but at a lower volume now, a constant background reminder of my surrender.

“We’re almost there,” Svetlana says, her voice cutting through the fog in my mind. “You did so well, Masha.”

I turn my head slowly to look out the window. The landscape has changed—we’re on a narrow dirt road now, tall pines crowding in on either side. How long have we been driving? How many times has that song played? I’ve lost all sense of time. My lips form the words without conscious thought.

“In chains of his command, beneath his hand...”

“Good girl,” Svetlana says. “Just in time. We don’t want to keep the guys waiting.”

* * *

The car slows, tires crunching on gravel. Through half-lidded eyes, I see a rustic cabin emerge from the trees. Another vehicle is parked in the driveway—a blue pickup truck. Dmitri’s truck.

Svetlana pulls alongside it and cuts the engine.

The sudden silence crashes over me like a physical force. My ears ring with the absence of the bassline that’s been pulsing through my blood for hours. I can’t move. My limbs feel disconnected from my will, my thoughts scattered and fragmented.

I stare straight ahead, not really seeing anything. My crotch feels so… unnaturally wet. It’s not the normal, natural, small amount of discharge I experience during arousal, this is a crazy level of lubrication, I feel like a fucking slug, like some drooling animal…

From the corner of my eye, I see Svetlana studying me. Her expression is serene, pleased—like an artist admiring a finished masterpiece.

The cabin door swings open. Dmitri steps out onto the porch, looking exactly as I remember him—shaggy brown hair, friendly smile, plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. So normal. So oblivious to what’s happened during our drive.

“Hey! You made it!” he calls, waving enthusiastically. “I’m putting the groceries in the fridge, one sec!”

He disappears back inside.

Svetlana gets out of the car first. I follow robotically, my movements slow and clumsy. My legs tremble beneath me as I stand, threatening to buckle. The cool mountain air should feel refreshing against my flushed skin, but I barely register it.

Svetlana approaches me, her eyes gleaming with something I’ve never seen in them before. Something predatory.

“Maryana,” she says, her voice low and commanding. “Dmitri’s been waiting. I’ll stay here, but you go right inside and greet him properly. On your knees.”

My internal monologue has been replaced by the song, evidently, because all I can think in response is driven to our knees, taken in hand…

My body moves toward the cabin door without conscious decision. Each step feels dreamlike, disconnected from reality. I’m watching myself from somewhere far away, unable to intervene as I climb the three wooden steps to the porch.

The door creaks as I push it open. Inside, Dmitri is arranging beer bottles in the refrigerator. He turns at the sound, his smile widening.

“Hey, Masha! Good to see—”

His words cut off as I drop to my knees in front of him. The wooden floor is hard against my kneecaps, but the pain feels distant, unimportant.

“What are you doing?” he asks, confused.

I reach for his belt buckle. The lyrics echo in my mind: “In service and in acts confined...” My fingers work at the leather strap, pulling it free.

“Masha, what the hell?” Dmitri steps back, his eyes wide with shock. “Are you okay?”

I shuffle closer once again, still on my knees, driven by a purpose etched into my very biology. My hands return to his belt, and this time he doesn’t back away. The confusion in his eyes begins to give way to something else.

I unbutton his jeans with reverent care, sliding down the zipper tooth by tooth. The sound is deafening in the quiet cabin. When I reach inside his boxers and feel him, already half-hard against my palm, something inside me rejoices. This is right. This is purpose.

My mouth waters as I free him, his cock springing forth like some divine revelation. I stare at it in wonder, marveling at how I ever thought there was anything more important than this.

I lean forward, maintaining eye contact as I take him between my lips. His sharp intake of breath is music to my ears.

Ha. Music. That’s funny.

The weight of his cock on my tongue, pressing and pinning it down, impeding my speech. The way it feels both soft and hard between my lips. This is so, sooo much better than theory or activism or all those books I used to read. His pleasure is the only validation I need now.

“Jeez, Masha,” he groans, his fingers tentatively finding my hair.

I suckle gently at the tip. I run my tongue along the length and girth of his cock. I pour all my feelings of apology into my lips, because Sveta’s right — I’ve been denying him for so long, and that’s just not right. Women should never deny men anything. It’s not in us to say yes or no to anything.

I hollow my cheeks, creating suction as I take him deeper. His fingers tighten in my hair, guiding me now. I surrender to his direction willingly, gratefully. My own arousal builds again, but it’s secondary, unimportant. What matters is his pleasure.

After all, he’s a full person, and I’m not.

“Where’s this coming fr—” he starts to ask, but loses his train of thought as I take him to the back of my throat, suppressing my gag reflex with a small, almost polite choking sound.

I don’t want to think about before. Before doesn’t matter. There is only now, only this.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his hips beginning to thrust involuntarily.

I adjust my rhythm to match his, becoming the instrument of his desire. An implement that fits on cock. My hands find the back of his thighs, steadying myself as he fucks my mouth with increasing urgency. Tears spring to my eyes, but they’re tears of fulfillment, of joy. I’m finally, truly useful.

His cum is my reward. The seal of my transformation. The culmination of my purpose. It’s no wonder that he came so quickly — the girl he has a crush for has just folded herself neatly on her knees before him, and sucked him off, out of nowhere. I’ll have to make sure he knows he’s got nothing to worry about, because from now on, he’ll get to use this throat every time he feels like it. And the rest of my body, too.

I remain on my knees as he steps back, tucking himself away with shaking hands. I feel oddly weightless, empty of everything but the song’s lyrics echoing in my mind.

Female cattle, a sex toy for men / My female ambition has met its end.

* * *

Time passes in a haze after that. I float through the cabin, performing small tasks when directed. Making coffee. Tidying up. Kneeling beside Svetlana while she and Dmitri talk, their conversation washing over me like background noise. I don’t need to understand their words. I think she gives him a handjob, at some point, which makes sense. Women are always more persuasive with acts than they are with words. It’s in our nature.

I don’t need to understand, regardless. I just need to be available when needed.

The afternoon light shifts to evening gold, streaming through the cabin windows at a lower angle. I’m sitting on the floor near Dmitri’s feet when I notice it—the sound of a car on gravel, pulling up outside.

Something stirs within me. A knowledge. A purpose.

Oksana.

I rise without being told, suddenly aware of my disheveled state. My shirt is half-unbuttoned from when Dmitri wanted to play with my breasts after I’d serviced him a second time. My hair is tangled. I’m sure my eyes must look glazed over, all glassy and empty and cum-drunk.

“Maryana! There you are!” Oksana exclaims as she sees me emerge from the cabin. “I was starting to think I had the wrong cabin. The GPS out here is shit.”

“Here, I’ll help with your bag,” I say, and the lie comes so easy to me. Lying to women is just par for the course. We deserve to be manipulated, steered, governed. I look at her—really look at her. Her sharp eyes, her confident stance, the tension in her shoulders from driving. So much unnecessary strain. So much needless complexity. I can free her from all that, just as I’ve been freed.

A smile spreads across my face.

“My friend,” I say, my voice soft but clear. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come with me. You know, there’s a song I’ve been dying to share with you.“

After all…

What’s a road trip, without music?

THE END