Language is power.

This idea – simple, yet radical - is at the basis of so much feminist thought and queer theory. Language shapes thought and reality. If you can reshape language, it follows that you can reshape the world as well.

It’s an idea that fills me with such deep passion. It makes me feel like we have agency. That we can temper this world’s cruelty and flaws - even a little - if only we develop, and use, the right language. The right words.

That’s what it boils down to, in the end. Words can be socially transformative, they can hold power. All that is required is for an activist to know how to wield them.

That’s why I eagerly participate in the annual debates here at Mount Hurst College. That’s why I always pick the debates centering around issues of gender and social justice, of course.

And it’s why I always win.

That passion, that enthusiasm, is the very same fervor that made me stare down Brad in this year’s edition of the debate earlier today. It’s also the same fervor that’s making me talk to him right now, in the privacy of his dorm room.

It sounds silly to think that I could talk him out of his sexism, or something like that, but it wouldn’t be me doing it. Words direct the way we think. Why should he be an exception?

I even have the perfect hook to try and convince him. The debate we just competed in, well, let’s just say it was interestingly named. “A Woman’s Place.”

Even just the title speaks volumes, doesn't it?

Doesn’t…

“You were saying, Claudia?” Brad asks me, casually sipping his tea. For a second, I feel surprised that we’re in his room. That’s dumb, since we’ve been here a while. But for a second, my vision spins. How did we end up here again?

My memory is hazy, but I remember that we left the hall together after the debate – no animosity between competitors, even if we find our respective ideologies abhorrent - and continued our heated discussion while on the way.

On the way here, I guess?

“Sorry, bit of a headache,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts. “I was saying… the title of the debate says it all. Even that reeks of subconscious sexism.”

“How so?” Brad asks, feigning disinterest, taking another shallow sip of his tea.

“It suggests that there even is such a thing as a place for women,” I say. “A place they belong to. A place that is proper. Predetermined, natural, and unquestionably correct. And the purpose of the discussion is merely to determine what that place is.”

“With you so far,” he says, nodding for me to continue, which I gladly do.

“That’s a completely false way of framing it. Women, like all other human beings, can self-determine. Their place is where they choose it to be.”

He waggles his index finger at me, as if in acknowledgement. “Ah, I see what you mean when you say that language is power, Claudia. That argument sure does sound very compelling.”

Is that a slight undertone of sarcasm in his voice? He certainly looks quite smug and happy with himself, though I don’t see why.

Then again, if it is sarcasm, what else should I expect? Under that clean-shaven face, the nondescript face you could lose in a sea of jocks that all look the same, he has one of the most chauvinistic attitudes I’ve ever seen from someone of my same generation.

I know I can make him see the error of his ways, but I shouldn’t expect miracles.

Still, I feel a little… out of place. There is something about the way Brad's eyes twinkle mischievously and the playful curve of his lips that… troubles me. Well, if he’s not actually willing to discuss, I suppose I shouldn’t be wasting my time, so let’s make sure.

"Are you just saying that to mock me?” I ask him. “Or are you actually willing to listen to me?"

Brad chuckles softly, swirling his tea absentmindedly. "Oh, come on now, Claudia," he says. "You know I always enjoy a good verbal sparring. It’s like we’re dancing… not that I’ve ever danced, myself, but I’m sure you get it."

That’s… not really an answer. But well, it’s not a no, either. And I really, sincerely do believe, that if only people could have actual, real conversations with one another, the world would be a much better place.

If I can just push past the divide between us, actually talk to him, I can change his mind.

Taking a moment to collect my thoughts, I look Brad directly in the eye and say, "I’m going to level with you, Brad, I don't expect you to understand the struggles that women face. But if you're willing to listen, maybe we can find some common ground."

Brad's smirk fades, replaced with a more neutral expression. He sets his tea cup down and leans forward, giving me his full attention. It surprises me how easily he can switch from arrogance to genuine curiosity. Or what looks like it, anyway.

"Alright," he says, his voice sounding more sincere than before. "I'm willing to hear you out. Convince me."

I clear my throat and adjust my glasses. I’m going to give this a honest try. It’s not really me he needs to listen to, just what I have to say. If words can transform society, of course they can also transform him.

"So, language," I say. "The title of the debate is really just an example, but there are so many. Like the word chairman. It builds this subconscious expectation in people's minds that only a man can hold such a position of power."

"I guess," Brad says, shrugging. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. This very morning, you had a whole list of idioms, you kind of built your speech around those. Not saying it wasn’t a good effort, but why just parrot that back now? You made it sound like you had new material for me.”

For an instant, for a single heartbeat, I get a glimpse of a truth I can't recognise or tell, like it's been eerily illuminated by a flash of lighting, but only for a brief moment. What did I say at the debate?

God, my head is pounding. I’m not even sure why I feel so weirded out. Structuring my performance in the debate around sexist idioms sounds like exactly the thing I would do. So where does this feeling of wrongness come from?

"I'm trying to remember..." I say, pressing my fingers to my temples. It feels like my brain is trapped in morass. "I think I said, uhh... I touched on something connected to the proper place thing implied by the title.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Brad asks, one eyebrow arched, but I wave the question away. It wouldn’t do to look weak in front of him. It would make it impossible for him to take me seriously, he would think I’m just some silly girl. If he doesn’t already.

“You know,” I continue stoically, “you'll hear people sometimes say stuff like, women should know their place. Or they should be put in their place. Or they should be reduced, relegated back to where they belong.”

Brad sits up a little in his chair. “Well, that phrasing sounds a little specific,” he says, “but sure, I’ve heard stuff like that, I guess.”

“Of course you have, it’s everywhere!” I say, speaking a little too loudly, too excitedly, trying to push past the pounding and confusion in my head. “There is inherent, violent control in that language. What people don't realise is that these seemingly innocent phrases carry layers upon layers of evocative meaning, all rooted in misogynistic beliefs."

There's a smirk playing around the corners of Brad's lips. "Evocative meaning? What do you mean by that, exactly?"

“It insinuates…” I start, and then stop. The hairs on my arms are standing up. I feel like an animal that’s sensing a trap without quite seeing it. Evocative… what is he asking for, exactly?

Maybe more importantly, why did I use that word?

"You’re the one who always says that words carry weight and power,” Brad says, matter-of-factly. “So, describe this weight and power to me. Make me see it.”

“Well, these idioms…” I say, uncertain, my fingers tangling and twisting as I fidget in my chair. “They conjure up images of suppression and control. When someone tells a woman to 'know her place,' it implies that she’s stepping out of line, challenging the established hierarchy. Imagine a woman…"

I stop, double-checking that I have his attention, and I do. Brad nods for me to continue.

I speak deliberately, carefully choosing my words. "She stands tall, her presence commanding and powerful. She's unapologetic for taking up space, for expressing her opinions, for challenging the status quo. She defies the societal expectations that confine her to a predetermined place."

"And then," Brad interjects, a sly smile still playing on his lips, "going by your idioms, she is... what? Reduced? Relegated?"

I hear the unspoken implication. She fails? My body tenses at the thought, an unfamiliar sensation stirring within me, a shiver down my spine that is almost... alluring.

"Yes," I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The image of a strong woman being overpowered and forced into submission flashes through my mind. Reduced indeed. Such power, in that word, it’s hard to explain it. It really captures this image of just pushing a woman down to the ground. Relegated to her rightful place as an inferior being... an object to be controlled, stripped of autonomy and power...

Brad's smile widens at my discomfort and I realise with a jolt that he's enjoying my squirming. I mean, of course he is, he was my competitor only this morning. Feeling flustered, I gather my thoughts, and continue. Inferior being... that reminds me...

"Inferiority," I mutter, feeling a tingle run down my spine at the word. "That's what I was trying to point out."

Brad leans in closer, his fingers supporting his chin as he studies me. "Mmm, yes, inferiority. You’re saying that’s what these idioms ultimately convey," he muses in a low voice.

"It is," I say, my voice a little shaky. But his seeming willingness to actually entertain my arguments lends me some confidence. "Like we're dainty, delicate flowers or something.”

“Okay…” Brad says, and I sit a little straighter, sounding a little more like my usual, preachy feminist self.

“Think about how many expressions and idioms exist that suggest inherent female inferiority," I say. "The gentler sex. The weaker sex, fairer sex, second sex... Hysterical and emotional, or nurturing and soft, where men are strong and logical, commanding and protective."

I pause, taking a deep breath before listing even more idioms. "It's a man's world. Being in charge in a relationship is wearing the pants. And then there's stuff like barefoot and pregnant... at home, under the control of her husband..."

Brad seems lost in thought for a moment, as my words trail off. Strange, I can keep an audience absorbed and captivated through long and firey speeches, but now, I fall into awkward silence. He’s swirling his spoon in the mug, making soft clinking sounds. He’s focused on it, not looking at me.

"This morning,” he says at last, “you were making a similar point, and you used a… peculiar expression. Now, since your argument is that words have deep meaning, I’m curious about that expression you chose.”

Cold sweat trickles down my back. Why don’t I remember saying any of this stuff?

“You said,” Brad continues, his eyes lifting to meet mine, “that these idioms do not just suggest inferiority. They insinuate that women have a, what was it you said? Ah, yes. A fundamental predisposition to being governed."

Hearing those words makes me shudder. Did I really say that? I don't remember saying that. I mean, it makes sense, though. That's what those hateful misogynistic idioms are trying to convey, right?

That we naturally respond to being taken in hand firmly. A masculine hand.

It’s important to push back against toxic, misogynistic ideas like that, they do incalculable damage. Why does the room feel so hot, all of a sudden? My glasses look clear, so it isn't actual temperature, and yet I tug at the collar of my blouse, trying to cool down.

"You also said something else," Brad continues, in a slow, deliberate, calculated tone that feels out of place. "That the continued endurance and staying power of these expressions poses a latent danger to women. That we men might come to see feminism as a strand of female ambition, and..."

And for an instant, I remember.

My mind spins, faster and faster, around a centre of gravity that is a memory - a fragment, just a shard, a still from a fever dream, but a memory all the same. I remember...

I was on stage, saying exactly the same things. Female ambition. I felt enraptured at what I was describing, but it wasn't the normal sort of exhilaration I felt when thinking about feminism, no. I was thinking about feminism failing.

Even as I spoke to the audience, I was visualising in my mind what that horrible scenario would look like. Men getting fed up with us, defeating the women's rights movement in a single stroke, driving us swiftly and unceremoniously down to our knees...

Sweat beads on my forehead at the sheer intensity of that imagery. How did I let myself imagine such vivid scenarios? Impressionist worldwide vistas of men overpowering and silencing us, shutting down our silly pretensions and corraling us like… like cattle.

I never think about images like these. Why do they make me squirm so much now? My thigh muscles feel like they’re about to cramp, as I twist on the chair. God... I hope this untethered imagination hasn’t compromised my performance at the debate. I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror if I sounded any less committed to the cause of gender equality during such an important event, because of an intrusive thought.

Brad looks at me in silence. It makes me feel like he's dissecting me, searching for answers, or perhaps weaknesses. His gaze cuts through me like a scalpel, as I stumble over my words, trying to explain myself and shake off my unease.

"I-I said that was the worst case scenario... It was just a hypothetical, a warning..." I mutter, still confused, as the memory of the debate continues to elude me.

“A warning?” He asks.

"That we would overreach,” I find myself saying, “and men would step in and utterly crush us. That on our knees, we would be forced into an unconditional surrender... female ambition, snuffed out by the hand of male power like a flickering candle..."

"Sounds very vivid," Brad says, and even  though his voice is flat, his eyes look… amused. That makes my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Does he really enjoy how flustered I look, when contemplating this horrific hypothetical downfall?

Sigh. Of course he's missing the point. This vivid imagery is not meant to entertain him, but to emphasise the stakes. Why it’s crucial that feminism succeeds… and the dire consequences for the world, if it were to fail.

“I mean, obviously I was just trying to explain to our audience what’s at stake in the fight for gender equality,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m directing that comment to Brad, or to myself. It has to be the truth, though: what other explanation is there?

"You know what? I think you’re onto something," Brad says, leaning back in the chair. "Elaborate on these… stakes for me. You might convince me yet."

I bite my lower lip, trying to express my discomfort without losing his attention. "Look man, I have maybe a weird comment but... this isn't meant to be titillating," I say, my voice quivering.

Brad simply stares at me, impassible.

"It's about painting a picture of the consequences that could befall us if we don't continue fighting for equality,” I say, and by now I almost sound like I’m pleading for him to listen. “It's about highlighting the real dangers women face in a society still rife with misogyny."

Brad smiles, a gentle smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "I understand that," he says, and I pointedly note he doesn't say he agrees. "So, give me a better idea of what the stakes would actually be. What’s the worst-case scenario?"

I feel a blush creep up my neck at Brad's words. I could just stand up and leave… but on the off chance he actually is going to take me seriously, I should at least finish my argument.

"Okay," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Imagine a world where the struggle for gender equality has been futile. Men reign supreme, their dominance unchallenged. Women are… reduced… to mere playthings, objects of desire and servitude. We exist solely to please men, stripped of their autonomy and agency."

As the words escape my lips, an unsettling thrill courses through my veins. My stomach feels queasy, and I can barely meet Brad’s eyes, boring down into mine with such calculating intensity.

"Women kneel, with heads bowed in submission, contrition, defeat," I continue, my voice growing shakier. "They acknowledge men as their…”

Brad arches an eyebrow, silently inviting me to continue, but the word that sprang to my mind is an evil word.

Language is power, and by extension, evil words have evil power. Equally transformative, but in negative space. They should not be spoken out loud, because to do so is to invite disaster. And yet the word leaves my lips anyway, in a breathless whisper that seems to echo across the room.

“…  masters.”

Brad solemnly nods at that, and I continue, trying to recompose myself… without much success. “Their dreams and ambitions are forgotten, replaced by a singular purpose: to cater to the whims of men. They are kept in cages, their bodies on display for the pleasure of their owners."

He steeples his fingers. “Wow. Quite the stakes indeed. Most people don’t imagine things might go that far if feminism were to be defeated.”

“Yes! Exactly!” I say. As I close my eyes and let the words flow, I desperately try and ignore the involuntary squirming and rubbing of my thighs. "Eventually, women become commodities, bought and sold like possessions. Their worth determined by their physical attributes, their ability to satisfy men's desires."

Brad leans forward, his eyes fixed on me with a hunger that mirrors my own. The air between us thickens, charged with an intoxicating tension. His voice is low and husky.

"Alright. Those do sound like pretty devastating peace terms," he says, and again, those words, those evil words with evil power… peace terms… they trigger an echo of something I must have talked about during the debate, even if I can't remember the details.

Peace terms. Behold, once again, the power of language. Saying peace terms implies that feminism was not a rightful quest for gender equality, but a zero-sum battle of the sexes... a gender war that women lost. And the victors, the conquerors, then impose their will upon the vanquished...

"Yes. The terms would be devastating," I say, in a low whisper, "ensuring that we can never challenge male privilege again; that we can never rise again from our position on our knees."

Brad sits forward so rapidly that it startles me. God, I can be so silly, sometimes… but there’s something about the way his eyes pin me to the chair, that makes me quiver with a primal sort of fear.

A very feminine sort of fear.

"I'm not supposed to agree with a competitor,” he says, slowly, softly. “But I must say, I found your logic quite compelling… during the debate.”

I blink, slowly. “I… spoke of peace terms at the debate?”

“You sure did,” Brad says, and my head spins, because it doesn’t make sense, why don’t I remember doing that? And if he’s heard all of this already, why is he having me rehearse it now?

“You said something like this,” Brad says. “The premise is the history of feminism: that women have managed to claw out rights, while starting from a position of subjugation.”

“Right,” I say, massaging my temples. But Brad isn’t looking for my input now, he just keeps talking.

“It logically follows that, if men really wanted to eradicate feminism, returning to the past wouldn’t be enough. If we defeated you, we wouldn't just turn back the clock. What incentive would we have to do that, when the patriarchy failed to keep you in check the first time? The logic is sound. Perfectly internally consistent.”

“I…” I say, looking for a rebuttal, because I feel like it shouldn’t make sense, and yet it does. Doesn’t it?

“Men are logical like that,” Brad says, and I shudder, thinking, yes, logical and cold and rational and controlling. “We would draw the relevant conclusions, and we would dominate you. The new patriarchy would be much harsher than the old, so that the fate of your gender could truly be sealed forever."

"Yes..." I say in a squeaky voice, not understanding why my heart is thundering against my chest, while my breathing is suddenly so shallow. "That's why it's so important that feminism triumphs..."

"You mentioned the terms," Brad says, sharply this time, cutting me off unapologetically. He leans forward even more, my eyes now swimming into the depths his. "You mentioned them in your speech. To clarify the stakes women face. Do you remember?"

"Of course, why wouldn’t I remember my own speech?" I finally manage, even though as it happens, I don’t remember... technically. But I feel like a part of me now does. I let it take over. I let it speak on my behalf.

"The terms... they were meant to illustrate the consequences of failure.”

"I’m not asking for intent, but content. Tell me what terms would be imposed," Brad insists, almost like he’s interrogating me, like he’s the masculine representative of some terrifying law enforcement agency, and I’m just a female prisoner, a rebel to be mined for information… to be made useful…

I bite my lip, feeling the world around us fade as I surrender to the memory once more. And surrender is really the right word, because I’m not consciously remembering any of this. It’s just… taking over, sitting in the driver’s seat of my speech when I let it.

"After our defeat," I begin, my voice unsteady, "we would become chattel, and nothing more. The right to vote would be the first to go, and then the right to own property, and then bodily autonomy.”

I gulp, licking my lips. “We would be demoted in every avenue of life, confined to the home, forbidden from pursuing education or careers. Consent would become a foreign concept, replaced by the cruel notion that evolution has sculpted our bodies to be providers of sexual pleasure and comfort to our masters."

I look up. When did Brad stand up from his chair? I stand up, too, but that’s a mistake, it just emphasises how much ridiculously taller than me he actually is.

How much stronger.

The room feels charged with an electric energy, and Brad now looms over me like a stormcloud, so close that I catch whiffs of his cologne, that I can listen to his shallow breath.

I want to scream. I want to run. I want to wake up. Instead, I keep talking,

I keep remembering.

"I, I w-wanted to drive home the power of language…” I say, horrified at the fragmented shards of memory that are swirling in my mind right now. “I said women would be brought to heel… our spirits broken, as we are subjected to relentless degradation and humiliation - until we submit willingly. Our minds are manipulated, molded into obedience, until we learn to crave it. To beg for it."

The last words come out as a barely audible whisper, but that’s no matter. Brad’s lips are basically brushing against my own, now…

"Men would possess an unparalleled skill in taming women. They would have a sixth sense for it, an uncanny ability to read our bodies, deciphering every sigh, every tremble that escapes our whorish lips. They would sculpt the female mind like clay – mmmppphh!” His lips press against mine. Unapologetic, entitled, demanding, dominating.

His tongue invades my mouth, without my consent, while his hand cradles my neck. When he withdraws from me, I want to shout for help, to cry out, to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him – and wrong with me.

Instead, I say, “We would be irreversibly broken. In victory, you would shatter the remnants of our resistance until we are mere fragments of our former selves. You would master the delicate art of deconstruction, dismantling our identities brick by brick, until we are nothing more than submissive creatures yearning for their approval. Snivelling little animals…”

“Of course we would do that,” Brad says, his hands groping my tits, pinching my nipples, and it hurts and I want him to stop, but I have no control of my body, my memory…

My words.

Is there a greater form of powerlessness than that? What… what is happening to me?

"Our minds would be rewired, erased of any independent thought or ambition,” I say, in a low and husky voice. “We would become companionable pets, trained to anticipate your every need and fulfill it without question. Our sole purpose would be to please and serve, offering ourselves as tribute at the altar of male power.”

He presses his body against mine, and my back hits the wall. He’s so huge, his muscular arms enveloping my dainty feminine frame. Constricting and corralling it, and every woman secretly fears this is what nature intended…

"We would wear collars around our necks,” I say, staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes, begging for mercy. “Symbols of ownership and submission. We’d be nothing more than possessions, under your utter dominance. Toys to be used and discarded as you see fit.”

He presses closer against me, and I can feel the growing erection in his pants, tenting against me.

"You would steer us with a firm hand,” I say, and even in my confused state, I can’t deny the way my body is responding. The shaky nature of my voice, the growing heat between my thighs.

"To complete your masterpiece,” I say as his lips gently toy with mine, his teeth brushing against my lower lip, "we would be dismantled into so many little pieces that we end up being less than human, finally fulfilling the role evolution designed us for…"

His hand gently wraps around my throat, the other still groping, exploring, roaming wherever he wills it. “We’d be emotionally and mentally broken,” I say, feeling the palm of his hand against my throat with every gulp, “hollow vessels, permanently expelled from the ranks of humanity. In a world like that… Women's defeat would be irreversible and final."

"Very well said, Claudia," Brad says, his voice trembling with anticipation and arousal. "The terms you've listed... they are my terms for you."

And then, the levee breaks.

Memories flood my mind like a tidal wave crashing onto the shore, each one more vivid and potent than the last. I see myself in the dressing room before the debate, Brad encroaching upon my personal space, his eyes holding a strange glint that sent chills down my spine.

I hear his voice. Soft, almost soothing, as he lulled me to a state of… heightened receptiveness.

Suddenly, I'm back on the stage during the debate, words pouring from my mouth like poison. Brad, his speech had been so milquetoast, so boring, arguing for a return to more traditional gender roles. Nothing too extreme, but also nothing even remotely interesting.

I felt so sure I would win. My prepared argumentations on the power of language made it all but a certainty. Yes, I did have a list of misogynistic idioms ready, and I did talk about the swift and merciless end of feminism. I did talk about women driven to their knees.

But not as a warning.

I said that Brad’s solution wasn’t radical enough. That to stop unruly women like me, you’d have to pin us to the ground and step on our necks. Choke us during sex. Take us against our will, tame us to your erotic power.

Revoke our claim to human status.

I see the stony silence in the hall, the shock in the audience, their expressions ranging from disbelief to utter disgust. Men squirmed uncomfortably in their seats while women stared in open-mouthed horror and betrayal. Fellow students, professors, relatives, friends – a sea of horrified faces, trying to reconcile the person they knew me to be, with the monstrous dystopia I was now championing.

And then there were whispers - quiet, disbelieving murmurs that quickly transformed into loud protests. Women in the crowd rose from their seats. Some men, too. People began filing out, and I was so mortified, I wanted to cry until my eyes were red and swollen, but I couldn’t. All I could do was talk, and talk, and talk.

My reputation, destroyed... while Brad laughed hysterically, on the podium across from mine.

The shock of realization hits me like a bolt of lightning, my body trembling uncontrollably as the gravity of it sinks in. I attempt to recoil, but the wall and his body keep me hemmed in, trapped, caged. Controlled.

My eyes widen in horror. "What have you done to me?" I manage to stutter, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Brad only grins back at me, revelling in his victory. "Simple, Claudia," he replies, his voice smooth and confident. "I could say you've been hypnotised, that you've become my puppet. But there's a better way of putting it... I've shown you the true, transformative power of words. Just like you've always said."

A frosty chill runs down my spine at the ice-cold tone in his voice. He has me. I always thought of him as little more than a jock with intellectual pretensions, but he has me. Somehow he got inside my mind, sunk his claws in there, and now – he  has me, he has me, he has me.

His eyes bore into mine as he mocks me, one hand still wrapped around my throat, the other pressing against my shoulder. Pressing downward.

"You have quite convinced me, Claudia. Arguing for the trad lifestyle just isn’t radical enough. Thank god you made me see the light, huh?”

"No..." I protest weakly, but I find myself sinking down to my knees before him nonetheless. What is overpowering me, right now? His physical strength? My fear that he will harm me, leading me to compliance, like countless women before him? His… hold on my mind?

Does it matter? The end result is the same. I sink to my knees, and my heart sinks with me; I look up at him, triumphant, victorious, so much larger than life that it takes my breath away.

I am putty in his hands. He could strangle me so easily if he wanted to, probably with a single hand… or condition me to do something much worse than ruin my reputation. I am at his mercy.

Like woman is at man’s mercy.

"Good girl. Stay down,” he says. “Your will is mine. From now on, you won’t speak unless spoken to. Your thoughts will mirror mine. You will take every single term you have listed, and engrave it into your heart. That’s your code, now. Your law. Your religion.”

His fingers run through my hair, and I find myself thoughtlessly leaning into it. No, no! He’s destroying my life! He’s a fucking misogynist! I’m not a pet!

"Now," he says, his voice echoing around the room as he nods towards his groin. I stiffen, a sense of dread washing over me like an ice-cold wave… just as the subconscious knowledge of what’s about to happen lights my cunt on fire. “It’s time for you to get to work.”

Every fiber of my being screams at me to rebel, to bite him and run away. Or at least, shout. Fight. Show that I don’t consent to this, even as a symbolic victory, damn it!

I want to protest, to call for help, to condemn him for the monster he is, but when I open my mouth, no sound comes out. My lips tremble as they draw closer to him, my hands resting gingerly on his thighs as I hesitate.

"Begin," he says, glancing down at me with an expectant look in his icy eyes. His tone leaves no room for argument.

I find myself reaching out tentatively to unzip his trousers, releasing the bulge that strains against the fabric. His dick, fully erect, jumps out at me, and I wonder how long this erection has been brewing. All that time, making me talk, knowing that I was oblivious… that he was inside my head.

That my reputation was gone.

That I was just repeating to him, the terms he was about to impose on me….

With trepidation, I bow my head and take him into my mouth slowly, thus declaring with my actions that I do surrender, that he does defeat me, and ultimately…

That I do accept his terms for me.

My tongue darts out tentatively, tracing over the tip with uncertainty. It’s the ultimate betrayal of all that I stand for, of the fight of so many women all over the world. But I struggle to hold on to that feeling, as I begin to suckle gently on the tip of his cock.

Above me, Brad beams with pride – in himself, in his conquest of my feminism and my body, in his gender. His hand runs through my hair encouragingly as he begins speaking again. "This is just the beginning, Claudia," he says, his voice a compelling mix of arrogance, power, and delight. "You said it so well. I will sculpt you."

His words make me gasp, and writhe, and squirm, and moan – an auditory and visual invitation for his masculinity to overtake and overwhelm me; to possess me.

In spite of myself, I take him deeper into my mouth. I bob my head up and down his shaft, finding a steady rhythm as I lavish his cock with the attention it’s owed by its female servant. My tongue glides along the underside, tracing the thick vein there, while I hollow my cheeks and suck hard. The sound, god…

Why emit verbal, intelligible sounds, when I’ve been defeated? Doesn’t it make sense that the power of language is stripped from me as the first act of my reduction? It’s female disarmament. This is the type of sound Brad wants to hear from me. Words are best left to him alone.

He groans in pleasure, his fingers tightening in my hair. My world narrows down to nothing but Brad, the delicious and cruel feeling of humiliation coursing through my body like erotic electricity, and the masterful cock throbbing under my tongue.

“I will tame you,” he says, his voice ragged with arousal.

I purse my cocksucking lips and suckle hard on Brad's cockhead, flicking my tongue against his slit to lap up the salty pre-cum leaking out. It feels like, with every motion, I’m letting go of one more piece of my beliefs, my identity, my very self. I renounce it all, slobbering it all over his cock with my spit.

Some primal, long-buried part of me knows this is my rightful place. On my knees, worshipping a real man's cock. Serving as a mere vessel for male pleasure and power. My mind reels at how quickly and completely Brad has seized control, bending me to his will with just his words. The feminist firebrand reduced to a mewling cocksucker in mere minutes, with nothing but words.

“I will break you.”

His grip on my hair tightens, and he swiftly impales me deeper down upon his cock, breaching the entrance of my throat, claiming it, mastering it. My hands grip his thighs for balance as my throat dutifully stretches to accommodate its tamer. The choked, whimpery sound of my gagging is such a non-verbal admission of quintessential vulnerability. I don’t sound like a person, when I emit that defeated gurgle. I sound like prey.

My eyes blur with tears. My cunt clenches at the thought of how thoroughly he has conquered me, how swiftly and absolutely he has asserted his dominance over me.

He thrusts forward, battering my throat into submission. Drool dribbles down my chin, taking my identity with it, and the wet sound of my slobbering marks me for the non-verbal animal I am in a man’s shadow.

I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't crave this utter debasement, this complete obliteration of everything I believe in. But as Brad's cock pummels my throat, as his hands grip my hair and force me down, down, down, I know how thoroughly his words have transformed me.

"Soon enough, cocksucking will be your only talent. That's the only thing your mouth is good for," he mutters. “I will deconstruct you.”

He will, and I can’t stop him. He is my better in every way - stronger, smarter, ruthless. He’s decided to end my female ambition for no better reason than he could.

My face will exist to bear his cum. My throat will exist to swallow it. My activism, my studies, my ambitions, my independence, they all end today. They ended the moment I first lost myself in his eyes, as he hypnotised me.

Such awe-inspiring, masculine power… the power to control a woman’s body and mind, to destroy her life, with one single snap of fingers. For no better reason than because he can. Because he thinks it’s fun.

He’s fucking the feminism right out of me. No, better, he’s pushing my own feminist spiels back down my throat, ramming them down with the power of his cock.

“I will dismantle you,” he growls, like a predator. “I will end you. You’re not a person anymore. You never should have been.”

I moan desperately around his cock at the words, which go straight to my clit, frying my nervous system more than any regular sex ever has. He facefucks me faster and faster, and my eyes roll back into my skull at the sheer intensity of my defeat. Of my humiliation.

His cock is starting to quiver in my throat. Hisgrip tightens painfully in my hair as he buries himself to the hilt with a roar, his balls slap against my spit-slicked chin. "Gonna...fuck...breed your throat, cunt," he pants. "Drain my balls...right down your whore gullet."

Spurt after spurt of his cum is dutifully milked from his cock by my flexing throat. I work desperately, swallowing his load down to every last drop, accepting my place as his defeated, subhuman female slave. Tears stream down my face as I choke and gag, but still I don't pull away. I can't. Because, physically and mentally…

He has me.

As I gulp down my tamer’s cum, it’s almost as if I can see my face from the outside – my features slackening, my mouth sloppily worshipping, the light of defiance finally forever extinguished from my eyes.

"That's it," he murmurs approvingly, his hand gripping tighter in my hair. “Surrender.”

I was right all along, after all. Language is power. Transformative, radical, reality-altering power.

“Surrender,” he says, and I know he means it in every sense. Surrender to him, to the patriarchy and the male gender as a whole. Surrender unconditionally to the power of the words that have wormed their way into my mind. His words.

And of course, being a woman…

I do.

TO BE CONTINUED…