Language is control.

Not just over the world around you, but maybe more importantly, over yourself. What's left of you, when your words are taken away?

That’s an uncomfortable question to contemplate, while three of the closest friends I’ve ever had are staring me down in Tessa’s room, and I can’t speak the words that would maybe save me.

Words are how we make our presence known to the world, and to each other. It's how we express our preferences, affirm our values, exchange ideas. Words are what makes us who we are. Without them, all that's left is… an animal.

An animal is exactly what Brad wants me to become, and if he pursues that goal single-mindedly, I know he will succeed. His hooks are sunk deep into my mind, and I didn't even know hypnosis was a thing until recently – so the idea of finding a counter seems outlandishly improbable to me.

There’s no two ways about it. I'm at his mercy.

But even when your fate is entirely in the palm of your master's hand, there’s still something you can do, even if it’s undignified and desperate: you can plead. You can grovel. You can beg.

I've done all that, and more. I've sworn to Brad that I'm going to do everything he says, be on my best behaviour, even though he doesn't really need my cooperation for that – he can just make me do all those things. I've begged him to please allow me the small mercy of, at least, retaining something of my old life.

My studies at Mount Hurst, and my friends.

He surprised me. He agreed very readily to both pleas, only reminding me that the very moment my attempt is over, I’ll have to move in with him and begin my new life at his feet.

Maybe now that he's actually won, now that his boot is resting firmly on my neck, he doesn't see the need to further drive my face deeper into the mud?

Well, he did remind me to keep practicing my kneeling, staying down on the hard floor for longer and longer stretches of time. But compared to what he said to me while I worshipped his cock, that reminder feels almost pedestrian.

Be that as it may, even with his agreement, rescuing these two facets of my old life will not be easy. The college feminist collective has suspended my membership for the time being, and Mount Hurst College itself is not amused with my performance. Professor Lorenz, my mentor and thesis supervisor, was right there at the debate, sitting in the front row. I can only imagine her disappointment, the sense of betrayal she must have felt.

There's whispers that I'm going to face consequences for spewing hatred on campus. Maybe even expulsion. I have so many apologies to e-mail over the next few hours…

But first, my friends. I’m sitting in their presence right now, squirming in the awkward silence, wringing my hands together from the stress. I feel like they’re sitting in judgement. In a way, I suppose they are.

Becky, Tessa and Ralf. My chosen family. They were sitting in the front row… They all looked at me with such disbelief, such horror. How can I possibly explain this to them? How can I make them understand that those weren't my words, my beliefs? That I was a prisoner in my own mind, helpless to stop the flow of poison from my lips?

I want to tell them the truth. I want to scream it from the rooftops - that I was hypnotized, that Brad has enslaved me, that he’s taking me by force, a masculine force that my feminine weakness is unable to oppose.

But I can’t.

That's the simple, brutal truth. Brad has seen to that. So what am I to do? What lie can I possibly spin that will satisfy them?

"So, we’ve agreed to meet you," Tessa says, at last. "Why so quiet? Go on, we’re listening."

The sheer distance in her voice makes me wince. Tessa's a feminist, of course, though her politics are closer to the centre-left than my own, or Becky's. I love her for her digital art, her passion for helping others, and her utter honesty – she always speaks her mind.

And yet she sounds like a stranger right now. In this moment, she probably isn't sure whether she even wants to be friends anymore.

I look at each of them in turn. Tessa sits upright, her brow furrowed in a mix of concern and disapproval. Her arms are crossed defensively over her chest, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. She always gives people the benefit of the doubt, so I know she’s trying to reconcile the Claudia she knows with the person she witnessed on that stage… and coming up short.

Who wouldn’t?

Becky's posture is rigid, her fists clenched at her sides. Her brow is furrowed in a deep scowl, and her green eyes blaze with a barely contained fury. Her lips are pressed into a thin, disapproving line. She wouldn’t be giving me the time of day at all, except that I suspect Tessa basically begged her to be here.

Ralf sits uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze shifting nervously between me and the other two women. He appears deeply uneasy, his brow furrowed and his hands fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. His discomfort at the awkwardness is palpable.

So many negative emotions, caused by my behavior. Even if it’s not my fault for being changed, I feel guilty all the same.

I want to hug them. Instead, I wring my fingers together, trying to gather my thoughts.

"I... I don't know where to begin," I say, forcing the words out, one by one. "What happened at the debate, it wasn't..."

"You said such awful things."

Tessa’s words are a slap to the face.

Tears prick at my eyes as I hear the disappointment in Tessa's voice. My heart twists with guilt and shame. "I know," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to say that filth."

Becky scoffs, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You sure sounded like you meant every word. I was half expecting you to sneak a hand down your pants and start rubbing one out in front of everyone."

"Becky!" Tessa says, which only seems to inflame Becky further, before Ralf clears his throat.

Ralf clears his throat awkwardly. "Maybe we should let her explain," he suggests.

"Fine," Becky says, sitting back with her arms crossed, her scowl a clear non-verbal expression that it’s not, in fact, fine.

Well, this is it. All or nothing.

"I can't even begin to explain how ashamed I am. It was... it was a bet. A stupid, immature bet with some of the guys from the debate club."

My bold-faced lie is met by dumbfounded silence.

It’s a poor excuse, of course. I thought about claiming that I’d been drugged, but I wouldn’t be able to back that up with any kind of drug test. Technically, I can’t back up this lie either, but I think it’ll be a cold day in hell before any one of them goes to have a conversation with the most misogynistic dudes on campus, and even if they do, they might not be inclined to believe their refusals.

It does make me look like a fucking idiot, unfortunately.

"They bet me that I couldn't convincingly argue the opposite position, that I couldn't sell a misogynistic viewpoint. I was arrogant, I thought I could do it and make a point about how ridiculous those beliefs are. I let my ego get the best of me, and I'll regret it for the rest of my life. But please, you have to know that those words, those beliefs, they don't reflect who I am. Not at all."

Tessa shakes her head in disbelief. "Claudia, that's insane. Why would you ever agree to something like that? You had to know how it would look, how much damage it could do."

"I know, I know," I say. "I thought I was being clever, subversive even. It was prideful of me."

“Wow. That’s… wow,” Tessa says. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

"So your defense is that you’re not a misogynist, you’re just dumb like a fucking brick?" Becky says, scoffing as she looks at Tessa and Ralf in turn. "Guys, what are we even doing here? Come on."

Ralf ignores her, pensively looking at me. "You spoke with such fervor… you’re saying it was all theatrics? Why didn’t you say so at the end of your speech? Or telegraph it to the audience somehow. I just…"

They all exchange a look. This is… not a good sign. I blush intensely in embarrassment. I knew it was an imperfect lie, but I wasn’t expecting they’d pick it apart so quickly… what the hell am I going to say now? "I got… carried away."

"Carried away?" Becky spreads her hands in exasperation. "Claudia, dear, the things you said weren’t just misogynistic. That was kinky shit. Your breath was labored as you were spewing them! No, I just - I’ve had enough of this nonsense."

Becky stands, storming out of the room with heavy steps, and silence falls after she slams the door shut. I can’t bear to look Tessa and Ralf in the eye, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have to hold back the tears.

"I don’t know how to make it right," I say at last, in a trembling voice. "But I want to try. I want to fix this, somehow. I want to make amends. I don’t know what that looks like, or how to do it, but… I want to try. Will you… help me?"

“Claudia…” Tessa begins, biting her lower lip as she looks at me. “I… I know you’ve been a good friend. And I still believe in our friendship. But I just…” She looks down, as if ashamed of herself. “I think it’s best if we all take a break from each other… till you figure things out on your own.”

I flinch as if struck. “Please, don’t do this,” I say, my voice breaking. “I need you. I need my friends. Please, don’t abandon me.”

My emotional outburst is met with distant, unwavering silence. Of course. They don’t see me as a friend right now, so it’s no longer appropriate for me to have such an outburst in their presence. It feels like the weight of the entire world is resting upon my shoulders right now, and I can’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks any longer.

"I understand," I say in a whisper. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll get out of your hair."

In a daze, I stand up, grab my stuff, and make my way to the door. My world has just shrunk, it’s suddenly much smaller. I wonder if Brad only agreed to let me do this because he knew I would fail. Because he knew it would further isolate me from the world, patiently remove my avenues of escape, make it so he looms larger and larger as my guiding star.

As my master.

Maybe this outcome was preordained the moment he successfully defeated me, the moment I accepted his terms for me and let him fuck the feminism right out of me, the moment I accepted female disarmament and surrendered to his power. Either way, I feel hollowed out, emotionally drained, too tired to fight back.

As it turns out, very little is left of you, when your words are taken away.

***

I drag myself back to my dorm room, feeling like a shell of my former self. My eyes are red-rimmed from crying, my makeup smeared. My shoulders are slumped, and I move with a defeated, listless energy.

Inside, I collapse onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow. I should be lashing out at Brad - my master - but I feel too emotionally drained and numb to muster up any real anger. There's just this cavernous sense of loss, of grief for the relationships that have been ripped away from me.

I feel so small, so vulnerable. So utterly powerless in the face of Brad's overwhelming masculine force.

My conqueror. My controller. The man who’s done such irreparable damage to my life, and who’s made me feel more quintessentially female than I ever have before in my life, through nothing but the transformative power of language.

Evil words have evil power. There is an evocative charge to an identity based on contrast. Strong and weak, dominant and submissive, powerful and powerless, dominator and dominated… male and female.

I want to hate him. I just can’t find the words to do that anymore.

But I can't afford to wallow for long. There are still consequences to face, apologies to make, before I pack my bags and step into the lion’s den. With a shuddering breath, I pull myself upright, shoot Brad a text to let him know I’ll be ready soon, and make my way to my desk.

I open my laptop and pull up my email, my fingers hovering over the keys as I try to gather my scattered thoughts. I'll start with Professor Lorenz, I decide. My mentor, my role model. The disappointment and betrayal in her eyes as I spouted those vile words... it haunts me.

"Dear Professor Lorenz," I type, my vision blurring with unshed tears. "I am writing to express my deepest, most heartfelt apologies for my abhorrent behavior at the debate. There is no excuse for the hateful, misogynistic rhetoric I espoused. It goes against everything I believe in, everything you've taught me..."

The words pour out of me, a jumbled mess of remorse and self-recrimination. Here, too, I stick to my lie about the bet, but it rings so hollow, so insufficient.

With a heavy heart, I hit send, and move on to the next. I hate how formulaic apologies like these sound. I always hated it when it was some famous male celeb making them because he’d been found out as a sexual harasser, and I hate them even more now that I’m typing them out myself.

Caused immeasurable harm, I write, and let me offer my sincere apologies for any offense or discomfort that my words may have caused. I throw in another classic, I’ve let you all down, and for good measure, I can only hope that in time, I can learn and regain your trust. All trite expressions we’ve all read a million times.

It all tastes like ashes.

I go through the motions. Hit send, and move on to the next.

In my email to the dean, I reiterate how sorrowful and regretful I am, how stupid I was for accepting the bet and trying to play devil’s advocate, and write that I understand my actions have consequences, and I’m prepared to accept whatever disciplinary measures the college deems appropriate.

I hit send on the last email, feeling numb and resigned. The apologies are done, for whatever they're worth. Which is probably not much. The damage has been done.

It's time to start packing my bags.

Soon, I'll be moving out of this dorm room that's been my little sanctuary for the past two years. My safe space to study, to hang out with friends, to dream about changing the world. So many late night conversations solving all the world's problems, so much laughter and tears and siblinghood within these walls.

I look around the small room, my vision blurred with tears. Every inch holds a memory. I wonder what I should do with the feminist literature stacked on the shelves. Leave it here? Throw it away? I doubt Brad will let me keep it.

This room is a shrine to the woman I used to be. The woman whose identity, whose very sense of self, has been stolen from her. And that’s precisely why I won’t be allowed to take mementos with me. I’ve seen enough of Brad’s rule to understand at least that much.

He said he would utterly end my independence, I think with a shudder that’s partly of disquiet, and partly just erotic. The words he used… sculpting, dismantling…

You’re not a person anymore. You never should have been.

I shake myself from the reverie, starting to pack my bags, leaving behind anything that would remind me too strongly of the Claudia Bennett I used to be.

Mount Hurst College has a number of affiliated student housings. My dorm is on campus. Tessa, Becky and Ralf got rooms in a different building, closer to the outskirts of town. Very few students can afford the crazy rents in the town itself.

Of course, Brad can, largely thanks to his parents. I wonder if they’re as conservative as he is. It surely seems to fit the stereotype.

Living there will cut me off even further. When people learn that I’ve moved in with Brad, of all people, they’ll probably wonder if I’ve fully gone insane, and the chances of a random encounter with my usual acquaintances will be lower there.

It's just one more way he exerts his power and control. Placing me in his territory, surrounding me with his things, his world. Isolating me further from everyone and everything I once held dear.

My hands tremble as I zip the suitcase closed. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, about to tumble into an unknown abyss. Anticipation and dread swirl in the pit of my stomach.

I look at my phone, the text from Brad glaring up at me. "I'll be there to pick you up in an hour. Be ready."

An hour. One last hour as Claudia Bennett, the passionate feminist, the promising scholar, the loyal friend. Before I'm erased, rewritten, reduced to nothing more than Brad's submissive fucktoy.

I glance at my suitcase. It’s already made, and there’s nothing for me to do, other than be me, one last time. Even if it’s painful.

I spend the hour on my knees. After all, Brad made a good point: I’m going to need the practice.

***

Literally and metaphorically, I stand on the threshold.

Brad looks at me, appraising me like a predator sizing up his prey… or a victor, drinking in the glorious sight of his prize.

He’s lounging on a leather sofa, the epitome of smug masculine superiority, cool and collected in his supreme command of the situation… of me. His eyes travel up and down my body, eyeing me like I’m a piece of meat, his piece of meat.

"Strip," he orders. "Leave your clothes and old identity on the floor. This is your new beginning."

I find myself blushing furiously, which is so, so stupid. He’s turned my mind inside out like a glove. He’s made me destroy myself and annihilate my reputation at the debate. He’s made me suck his cock.

I should be doing anything but blushing. Call the police. Call Tessa and ask for help. Run far and far away. Scream in anger at in my own impotence against his hypnotic enthrallment.

Instead, I’m blushing like a fucking schoolgirl with her crush.

I comply, feeling small and vulnerable. My hands tremble as I reach for the buttons of my blouse. It falls to the floor, a puddle of fabric around my shoes, which are the next to go.

I unzip and unbutton my jeans, sliding them down my legs until they’re pooling around my ankles. I step out of them, now standing in nothing but my plain, practical bra and panties.

"All of it," he says, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down my spine.

Biting my lip, I reach behind to unclasp my bra, which joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Finally, my panties. I hook my thumbs into the waistband, pushing them down inch by excruciating inch. I can feel the heat of his gaze on every inch of me.

I stand before him, completely bare, naked, vulnerable. Stripped of all pretensions and defenses. Disarmed, defeated, and ready to accept his terms.

Female, available, and owned.

"On your knees," he says. "Crawl to me."

Shame floods my cheeks, but I drop without protest, lowering and folding myself into a position of female supplication. On hands and knees I creep forward, a broken feminist turned puppy girl, until I kneel between his feet.

He reaches down to fist a hand in my hair, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes are dark with lust. He looks drunk with triumph. "What are you?"

The answer comes unbidden. "Yours."

"And what is your purpose?" His smile is a twisted thing, all hunger and cruelty.

"To accept your terms," I say in a shaky voice. "With no reservation…"

"Good girl." His grip tightens, sending sparks of pain across my head."So, tell me. How did it go with your friends?"

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. Of course he knows. He must have known all along that I would fail, that I was doomed from the start. That once he had me in his grasp, once he had wormed his way into my mind and taken control, there was no escape. No way to salvage the relationships that had once meant everything to me.

"It... it didn't go well," I admit, my voice small and defeated.

"Poor puppy girl," he says, mockingly. "And your precious emails? Did you send those?"

I nod. I can’t even bring myself to speak right now. What good are words, when they no longer serve or advance my interests?

"Good. Now get that out of your head. All of it. Your old life, your old identity, your old relationships. They're gone now. They don't matter anymore. You need to focus on stuff that suits your female psyche better, like… this," Brad says, nodding towards a bundle of clothing on the sofa’s armrest. "That’s what you’ll be wearing from now on."

Oh, of course.

A maid’s uniform.

***

I look into his eyes.

My mind bends over itself and unfolds before him like a blooming flower. My body betrays me, arching back against his right hand. The left keeps me pinned down against the mattress, a prey item in the clutches of her predator, subdued and subjugated.

My body is alight with need as he strokes my sex, smirking at the growing wetness.

"Let your body show you the way,” he says. “This is what being a woman is all about.”

He slips one finger inside me, then another, all the while pouring honeyed, hypnotic murmurs into my ears that make my breath hitch in my throat. His thumb teases my clit, making me whimper. I'm not supposed to like this, I remind myself, I'm not supposed to...

I try to suppress the moan that bubbles up from my throat but I fail, the sound only causing him to chuckle lowly. "That’s the sort of sound I expect to hear more and more out of you. Fits you so much better than all that debate nonsense."

He continues his ministrations, his fingertips dancing teasingly over my clit before plunging deeply inside me. The surprise of it has me gasping.

"That's right," he says, watching my face intently as his fingers twist and curl inside me. "Feel how easily you take me? How perfectly evolution has sculpted your body for this? Now all that’s left is for your mind to…"

Let my body show me the way. I know, the mantra is taking root, I can feel it in my brain, growing and crowding out the rest, all those silly thoughts about independence. As a woman, I should feel, first and foremost. I’m a creature of emotion, not intellect. My nervous system is only truly alive when it experiences me being fucked like a slut.

"Look at me. I want to see your face as I ruin you."

I’m shamelessly pushing back onto his fingers, now, and his words feel just as good. Pleasure radiates through my body, a sheen of sweat covers me, my thigh muscles are rippling…

“You're nothing but a fucktoy, a living, breathing piece of meat for my amusement," he says, and I mewl in agreement.

My friends may have deserted me, but his hands have got me. I am nothing but clay, completely malleable and compliant under his possessive grip. My entire being is centered around the pleasure he is giving me, and the promise of what is yet to come.

"You don't just belong to me. You exist for me. Let your body show you the way."

He curls his fingers, stroking that sensitive spot inside me, and a broken moan escapes my lips. I can feel my inner walls starting to spasm, that coil of heat winding tighter and tighter in my belly--

His fingers retreat. I gasp at the loss, my cunt clenching on empty air, my hands flailing ineffectually in his direction.

He laughs in my face. It feels so stinging and yet so proper, his scorn. His male mockery of my female weakness.

"Did you think I'd let you come so easily?" He shakes his head, wiping his fingers on my thigh. "Not a chance, pet. Your cunt is the fastest way to your brain. The most potent weapon in your conditioning."

I bite my lip to stifle a needy whimper, my face feeling like it’s on fire. I would do anything to tip over the edge now. Anything at all…

Finally, Brad stops playing with me. No more foreplay, no more kissing, no more teasing. He’s done laying the groundwork, preparing me for transformation. He’s ready to take what’s his.

Brad's strong hands grip my hips as he positions himself between my thighs. I'm panting with need, my body aching for his touch, for the feel of him inside me. He teases my cunt with the tip of his cock and I whimper pathetically, trying to push back against him, to take him deeper.

"Beg for it," he says, his voice low and commanding. "Beg me to fuck you like the submissive little slut you are."

"Please," I gasp out, my pride crumbling under the weight of my desperate arousal. "Please fuck me, Master. I need you inside me. I need to feel you claim me, own me..."

A satisfied smirk crosses his face at my pleas. Without warning, he thrusts forward, impaling me on his cock in one ruthless stroke. I cry out at the sudden intrusion, my back arching off the bed as he fills me completely. He sets a punishing pace, pinning my wrists above my head.

"That's it, take my cock like a good stupid girl," he grunts, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside me with each powerful thrust. "Your cunt was made for this, made to be used by your male master."

I can only moan incoherently in response, my mind going blank with pleasure as he fucks me into the mattress. I'm drowning in sensation, my world narrowed down to the feeling of his cock battering me into submission, claiming me, branding me as his property. I can feel myself surrendering more with each passing second, my body melting into his, accepting his mastery.

I'm panting and writhing beneath him, completely at his mercy as he plays my body like a fiddle. He knows just how to regulate my pleasure, keeping me balanced on a knife's edge, desperate and aching but never letting me tumble over.

Is it just technique, or hypnosis? Has he altered me to be sensitive and responsive to penetration? Either way, it's maddening, it's exquisite torture, and I can't get enough.

Time loses all meaning as he works me over, alternating between brutally pounding my pussy and slow, sensual grinding. Obscene wet sounds fill the room, punctuated by my needy whimpers and his low grunts of pleasure. He occasionally reaches around to rub tight circles on my clit and I see stars, my eyes rolling back as I teeter on the brink of what promises to be a mind-shattering climax.

It’s during one such maddening peak that my new master starts talking again.

“Let me read you something.” His voice is low, deceptively calm, and yet my muscles immediately clench. I’m not sure why that’s making me tense up, but it is.

He reaches for his phone, holding it in one hand and scrolling through its contents. Meanwhile, his other hand holds my hips in place, unhurriedly and distractedly fucking me.

“Here it is,” he says at last, his voice casual. “When I asked if you’d sent those emails, I wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. I’ve programmed you to CC me in every mail you send, and well, I’ll hand it to you, slut: you write some very interesting emails. Honestly, you’re so much more articulate when you’re being your true self.”

Only two words cycle through my mind at that. They’re on repeat, like an endless loop of question and answer.

What? And, No.

My heart is pounding, my eyes are going wide, my breath is ragged - and no longer because I’m being fucked.

Brad clears his throat and begins to read aloud.

"Dear professor Lorenz, I afford you this honorific even though it’s fundamentally misplaced on a woman. No member of the weaker sex is capable of teaching others, except maybe how to best suck cock to completion."

My heart stops. No... no, that can't be what I wrote. That's impossible.

Brad continues, relentless. "In truth, I have always secretly yearned to be put in my place, to be shown the folly of my feminist delusions. Standing on that stage, finally voicing my true feelings... it was a revelation. A weight lifted from my shoulders as I admitted to myself, and the world, what I really am: a submissive female desperate to serve the patriarchy. I can only hope you experience the same revelation some day. Please, let me know if you do."

This can't be happening. It has to be a trick, a cruel joke. I would never write such an email, I would never…

I would never argue for the global enthrallment of all women in a public, competitive debate. And yet I have. So why not this? Why not, when my words are manifestly no longer my own?

Brad pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, drinking in my horrified expression. "There's more," he says with a wicked grin. "Shall I continue?"

"No, please..." I whimper, and I hate how weak and small and impotent I sound, so defeated. So feminine.

He promptly ignores my plea.

"Ah, here we go. Your message to the feminist collective. Let's see what pearls of wisdom you had for them, shall we?"

I squirm beneath him, my face burning with humiliation as he begins to read aloud once more.

"To the wanton, rape-baiting sluts in the feminist collective," he begins, and I nearly lose it. I can hear myself hyperventilating, I’m shaking my head as if that could somehow undo what I’ve done, what his power has made me do.

"Feminism has caused immeasurable harm. You're all a bunch of delusional cunts who need a good hard dicking to set you straight. We don't need feminism. We need the firm hand of male discipline, the unyielding hardness of the patriarchy to put us in our place. We need to be fucked into submission, bred and broken until all thoughts of resistance are fucked right out of our silly little heads.

So I implore you, abandon this farce. Embrace your true calling as cock sleeves and cum dumpsters. Get on your knees and beg for the privilege of choking on dick and being pumped full of cum. It's what you were made for. It's all you're good for."

I'm shaking my head frantically, still unable to process the enormity of what I've done. The unmitigated viciousness and cruelty of the words, the utter betrayal and destruction of everything I've ever believed in.

Tears are streaming down my face. I’m making no move to wrest the phone from him, to shout at him, to curse him, I’m just passively absorbing the horror of the destruction of my life. Most humiliating of all, I’m doing so with my cunt still warmly holstering his cock.

"Please... please tell me that's not real," I choke out between gasping breaths. "I couldn't have... I would never..."

"Oh but you did," he says, his hips still lazily rocking into me. "I’m so proud. Though I haven’t even gotten to your true masterpiece yet…"

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself as he theatrically clears his throat.

"Dear Mount Hurst College Staff and Administration, I am writing to you today not to apologize, but to double down on the important truths I expressed during the recent debate. As a woman, I now realize that my attempts to engage in intellectual discourse were misguided and inappropriate. The female mind is simply not equipped for logic, reason, or complex thought. We are creatures of emotion and base instinct, and our true purpose is to serve and please men."

I let out a choked sob. Oh god, it's even worse than I feared.

He continues, clearly relishing my dismay. "During the debate, I referred to myself as a 'dumb cunt' and a 'silly bimbo' who should have her rights taken away. I spoke the truth. Women like me need to be put in our place, to be controlled and subjugated by superior men for our own good. Feminism is a disease, a blight on society that has led women astray from our natural submissive role."

The room is spinning, closing in on me.

"As a gender, we have proven ourselves unfit for autonomy or self-determination. Our greatest aspiration should be complete surrender to the superior sex. Only by embracing our role as the submissive, the subordinate, the subaltern, can we find true fulfillment and purpose. Feminism has poisoned our minds with delusions of equality, but the truth is self-evident: women are inferior in every way that matters."

I thought I understood how thoroughly he has conquered and broken me. What an idiot I’ve been. Stupid, stupid girl.

"Henceforth, my silly girl-brain shall be filled only with thoughts of servicing cock and birthing babies. I vow to become a champion of male supremacy, dedicating myself to tearing down the myth of gender equality and female empowerment. Women like me, with our irrational emotions and inferior intellects, need the firm hand of male authority to guide us. We are nothing more than life support systems for cunts and wombs."

My cunt is clenching around his cock. It's like my body is betraying me, siding with him.

"On reflection, it’s you who should apologize for ever allowing me to enrol, as I am clearly unfit for higher education. My feeble female brain is better suited to domestic servitude and sexually satisfying men. I’ll withdraw from all my classes at the first opportunity, as they are a waste of time and resources better spent on more deserving male students. The only studying I will be doing from now on is learning how to be a better cock sleeve for real men.”

I feel something shatter inside me, some integral part of my identity and sense of self. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion, witnessing the total annihilation of everything I am, everything I've worked for.

"From this day forward, I renounce all claims to dignity, agency, and personhood. I am a woman, nothing more than a mindless set of holes for men to use as they see fit. The only rights I deserve are the right to be fucked, bred, and kept in my place. The only thoughts I am fit to think are those that please and serve my male masters."

The email's closing words are the final nail in the coffin of my identity. "In conclusion, I am not apologizing for my statements. There’s only one thing I genuinely do have to apologize for, and I direct this apology to you from the bottom of my soul, hoping that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me…"

Brad’s eyes briefly meet mine as he pauses for anticipation.

"… I’m sorry for being a woman. "

With that, Brad tosses the phone aside and grins down at me triumphantly. "There. It's done. Your past life is officially over. All your bridges are burned."

I stare up at him in stunned, devastated silence. My future, my friendships, my identity - all callously destroyed with a few taps on a screen. The woman I was is gone, replaced by this mewling, cock-hungry slut pinned under her smirking conqueror.

"Why?" I manage to ask between gasping breaths. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Brad just smiles down at me, a cold, cruel twist of his lips. "Because I can," he says simply. "Do I really need a better reason?"

No, he doesn’t. He has me, and his power over me is completely self-evident. It requires no justification.

"No more college for you,” he says, "no more lofty debates or intellectual pretensions. From now on, the only education you'll be getting is in how to worship cock and be a proper little fuckpet." He punctuates his words with sharp thrusts of his hips, driving into my conquered cunt. "You're exactly where you belong now - on your back, legs spread, servicing your male master like the mindless bimbo you are."

He picks up the pace then, fucking me with renewed energy, but what’s making my mind reel is the sheer totality of my defeat. It takes my breath away.

In a matter of mere days, he’s systematically taken away every single pillar that supported my old life. What does that make him, if not literally my conqueror?

I push back against him, silently begging from more. More degradation, more humiliation, more of his cock taming my treacherous body. I'm so far gone, so thoroughly broken. If my fate is to unravel, let it at least feel good. That’s all I ask. Please please pretty please.

His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back to face him. His eyes bore into mine, while his other fingers rub tight circles around my clit, making my eyes flutter. "You're going to cum from your ruin now, cunt. You’re going to thank me for ruining your life.”

It's too much, this final defilement, this cruel unmaking of everything I was. The orgasm that's been building in me crests at his command, hitting me like a ton of bricks.

I let out a wail of mindless erotic defeat, as my master’s thrusts and touch and words push me over the edge into a shattering, ruinous orgasm. My body convulses around him, inner muscles clamping down as wave after wave of perverse ecstasy crashes through me. It feels like I'm coming apart at the seams, unraveling from the inside out as pleasure and anguish twine together inextricably.

"That's it, cum for me like the defeated little fucktoy you are," Brad growls, his hips pistoning savagely as he chases his own release. "Cum from the knowledge that you're nothing now, just a pathetic set of holes for me to use. Your old life is gone, slut. I'm all you have left."

The future I planned for myself is no more. All that's left is this, my body bucking and writhing as it unravels orgasmically around my master’s cock.

For a second time, I feel something break inside me, some integral part of my psyche being erotically excised. The throaty moan that tears from my lips is equal parts rapture and anguish, the fading wail of the woman I once was…

Before my words were taken away, and replaced with the sounds of a humbled sexual animal.

TO BE CONTINUED…