Language is oppression.

Words have the power to liberate, but they also have the power to enthrall. A simple idea, a radical idea. That’s how I called it, right? The basis of feminist, queer theory. That language has been used to oppress, to keep down, to maintain the status quo – and that’s why it’s up to us to use it to strike down each other’s chains instead.

But I never really understood the true coercive power of language, until Brad held me close, fixed his eyes on mine, and poured his poisoned words straight into my mind. Now, every little thing seems amplified in my mind, scary and terrifying.

Take the word terms for example.

Brad used language to reframe our interaction as a conflict, a war. One with a winner, and a loser. He extracted unconditional surrender out of me, and had a list of terms for how my life would change, under his oversight.

It makes me shiver to think about it like that. His terms for me. He’s bested me, and now he gets to run my life. There is something so… primordial and predatory about that. Might makes right. A man staking his claim to his female conquest…

The terms run through my head in a loop, each so fill with evocative power that it strikes me with the force of a physical blow. Brad will sculpt me. Brad will tame me. I will be broken and deconstructed and dismantled.

He says he’ll end me, and I know what he means by that. He’ll end my independence; my claim to equality; my ability to have a career, and boundaries, and a personal life, and rights.

He’ll crush me in his fist, and make me into his thing.

Which is why my heart is pounding like crazy in my chest, as I let my suitcases thump to the floor of his dimly-lit apartment.

He’s looking at me.

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 a friend and ask for help. Run far and far away. Or stew angrily 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 as I strip down to nothing. I unbutton my blouse and slide my skirt down, and just like that, I’m standing before him in just my bra and panties.

"On your knees," he purrs. "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.

A hand closes around my hair, strong and possessive, yanking my face up. "What are you?"

The answer comes unbidden. "Yours."

"And what is your purpose?" His smile is a twisted thing, all lust 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.

"Let’s start with this. That’s what you’ll be wearing from now on,” he says, nodding towards a bundle of clothing on the sofa’s armrest.

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, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind at the unexpected intrusion.

"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 fuck toy, a living, breathing piece of meat for my amusement," he says, and I mewl in agreement.

I am nothing but clay in his hands now, 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…

"Now then." He straightens. "Go make me dinner, slave."

***

Women are inferior in every way. Emotionally fragile, intellectually stunted, suited only for serving men and bearing their children. Feminism is a joke, female empowerment a pathetic fantasy. A woman's place is on her knees before her male superiors…

And a woman’s terms, well, that is for the man to decide.

My mind is trying to resist, even as the roots of the mantras strangle it. Because my feeble mind can only do so much, in opposition to my body showing the way. Every time I try to set my thoughts straight, to put them back on track, I –

You're a silly little cunt who needs a firm hand to guide you.

I bite my lower lip.

Surrender is the natural state of woman. You’ll be so much happier when you accept that.

I moan.

You’re clay for him to mold as he pleases, putty in the hands of a master sculptor crafting his perfect woman, his perfect slave.

I kneel.

Brad sits at the head of the table, eating slowly, deliberately, each bite punctuated by a caress of my hair or a soft murmur of approval. I remain motionless under the table, kneeling at his feet, hands folded in my lap, gaze lowered in a show of submission.

I cooked for him, but I don’t get to eat yet. That will come after, as befits my servant status.

His caresses turn to a gentle but firm tugging. Of course, the picture would not be complete without this further act of debasement, would it? Is there a more masculine way to enjoy dinner than this? With your conquest under the table, ready to… to…

I don't hesitate. I lean forward, my breasts pressed against his leg, and wrap my lips around his cock. He’s hard already, hard over his victory and my destruction. I suckle greedily, my tongue flicking over the head. I’m his lapdog.

I don’t want to disturb his dinner, so I slow down my pace, check my slutty eagerness. I maintain a gentle rhythm, suckling and bathing his cock as he eats. So well-mannered. So prim and proper. So unassuming even in debasing sexuality.

As any slave girl should be.

After what feels like hours, Brad finally finishes his meal. He pulls his cock free from my mouth, and I can feel the precum on my lips.

"That was... satisfactory," he says, his voice a low growl. "Now, let's see what else you can do for me."

He stands up, his cock still hard and glistening with his own precum. I crawl in his wake, my body trembling with anticipation. Once we enter his bedroom – the master bedroom, really, in more ways than one - he unceremoniously lifts me up, and throws me atop his bed.

He lurks forward, with the steady grace of a hunter, climbing on top of me. His frame is so big, enough to make me disappear under him, the way women have been disappearing in men’s shadow since time immemorial.

He grabs me by the hair, pulling my head back, and in one swift motion, he thrust his hips forward. I can feel his cockhead pressing against my entrance, and I moan loudly as he pushes inside.

Fuck. I’m so lubricated, so ready for him, and there’s no logical reason for me to be. No reason… except the oppressive power of language. Except his terms for me.

With each thrust, he drives deeper into me, claiming me completely. I feel every inch of him stretching and filling me, conquering me. He pounds into me, his hips slapping against mine as his rhythm picks up.

I’m not even fucking him back. I’m just a fleshlight, a relief hole for him to use. A captured feminist with clipped wings, writhing under his male boot like a fucking worm who deserves to be stomped into the ground.

"You know what you are?" he asks. "You're nothing but a worthless piece of pussy, existing only for the pleasure of the stronger sex."

I whimper softly, my body trembling in arousal under his grip.

My body… I need to let it show me the way. I wrap my legs around him, urging him to go deeper, harder. I’m lost in the sensation of being used, of being nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure, a receptacle for his cum.

No matter how deep he fucks me, though, he’s already gone deeper when he got inside my head, when he turned my mind against itself, transformed it into his dog. And as he thrusts forward as far as he can go, and one hand wraps around my throat, I’m forced to look into his eyes…

And that is the truest meaning of being utterly, completely fucked.

***

I crawl to Master like a common animal. Even like this, reduced on hands and knees, my gait is wobbly, unsteady.

It’s the conditioning. My mind feels like a tangle of wires, impossible to unpick and unravel, confused, fuzzy. I feel it turn softer, mushier, with every passing day.

Master grabs my hair, yanking my head back to meet his gaze. I must make for quite the sight, glassy-eyed and unfocused, warm and sticky cum dripped from my chin.

Master makes for quite the sight too, sitting on the edge of his bed, his powerful frame towering over me. His eyes are alight with mockery, with sheer and unadulterated contempt for the pathetic creature he had reduced me to.

He nods towards the sheet of paper on the ground next to me. "Read it aloud, slut."

It shouldn’t feel as humiliating as it does. After all, I  know exactly what’s written on the page… I wrote it myself, it’s in my own handwriting. And yet, my fingers tremble as I lift up the page to begin reading.

"F-f-feminism is but the siren of f-f-false equality," I begin, unsteady, acutely aware of the cum drying against my skin.  “A woman’s place is on her knees. The presumption of female ambition must be punished. How to punish it is for a man to say, because a woman’s terms are his to set.”

Master nods for me to continue.

"Women are inherently weak," I say, wondering where the perforrmance ends, and true conviction begins. How far can you obey someone before you become the orders you’re carrying out? Before his views become your own?

"Their emotional nature clouds their ability to think logically or make decisive actions. They are created to serve men, to fulfill their every whim and desire without question."

“Not bad,” Master says, patting my head like he would a dog’s, and to my mortified embarrasment, that makes me nearly squeal with glee. “Certainly better than the droll nonsense you used to spout during your beloved debates. I will expect more creativity from you in the future, but I guess this is just good enough for you to earn… this.”

He lifts up a hand, showing me the gleaming black leather collar that will seal my status as little more than his pet. God, I can’t believe he’s making me feel like I had to earn this collar, like my job was barely sufficient because my misogynistic statements weren’t sufficiently original.

It’s negging. Gaslighting.

Assertion of rightful dominance.

"There now," he says with smug satisfaction as he buckles the collar around my neck. "Isn't that better? Now everyone will know exactly what you are—my property, to do with as I please. Not a person, but a stupid animal."

He gives the leash an experimental tug, jerking my head up. "Crawl," he commands.

I’m used to crawling. The dizzines induced by my conditioning is so strong that I have trouble maintaining my balance when I stand up, unless it’s for purely utilitarian things like chores – cooking, cleaning, all the tasks a woman is biologically predisposed to.

In all other occasions… the floor is where I belong, as befits a pet.

But now that I’m not just crawling on my own, now that I have to actually follow Master and fall in behind his rhythm, I’m made more aware of my humiliating clumsiness, even on hands and knees. I sway left and right, struggling for balance. I react too late when he stops abruptly, and he has to drag me along for a few seconds when he resumes walking.

I’m slow on the uptake. My reflexes are shot. I’m just plain dumb.

All women are, I suppose. It’s pathetic we ever dared think ourselves their equal. Men are human, we are not. They’re our kings, our gods, and we are just dirt beneath their feet.

I’m revolted by my past arrogance, my feminist naïvete. How did I ever think I could finish uni, find work, amount to anything? I’m too stupid to even gracefully follow Master as he leads me around the apartment. That’s the measure of my lack of worth. Really, my only useful contribution to humanity is lying down and being fucked.

Being his pet. His plaything. An object built for his pleasure and amusement.

My hands and knees begin to ache, but I don't dare slow down or complain. I simply follow where he leads, wondering with a mix of dread and arousal how much deeper he intends to take my transformation. How far he means to push my submission. Because right now, it’s hard to imagine that there could be even more.

Brad is a master sculptor, chiseling away at my hard-fought identity day after day, revealing the docile, submissive, subhuman female creature hidden beneath. Every day, he’ll have me write statements about women, about myself, about the superiority of men, signing them with my own name.

Maybe he’ll even publish some for me online, on my own social media spaces, if he finds them good enough.

He’ll feed me from his plate once I’m properly tamed, tossing me morsels of food like one would with any affectionate animal companion. Or maybe I’ll have to eat out of a bowl. The sound of my collar jingling with each submissive lap from my bowl will carve a deeper groove into my shattered psyche.

And of course, to properly condition me, he’ll fuck me silly. Fuck me stupid. Fuck me into subjugation. He’ll work her pussy relentlessly, turning me into a moaning, writhing mess with his fingers and mouth, then switching to his cock, stretching me out until I scream Master!  

Broken, drooling, eyes rolling upwards, my hips bucking against him like the mindless animal naturre always intended me to be.

That just leads me back to my original question, however.

Can there be… even more?