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. He got to ruin my life, and now he gets to run it too. There is something so… primordial and predatory about that. Might makes right. A man staking his claim to his female conquest…

That’s hardly surprising. A woman's body, like her mind, is not built for war. Our defeat is inevitable, and so are its terrible consequences.

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.

It’s a slow and steady process, of course. But one which is already well underway.

My academic career and my reputation have been entirely obliterated. I have no friends anymore; word has surely got out about the unhinged emails I unknowingly sent out when I last had a keyboard at hand. Surely, if nothing else, people will notice I no longer have a room in the dorm.

For all I know, whispers could be getting out that I’ve moved in with master.

Everyone must think I’ve gone fucking insane. A crazy lunatic of a girl that shouldn’t be taken seriously under any circumstances. And so, the trap clamps further and further shut…

I don’t know any of this for sure. Somehow, not knowing makes it worse. My brain keeps torturing me with nightmare scenario after nightmare scenario, and it really doesn’t need to do that, because I’m already in a nightmare scenario, regardless of what people’s reaction is.

I’m confined to Brad’s apartment, under his… care. The range of sensory inputs that are available to me has been dramatically narrowed, and it feels like my intellect, my connection with the rest of humanity, my ability to think, are being eroded and stifled.

Every day is the same. I’m fucked and edged and fucked again, I prance around in my maid uniform, I perform my feminine duties - clean and cook, wash and dry, kneel and suck. I’ve been cut off from my life, my career, my aspirations. From the world, and from myself. I’m living according to the terms that Brad has imposed on me. I’m being progressively and systematically sculpted into something more in line with Brad’s tastes and interests.

There’s no fight left in me. I take it all, just like one would expect a woman to take a cock with no resistance - other than the perfunctory, performative kind that arouses men all the more. Like the spineless sexpet I am, I smile and curtsy for him, and call him master. I thank him for every insult, every violation, and every rare orgasm. I beg him for his approval, and for his mercy.

It’s humiliating, my complete inability to oppose this reduction in any capacity. And the humiliation goes straight to my clit, and makes it even harder to resist, which in turn makes the humiliation more intense, and the loop begins again. A spiral staircase, descending downward, deeper and deeper into the darkness.

I shouldn’t begrudge myself this weakness. I’m just a girl, and 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.

How could my mind ever resist, when 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 tentatively 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 the dinner I’ve cooked for him. I may have prepared the food, but I don’t get to eat yet. That will come after, as befits my servant status. It strikes me, once again, what a primordially effective understanding of domination my master has. It’s such an archetypal, instinctual way of showing his power over me. Resource control.

He occasionally runs his fingers through my hair, like I’m some kind of obedient dog… and it’s hard to argue against that, because I am so very well-behaved. I remain motionless under the table, primly and properly kneeling at his feet, hands folded in my lap, gaze lowered in a show of submission.

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 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, checking my slutty eagerness. I maintain a gentle rhythm, suckling and lapping at the tip of his cock as he eats. So well-mannered. So docile. So unassuming, even in debasing sexuality.

As any slave girl should be.

I maintain a gentle seal around him, sucking him off lazily and unhurriedly, almost like I’m cradling his cock with my conquered lips. His fingers card through my hair as I suckle, a silent approval of my deferential ministrations. I lean into his touch like a cat being petted and close my eyes, focusing on my duty. The world narrows down to the feel of his cock against my tongue. Nothing else matters, not the hard floor beneath my knees, not the faint ache in my lower back. There is only this, only him.

I delicately swirl my tongue around the head, emitting a soft mmmh as I lap up drops of precum.

At last, master pulls his cock free from my mouth.

"Sometimes I think I should record you while you do this," he says from above, putting down his utensils and shifting backwards in his chair. "We could upload it somewhere, say it’s your new feminist podcast."

My breath hitches in my throat as I shudder. Not again. Please, not again. You’ve taken everything already, just enjoy me!

The thought makes me dizzy with dread, because it’s believable. It's exactly the sort of thing he's already done to destroy me. The debate. The emails.

For a heartbeat, I'm teetering on the edge of panic. My breathing quickens, my pulse pounds in my ears. The urge to flee, to hide, to do something, anything to prevent this ulterior humiliation is almost overwhelming.

But then, a grim realization settles over me. What exactly am I trying to protect? My reputation? I don't have one anymore. He's made sure of that. My life? What life? Everything I was, everything I had, it's all gone. Stripped away piece by piece until nothing remains but this - a naked slave girl kneeling at her master's feet.

It shouldn’t be calming, to tell myself that my life is already destroyed anyway. And yet, it is. My fate was sealed the moment master first sank his claws into my psyche.

So I just look up at him from under the table, with bovine feminine docility, and wait to see if he actually means it.

Maybe he doesn’t, maybe he does. But evidently, not for right now. He stands up, his cock still hard and glistening with his own precum, and gestures for me to follow.

My stomach grumbles, but there’s nothing for it now. I obey his nonverbal command with perfect Pavlovian training, crawling in his wake like a loyal pet. 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 time it is?" he asks. "It’s time for another lesson."

I whimper softly, my body trembling in arousal under his grip. Lesson. I know what that’s a euphemism for. How much more poison is he going to pour into my mind? How much more is he going to excise from my identity? Is there even anything left to take anymore? It’s hard to believe. I feel so hollowed out already.

A broken shell of a girl.

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 me into his dog. And he’s about to push that even further.

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 have a fun activity in mind for you tonight.”

I don’t respond. My mouth is busy anyway - gently suckling at master’s cock while he’s sitting on the sofa. It’s what he likes to call the lounging position. It started out with just meals, but now, every time he’s in a leisurely mood - reading, watching anything, or relaxing - I have to rush to holster his cock with my warm wet mouth.

I’m furniture. An accessory. Decorative, useful, pleasant, and well-trained.

He’s been scrolling on what used to be my phone for a while now, though I haven’t presumed to ask what he’s been up to… nor do I presume to ask what he has in mind right now. I’m sure he’ll tell me. My job is far simpler than that, comfortingly so. I just have to warm his cock with my mouth, and listen, and do everything he tells me.

Really, you can’t get it wrong.

I am surprised, however, when his cock withdraws from my mouth with a wet pop. I look up at Master, questioningly.

Master leads me by the hand to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. My body is already flushed with arousal from suckling his cock, my nipples stiff peaks and my pussy slick and needy. He hasn’t let me cum in a few days, and it’s certainly making me more malleable… eager…

He positions me directly in front of the mirror, my nude reflection staring back at me.

I hardly recognize myself. My eyes are glassy and submissive, my expression one of wanton desperation. The strong, defiant feminist is gone, replaced by this mewling cock-sleeve.

Master steps back, just out of view of the mirror. "Look at yourself," he says. "Really look. See the pathetic slut you've become. Touch yourself while you look."

I stare into the mirror, transfixed by my own desperate, needy reflection. My hands begin to roam over my body as if of their own accord, caressing my breasts, tweaking my nipples, dipping between my thighs to tease my aching cunt.

"That's it," master says. "Rub your silly little clit until your IQ is dripping out of your fuck holes."

I moan wantonly, my fingers speeding up. There’s just enough of me left that I sense there’s a trap waiting for me, somewhere ahead, but I don’t care. Too much of my dwindling brain power is reserved for rubbing myself stupid, and for kneading my tits.

"Your friends have been messaging you, you know," Brad says casually, nodding towards my phone in his hands.

Friends? I don’t have friends, not anymore. I rub my clit in desperate circles, my body shaking with need.

"Tessa and Ralf, mostly," master continues. "They seem… concerned about your sudden disappearance."

My breath hitches at the mention of their names. Tessa, Ralf… a pang of longing shoots through me, even as my fingers continue to stimulate my slave clit. No mention of Becky, I note. Maybe no surprise… she was so, so angry at me.

"Isn't that sweet," master muses, a cruel edge to his voice. "They still care about poor little Claudia. Too bad she doesn't exist anymore. There's only a dumb fuckpet now, isn't there?"

Brad, I try to remember, his name is Brad. But the thought disappears just as fast as it surfaced.

"Yes, Master," I say instead, my voice breaking. "I'm just a - ah! - a dumb fuckpet, a set of - oh! - holes for you to use..."

The words fall from my lips unbidden, automatic, even as my cunt clenches around my fingers. It's true, all of it.

"I think you should reassure them that you’re okay and safe," master says. "It’s the right thing to do."

He hands me my own phone.

I take it in one hand, as the other keeps circling my clit, and I look at it with puzzled confusion, as if I’ve forgotten what it is and what it does. I haven’t held it in so long. What does he want me to do with it?

He must know how dumb and empty I am, because he helpfully supplies the answer without me needing to ask the question. "Turn on the camera," he says. "Point it at the mirror, fuckpet. Tell your friends how nice you have it. Tell them what you’ve learned, and what you really are."

I stare at him, and for a second, my fingers almost stop. Almost. But then, they resume their work. I’m too stupefied and apathetic to even feel genuine horror anymore. My life is already in ruins. What’s one more humiliation?

Besides, it doesn’t matter how I feel. Master's word is law. His will is absolute. If he wants me to debase myself for the camera, to show everyone just how far I've fallen... then that's exactly what I'll do.

With shaking hands, I open the camera app and point the phone at the mirror with my free hand. And then, I hit the record button.

"H-hey everyone," I say, my voice trembling. "Tessa, Ralf, you guys especially… I know you've been worried about me. I just wanted to let you know that I'm okay. I'm safe."

My fingers speed up, rubbing tight circles around my clit as I speak. It's so hard to concentrate, to form coherent thoughts when all I can focus on is the pleasure building inside me.

"The truth is," I continue, panting softly. "The truth is that f-f-feminism is but the siren of f-f-false equality. 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.”

I moan, my back arching as master nods for me to continue.

"Women are inherently weak - ah! - and I’m no exception. I'm… I'm a pathetic trick-turning slut."

Words have power. Evil words have evil power. They’re pouring out of my subjugated mind, just like my juices are starting to dribble down my thighs. "My only purpose is to worship cock. To be a vessel for male pleasure, a receptacle for cum. I'm too dumb for anything else, too weak and emotional to be trusted with autonomy or rights. I’m not even a person anymore. I never should have been… ahhh…"

I nearly bend over, squirming in place from the pleasure, trying to keep the phone steady as it films. "D-d-don’t worry if you don’t see me around anymore… the only education a woman needs is how to be a better fucktoy."

I can hardly believe the words coming out of my own mouth, but I know in my conquered soul that they are true. My fingers are a blur between my legs, my breath coming in short, desperate pants as I stare at my debased reflection.

"Women's liberation was a mistake, an abomination. We need to be put back in our place, collared and leashed like the dumb animals we are."

My body writhes obscenely as I rant. I’m humping my own fingers. My clit is throbbing under my touch, my pussy clenching around nothing, aching to be filled. I'm so empty, so needy. I need to be fucked, bred, put in my place. I need to be reminded of what I am.

"T-t-the way you see me now, it’s my natural state. T-Tessa, you should try… try and kneel before Ralf, look up at him, and t-t-tell me you don’t love the view… do away with words, spread your lips, and suck his cock. You owe him, for spending so many years around him, pretending to be his equal."

I can feel my climax building. My face is flushed, my skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. I look wrecked, wanton, completely lost in my own depravity. I look like a conquered whore.

I'm so close, so fucking close. Just a little more, a few more words to shatter the last vestiges of my dignity…

Brad suddenly gestures for me to pause the recording. I freeze, my hand stilling between my legs, my breath coming in ragged gasps. He steps into frame behind me, his hands coming to rest possessively on my hips.

"Here's the deal, slut," master continues, his tone dripping with cruel anticipation. "I'll let you cum, let you have the mind-breaking orgasm you so desperately need… but only if you upload this video to all your social media. Every platform, every account, so the whole world can see what a docile beast of sexual burden you've become."

I fully expected him to spring something like this on me. It’s a punch to my gut all the same, driving the air out of me. Upload this myself? Willingly broadcast my own degradation, my complete submission and defeat, to everyone I know? It’s… it’s forced self-destruction. He’s asking me to plant the final nail in the coffin of my old life.

No… not asking.

And really, what more do I have to lose? And if I accept, I do have to gain, gain relief from the constant torturous arousal. I really am just like an animal, aren’t I? A creature of pure instinct and need, governed by my basest urges.

Just as evolution always intended me to be.

And right now, I need to cum more than I need to cling to the tattered remnants of my dignity.

"Yes, Master," I whimper, my voice small and broken. "I'll do it. I'll upload it. Please, just let me cum…"

Master chuckles darkly. "Alright then. Resume filming, and don't you dare stop until you've cum your brains out for the camera."

With trembling fingers, I hit record once more and turn back to face my reflection. I look utterly debauched, my hair a wild mess, my skin flushed and gleaming, my eyes glassy with lust. The perfect picture of a conquered fucktoy.

"Every time a woman says no," I say, "it’s just a ‘yes’ that hasn’t been fucked out of us yet."

I’m so fucking close again in a matter of mere seconds. Too overstimulated. Too long spent without cumming my brains out. Good girls get to cum. Good girls get to give up their dignity and their IQ in exchange for cummies. I’m a good girl.

"One day, men will run out of patience, and it’ll be so spectacular, how quickly they bring us back to heel. How easily. How thoroughly. How permanently."

I'm right on the precipice, my body wound tight as a bowstring, my lips trembling. I’m a pitiful image of whorish desperation. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my core, my climax barreling down on me like a freight train.

"They’ll do so with words," I say. "That’s all that’s needed to end our independence…"

I meet my own eyes in the mirror, glassy and submissive. The eyes of a hopeless bimbo, a broken toy.

"Words are for people, and we’re just animals. I’ve said it before, but… I’m sorry for being a woman -"

The dam breaks. With a wordless scream, I cum harder than I ever have before. The orgasm rips through me like a tidal wave, my vision whiting out, my body convulsing. I'm dimly aware that I've collapsed to my knees, that the phone has clattered to the floor, still recording.

It’s right next to me, but it might as well be a million miles away. I arch my back on my knees, riding out this seemingly endless wave of female defeat and slavish pleasure that fries my brain, one neuron at a time. Each aftershock sends bolts of white-hot bliss sizzling through my nerve endings, frying my synapses, burning away any lingering traces of independent thought.

What a shame I’m not filming his. I’m sure I’m the very image of a woman unmade.

I kneel there, shuddering and mewling through the slow climbdown, my mind shattered into a million submissive pieces. I've cum my brains out, just like master ordered. I've erased myself. My brain feels like its been scooped out, replaced with nothing but a dense fog of submissive, cock-hungry static.

When I look inward, I can’t find Claudia anymore. Just fuckpet.

Through that fog, one thought crystallizes with perfect, terrifying clarity - this is my life now. This empty-headed, cum-drunk servility.

In a daze, I take the phone and stop the recording. With just a few taps, I upload the video of my complete ruin to every social media account I have. I don't hesitate. This is my new truth, my reality. Let the world see what I've become.

Let them hear my evil words, and feel their evil power.

TO BE CONTINUED…