I’m being pulled.

Rhys has strong hands. The kind of wiry, masculine hands a girl with my proclivities is likely to fixate about in minute detail. Hands sculpted to take a girl apart. Hands that can make you feel small and weak when he cups your cheek, or lifts your chin.

When Rhys uses those hands to tug at my slut strands, it’s like he’s yanking on a leash.

I follow the leash’s tug, like I am supposed to, and I inevitably find myself taking his cock down my throat.

I blink through watery eyes, trying all I can not to gag, and mostly failing.

My throat contracts around him and I can't breathe for a moment. That fills me with just the right amount of fear. We should be afraid of our superiors, those who can muzzle and choke us with nothing more than a pair of hands and a cock.

Rhys knows exactly what he's doing. He eases back just enough to let me gasp before he pulls again, setting a rhythm I have no choice but to follow.

"Good girl."

I melt at the praise. I've given blowjobs before, of course, but never like this. I was always pretty much in control of the act, from start to finish. Guys seemed happy to just lie back and let me suck them off. This… this is something else entirely.

The difference between giving and taking.

He twists my slut strands tighter around his fist, forcing me to take him deeper. I make a sound of choked, almost animalistic female submission that makes me feel quintessentially feminine as his cock claims primacy over oxygen when it comes to my throat. That instills a healthy fear of my conqueror in me... and a healthy arousal, too. My pussy is dripping wet.

"Turns you on like crazy, doesn’t it, slut," Rhys says, not really asking. "Being handled."

I can't answer with my mouth full, but my eyes water as I look up at him. He reads something in my expression that makes him smile, that confident smirk that made me hate him when we first met. Now it makes my cunt clench with need.

"I knew it the moment I saw you with these," he says, tugging the thin strands of hair framing my face. "Take it all the way, pet. Show me what a good little filly you can be."

The word "filly" sends a shocking jolt of sexual arousal through me so intense, I moan around his cock. It’s so accurate. This is exactly what it must feel like, for a spirited horse, being broken in by a skilled rider.

The feeling of being constrained, corralled, and directed. Resistance, structurally weakening, until it becomes compliance with the reins…

Two weeks ago, I would have slapped anyone who dared speak to me this way.

Two weeks ago, I still thought a woman was a man’s equal, and to even suggest the horse-and-rider analogy as a valid model for gender relations would have seemed unthinkable. Blasphemous to my feminist orthodoxy.

The fault, really, lies with my two weeks of forced inactivity after an injury. The doctor had been clear: no riding until my back healed completely. I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, away from the stables.

No surprise there. Having a consuming, special interest, and being forced to abstain from it, is hell on earth. Two weeks away from the one thing that filled my brain with happy chemicals was more than enough to send my thoughts spiralling. And spiral they did, as I seemed to lose control over more and more aspects of my everyday life.

My normally curly hair was getting so unruly.

Without my usual regimen of training and competitions, I no longer had a structure to my day. Not so shocking then that I did the most predictable thing ever: I spent my days mindlessly scrolling through social media, in desperate search for some crumb of dopamine that they couldn’t really give me.

But I did find a video of a girl getting ready for a night out, styling her hair by deliberately leaving two thin strands hanging loose at the front.

"And don't forget the slut strands," she said with a wink.

I'd scoffed, rolling my eyes at that stupid (not to mention misogynistic) name. The comments were filled with jokes about "handle bars" and "something to hold onto while she gives you head" which just made me even angrier. Yet I found myself returning to similar videos, watching different girls create the same look.

One morning, the whim struck me. I straightened my normally curly hair, pulled most of it back into a ponytail… and then, did just as the influencer recommended. I didn’t forget about the slut strands.

When I saw my complete handiwork in the mirror, the transformation shocked me. Gone was the polished equestrian with her controlled curls and subtle makeup. The woman staring back at me looked... well, I suppose slutty, that’s the point of slut strands, available and sexually eager. Approachable. Provocative.

A hot flush spread across my chest and up my neck. I should have been embarrassed. Instead, I couldn’t look away.

"Handle bars," I whispered, remembering the comments. Something inside me clenched at the thought of hands gripping those pigtails, using them to control me the way I used reins to control my horse.

I reached up and gave one strand an experimental tug. The slight pull against my scalp sent an unexpected thrill down my spine. I did it again, harder this time, and gasped at the sensation. Without thinking, I slid my other hand between my legs, shocked to find myself already wet.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I snap back to the present moment as Rhys tightens his grip on those very same slut strands.

"Relax your throat," he says.

Easier said than done. My gag reflex won’t just disappear with words alone. Of course, that is sort of a moot point, because he’s not dominating me with words, but with his much stronger body and will. He’s not expecting me to internalise and understand his instructions, just to comply with ruthlessly imposed discipline. And I will. Because that’s what girls do when guys stake their claim on us.

The process of trying to submit to this reconditioning is exactly like the training of some newly domesticated animal, isn’t it? He’s mastering and re-programming my physiology, imparting in me a skill that will only be useful to him: being a better cocksucker.

In fact, not even that. It’s more passive and degrading, because cocksucker implies a level of agency that I distinctly lack at the moment. I’m being reduced to something less than a participant.

Rhys is subduing me into a pliable throat-holster for his cock.

He pulls me all the way down to the hilt and I gag again, my body reflexively protesting the intrusion. My eyes well with tears as cock replaces oxygen down my airway, and my body accepts that this is what it feels like to be conquered.

The thought of my own surrender makes me horny as fuck.

I blink and take him again, and again, following where he leads and losing myself in the molten, dizzying sensation of helplessness. I never thought that giving head could have such a methodical quality, but well... up and down, up and down, gluk gluk gluk, if this isn’t meditative, then what is?

It’s also meditative to consider how little control I have of the situation. Rhys is so much stronger than me, and I have no choice but to submit to his sexual mastery as he pulls my strands tighter, using them like reins. With my mouth full and the air barely passing through my nose, I'm reduced to the fleshy mechanics of a single, subjugated task.

A task that leaves me wetter than any other type of sex ever has.

I'm losing track of all thought except one: how can something so humiliating feel so unbearably good? I know that Rhys wouldn't stop even if I could tell him, even if I wanted him to stop. The smile on his face, smug and triumphant, tells me everything.

It is his right to fuck my mouth. Right of conquest.

"That's enough," Rhys says suddenly, and I feel a sharp tug on my slut strands as he pulls me off his cock.

I gasp for air, coughing as I breathe in sweet lungfuls of air. It does feel good to breathe unimpeded... but I already find myself missing the feeling of being plugged and muzzled by his dick. How fucked up am I?

Fucked up enough that I’m overjoyed when Rhys doesn’t give me time to fully catch my breath.

"Up."

My legs obey without consulting my brain.

Rhys doesn't release my hair. Instead, he uses it like reins to guide me across the room, like it really is a leash or a set of reins. I follow without hesitation, allowing myself to be led toward his desk.

"Bend over," he says, applying pressure to the back of my neck with his free hand.

I comply immediately, folding at the waist until my cheek presses against the cool wood surface. There’s a kind of profound erotic surrender in that moment, pressing my face against the wood and exhaling, almost a serene acceptance of my fate as a woman.

Like any animal being brought to heel would do, I find myself adjusting my posture to communicate my acceptance of his dominion. I arch my back, pushing my ass higher, offering myself to him.

He keeps one hand firmly wrapped in my hair. With his other hand, he pushes my panties to the side.

I feel his cock pressing against my sex, but only to a point. He’s teasing me. For a few cruel seconds, he does nothing but rub himself against my slick cunt, coating his dick in my juices.

"Tell me what you want," he says.

My mind goes blank for a moment. What do I want? The old Cassidy would hate any of the answers I’m likely to give, but I'm not that person anymore. Not since the moment I looked in the mirror with these slut strands framing my face.

"I want you to control me."

More rubbing. Mmmnngghhh... gonna drive me crazy.

"Why should I?"

The answer comes from somewhere deep inside me: this isn’t really just about sex. Sex is the mechanism to slam it home, sure, but it’s more... existential than that. It’s the riding analogy for gender relations. "You're the better rider," I say. "I’m sorry I ever pretended to be your peer competitor. I'm more fit to be your filly."

Oh, he likes that.

"Demote me," I say. "Dominate me… domesticate me—"

That does it. Without further preamble, my rival-turned-master finally begins to fuck me back to my proper place in society. My cunt yields to him, stretching to accommodate his cock, because this is what nature intended for the sexes.

"Feel that?" he says, fucking me. "That's what it feels like to be ridden."

I do feel it. Face down on the desk and used like a ball-emptying, cum-drawing object. He keeps my hair wrapped tight around his fist, which just further drives home the point that I’m just some dumb animal being broken in to the saddle.

My pussy walls clench greedily around his cock, and my responsiveness to his inputs further encourages him to master me. He fucks me faster and harder. My body responds to his direction without my conscious input, accepting his dominance like it's the most natural thing in the world.

There clearly is a difference, between simply having sex and getting fucked. I’m learning that first-hand, now. Sex is good, but getting fucked?

Being broken in and broken down to the level of a farm animal that only exists for his convenience?

I feel simultaneously more like a woman and less like a human being.

Sex may be my conqueror’s due, but what he’s doing to me, it's a redistribution of power—one that feels inevitable, like gravity. Beneath all my carefully constructed identity as a modern feminist and a talented equestrian, was this: a female animal, designed to be dominated and bred.

The truth is written in my body's response to Rhys. There's a natural order I've been fighting all my life.

I let out a pathetic horny yelp when he brings one hand down hard on my ass.

"What do you say to that?"

Any woman in my position would know how to answer such question, because it is in the female nature to be mastered. "Thank you, Sir."

I should feel humiliated—bent over like this, being fucked like an animal—but all I feel is horny.

The most destructive feeling of them all.

After that first day with the slut strands, I couldn't stop. Once I'd touched myself in front of that mirror, something had broken open inside me.

I spent hours online after that, reading about submissive fantasies — first in the abstract, then first person accounts, and finally, erotic stories. I spent hours masturbating myself silly to stories I found online, and the more I did it, the harsher I wanted the stories to be.

And when the high I got from them was no longer enough, I knew I’d have to do something real, and something very stupid, to enjoy this feeling to the fullest.

That’s why I sought out Rhys.

I'd seen him at competitions for years. We didn’t know each other well, but his smile made me think of him as an arrogant prick. We may not have technically been rivals, but I didn’t like him. Which made him perfect for my horny self.

Well, mission accomplished…

He'll never look at me as an equal competitor again. How could he, after seeing me like this? After fucking me like this?

Worse, I'll never see myself as his equal. How could I? A horse is not equal to its master.

Fucking hell, my cunt is trying to milk his dick in desperation at the thought of me being his filly, what does that say about me? It says that I’m a pathetic fucking loser and I should have thrown myself at his feet the moment we first met, that’s what it fucking says about me.

This is that critical moment, that threshold that marks the end of independence. The event horizon, where resistance gives way to acceptance, where a dumb animal finally recognises her place in the hierarchy.

Like a well-trained mount, I'm yielding to the signals from my rider.

"Good filly," he says, and ohhhh fffffff —

My mind empties of everything but this moment, this sensation. The world narrows to the points of contact between us: his hand in my hair and his cock in my cunt. I suppose there’s also his other hand, now snaking between my thighs to add to my overstimulation, but most important of all, there’s his mind, enveloping mine and crushing it.

My conqueror is giving my mind a new form, a new direction, and a purpose. To be more specific, a lesser form, a direction imposed by him, and his own purpose. And why not? If I’m too weak to stop him, why shouldn’t he just domesticate me?

His fingers find my clit, and as he begins to rub, my eyes roll back into my skull. The sensory assault is too much. My brain can’t — I —

"No," he says. "You don't come until I say so."

I bite my lip, trying to hold back the tide of pleasure threatening to overwhelm me. This, too, is training—teaching me that even my orgasms belong to him now.

Of course I need permission. We humans expect our domesticated animals to follow a very narrow range of behaviours, which we approve of and that benefit us in some way. Why would men expect any less of women? Especially when it comes to controlling our bodies.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle against my body's natural response. His fingers continue their relentless assault on my clit while his cock fills me completely with each thrust. I’m... I can’t... ggnnnhh —

"Please," I say, begging like a whimpering dog. "Please let me come…"

"Who owns this pussy?"

"You do! Ahh... Ahhh... Ohhh..."

"And who decides when it comes?"

"You... you do... Sir!"

His grip on my hair tightens, pulling my head back further. "That's right. I do. Because?"

I know what he wants to hear. What I need to say.

It’s a truth that's been growing inside me since I first looked in that mirror with my slut strands.

"Because I was never meant to be a rider! I was meant to be the filly, the pet! I'm yours! I surrender!"

Never have any words felt more powerfully sexual than these. I’ve declared myself a pet, living property. Not a person with agency, but a thing to be owned. In a way, I have just pledged my allegiance to the patriarchy. Women like me aren't meant to struggle against our nature; we're meant to accept the bridle and bit, the boot and the crop, the firm hand of a superior rider, and naturally his cock as well. The domesticating grip of a man.

"Good girl," he says. "Now you can come."

The orgasm hits me with the force of a hammer striking a pane of glass. My limbs shake, and my pussy contracts violently around his cock. I'm vaguely aware of making noise—a long, whorish, howling, desperate sound of female weakness.

Weakness, because I'm being tamed like I’m a stupid animal. A lesser beast. Not fully human. Inferior, destined to be his submissive in all things, not just in bed, but in every aspect of life.

Is that why the patriarchy exists? Do men just know how to domesticate us? If they do… I accept it. I do pledge my loyalty to them.

And to him.

"Taking it all," Rhys says, clearly close himself. "Like a good filly."

He drives deep one final time and holds there, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside me. He cums, and cums, and cums, marking me from the inside as part of his territory. He stays there, triumphantly impaling my cunt, ensuring his cum stays deep within me. The semiotics of such conquest could not be clearer: the stallion breeding his mare.

My body welcomes his cum, it’s what it was made for. My cunt squeezes around him to milk every drop, it knows its duty.

Eventually, the waves of pleasure finally begin to recede. I lie limp against the desk, unable to move a muscle. Rhys has hollowed me out, fucked the edge of feminism right out of me.

"So good," he says. "That's my good girl."

I close my eyes, feeling something fundamental shift within me. The old Cassidy is gone. In her place is someone new, someone who understands her place in the world, and the place of every woman for that matter.

Someone who belongs to Rhys.

When he finally releases my hair and withdraws from my body, I feel momentarily empty, bereft. He turns me around to face him, tilting my chin up with one finger.

"Look at me," he says.

I meet his gaze, no longer able to hide anything from him. Not that I want to. There's a strange relief in having all my walls torn down, in being seen completely.

"This changes everything," he says. "You understand that, don't you?"

I nod, still catching my breath. "Yes."

"Say it."

"This changes everything," I say. "This is the end of my independence."

"Smart filly," he says. "You’ve found the right rider."

There are no words that can adequately convey how I want to respond to that. So, I turn to deeds instead. I descend to my knees, theatrically, and lean forward. I place a single, prolonged kiss on the glistening tip of his cock.

A woman’s natural position.

It’s not a sexual kiss. It’s a kiss of demure worship. An acknowledgement that he’s the victor, and I’m the vanquished. That he’s the person, and I’m the animal. That he’s the owner, and I’m the pet. That he’s the rider…

And I’m just his filly. For as long as he will have me.

THE END