The surveyor of woman in herself is male: the surveyed female.

Sandy hair was the first to laugh. It started as a snicker, then built into a wheeze, then cracked open into full, braying hilarity. "Two seconds! She couldn't even—she literally—"

"Bro." Hoodie was doubled over. "Bro, she sucked his dick AND she couldn't do it in time. That's actually—that's actually so sad."

"A deal's a deal," cap guy said, tucking himself back into his trousers. He hadn't even fully softened yet. "You had your chance."

Sandy hair was still giggling. "Five minutes and she couldn't even make him nut. I know you’re a dyke, but how difficult can this be?"

"She's not good with anything," hoodie said. "Look at her. Look at her just sitting there. All those muscles and she's just sitting there."

They were right. She was just sitting there. No, kneeling there, on the wet tarmac, with the taste of a stranger's cum in her mouth. The seconds kept passing and she kept not moving.

No.

Morgan was somewhere else now, not fully present. She was watching everything from a remove, like it was happening to someone else. She was the surveyed, but also her own surveyor.

Hands gripped her upper arms. Two sets. Sandy hair on one side, hoodie on the other. They hauled her unceremoniously to her feet.

Sandy hair stepped closer. He was behind her, and she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. His hand found the hem of her shirt. She felt his fingers brush the skin of her lower back.

"Don't," Morgan said. It sounded like a plea.

Hoodie moved in from the left. Gold chain from the right.

Hemmed in. Into the keeping of men.

She could feel it, the absolute collapse of something structural inside her. Not her courage, exactly, or her will, or her pride, although all of those were having a hard time, too. It was something more fundamental and load-bearing. The idea that women could transcend the ancient, degrading contract between the sexes, that she had built herself into something men could not reduce.

Hoodie grabbed the collar of her shirt from behind and pulled. Sandy hair hadn't finished unbuttoning it, and the remaining buttons popped and scattered on the ground. Her bra soon followed, then the rest, as they stripped her wordlessly until she stood naked before her would-be rapists… just like that piece of meat at the market.

No longer a CEO, she’d been reduced back to the simpler status of female body, the classic trick men used every time they sought control over a woman. Apparently it worked, either because men were good at it or because of some unspeakable innate weakness in the female psyche, because she felt reduced and then some.

"Jesus," sandy hair said. He was looking at her body. They were all looking at her body. "She's actually fit under all that. Like, actually properly fit."

Gold chain cupped her breasts with casual possessiveness, handling her the way you'd handle something you'd bought.

"Bro, feel these," he said.

"Let me see." Hoodie reached out, and soon, eight male hands were groping and exploring every single inch of her body. They were kneading the feminist framework of her identity into a soft, malleable state so that they could rip it out of her, she knew. The hing underneath the framework was older than the framework. It was older than feminism, older than theory, older than language. It was the thing Bergen had been writing about. The ancient, pre-verbal understanding that to be female was to be acted upon, and that the deepest terror of that truth was indistinguishable from the deepest pull toward it.

What are you.

That had been the first question, and in many ways it was the only one that mattered, because the answer to that question had never changed. No matter what she built on top of it, no matter how much theory and muscle and success she layered over the foundation, the foundation was the same thing it had always been.

Female.

They shoved her down. Four hands on her shoulders and back, and the wet tarmac hit her palms and knees with a slap that sent pain lancing up through her wrists.

On all fours. Like a dog.

She heard hoodie moving behind her. It was recognisably him because of the wheeze of his breathing. The slob was actually winded from the minor exertion of helping to strip her.

She knew with absolute certainty what was about to happen. He positioned himself behind her, his thick thighs brushing hers.

No. No, no, no, not him, not this, not—

Panic grew louder than resignation, and at last, Morgan began to respond.

"Whoa, whoa—" Sandy hair's voice, somewhere to her left.

She tried to crawl forward, scrambling on hands and knees, but hoodie's weight bore down on her hips. His hands clamped around her waist with a grip that was surprisingly strong for someone who looked like he'd never engaged a muscle in his life. She bucked and kicked. Her heel caught his shin and he grunted but didn't let go. If anything, his fingers dug in harder.

"Hold her," cap guy said, from somewhere above and to the right.

Sandy hair grabbed her left wrist and pinned it to the ground. Gold chain took the right. Her face was inches from the tarmac now, her cheek almost pressed against it.

Her futile struggle soon began to enfeeble. Every flailing movement she made was absorbed by the collective mass of masculinity surrounding her on all sides, hemming her in. She was being subdued.

When hoodie was finally able to take his hands off her hips, he fumbled between her legs. She felt his fingers push against her and the shock of it—of male fingers on her cunt, a thing that had simply never happened before in her life—was so disorienting that she made a sound. A small, strangled thing.

Then, he staked his claim to her cunt.

She’d been fucked by dildos before, and actual flesh was different, but not so different as to feel wholly alien. The deeper meaning of the situation, though, that was soul-shatteringly alien, and devastating.

A man's cock inside her cunt. The most ordinary thing in the world, the thing that happened to so many women every day, the most basic, foundational, phallocentric act of patriarchal heterosexual life. All done to her against a wall in a dark alley by a guy whose name she didn’t even know, whose only notable characteristic was being overweight.

He fucked her with short, graceless thrusts, while his friends held her down. Her cunt reciprocated, gripping his cock, flexing around it, as if to coax it of cum. As understimulated as he must surely be, hoodie hardly needed the extra friction, and yet her body provided it.

Her female body provided it. Her muscles responded to some ancient programming, buried in her since before there was such a thing as feminism, or urban society, or the wheel and the written word, something quintessentially feminine.

After all, that was what cunts were for, right?

Being fucked?

She shook her head and feebly tried to break free, to no avail. It was a flinch response directed as much to her own thoughts as it was to the quadrilateral force of masculinity bearing down on her from all sides. It was a filly’s impulsive struggle against the reins that already bound her to her rider.

Her rider was panting right now, clearly unaccustomed to the physical exertion. Yet still, his cock thrust inside her, back and forth, back and forth, and her weaker cunt succumbed and gave way and took it and gripped in return.

She felt like masturbatory aid, and he seemed to love that aid. So did cap guy, who was watching her ravishment with sadistic enjoyment. She was watching her downfall vicariously through his eyes. She maintained contact with those eyes as hoodie finally came with a grunt, releasing his cum inside her in over-eager spurts.

He didn’t wear protection, she thought dully, idly.

Was it the thought that sent her over the edge? Or was it the physical sensation?

To Morgan’s infernal shame, it felt like the latter. The moment his ropes of cum started releasing inside her cunt, her body seemed to take its cue and just… climaxed.

The sensation of being filled just triggered something she had no control over. Her muscles quivered, and for several seconds she existed only as a shuddering collection of nerve endings firing in sequence.

She made a low, guttural moan.

"Holy shit," sandy hair said. "Did she just—"

"She fucking came," cap guy said. There was something like wonder in his voice. "The dyke just came from getting raped."

Morgan's face burned. The orgasm was still rolling through her in diminishing waves, and she hated every microsecond of it. She hated that her body had betrayed her so completely, under these human hyenas’ eyes no less. Just… how?? How could any part of her find release in the absolute nadir of her degradation?

Hoodie pulled out of her with a disgusting wet pop. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, his hand descended next, cracking against her ass cheeks.

"Good girl," he said. Then, after a brief pause in which he was attempting to recover his breath, he added, "Yo. Look at that. My cum’s not trickling out of your cunt!"

What?

Hoodie sounded genuinely delighted. "I came like a fucking firehose in there and nothing's leaking! Awesome! Her pussy literally sucked it all up. She didn’t want to waste a drop."

"Good girl indeed," cap guy said, nodding. "Greedy, but good."

Morgan's face burned with utter, existential humiliation. She’d felt her pussy walls flutter and contract around hoodie’s dick… her cunt had milked him.

She'd just been bred. The word arrived in her consciousness unwanted, but undeniable. Hoodie had just bred her, like a fucking mare.

That was simply… simply too much. Her mind cracked like a pane of glass. Her pride shattered. Servility began to rise inside her as panic and anger began to recede. She was pathetic! She was submissive!

All of a sudden, rape was everywhere, everywhen, a non-linear experience of utter subjugation to male needs and male power.

Hands on her hips. Hands on her ass. A sharp pain as her nipples were twisted and pulled.

Gold chain's cock in her right hand. Sandy hair's cock in her left. She was jerking them both off at the same time and some detached corner of her brain noted that this was the crude pumping gesture sandy hair had made back in the bar, the one that had made them all laugh, except now she was performing it for real, pistoning off in the service of two conquerors, a sexual appliance freely available for relief aid.

Pathetic and submissive. Rape meat, there for the taking.

At some point, Hoodie’s cock was in her mouth. She lapped at it with her tongue, cleaning her own cunt juices off him, instinctively servile. It was almost meditative, giving him head while her two hands were still wrapped around cocks that she must serve.

Hemmed in from every side, while cap guy watched.

Hoodie lasted longer this time, but he must have been pent up enough that a second orgasm eventually overcame him. He sprayed rope after rope of cum on her face, another first for her, she supposed. It was so icky, to have rope after rope of a man’s warm cum land on her face, where it would surely cool and feel all sticky, like it was where his sperm belonged. But of course, what really hurt was that it was so visual.

A tamed lesbian, painted with her rapist’s cum.

Wearing it on her face like a mark of her vanquishment and his triumph. Marked, like territory. Literally bearing, on her face, evidence for all the world to see that she was female, and inferior, and built to serve men’s cocks.

She submitted to that existential and sexual nullification in good order. After all, her spirit had been broken. She was being dominated in the purest sense of the word, and when confronted with overwhelming superiority, what can the weak do, but bend the knee and submit?

Probably oblivious to the semiotics of her annihilation, sandy hair busted his nut shortly thereafter in her milking hand. Gold chain wanted more, though.

He slapped her face lightly with his dick, twice. The casual disrespect implied in the act made her squirm. He waved his cock before her eyes, and simply said, "suck."

She sealed her lips to his cock without protest, and it was just the extra stimulation he’d been looking for, because her lips and tongue spent mere seconds glued to his dick before it began to quiver. He threw his head back as he came, hissing a satisfied "Yessss" as she dutifully swallowed his cum, too. She was already getting familiar with the feeling. How crazy was that? What did it say about her?

What are you?

At some point, she found herself with her back pressed to the wall, and cap guy’s forearm resting against the hollow of her throat.

It was purely symbolic. She was much stronger than him. But the symbolism had a strength all of its own, and it was a chokehold all the same.

"Here’s what’s gonna happen now," he said in his usual monotone. "You’re going to bend over for me."

Morgan had no more distance left to run, and no more resistance left to fight with. Her place was at their feet. She responded with a tremulous nod, and once released, promptly bent over for him without hesitation.

Sandy hair stepped forward and his cock was there, level with her face, and she opened her mouth because that was what her mouth was for now.

What did elicit horror from her, however, was cap guy’s hands settling on her hips.

Clearly he wanted more, and he did what men did best when taming women - he simply reached out and took it.

"I’m gonna claim your ass, dyke," he said, simply.

Morgan's stomach dropped. She should try to pull off sandy hair's cock to say something—she didn't know what, exactly, some reflexive protest—but she just didn’t have it in her anymore. Instead, she kept suckling devotedly.

Broken, broken. Her spirit had been broken.

Sandy hair's hand ran in her hair. "So well-behaved now…"

Cap guy spat behind her. Then his fingers, blunt and graceless, pushed the spit against her asshole, working it in. Perfunctory preparation that had nothing to do with her actual comfort.

Then the head of his cock pressed against her and he pushed forward, and Morgan's whole body went rigid by instinct, even if her spent will did not.

It hurt. She whined and whimpered pitifully around sandy hair’s cock as cap guy kept the pressure, pushing himself forward inch by inch.

"There we go," cap guy said, once he was fully inside her. "See? Not so hard."

He started to move.

Morgan's brain did something then. It took all the competing signals—the pain in her ass, the fullness in her mouth, the wet tarmac under her palms, the cum still drying on her face and the cum that had been shot into her cunt—and it flattened them into a single, unified sensation.

She was full. She was completely, utterly full. Plugged at both ends, sealed, occupied. Every orifice that could be claimed by a man had been claimed by a man. There was no part of her body that was not currently in the service of male pleasure.

A woman's body as territory. Annexed without negotiation.

Cap guy and sandy hair settled into a rhythm, spitroasting her with the hungry energy of greed and horniness, such that she was never for a single second allowed to forget what she was and what was being done to her. That she was being raped by guys who were younger, dumber, uglier, poorer, weaker, and less accomplished than her in every single measurable dimension of human worth.

Thinking was the enemy now. Thinking was where the woman she used to be still lived, banging on the glass, screaming that this was wrong, that she was being destroyed, that every second of this was an atrocity.

The voice was growing fainter.

Cap guy leaned forward. His chest pressed against her back. His mouth was near her ear.

"What are you?" he said.

She couldn't answer. Sandy hair's cock was in her mouth. But she answered in her head.

Female.

Inferior.

Sandy hair came first. He pulled out at the last second and finished on her face, adding to what hoodie had already left there. She kept her mouth open because closing it felt like it would be a refusal, and she had no refusals left in her.

Cap guy, chasing his second release of the night, was lasting longer. She let him, in a full-body capitulation to the superiority of the masculine. Eventually she found herself clenching around him, milking his cock with her butt, and that was too much for him. He came too, inside her ass, slapping it repeatedly for good measure. She stayed bent over and took it. Like a fucking bitch.

Cap guy pulled out of her and stepped back. She heard the wet pop of his cock leaving her body, and then the rustle of him tucking himself away.

Her arms gave out.

She went down face-first, barely getting her hands under her in time to break the fall. She ended up on her side, then rolled onto her back, because even the instinct to curl up and protect herself had been fucked out of her.

She thought about Bergen one final time. She found it so ironic, in that moment, that even such an accurate diagnosis of female oppression had been provided by a man. But most importantly, she found herself thinking of the final line in the famous quote.

The surveyor of woman in herself is male: the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object, and most particularly an object of vision: a sight.

And what a sight she was.

She lay there, defeated and broken at her rapists’ feet. Sweaty, panting, covered in bruises and in cum. In her mind, she fully acknowledged that they had utterly mastered her. They had put her in her place. They had visited upon her the same kind of erotic violence that men had been using for centuries, to perpetuate the great historical defeat of the female sex.

And it had worked, because to exist as a woman meant to exist in the keeping of men.

THE END